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After the bishop finished, he stepped aside and handed his scroll to Sir Guy of Gisborne, who stepped to the front of the stage and peered out.
I ducked my head, hiding behind a reasonably tall fellow in front of me. Will was doing the same, while Alan was absentmindedly picking at his lute in front of him with his head bowed, to the annoyance of other citizens.
Guy said, “We are here to witness the execution of vile, wretched men. Though Bishop Sutton speaks of them in terms only God can understand, let the truth be known: These are criminals of the worst sort, and they must be punished for their actions. Those actions include the crimes of murder, burglary, robbery, abduction—just to name a few.”
The crowd lets out hisses and boos. A wave of negative energy swept through the town square.
I tensed at the sounds.
“Let us not forget this day, and let us not forget what happens to the criminals who would tarnish our city, besmirch England, and thumb their nose at the Crown. Let us not forget that the Sheriff of Nottingham is here to protect us, and that his strong fist goes toward that protection.”
That comment registered fewer boos and hisses, and more confused glances and narrowed eyes. No one wanted to hear about how the Sheriff was “protecting” them, apparently, while also fleecing them for all their hard-earned money and goods.
I smiled at that, noticing the misstep even as the words left Sir Guy’s mouth.
Then my smile faltered, replaced by a held breath as Guy stepped aside and waved his hand.
“Let us introduce you to the vile criminals in question, the leaders of the most notorious gang of bandits in Sherwood Forest: Little John and his Merry Men!”
A group of five men with their hands bound behind their backs, hoods on their heads, were pushed up the stairs by guards. As the prisoners dragged their feet and shuffled onto the stage, it was to the sounds of jeers and boos from the commoners around us.
My heart sank at the sight of the men—shoulders hunched, heads bowed, surrendering to their grisly fate. Defeated. My eyes whirled to try and pick out which one Little John would be.
Alan and Will abruptly started pushing forward from the crowd, going from the middle of the pack toward the front.
Oh God. It’s really here. The moment is upon us.
I glanced to the side and noticed our carriage bench sat empty, Friar Tuck lost somewhere in the crowd. Likely, hopefully, also making his way to the front.
The five men were placed under the nooses, next to overturned fruit crates. They stood there, shaking. One pissed himself, and the crowd laughed at him.
Guy of Gisborne went one by one down the line, ripping the hoods off their heads to show their struck, bruised faces, which squinted against the blast of the sunlight overhead.
The crowd ate it up, cheering louder every time a hood was ripped off.
He saved the tallest, centermost man for last, and my heart rioted in my chest.
Guy pulled off the hood with a flourish.
The crowd clamored, volume rising to a shrill pitch.
My stomach sank, my jaw hung open.
And I suddenly realized why Sheriff George was not present at this execution—his moment of fame, his show of force and authority.
Because the man I stared at was not Little John.
Chapter 27
Robin
The sheer bewilderment of not recognizing the man froze my feet to the cobblestones. Will and Alan pulled up short, eyes widening as we gazed upon the stark white face of the prisoner standing before us.
He had an unnatural hue to his skin—the lack of pigmentation nearly making him pearlescent in the midday sun. Admittedly, it made him quite an interesting man to look at, but he wasn’t Little John!
My mind tumbled, spinning in circles as I tried to calculate our misstep. Under the ridge of my brow, I scanned every nook and cranny of the town square, trying to reconcile this. Searching for encroaching soldiers or enemies at our doorstep that would tell us our plan was compromised.
None of the guards were moving. The crowd hissed and gasped at the man like he was a leper, though he clearly wasn’t. He simply appeared . . . different. And that difference, swelled by the ranks of the intolerant mob ready for blood and kicking feet, was enough for them to think him a pagan or witch.
