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And that he diverted the guards’ attention long enough that we were able to do what we’d come here to do.
Chapter 21
Alan a Dale
Ihoped the lad would be okay. He was brave to be doing this for us. To prove himself by putting his own life and freedom at risk.
I reckoned if Much the Miller’s Son was recognized by anyone here, especially a guard, he’d be snagged and dragged back to a cage. Fortunately for him, he had previously lived in Mansfield, and I hoped that translated to him being unknown in Nottingham, even among the other transients.
The miller’s son gave me unexpected competition when it came to revelry and raising spirits among the Merry Men over our nightly campfires. He was no bard, yet he had a natural inclination for telling tall tales and getting smiles out of people. I welcomed healthy competition, and in truth, it took some of the burden off me.
I didn’t want to lose him. Much could be taught a great many things. Perhaps, someday, he could even become a grand storyteller, leave the Merry Men, and travel the world entertaining dignitaries and leaders in a way I had only dreamed of.
My place was with the Merry Men and, more importantly, Robin. His future shone brighter.
“Ready?” Tuck asked from the bench across from me in the carriage.
I locked in and strapped my lute onto my back. “Ready.”
The friar eyed me suspiciously. “What in God’s name will you need that thing for? A sword is more likely necessary than a musical instrument, Alan.”
I winked at him, smirking. “We’ll see, dear chaplain. You stick to your Scripture, I’ll stick to what I do best.”
Tuck sighed, scratched his cheek. “Suit yourself.”
We exited the carriage, keeping our hoods low and our eyes high. Our driver had wheeled us to an alley near the town square. Robin’s carriage rolled across the gap in front of the alley ahead, as she and Will took the opposite end of the square so we could cover more ground fast.
We scampered through the dark, muddy alley. Tuck kept his hands shoved in the pockets of his habit. I knew he’d be keeping his fingers close to Atonement and Discipline, in case the weapons were needed.
The first alley was bare besides refuse and occasional piles of shit. At the mouth of the alley, Tuck held his arm out and stopped me cold. He dipped his chin and I followed his eyes.
Four guards clanked by, headed for Much and the commotion he’d caused near the fountain in the center of the square. The soldiers seemed confused and annoyed that they had to actually work this late at night, when most people were getting ready for sleep.
Part of our plan was to make sure things didn’t get out of hand. We couldn’t let a riot break out around Much, or he’d be considered the instigator of it. If townsfolk started arguing over who got what, it could spell trouble.
I could hear Much’s cracking voice playing damage control, even though I couldn’t see him. “Careful, now—no shoving! There’s enough here for everyone!”
Sure. There was enough now. As word-of-mouth spread and brought more people to the southern square of Nottingham, and the stocks dwindled . . . that might not be the case in a few short minutes. We have to hope the civilians are, well, civilized. At least for a while.
On the other hand, there was a sick sense of satisfaction I got at knowing we were doling out a rich man’s property—Baron Easton’s—free of charge.
“Come on,” Tuck whispered once the guards had passed with their backs to us.
We snuck through shadows, staying out of the spotlight of the moon overhead. Making sure the high walls of the alleys hid us. The friar and I zigzagged through three more alleys, each one sparser than the last. We peeked out from the last corridor and noticed at least thirty people in the square now, with tensions rising. Nearly fifteen soldiers were there, shifting from foot to foot, fingers tapping near the hilts of their weapons.
Don’t give them a reason to draw those fucking things. Because God knows they’re just looking for it. If there’s anything a soldier of Nottingham loves under Sheriff George’s direction, it’s bashing a club over a poor sap’s head.
Tuck shouldered me and I turned away from the spectacle Much was causing, and followed the friar along the nearest storefront. Here, we were most vulnerable and visible, but it couldn’t be helped.
I held my breath the entire way to the almshouse. We cut in through an alley to the side, and I stayed close behind the friar as his cloak billowed behind him and his habit rippled in the breeze. He moved briskly for a big man.
My boot squelched in a small pond of mucky shit-water, and I frowned. Ruined, I thought glumly, shaking my head. I glanced over my shoulder, eyes narrowing. If there are any nobleman’s boots left over once Much is done passing out the goods . . .
I’d always had a taste for the finger things in life.
Tuck knocked on a small, chipped door off to the side of the tight corridor, in an arrhythmic pattern.
Seconds later, the door cracked open. A single dark eye stared at us. It was a small lad with hardly ten winters under his belt. “Friar Tuck!” he hissed excitedly, then threw the door open wider to hurry us in with a flap of his hand.
