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I put myself in a staggered fighting stance, keeping my arms and knees bent like Will Scarlet had shown me. Maybe if I could hold these soldiers off long enough, the girls could escape back into the woods. The guards likely wouldn’t follow them there—to the pit of the hellhole where Abbot Emery thought they had sprouted from.
Just who is that man standing behind Emery? Why do I recognize him, yet can’t place his face?
“Baron Easton!” Maria shouted next to me, and recollection struck me in the gut. “Please don’t do this!”
The man stepped forward next to the abbot. Memories of my childhood flooded me: Mama Joan, taking me to the Lace Market and St. Mary’s in Nottingham, to do business with this man. His easy indifference to the trade my mother tried to barter with in Mansfield, where he ruled.
Maria and Much the Miller’s Son had been his servants.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do, waif,” Baron Easton casually called down the hill. “You are a stray, girl. You left the safety of my halls and have allied yourself with raving hell-creatures.”
“You sent me away!” Maria screeched.
Baron Easton shrugged, even as the guards advanced, stepping ever closer to us. “It is just business, Maria.”
Just business. The business of snatching up young souls through England and trafficking them to seaport towns and cities, never to be seen again.
The fury that burgeoned inside me would stoke the fire of my attacks for at least a minute. I could give the girls time.
“Get out of here, girls,” I growled through clenched teeth. “Only death awaits you here. Not salvation.”
The eight huddled together behind me, hugging each other, crying instead of screaming.
Twenty feet, and then I would be swarmed.
If the girls started running now, they could get a head start.
Fifteen feet, and the shields clanked against one another as the soldiers moved.
Ten feet—
And the earth shook beneath my toes. A low rumble picked up somewhere west, coming from the valley of the forest below us.
I glanced over, brow furrowing deeply.
Riders charged through the trees, bursting free and angling off at the sides. At least a dozen, possibly more, riding ragged steeds like they were destriers fitted for war.
My eyes bulged. A third party had arrived, and—
Oh my God. My heart leapt to my throat.
The front man was huge and towering, leaning forward in his seat to ride at a breakneck speed. Directly behind him was a smaller man, curly black hair flopping about, red sash swaying from his neck. Flanking his right was a stout individual wearing a friar’s habit, rippling in the breeze, and to his left was a man with long, golden hair that struck a majestic stride in the moonlight.
Their faces were tight, rigid, fixed for battle.
The Merry Men charged with weapons raised high in the sky, stampeding toward a battlefield seeking glory. Behind my men were ten others, including Much, Rosco, Tate, Griff, Jamie, and the others who were still alive.
“Baron . . .” Abbot Emery murmured in confusion, his voice echoing down the hill. “Are they ours?”
All the color had drained from Baron Easton’s ruddy face. “Nay.” Then he exploded into action, calling down, “Change wings, soldiers! Defend yourselves against the raiders!”
The chubby baron turned and ran for the door of the abbey, with the abbot close behind him. The shield wall didn’t have time to prepare for my men as the rumbling earth under me only became more intense.
The Merry Men glided across the hill and their horses whinnied and galloped. Raised swords hacked down on shields and across faces.
The wall broke immediately, guards scattering, screaming as they tried to save themselves.
Little John smashed his sword over a man’s helmet, caving it deep into his skull. Friar Tuck brought an axe down on another, nearly decapitating him as he charged past. Two daggers whipped out from Will Scarlet’s person and caught a man in the throat. An arrow shot from Alan-a-Dale and lodged into a soldier’s chest.
