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His eyes widened. “You gave up pillows and silver platters for this lot?”
I laughed, my eyes crinkling at his awestruck face. “Not quite. I was captured in the same way Carter and his father were captured.” My shrug came easy, like it was the simplest excuse in the world. “The Merry Men grew on me.”
Understatement of my life.
He turned to sit in the doorway of the carriage, letting his legs dangle over the edge while he stared out at the camp. “Don’t think they’ll grow on me. These forest bugs are no better than the castle bugs. They treat me like I’m one of their servants still. ‘Go get the ale, Much!’ ‘Fill my tankard, boy!’” He faced me, eyes glittering with sadness. “I thought you said everyone here was free. Why do I still feel trapped?”
I dropped the garments and sat next to him in the narrow doorway of the carriage, draping my legs over the edge. “Change takes time, my friend. Give them a chance.”
He gasped. When I gave him a concerned look, he said, “No one’s ever called me that before.”
“What?”
“My friend.”
An icy claw snagged my heart and squeezed. This poor lad. He’s never known anything other than what he’s lived and been told—that he’s worthless and expendable. That no one likes him.
I could think of another person who fit that description perfectly. I think I might relate to Much the Miller’s Son more than anyone else in camp.
“So you were captured, and the Merry Men let you go,” he said, running his hand over his chin in thought.
“And look how far I’ve come since then.” I spread my arms out wide.
“Aye. They made you the Royal Clothes Sorter.”
My cheeks reddened and when I glanced over, he smiled shyly at me.
“You can be one too, if you work hard enough,” I said.
Much laughed. It was an endearing sound that thawed the icy claw around my heart, warming me like a summer sunrise.
I can help this boy. If nothing else—even if we can’t recruit the necessary men to our cause—perhaps I can make a difference in one person’s life. Maybe that will be enough for me.
“I want to swing an axe and break lumber, but the mean bug Will won’t let me.” He bunched his hands into fists, excitement clearly coursing through him. “I want adventure.”
You and me both, my friend. I raised a brow at him. “You just got here, Much. No one is going to entrust you with an axe until you prove yourself.”
His eyes were imploring when he glanced over again. “But how do I do that, Madam Robin?”
I thought for a moment, drumming my fingers on my knee, sucking my teeth. Then my face lit up. “Do you know how to sew, Much?”
A knot formed between his brow. He looked embarrassed, rubbing the base of his neck. “Well, er, aye. Of course I do. That’s not exactly the adventure I was hoping—”
I slapped his thigh, moving my eyes toward the back of the carriage bay. “Then you’re already twice as useful as the rest of these bastards. Come on.”
TWO HOURS LATER, WE were finishing separating the clothes. Some of them needed touch-ups, and I had Much the Miller’s Son with needle and thread.
He concentrated intensely, head down, tongue poking out from his mouth as he twined the strands together, patching up some roughshod tailoring.
I was glad to make him feel useful for a change, and busy his hands so his mind couldn’t wander. I worked next to him on the bench, eyes on my work, and casually asked, “Who is Maria, Much? If you don’t mind me asking.”
He cleared his throat. Eyes down. The clicking and clacking of his tools filled the silence between us. “Servant like me,” he said at last, low voice. His face filled with color.
I smiled to myself, recognizing that expression. “You fancy her, don’t you?”
He hissed as his needle slipped and stabbed into the meat of his palm. “Ow!” he growled, then sucked on his hand. “No!”
My smile remained, and the silence returned. “. . . What happened to her, Much?”
