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“Which miller?”
“The miller, of course. Sir John Cockle.”
Friar Tuck tilted his head and shot a concerned look at us over his shoulder.
I furrowed my brow, glancing at Alan.
The minstrel whispered, “A man of myth. I wrote a song about Sir Cockle, in fact.”
I frowned at that. Perhaps Much the Miller’s Son was keen on tall tales. Then again, I’d heard stranger things. Maybe he was telling the truth, against all odds.
If nothing else, I admired his resilience. He didn’t wilt in the face of a bunch of older men staring down at him, asking him questions.
“Why were you in the cage, Much?” Tuck asked.
His bony shoulders bobbed. “Took one too many pastries from the cookery, I take it.”
Tuck smiled. “Ah. I’ve been guilty of that sin as well.”
“I can tell.”
Tuck’s cheeks reddened. Alan-a-Dale chuckled next to me. I couldn’t help but smile at this lad’s nonchalant barbs.
“How old are you, Much the Miller’s Son?”
Much raised his chin defiantly, crossing his scrawny arms over his chest. “I’ve seen eighteen winters. Though I only remember thirteen or so of them.”
“Makes sense. That’s how age works.”
Now I knew the boy was lying. It wasn’t anything big enough to make me concerned. Younglings often wanted to make themselves appear older than they were—God knows I’d done the same thing.
“Why were you in the cage, lad?” Tuck pressed, his voice taking on a softer tone.
“You already asked that.”
“Aye, but you weren’t being truthful, were you? Stealing pastries might be wrong, however it’s not a sin worth locking a hardworking lad up for.”
“Who says I’m a hardworking lad?”
“Fair enough. Answer my question, if you please.”
“Baron Mansfield is getting further and further away with every minute wasted here,” Will Scarlet blurted from the side. His arms were crossed, handsome face a storm of contempt and veiled rage.
Alan-a-Dale said, “He’s long gone by now.”
“Then we’re fucked, aren’t we, dandelion?” Will sniped back. “Word will get out what we’ve done here.”
“What you’ve done here,” Alan quipped, flaring his nostrils. He flipped some of his hair off his shoulder, as if to make a point that he wasn’t happy with this turn of events.
That made two of us.
Will stepped chest to chest with the taller minstrel. “We all partook.”
Alan smiled wickedly, staring down his nose at Will. “Careful, little badger. Get that close to me and I might just lick your face.”
With the attention away from Much the Miller’s Son, he hopped off the side of the carriage and walked past us, Friar Tuck joining him. The boy walked to the first man killed, the mustachioed menace named Benoit, and kicked him lightly as if to see if he’d still move. “This one called me a bad boy. He was the meanest, Stout.”
Tuck frowned. “My name is Tuck, son. Not Stout.”
