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“So sorry!” I cried out as he rolled and yelped.
The streets were getting more crowded. We couldn’t sprint headlong any longer, but neither could Guy.
“Stop them!” he yelled fruitlessly, pointing at us.
No one moved to help him. Everyone was stunned still as we passed. No good could come from dealing with the head captain of the Nottingham watch, and the commoners knew that. Especially not after a day like today, when soldiers’ swords had glinted in the sun and struck down innocent civilians.
If anything, it seemed the peasants were trying to move out of our way . . . and then squeezing back in to barricade and create a nuisance for Guy and his men.
No, that can’t be right. Why would they be helping us? Everyone here probably thinks the Merry Men were responsible for the carnage at the town square today.
It made no sense, yet I thanked God for the help either way, if that was truly what was happening.
My thighs burned. My blood sang. When I checked briefly over my shoulder again, Guy was further behind, but so was Dan the Dove. He had already done a lot of running before John and I had shown up—diverting the guards away from the jailhouse. Now his tiredness was weighing him down.
“Come on, Dan!” I urged, my voice hoarse in the late afternoon breeze. “Push on!”
“I c-can’t!” he complained.
Dread sank in my belly.
“I’ll hold . . . hold them off!” he shouted, eyes screwing shut as he tried to give himself more energy.
“No!” I shouted. “It’s a death wish!”
“Good! I’ve been wishing for that for months now!”
“But your place at the table!” I reminded him.
A high shrug. “Your word is good enough.”
“Robin is right, Dan,” John called back. He sounded strained, and he pushed another commoner out of the way who didn’t move in time as we careened down a side street.
We leapt over a three-stair incline and then darted through a small garden, trampling wildflowers underfoot.
I slowed a bit, nearly rolling my ankle, and looked behind.
Dan had turned to face Guy of Gisborne and his four guards, against all odds. He had a sword in his hands that he’d likely found fallen near the town square battle.
My chest ached as Guy approached him, his thin blade drawn.
Dan, noticing he was outnumbered and outmatched, tossed the sword to the ground and raised his arms. “Fine, you’ve caught me. Haul me back to jail so you can execute me during your next big public outing, Gisborne.”
Guy stood in front of him, scrutinizing.
“Come on!” John urged me, grabbing my arm. “He’s made his choice.”
We took off at a run, trying to put as much distance between us as possible, and came to a road and building that ran perpendicular to us and would take us to the eastern gate of Nottingham.
I paused at the building, hands on the warm stone, and turned to helplessly watch.
“I’d just as soon get it done today,” Guy said.
A blur and a flash as he casually swung his sword—
And Dan the Dove’s head flew from his shoulders.
Blood sprayed like a geyser into the sunny sky. Peasants shrieked as the man’s head rolled across the road.
