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Then rustling in the foliage ahead made us freeze.
And four men with bows drawn stepped out of the bushes, aiming their arrows at our chests.
My heart sank.
“Afraid things haven’t changed that much,” said one of the men.
I didn’t recognize them. They weren’t Nottingham guards, and they weren’t Merry Men.
John shoved me behind him, using his broad body to shield me. “Who are you?” he growled, bending his knees. Ready to fight, even though only death waited for us on the ends of those arrowheads.
“Doesn’t matter,” said the archer. “You’re Little John of the Merry Men.” He nodded to me. “You’re Robin of Wilford.”
I bared my teeth. I hated when someone knew my identity but I didn’t know theirs. I tried to find an escape route, a branch I could use as a weapon—anything to get away from these men and be alone with Little John again.
The man said, “You two are coming with us. And for your sakes, please don’t fight us on it.”
“Where are you taking us?”
“You’ll see soon enough, lass. The Oak Boys aren’t stashed too far from here.” He nudged his chin onward, deeper into the trees.
My brow furrowed. “Who the fuck are the Oak Boys?”
Chapter 31
Robin
We went deeper into the woods with our new captors, to parts of Sherwood Forest I didn’t recognize. The Merry Men typically stayed north and west of Nottingham with our hideaways, and now John and I were being taken further east.
We exchanged only cursory glances at each other, trying to mask our expressions. We had been so close to getting out of Nottingham unscathed. Yet now we were back in the control of strangers—strangers I didn’t trust.
While hiking with our captors, I learned the leader who had spoken to us was named Briggs. I didn’t learn anything else about the man.
Eventually, we came to a glade not so dissimilar to one of the clearings the Merry Men would use. Broad oaks mingled with bushy chestnut trees, and a creek ran alongside the camp.
The Oak Boys had an envious setup, with their pitched tents looking like they’d been here for months. The stakes and pitons were well-worn and beaten hard into the packed earth. The fire pits were deep, and the smell of cooking food had my belly rumbling.
No less than thirty people made this place home, appearing no different than the typical Merry Man: poor, with threadbare clothes and weapons.
One of the first things I noticed were how many women were in camp. A tinge of jealousy flared at seeing the women working in tandem with the men, stationed in different parts of the meadow. A group of them had set up a row near the river pulling water, while others nearby sewed and chatted.
The sense of community was something I had longed to build with my own band. As I entered the camp, gawking at the uniformity and efficiency with which it was run, I said, “These are all bandits? Outlaws?”
“Not exactly,” Briggs grunted, leading us by the first few fire pits. “They’re families, mostly. Not everyone here is tasked with fighting. We brought our fighting lot to Nottingham. I worry how many will return.”
The truth hit me in the gut. Of course. The determined peasants at the eastern gate. The arrows flying in during the execution. It was all the Oak Boys.
“If there are so many women in camp,” I noted, “why do you call yourselves the Oak Boys?”
Briggs scratched his grizzled jaw. “Well . . . it wasn’t up to me. The Oak People doesn’t have the same ring, now does it?”
“Aye, but—” I stopped short, finger in midair when John put a hand on my shoulder. I suppose this wasn’t the time for a debate on group names.
“It’s clear you don’t mean to kill us,” John said, “or else you would have done it already.”
“Astute, Little John.”
“So why are we here?” I finished for him.
