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He glanced over his shoulder and gave me a curt nod. There was no other recognition other than that. We couldn’t afford to accidentally give ourselves away. We were lucky we had the cover of commoners and frothing peasants here, since we had become some of the most notorious bandits in Nottingham. Daring stories of robberies put on by us carried through taverns, back alleys, and across fields.
As of now, our reputation was a negative one. We didn’t have control of the narrative. The Sheriff did. I hoped to change that with one decisive day. To show people we weren’t just about stealing and burgling for the sake of it, but that we would put our own safety on the line to rescue the ones we cared about.
It was a tall order, convincing a citizenry we weren’t the villains we were made out to be. Yet I knew we could do it if we worked together.
Tuck stashed the carriage in a corner of the square near other carts, wagons, and coaches. He stayed atop the driver’s bench to survey the scene from on high. When he spotted me, Alan, and Will in the crowd, he gave us small nods. I saw him looking in other directions, likely searching for other Merry Men as they funneled in from the north and south.
The square became packed in a hurry. Anxiety filled me as it became hard to breathe thanks to the way we were all stuffed in here. I was pushed and shoved and tossed around, but Alan and Will did a good job of mitigating that with a few well-placed shoulders and elbows into people’s sides. Before long, they managed to get the worst of it under control and I felt safer and more at ease.
Guards protected the peripheries at every corner. More of them mingled in with the crowd to keep an eye on things. A ring of soldiers and lawmen stood at the foot of a raised stage, near the fountain. Their hands never strayed far from the weapons at their hips. They glared out at the crowd, hawk-eyed, challenging anyone to try anything.
There were at least a dozen such guards near the stage. Nearly one for every Merry Man we’d brought. They kept a perimeter of space between them and the burgeoning crowd, which looked ready to spill over at any moment.
The shouting and yelling was ear-splitting, jarring. It came from every direction, disorienting me, making me stumble at one point. Alan grabbed my arm and hoisted me upright, asking if I was all right, to which I simply nodded.
My throat was too dry to speak. My hands were clammy, my brow sweaty in the morning sun, and the anxiety became overwhelming. I thought I was going to die here before the execution even got underway.
After nearly an hour of standing and vying for position amongst the rowdy citizens, a group of men climbed the stairs off to the side of the stage.
Behind the three men, as an ominous representation of their power—and what we were all here for—stood the gallows. Supported by stocky wooden pillars on either side, five ropes hung from the beam, ending at nooses.
I recognized the man off to the right, and my blood spiked at the sight of his slender gracefulness, elegant mustache, and long curling hair. He had the most penetrating gaze of any of the men on stage.
Sir Guy of Gisborne. I recalled the night I killed my father, which had allowed him and Maid Marian to escape. The one that got away. Now he was here, ready to help murder my lover, while Marian was rubbing it in my face by living in my own damned house.
For a moment, I regretted my actions of that night, because it had culminated in this. Then I thought about it for a moment longer and shook my head, knowing I had made the right decision. With my father living, my life would have never been my own. He would have always harassed me, and I simply couldn’t let that stand.
He did enough damage to me to last a lifetime. Now it’s time to recover and build my own life that isn’t controlled by any single man.
The stocky fellow on the left wore a mask with eyeholes—clearly an executioner of some kind—while the man in front was outfitted in a white robe.
“Shit,” Will muttered under his breath, hardly loud enough for me to hear.
“What is it?” I asked, dipping my head closer.
“That isn’t Sheriff George.”
My brow furrowed. I had to make sure I heard correctly. “The man in the fancy robes in the front, holding the scroll, isn’t the Sheriff?”
He shook his head. “I don’t recognize him. He’s clearly a priest. Look at the hat.”
I bit my lip. “A bishop, even.”
From my other side, Alan said, “It begs the question: If not here, then where is that awful bastard?”
A good question.
The elderly man in front read from the scroll, beginning the ceremony with a prayer that every man and woman in the audience bowed their heads for. Even I did, so as not to stick out.
“We pray for these lost souls today, in their hour of judgment,” he began, and quickly lost me as his words dragged on for many long minutes.
The entire time, I cycled through my thoughts, wondering if we were missing something. Sheriff George isn’t here. Why?
He seemed a smart, cunning man. Clearly, since he always appeared to know our next move.
Not knowing where the Sheriff was made me bristle with nerves. I kept tightening my hands into fists, and Will noticed.
“Relax, little thorn,” he muttered with his head bowed. “Or we’ll get caught before this thing even gets underway.”
