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The minstrel huffed and puffed, exerted from the work. “Sir Guy of Gisborne. The Sheriff of Nottingham’s lackey. And a damned good one.”
I tapped my chin in thought. “Could he defeat the Merry Men?”
Alan continued finishing up around his space. “Not alone. However, the man has the power of the law on his hands. It’s not a quarrel we want.”
“You sound scared of him.”
He wheeled on me and bared his teeth, the first angry expression I’d seen across his beautiful face. “You would be too, if you were us.”
“But I’m not. I’m your hostage.”
“Astute observation, little songbird.”
I said nothing, letting him work out my meaning. It took him a few moments before my words made him pause midstride. “If you think he’s your means of escape, dear Robin, you are sorely mistaken. He’s worse than we are.”
“I can be the judge of that.”
“No. You can’t. We won’t let you go.”
My nose wrinkled in a scowl. “What if he’s been sent by my father to find me?”
“Too soon. There hasn’t been enough time for your father to round up a man like Guy. Also, I doubt your dear ol’ da has the pull to summon him.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, defiant, and raised my chin. “You don’t know that.”
“You’re right. And we’re not going to be here to find out. Sir Guy of Gisborne is not the man the Sheriff sends for . . . negotiations.”
The word sounded ominous as he said it.
“No,” Alan continued, shaking his head adamantly, as if analyzing my words, trying to uncover the likelihood of my search-and-rescue claim. “Guy has had it out for us for a long time. Call it a personal vendetta.”
“What did you do to him?”
The minstrel let out another annoyed scoff. “Besides rob the merchants, traders, and locals who fill the Sheriff’s coffers? I can’t think of anything.”
Fine. He wasn’t of a mind to humor me any longer. It soured my mood, pairing perfectly with his. “That doesn’t sound very personal. It sounds like, you know, an ordinary vendetta. An everyday vendetta, if you will.”
“A mundane vendetta?”
“Exactly.”
“Ask Little John.”
We made it to the camp, which had been completely transformed in the five minutes we were gone. Men were now saddling the few scraggly, skinny mules and horses they had, and preparing my carriage.
“Speaking of Little John,” I said, “where are we going? How will he find us?”
“That’s on a need-to-know basis.”
Friar Tuck walked over, tightening a belt keeping his habit together. He looked like a warrior monk. “We’re going southwest, to the well camp.”
“Dammit, Tuck,” Alan hissed. “I’m trying to be ominous.”
“What’s the well camp?” I asked the friar.
“It’s the camp that surrounds an abandoned well, little heathen. Keep up.” He patted me on the back and wandered off to yell at a few men who weren’t preparing a saddle right. “Not like that, you dolts!”
I glowered at his broad back, while Alan laughed at me. When I spun my glower to him, he kept smiling, giddy as a squirrel full of nuts. “I’m glad my ignorance is making you so happy, Alan-a-Dale.”
