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The betrayal didn’t make me angry so much as it pained me that Robin had lied to us. Put up a false front, playing with our emotions the entire time.
I was somewhat impressed. Shouldn’t have had her help with sewing the garments. Can’t be surprised, though, can I? What captive wouldn’t want to relay her whereabouts to people who could save her? Cunning, lass. So fucking cunning . . . and reckless, putting all the Merry Men in danger.
“Who else has seen this?” I asked Emma, tucking it away next to the pouch of coins.
“Only the master of the estate, sir.”
My eyes widened. “Sir Thomas?”
Her head shook, brow furrowing. “No, sir. He’s been absent. I’m talking about Baroness Joan’s brother, Sir Gregory.”
My brain broke with confusion. A wave of dizziness swam through me, and I put my palm forward. “Hold. Sir Gregory is watching over the Wilford estate? And Sir Thomas and Baroness Joan are gone?”
“Aye, Father. Sir Gregory copied the map for his own and gave this back to me. I’m so sorry—did I make a mistake? I just want to help the poor mistress who’s been missing. Lady Robin.”
Fuck. I glanced to the carriage again, furrowing my brow. Then I took Emma with me, gave her a kind smile, and said, “Then you’ll be ecstatic to see what I have to show you, lass.”
Can’t hurt to show her Robin’s face, right? We’re headed to the estate anyway. Emma can ride with us. They can catch up. So long as Emma knows Robin is coming back with me.
I pulled back the slat of the carriage window with an emphatic flourish of my hand.
Emma’s face contorted with confusion. “. . . Sir?”
I looked in.
And of course Robin wasn’t there.
“Fucking hell,” I grumbled.
“Language, Father!”
I glared at her. “Get your bony ass in the cart, Emma. We ride.”
All was quiet at Wilford. I stopped the carriage before the courtyard, in the road, and hustled out. Emma joined me.
I walked hesitantly toward the courtyard, calling out, “Little heathen?”
Then Emma gasped. “Oh God!”
I spun. She pointed at the fields behind us, hand clasped over her mouth. A boy was in a pool of his own blood, lying in the soil of an empty field.
My heart squeezed. I ran toward him.
Emma went the opposite direction, to the manor, yelling, “Sir Gregory?!”
“Emma!” I shouted, but she was gone.
At the field, I kneeled in front of the dead youth. His throat had been savagely cut, and blood had spilled down his chin, cheeks, and neck. His sightless eyes gazed up at the sky. I closed them and made the sign of the cross.
Anguish rifled inside me, filling me with rage.
I stood and examined the field, and—
There. Flattened barleygrass. A trail of it.
I jogged through the fields, parting the grass, following the trail. There were numerous paths—twisted, stamped on, broken, as if a gang of people had gone running through here.
I came to a clearing. It stank of copper.
