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“I did no such thing!” I wondered who was sitting in the cargo bay of the carriage.
The men were skilled, and I backpedaled to keep them in front of me. When one mercenary tried to flank me, I pivoted, closed the gap, and smacked his sword thrust harmlessly past me with a flick of my wrist.
I closed the gap—much faster than a portly man of my stature should have been able to—and stepped into his guard, looping my arm over his.
He twisted, trying to break free, and I smashed Discipline into his bicep, flattening the muscle and making him drop his sword.
He screamed.
The second mercenary came in quick, stabbing viciously at my side—
And I couldn’t turn fast enough while grappling the first man. Pain seared through me as the sword sliced past my thick habit and nicked my side.
I growled, winced, and finished off the first man by slamming my free fist into his face with a sharp crack of bone, indenting his forehead with a sideways cross from the force of my punch.
His eyes rolled and he fell backward, convulsing on the ground as his brain scrambled.
The second soldier reeled back to stab me again—
And his arm was taken off at the elbow by a massive sword that severed cleanly through his bone and muscle.
His arm dropped to the ground, still clutching his weapon. It took a second for him to notice what had happened. Then he shrieked, spurting blood from his dislodged shoulder, and turned to face his killer.
Sir Gregory swung his blade in an overhand sweep, beheading the man and silencing his cries. The man’s head thudded to the ground, and his body followed.
My eyes widened. The old man we had captured with Robin . . . he didn’t seem so elderly right now, or weak. The old dog held a grimace of angry pain, teeth bared and gritted together. This was a soldier who believed he’d aged out of battle and could live a peaceful life, only to be thrust back into it against his will.
A man never forgets his training.
“Jesus in a fog,” I grumbled, looking at the three dead men in the road. “Are you a phantom, materializing in my carriage like that?”
“No, Friar.”
I realized then what I’d missed. He must have been watching from the fields and snuck into the carriage when I went looking for Robin.
Gregory took another step closer. Death was written on his face. Blood covered his armor, and I couldn’t tell how much of it was his.
I imagine he’s the answer to my question about who killed the men in the fields. Sighing, I said, “Well, regardless, thank you for helping me.”
“I’m not.”
“Not what?”
“Helping you.”
His greatsword lifted from the ground, leveled with both hands, and he rested the tip against my throat.
I swallowed and raised my hands in surrender, even as I imagined fending him off with Atonement and Discipline, framing my face in the air.
But I hesitated. One wrong move would end me—and this clearly wasn’t a man who was fucking about.
I winced, a bead of blood dripping down my neck from the sword point. “What are you doing, Sir Gregory?”
His frown encompassed his entire bearded face. “I’m changing the terms of our agreement, Friar Tuck.”
Chapter 38
Little John
