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“Robin?” John asked, incredulous. “But she’s safe in Nottingham.”
“Safe? Based on what theory?” I asked. “She went to find her mother and father, who we already know aren’t the finest weeds in the grass, by your own admission, Little John.”
He threw his arms up, abruptly getting flustered. “She left us on her own!”
“And what if she was found and captured by someone else? What if she’s being beaten by her hateful father as we speak? What if she came back to the witch’s cabin on her own volition, only to find Sir Guy of Gisborne there but not know it because she doesn’t know what he fucking looks like?” Spit flew from my lips as my anger soared, and I stood. The thing on my lap fell to the ground. “The point is, we don’t know. And it’s fucking killing me. I know it’s killing you, too.”
That shut them both up. They shared a look and a long moment of silence.
Then Will said, “Dammit, Alan-a-Dale. You’re right. We have to find her.”
“Then we’ll set up a search party,” John said, nodding diligently. “We’ll scour every inch of these woods until we find her.”
“With what men?” Will snapped, bringing the whole thing back to his original point.
From the top of the hill behind them, under the shadow of the beech tree, I saw Maid Marian’s envious silhouette and heard her scoff and wander off in the other direction.
I pouted, impressed with Will’s rhetoric, and nodded. “Fair game, Will Scarlet. I think we have to round up more Merry Men, as you initially deduced.”
“We have some other things to worry about right now, boys.”
The familiar voice whipped our heads to the far end of the pond. The three jittery lads at the fire jumped to their feet and drew their weapons.
Friar Tuck walked in from the shadows. He wasn’t smiling. He waddled slowly in an awkward way.
“Tuck!” I yelled with a smile. “I hope you didn’t hear all the awful things we were saying about you.”
He stood stock-still, rigid at the lip of the pond.
My smile vanished. That’s when I saw the second shadow behind him—directly behind him—and the old weathered face of a knight pop out, undoubtedly with a sword pressed to Friar Tuck’s spine.
Sir Gregory frowned at us. “Hold your swords, lads. We have some things to discuss.”
Chapter 42
Alan a Dale
The nine of us encircled the pond, eyeing one another. An hour had passed—nearly the last five minutes of it in silence. It was me, Will, John, Tuck, the three younger lads, Maid Marian, and Sir Gregory of Wilford.
“This is how Sir Guy knows how to find us,” John muttered, staring at the ragged map Tuck held.
“Aye,” Tuck said. “Which means we aren’t safe here, either. We need to keep moving.”
Will growled, “Goddammit all. We aren’t safe anywhere.”
“Don’t blame God, Scarlet. Blame one of us.”
We stepped nervously from side to side.
“What?” Will asked, confused.
Tuck flapped the map in the air. “This was sewn into one of the dresses I took to the almshouse. Which meant it came from here.”
Sir Gregory nodded. “The orphan girl who received the dress showed the map to her sister, Emma, who brought the map to me. I copied it. Emma wasn’t sure what to do with it, bless her heart.”
“Brought it to you where?” Will asked.
“In the Wilford estate, where I’ve taken up residence since Sir Thomas and Baroness Joan have disappeared.”
