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“Oh, never that, Lady Robin. Never that.” He smirked, before his face fell again. He put the bags down and steepled his hands, deep in thought. “At first, I didn’t know what result the concoction achieved. I’d not seen its like before. So I tried it myself.”
“You . . . tried it yourself?!”
A simple nod. “What better way to discover a potion’s properties than to ingest it yourself?” His smile was sincere and wide, as if it was the easiest explanation in the world.
Shit. Maybe this man is as mad as everyone else thinks he is.
I scratched my cheek, a bit concerned. “So, erm, what happened?”
His head tilted. “Well, I couldn’t remember my wolves’ names for three days!”
“You mean the wolves that certainly aren’t your pets?”
“Certainly.” A sage nod and a smile. He tapped the bag lying just beyond his lap. “This powder, Lady Robin, presents a powerful amnestic that will steal a subject’s memories once consumed. The memory loss is temporary, I imagine, yet when consumed daily, well . . . I don’t want to imagine the prolonged effects of such a tincture.”
My eyes widened. I had no idea what to make of that. “Shit.”
“Aye. Shit, indeed.”
“So it’s a poison?”
He tapped his fingertips together once again, either nodding at my question or nodding because he was still lost in his own mind. “Where did you say it came from?”
“A carriage robbery. Hidden among Baron Easton of Mansfield’s wares.”
John swore under his breath. “Christ, Robin, you robbed the—”
“Please, love,” I cut in, raising a palm. “What’s done is done. I know. It was a mistake.”
“Maybe not, though, aye?” Wulfric chirped.
I gave him a funny look.
“Without that robbery, you wouldn’t have found the diabolical treasure he was transporting, now would you?”
Wulfric was right. Baron Easton had been bringing poison from Mansfield to Nottingham, and who knew what untold horrors awaited had it gotten into the wrong hands there.
I rubbed my chin, my forehead creasing with wrinkles. Baron Mansfield was seen with the Sheriff of Nottingham soon after. There was a meeting he was going to in Nottingham, with other nobility, if I recall correctly.
The notion of a convoluted, dangerous thread that I didn’t quite understand started to brew in my mind.
A conspiracy, perhaps. Or, at the very least, collusion between two high-classed noblemen who proclaimed the “safety” and “livelihood” of their subjects as their most ardent duties.
Obvious lies, of course, considering what I know about both men.
And now there was poison involved.
What the hell does it mean?
LITTLE JOHN AND I RETURNED to the Merry Men an hour after twilight. The night was unusually black, full of unnerving sounds in the trees at the tip of our senses as we trudged in dim firelight from a torch Wulfric had gifted us.
I could smell the camp before seeing it, as usual. It was not the smell of death and blood and filth, but the scent of smoke, fire, and a meal on the boil.
Smells that made my heart pitter-patter in my chest.
No, it wasn’t the smells doing that, I recognized. It was the idea I was about to see my Merry Men again, and my anxiety was so rampant I couldn’t contain myself.
I felt like I was going to keel over from nerves, and at one point Little John had to put an arm out to steady me. “You all right, lass?” he asked, echoing my words to him from earlier in the day.
