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We had lost him.
THE NEXT MORNING, WE buried Much the Miller’s Son in our camp in Sherwood Forest. The entirety of the Merry Men stood vigil, heads bowed as Friar Tuck read Scripture and tried to console us.
There had been something special about that boy. Something that made him better than the rest of us. Whether it was his comedy or his wisdom for his age . . . his innocence or his bravado or his courage . . . he had been too good for us. Too good for this world, perhaps.
And it’s my fault he’s dead. Again. I’ve failed the Merry Men. We were so close to getting away unscathed . . .
All he had wanted to do was save the girl he loved. She may have not even known how he’d yearned for her, but the rest of us did.
Emma and Maria stood on either side of me, arms clasped around my back. The two girls who considered me their saviors.
Once Tuck was finished, I lifted my head and found everyone in the circle looking at me. Finding that odd, I cleared my throat anyway.
With a sad smile, I looked at the pile of dirt. “Now you can join your father, Much. The greatest miller of all: Sir John Cockle. A man of myth, to be joined by a boy of legend. Tell him you were a Merry Man, through and through.”
As I passed by the ranks of the men after the burial, every Merry Man present nodded to me and saluted with their fists against their chests. Their faces were grim, their lips folded tight, but they grunted and nodded as I walked by.
I found that even stranger. I wasn’t the leader of the Merry Men. I had only brought more death. Why were the guys parting when I walked past? Why this show of apparent reverence?
Little John took me aside. His voice was stern, his smile was soft. “You did it, little star.”
I blinked up at him. “I . . . I don’t understand, John. What did I do?”
We walked with his heavy arm draped over my shoulders, weighing me down. “You single-handedly uncovered a trafficking ring and spoiled it from the inside out, for one. You thwarted the Sheriff of Nottingham. And, more than that . . . the men saw what you did, Robin.”
I tilted my head, still confused.
“How you gave yourself up for Emma. She told us all about it after returning. Told us where we might find you.” His smile widened, and he squeezed my shoulder and stopped walking so we could face each other. “Don’t you understand? You have them, lass. Their trust. Their respect. Their swords. You’ve earned all of it. They don’t see you as a pampered heiress with lofty ambitions any longer. They see you as one of us. As the princess who exchanged her freedom for the freedom of a servant girl.”
I blinked. “Oh.”
I didn’t know what else to say.
I had explained everything to my guys early this morning once we returned to camp. How I had been taken by Maid Marian. How she had pawned me off to Guy of Gisborne. How they had stuffed me in a carriage with the other girls—who were now part of our band, of course—and how I escaped the carriage.
The only detail I left out was Guy giving me the key. I still didn’t know what to make of that, and until I had a better understanding of it I didn’t want to confuse anyone with my story. I mean, for fuck’s sake, Guy and Little John were sworn enemies. They hated each other, and I hated Guy, too. He was wicked and cruel and scary.
But there was no getting past that he had enabled my escape.
Despite my story, and the stern looks I got from my boys, they said they would delay my “punishment” for another day.
I looked forward to that day.
“I’m so proud of you, little hope,” John said, bringing me out of my daydream. He tilted my chin for a kiss, and then it was just us in the world for a brief moment.
When we pulled back, he sighed, staring longingly into my eyes. “God. You have no idea how much I’ve been waiting to say that to you again.”
My smile was impossible to shake off. It took up my entire face.
Luckily, before we pushed this party any further and started doing something blasphemous right in the middle of camp, Alan-a-Dale came waltzing out from where we had stored the prison-on-wheels carriage.
He held a weighty sack in his hand. It was smaller than the bag that Baron Mansfield had taken—whom we currently had trussed up like a pig awaiting interrogation in one of the other carriages.
“Erm, love, did you have any idea this was sitting under the floorboards of the carriage you were in?” Alan asked aloud, from across camp.
Eyes veered in his direction from the fire pits.
My brow furrowed. “No? What is it?”
