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Istayed focused all through the night and morning. Keeping to my tent, no longer using the carriage as my temporary quarters. When Will tried to pop his head in late at night, I sent him away and he scowled and wandered off. Same went with Alan, Tuck, and John.
I couldn’t be distracted. Lord knew I could have used some release, but I didn’t want to get sidetracked by those hungry, beautiful men before the big day.
It came on fast. Next morning, we were ready to go before the sun had crested the hills in the distance. It was going to be another gray day.
After a short breakfast, we crept through the woods in silence. Two men were left behind—drawing the shortest straws—to keep watch on our camp. The other fourteen of us ventured toward eastern Nottingham.
There was no point going into the city, which meant little risk of exposure and arrest. I had to imagine there were quite a few outlaws showing up to this event, hoping it was possible to buy their way to freedom if they won the tournament.
In the vast fields north of the River Trent, spectators congregated. Hundreds of them in the early hours, which only swelled as morning progressed. Dozens of bow-strapped men appeared from every direction, coming out of the woodwork. Some arrived from our direction, others from the south and west. They looked like hard, grizzled men, while I appeared little more than a boy with my short hair, slender stature, hooded cloak, and shortbow.
The competitors mostly kept to themselves. Some of them had teams, others were loners. Before we reached the edge of the tree line, the Merry Men dispersed in different directions, toward their planned positions for the day. Will, John, Alan, and Tuck stayed with me as long as they could before scattering for their own spots.
“Just know, we’re never more than a shout away, and you’ll always be in our sights,” Little John told me before kissing me on the forehead and departing.
His words gave me confidence, which I sorely needed.
A line formed in front of a small table where a scribe was entering the participants. So far, we’d seen no sign of Guy of Gisborne, Sheriff George, or Prince John. Oh, there were guards aplenty, stationed in every corner, behind every shadow and under every tree. But none of the heavy players I hoped to stay away from.
I got in line and waited, tapping my foot.
The man behind me chuckled. He was also hooded, and when I glanced back, he said, “First time?”
I ignored him. Then, thinking it was rude and more suspicious staying quiet, I gave him a curt nod.
“Don’t be scared, lad. It’ll be over quickly.” He chuckled again.
I didn’t like the way he spoke to me, as if shading his words with innuendo. I wished John was there to smash him across the face with his cudgel, or Will to slice that smug smirk off his face.
I hated bullies. Funny, I thought, since the men I’d fallen for had been my captors and bullies before all this. God above, Will Scarlet had ripped my shirt open to expose me. I’d nearly forgotten about that.
Stay focused.
I blinked at my inner thoughts. No Robert, still, though I couldn’t blame him. I’d killed our father. I wouldn’t want to talk to me, either.
Before long, I was at the front of the line. I stepped forward and presented the old man with my bow.
He looked it over with a scowl, making sure it wasn’t tampered with or weighted in any illegal way. “Name?” he asked, putting the bow aside on the table. He didn’t bother looking up at me.
“Robert of Loxley,” I said.
The man grunted, found my brother’s name, and marked it off on his list. “Late addition.” He finally glanced up, and I averted my gaze. “Your bow is small. You know that, yes?”
I nodded.
A shrug. “It’s not my coin. A shilling to enter.”
More than a week’s wages for a laborer. I fished around in my pocket for the money and stared down at the large silver penny in my palm.
A few months ago, this shilling would have meant nothing to me. As a highborn noblewoman of Wilford, I had been carefree. I’d even gambled a shilling away with Rosco and his boys. Now? The Merry Men needed every penny we could get our hands on.
“Boy?” the scribe said, gesturing to me with wagging fingers. “A shilling to enter.”
I handed it over. A squire walked up and handed me a quiver of arrows.
“Your arrows for the tournament, with your specific fletching,” the scribe explained, nodding to the unique feathering of the arrows. “Used for all four stages of the competition. Understand?”
I nodded.
