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“What are we doing here?” Alan asked Will.
Will snorted. “Don’t play dumb, dandelion. I’ve heard word that it’s gotten worse.”
The minstrel flared his nostrils but didn’t respond.
What’s gotten worse? I hated being kept in the dark. I was certainly curious.
Scooting up to Will, I asked in a whisper, “Why do you call Alan that?”
He hummed. “Dandelion? Because he has the heart of a lion, despite having the character of a dandy.”
A small smile came to my lips, but he continued scowling, trudging through the main road. People stepped out of his way as he held his head high. They gave him wary glances, whispering to one another.
I was worried—wondering if Will saw the reaction of the peasantry to his arrival. It was clear these people knew him, judging by the looks we were getting.
They were not friendly looks, by any means.
He brought us to a small cabin on a plot of land near the outskirts of the village. Though small, it was bigger than most of the hovels. A honey farm buzzed with activity off to the side of the cabin. Two men in masks worked it, digging for sweet nectar in the rows of hives.
Will went to the door and opened it without knocking. Alan and I stayed outside, and I peered in.
“Father, I’ve come,” Will said. His voice went lower, softer. It was the first time I’d heard such a pitch change in the young man.
“Meredith?” came a strained voice from another room. “My sweet, is that you?”
Will sighed as a hunched old man shuffled into the main room. He had a wrinkled face and stringy white hair pointed at all ends. The elder was disheveled and looked confused, his eyes gray and wet.
“No, Pa, it’s your son. Will Scarlet.”
The man’s face twisted with a scowl, more wrinkles stretching across his cheeks as his nose flared. “Scarlet?” he spat. “I have no son with—”
Will put a hand on the man’s shoulder. Gently. He bent lower to speak eye to eye with him. “It’s William, Father.”
The old man stopped. He rubbed his hands together and his face lit up. “Ah! My son!”
He fell into Will’s embrace. My heart hurt to see it. The man was clearly addled. God-touched, struggling to retain his mind.
“Do you remember, Pa?” Will asked softly, taking the elder man by the arm to a small table so they could sit. “You called for me.”
“Aye. It’s been years since I’ve laid eyes on my boy.”
“Father, I was here not two months ago.”
“Oh?” The old man’s face sank. “Oh. You know how I get, son.”
“Aye,” Will said, patting his father’s back. “Aye, I do. What is going on here? Is trade thriving?”
His father’s face twisted angrily, and I saw a hint of Will in that mien. “It’s the Barnaby twins, William. They’re out to get me. Keep stealing my honey!”
Will leaned back in his seat. The softness on his face—which was a revelation to me—slowly evaporated. “Is that so . . .” he muttered, stroking his chin. Then he tossed a thumb over his shoulder. “The workers you have in the field right now?”
Will’s father nodded. He gained that faraway stare in his eyes again. Blank, unfocused. He turned to Will. “Boy, are you my guest?”
Will stood from his chair. “Aye, Pa. I am. And I’m going to make things right.” With that, he strode out of the house, through a side exit.
Alan and I hustled around the other side of the house. Will was already yelling at the two men who worked the hives. They were masked, but I could see in their body language that they were indeed twins.
I could also see they were scared.
