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“Will Scarlet.”
“Clever,” she said, eyeing the red sash around my neck. “I hope you’re clever enough to pull Lady Robin out of the mire.”
“And I hope you two are worth the sacrifice it took to retrieve you.” When her face sank, shoulders sagging, a tinge of guilt struck me. I don’t need to put her down just for a frustrated retort. Not after everything she’s been through. “I’m . . . sorry,” I said, and the word felt foreign to me.
She nodded glumly.
“Don’t mind him,” said a high voice behind me. “He’s a mean bug, but he’s not all bad.”
I turned to find Much the Miller’s Son crouching at the fire, warming his hands. He looked scuffed up and dirty, as if he’d been in the fight. Then again, he always looked scuffed up and dirty, so it was hard to tell.
“The hell did you come from?” I asked. “I didn’t even hear you sneak up on us.”
“Been here the whole time, I have.” He stood with a grunt. Though little more than a whelp, with a voice that told me he was on the cusp of adulthood, he still nearly stood as tall as me. He was a lanky fucker, too.
“I’ll watch over the girls while you do your talking,” he said, motioning vaguely past me toward Robin’s tent. “So they can feel safe from the older men around here.” His eyes narrowed on me, as if to say I was one of the older men in question.
His words insulted me. All I could do was scoff. “You think they’ll feel safe with you, boy?”
A shrug. Unconcerned.
It made me angrier. “You think the Merry Men trust you, Much the Miller’s Son?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” He stood chest to chest with me, eyes unwavering from mine. Then, he added, “I’m not scared, mean bug.”
“You should be,” I spat through gritted teeth.
Slowly, Much shook his head. “Nay, I don’t think so. I’ve known people like Crispy, talking lewd out their asses. Acting on it. Bullying.”
“And?”
“You’re . . . different.” His big brown eyes shook as he took in every line, scar, and pore on my face. Somehow, this boy five years my junior was making me feel doubtful and uncomfortable, like he could see right through my bravado.
“You can act as hard as anyone, Will Scarlet,” he said, leaning in so only I could hear his voice, “but I see the softness in your eyes when you look at her. It’s a look shared by Alan-a-Dale and Friar Tuck. And it’s a look I’m starting to take on, too, methinks.”
My narrowed brow flattened and I blinked, surprised at his admission, because it was so . . . right. The damn boy is more perceptive than I thought. I should be surprised he even stuck around when half the crew fled, and yet . . . I’m not.
In that moment, nose to nose with Much the Miller’s Son, a sense of respect swelled inside me. This boy reminded me of . . . myself. He embodied parts of all three of us: unwilling to back down, like me; biting and snarky like Alan; compassionate like Tuck.
After a tense pause, I let out a soft grunt and clapped his shoulder, hard enough to make him wince. “Maybe we’ll make a Merry Man out of you yet, Much.”
As I wheeled and marched away, I heard him exhale with a long, shaky breath.
PUSHING ASIDE THE FLAP to Robin’s tent, I was surprised to find Friar Tuck already inside. I shouldn’t have been, since he was the soul of the Merry Men. There was a reason we called him our chaplain, even though he had no association with the Church anymore.
Tuck spoke to a despondent Robin in a soft voice, hardly loud enough for me to hear. He spared me a glance as I entered and let the flap fall behind me.
Robin’s tent was larger than the rest of ours. It was still small, staked by four hewed branches at the corners, yet large enough for me to walk in without ducking my head. Little John? He’d probably have to duck.
Tuck sat at the side of her cot, hand on her shoulder. She stared down at the ground, and I wanted to tilt my girl’s chin and tell her everything was going to be all right. But Tuck was already doing that for me, and his words held more weight than mine in these circumstances. I couldn’t exactly be an angry bastard and then turn around and act like I was someone I wasn’t.
So I stood off to the side, inspecting. Waiting.
Waiting for what? I asked myself. She’s hurting now. She’s filled with regret and sorrow. How was I supposed to tell her it wasn’t her fault, and have her believe me? That none of this was her fault? Friar Tuck had already done that on the road back from Rufford Abbey. It didn’t work then, so it certainly wouldn’t work now, from me of all people.
Tuck brought her into an embrace, wrapping his large arms around her thin shoulders. “If you need to weep, little heathen, no one will think less of you. Get it out.”
“I don’t want to cry, Tuck,” she mumbled, stuffing her face against his shoulder. She repositioned her chin on his shoulder blade so she could look at me, eyes darkening.
