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At least ten other Merry Men had wandered over to listen to the public conversation between the leadership. I wasn’t a leader, but these four had been with the Merry Men longer than anyone. The younglings deferred to them and called them “boss” and “sir” and showed respect to John, Will, Tuck, and Alan, even when they didn’t show respect to one another.
Little John nodded, pursing his lips. “You’re right, Alan. If we’re spotted, or Robin is recognized, it could spell disaster.” Silence, as he circled behind me and lightly touched my neck under my hair. My hair had grown past my shoulders, wild, wavy, and unruly. I imagined I looked more feral than I ever had in my life.
As John lazily ran his fingers through the strands, I blushed. Everyone watched me curiously, heads tilted.
“. . . Which is why we can’t let anyone recognize you, star.” John’s voice was a low caress in my ear. “Do you remember how you came to us, Robin? How you managed to dupe us, even when our eyes couldn’t leave you?”
I gasped. Of course. Why didn’t we think of it before?
“I came to you as a man.”
“Aye.”
Murmurs broke out among the Merry Men. Besides a few veteran members, the new recruits had not been here for that. They’d never seen the disguise I so expertly used to protect myself during those first few days of fear and confusion.
Little John curled his fingers toward the others. “Lads, hand me a dagger. I think our little star is in need of a haircut, aye?”
Chapter 52
Robin
We returned to Sherwood Forest a few days later. The trek was daunting and arduous. The days were growing shorter and the nights longer, and nearly every day was gray, rainy, or a combination of the two.
We needed better shelter. The men were grumpy and unruly. My four lovers kept up a façade of good spirits, even though I knew this plan made them nervous.
At the end of the day, I was going to be responsible for earning. I was going to be thrust front and center, with hundreds watching. In the robberies, I had always played a bit part. Now I was the lead role, and that responsibility unnerved me more than anything.
I couldn’t let the Merry Men down. Cold, wet weather meant fewer hunts, hungrier stomachs. I had practiced my shooting every day, for hours. I was a better shot than anyone else in the group. That didn’t stop John and Will from trying to show me pointers. It frustrated me. Perhaps it was my grumbling belly frustrating me, too.
Alan whittled me an endless supply of arrows. By the end of that month away from Nottingham, my new shortbow was well-worn, like an old friend in my hands.
I was ready. I had to be.
We arrived at the northern edge of Sherwood Forest on a windy morning the day before the tournament.
No one knew the exact point where one forest ended and another began—the entire countryside was filled with them. Leaves were beginning to fall, and our footsteps crunched. We’d kept the fires burning high and late recently, because we’d had nothing to fear outside of Sherwood. Now we were back, everything would change. We became quieter, more focused, less friendly.
I wondered if Sherwood really was the home of the Merry Men any longer. Could they even be called merry if they acted like sour shitstains most of the day?
We camped a few miles outside Nottingham in a new, never-before-used location. It wasn’t on any of the maps that had given them away and forced them to flee.
Not “them.” Us. I’m part of this now.
During the afternoon, Little John sent young recruits into Nottingham and surrounding villages to gather news. He sent men who had joined in Barnsdale, because they’d be unknown here and wouldn’t raise suspicion.
We needed to know who was going to show up tomorrow, what the competition was going to look like, and if there was danger afoot.
Five men staked off in every direction.
By sundown, four of them returned, each within an hour of the other. We grew worried that the fifth scout had been captured, but then he showed up an hour later with the moon high in the sky.
We learned he had gotten caught up with a whore in town who wouldn’t let him leave until she got what was “owed” to her. In other words, his cock.
“Sounds like Maid Marian,” Will said with a scoff.
“It wasn’t,” the young, redheaded man said, scratching the back of his neck. “I would have known.”
John said, “Did anyone see her or hear about her whereabouts? If Marian is prowling, none of us are safe.”
