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I’ll need to keep a close watch over my shoulder now.
“Fair enough,” Stump said. “It’s decided. If that’s the case, then can we please come up with a plan moving forward? It’s all I’m asking, boss.”
Little John nodded, but it was Friar Tuck who stepped forward. “I might have something to satiate you greedy assholes.”
Everyone chuckled. They were all ears.
“Learned about a tournament coming up during my time in Nottingham today. An archery competition. The prize is massive—enough to open your smithy shop, Benny, or buy out your mother’s cattle, Chance.”
A few of the men scoffed, flapping their hands and going back to packing their things.
John muttered, “Sir Guy of Gisborne will undoubtedly be there.”
“Aye, John,” Tuck said. “I suspect the best archer in all of Nottinghamshire will make an appearance, to try and fill the Sheriff’s coffers to bursting.”
Will scoffed. “Then we have to beat him. Win the prize. Get rich and leave Sherwood for a time, even.”
Tuck shrugged. “Then I guess we’d better start training, eh, boys?”
A half-hearted cheer rose up among the men. My infiltration of their commune had been forgotten. At least for now.
Little John said, “That’s all well and fine, Tuck. But we need to move camp, first. Let’s head over to the witch’s cabin.”
I didn’t need to ask why it was called the witch’s cabin, yet I did anyway.
“It’s surrounded by a structure built into the very fabric of the forest, lass,” John told me. “Built by an ancient society, we think.”
“And it was housed . . . by a witch?”
He chuckled. “That’s more of a tall tale than anything. Good scary image though, aye?”
I rolled my eyes.
We’d been moving east for a few hours, away from the abandoned well location. My legs were sore from so much walking—and likely from the bruising I took from Little John last night.
I would wake up bruised every morning with a smile on my face if it meant feeling what I felt with him.
After a lull in my conversation with John, I stepped back to join Will Scarlet along the trail. He hoisted a large backpack on his shoulders and eyed me warily.
“Thank you,” I said. “For standing up for me with the others.”
“Still expecting thanks from me, little thorn? Because—”
“I know. I should keep expecting.”
A wry smile flashed across his face—wicked as they came.
“Can I ask why you did it?”
“I think I made my point clear,” he said.
“You think I belong to you.”
“You belong to the Merry Men, whether you like it or not. Whether you think you do or not.”
I mulled that over with a small hum. I decided not to argue with him on that point. I was tired and didn’t feel like getting into it with the infuriating young man.
Instead, I said, “You didn’t show me why you’re such an ass today, Will Scarlet, like you promised. All you did was show me that you can be kind, contrary to what everyone thinks about you.”
