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Friar Tuck nodded, then huddled close to me so only I could hear. “You do know those men, don’t you?”
I nodded. “Recognize the young one, at least. From trade shows with my mother.”
He looked skeptical. “And did you . . .”
When he trailed off, I shot him a sly smile. “I didn’t orchestrate that robbery last night to kill my competition, if that’s what you’re wondering, Tuck. You forget, I have no competition because I’m out of the game after Mama’s death.”
His face fell, shoulders sagging with obvious relief. “Oh. Right. Of course—”
“But did I know which road Baron Easton usually took to get to Nottingham, to hide his wares from the Sheriff?” I popped my eyebrows, smile growing. “I might have.”
Tuck’s mouth slowly dropped and formed a small circle. “Oh, little heathen,” he hissed, still smiling. “You duplicitous, shrewd, clever little bitch.”
I laughed and then moved past him to the captives. “Were you serious about wanting to join us?” I asked the younger one.
“No, he wasn’t,” his father answered for him.
“Yes, I was,” Carter replied, raising his chin defiantly.
Just like that . . . we’ve made a radical out of him, I thought proudly. This might be easier than I suspected if I can get people alone and knock some sense into them with their hands tied behind their backs.
The idea made me chuckle. Building community would never be easy. Not in this tense climate.
But nothing worth doing ever was.
“Then I have another question,” I said, and crouched in front of Carter. “Have you ever heard the name Little John? And what might you know about him . . .”
Chapter 9
Robin
Later that afternoon, I was sifting through the carriage full of woolen dresses and garments when I heard the door creak open behind me.
Much the Miller’s Son stood in the doorway. Staring at me. Gawking, hands fidgeting in front of his belly.
“Well met, Much the Miller’s Son,” I said, using his full, preferred title as I turned around to face him. I had a stack of forest green tunics draped over my arm.
His head tilted, his young face twisting in confusion. “They call you the leader, lady, yet they have you doing clothes duty? Don’t seem very leader-like.”
I chuckled, staring down at the bundle in my arms. “I’m the only qualified person in the band to appraise the garments for quality, Much.”
He nudged his chin. “They’re all out there eating and lazing around. Aren’t you hungry, lady?”
“Please, call me Robin. I’m not a lady or baroness.”
“Right.” He scratched the back of his neck, looking awkward.
I faced the floorboards of the carriage. “The Merry Men aren’t too happy with me right now, Much. So I’m giving them their space. They may not think they need it, but they do.” I shrugged. “Busying myself with work seemed like an easy solution.”
Much pouted and nodded slowly. “That’s servant work, Madam Robin.” He sounded disgusted saying it.
I smiled at his use of “Madam.” Some old habits died hard. I wasn’t about to chastise him again for calling me by a title—God knew Much the Miller’s Son had already been through enough. Or Nicholas, as the old guard called him.
“You’ve been trained to think it’s servant work,” I said, “because your handlers thought it was beneath them. I don’t. I rather enjoy the feel of coarse wool twining through my fingers, or the softness of lace wrapped around my neck.”
A small smile played on his mouth. “You talk funny, Madam Robin. I like it.”
I returned the smile. “I was once a noblewoman, Much. So I suppose I have a more . . .” I trailed off, eyes going heavenward while I tried to grasp the right word. “. . . refined way of speaking than the others.”
