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My hand went for an arrow as I slowly, calmly shrugged the shortbow out from under my cloak.
A sharp whistle rang out—the same whistle Will had given Much the Miller’s Son when giving our retreat the other night.
Lines of men moved from every direction in the throng of commoners. The guards took notice. The way the audience swayed from the rearmost Merry Men pushing toward the front was like looking through the barleygrass at Wilford—how the stalks bent and curved inward without revealing who waded through them.
Sir Guy heard Will’s whistle over the din of the crowd and wheeled around just as the executioner was ready to kick out the first fruit crate from under the feet of a noosed prisoner.
I threw my hood on and raised my bow, leveling it at the stage. Men and women gasped in fear as they parted around me, forced to give me room to fire.
I prepared to scream the command, to yell “Now!” for all the Merry Men to hear—
Then Guy’s silver-tinged eyes found me in the crowd, locked with mine, and made me falter. My steady aim wavered.
The flash of surprise on Guy’s face, from a man who was never surprised by anything, gave me a sick twinge of satisfaction. But the satisfaction died on my breath as the first fruit crate was kicked out from under the leftmost prisoner, and he dropped down kicking, gargling, and spinning from the rope.
“No!” I cried, wiping my brow to aim again.
The crowd drowned out the sounds of my despair, even as the executioner prepared to kick the second crate.
A black blur arced in the sky, and my eyes followed it—
As it plunged directly into the executioner’s chest.
The crowd let out a unified gasp.
An arrow flew in from another direction and pelted the executioner’s stocky arm. He spun, roaring.
Three more arrows whistled onto the stage.
The rasp of steel rang out, blades drawn.
The gasps from the crowd turned to full-fledged screams of panic. I was shoved in the back, pushed forward, as mayhem took over and the town square became trampling grounds for a stampeding riot.
Feet and legs bumped and stepped onto me as I went to my hands and knees, and I cried out. Someone had the decency to reach down and yank me up—then he was gone into the crowd before I could thank him.
I stood, flung my hair out of my eyes, and watched the executioner wobble where he stood, staggering with no less than five arrows sticking out of him.
Sir Guy of Gisborne was nowhere to be seen—
There!
My eyes caught him at the back of the stage, crouched and backing up into the shadows, practically melding into them to make his escape.
Guards swarmed into the crowd, swords and spears out.
Innocent people who looked like potential criminals—men of a certain height and build—were cut down ruthlessly, mechanically, and I watched as bodies fell.
“No!” I shrieked again, drawing a blade and rushing forward as the crowd lightened around me and scattered.
A leather-helmed guard pulled his sword to hack at a woman shielding a defenseless young man on the ground, who already had a bleeding arm.
When I dashed forward, I recognized the young man as Griff, yet the woman was a complete stranger. The guard was ready to slay her to get to our messenger boy.
He raised his sword—
And I charged in with a yell, slicing across the inside of his elbow as I lunged past.
He screeched. His sword dropped from a useless hand, the tendons in his arm severed. Blood sprayed and I kicked him in the back. He toppled forward, weighed down by his armor, and curled into a ball to protect his wounded arm as he whimpered.
