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I perked my brow, glancing back.
“When we find time, we need to talk about the archery tournament. That man who rescued you, who you prevented us from killing. You haven’t spoken of him in a month, and shoot us down every time we mention him.”
I swallowed hard. I was sure he could read the hesitation on my face as easily as anything. “I know, Tuck. I’m sorry. I just . . . haven’t been ready.”
Tuck patted me on the back and we continued to walk. “No need to apologize, little heathen. Just remember, there are two things Merry Men do not abide: liars . . . and secrets.”
I blinked at him. “Interesting you should say that, sir, since I’m nearly certain you shady bunch are hiding just as many secrets as I am.”
Friar Tuck laughed a full belly-laugh, and it made me smile. “Oh, dear girl. Just as many? You’re too kind. Try twice as many.”
Chapter 8
Robin
“Where did you take Maria, you hoity bastards?!” Much shouted, his young voice cracking.
We hadn’t even made it into camp, yet his voice carried. On the other side of an empty fire pit, a half-circle of Merry Men watched with arms folded, murmuring to each other.
Peering around the shoulders and through the bodies of the men, I saw Much in the center, hands balled into fists. He berated the two soldiers we’d taken from the carriage attack, who were tied to the spokes of one of the wheels, asses firmly on the ground.
I pushed my way through the watching men, my three mates close behind. Much ran up and kicked one of the captives in the side, and a few Merry Men snickered. The boy was barefoot, so he did little damage, and it only elicited a grunt from the older, white-bearded man.
The sight of the prisoner’s weathered face brought back memories of Uncle Gregory, when the Merry Men had captured me and my uncle on a carriage robbery very much like the one we’d attempted last night.
I gritted my teeth, seeing the older man wince as Much kicked him again. I rushed forward to stop him—
Alan-a-Dale put his arm out, barring my path. “Hold on, songbird. Let the boy get this out. He needs it.”
I blinked at the minstrel, who was usually a passive presence. Alan had a stern, tight-lipped expression on his beautiful face, and I wondered if he was recalling memories of his own.
Scrunching my brow, I returned my attention to the situation.
Much circled the two men. The second of the prisoners was a younger lad, closer to my age. Much yelled in his face, spittle flying. “Speak, you loathsome bug!”
The young man did not.
The older one said, “We owe you nothing, little shitstain. Think you’re better than us because you have us tied up? Give me one good arm and—”
Crack!
Will Scarlet smashed a slab of lumber across the man’s head and shut him up, knocking him out cold. Merry Men inhaled sharply in surprise. I jolted, hands flexing.
“Father!” the younger captive cried.
Fuck, I thought, my suspicions confirmed. This situation is too much like the one with me and Uncle Gregory. It brought back harsh memories, such as when I woke up and found Gregory missing, worried the vicious Merry Men had killed him. Or when I found Gregory with a map of the Merry Men’s locations and thought he had betrayed me. Or when Gregory saved my life from Guy’s men, and then helped bury my father after I killed him.
I didn’t want a repeat situation with this young guard and his father. They were simply victims of being caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, far as I knew.
Perhaps I’m wrong, though, I thought, stalling. Maybe these men have more of a history with Much than I know, and they weren’t just simple soldiers-for-hire for Baron Mansfield.
I was becoming more hesitant lately, second-guessing myself over every decision because I worried how the Merry Men would react. It was a tough position to be in as a leader, and I still hadn’t grown accustomed to it. I was used to quick decision-making and reckless stubbornness, but I couldn’t be that person anymore. Not when so many depended on me. Not when the result of a poorly thought-out plan gives us results like last night.
I wished I had the resolve, confidence, and arrogance of Will Scarlet, who swaggered around camp like he owned the place.
Will dropped the piece of wood, examined the unconscious man and the blood trickling from a splinter wound on the side of his face, and then stood in front of the younger soldier. “Do you owe nothing to the little lad, either? Are you superior to him because he was your servant before this?”
The young soldier gulped, the color draining from his face as he stared up at the sun and Will’s face blotting it out. “N-No,” he stammered.
