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It was almost my time to go, too. I didn’t like it.
“God has a plan for you, Jonathan,” Sutton said, catching me off-guard. “Whether in this life or the next, you can be sure of that.”
I blinked my dry eyes at him. “A plan, eh?”
“To make you bigger than you are, my son.”
I sniffed. “I’ve heard I’m already quite huge.”
“Bigger than yourself, then.”
I smirked wryly. “Does this plan involve my head on a pike, or my legs jerking as I hang from a noose?”
He waved a hand at me, closing his eyes as if to fight off the imagery I’d just presented him with. “Please, Jonathan. Nothing as barbaric as that. I am not apprised to the details of your future—only He can be sure of that. I only know you must atone for your sins against the Crown, and, more importantly, against God.”
My lips parted, confusion rippling through me. “But . . . you just told me not to confess to you.”
The bishop held up his palms in surrender. “Not to me, no.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Atone to Him and to yourself, for the heartbreak, damage, and chaos you have caused in this life. Then you will be free, and God will show mercy on your soul.”
With that final statement and command, Bishop Sutton looped his arm into mine and pulled me away from the apple tree. A guard approached behind us, muttering as we slowly made our way across the breezy courtyard toward the stairs.
It wasn’t until the bishop was long gone, and I was sitting alone in my cell, awaiting Sir George or Sir Guy to come down and batter me some more, that I realized something.
“Whether in this life or the next” . . . “Then you will be free, and God will show mercy on your soul.”
Shit. I blinked wildly, sitting up straight against the wall. “I’ll be damned,” I murmured. A slower person might not have picked up on it . . .
“That holy bastard just gave me my Last Rites.”
Chapter 25
Robin
The day came sooner than expected. I felt ill-prepared. Then again, we were always going to be unprepared for something like this.
Less than a week after the argument over our plan for Little John’s rescue, the messenger we’d sent into Nottingham that day returned with his eyes big as saucers. He approached our fire pit, where I ate with Tuck, Alan, and Will. Poor Griff was already fidgeting before getting to us.
The young man had proven himself indispensible as a messenger and scout. We had picked him up near Rufford Abbey a couple months back. Griff made quick friends with Much, trading tall tales and constantly trying to one-up the miller’s son.
Much was now well-known in Nottingham after being front and center when we took the orphans, announcing, “Don’t say the Merry Men never did nothing for you!”
We couldn’t send him into town as our liaison.
“What is it, lad?” Tuck asked sternly once Griff arrived at our fire. Other Merry Men sauntered over, lingering just past the firelight to hear what the day’s news brought.
“It’s happening, sir,” Griff said, his voice shaky.
I tried to calm him. “We don’t kill the messenger in this camp, Griff. Be at ease and tell us your mind. Here, have some squirrel.” I handed a smoky spit to him.
He dipped his chin. “Thank you, ma’am.” He stayed standing while he quickly ate, and I shared looks with the other Merry Men that said, This seems portentous.
“Now then,” Alan-a-Dale said gently once Griff’s stick was licked clean of food. “Take a deep breath and—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Will growled, standing and marching to the messenger. “Don’t coddle the fucking whelp. What is happening in Nottingham? This had better be good to be acting so skittish, Griff.”
I shook my head, sighing. He has to make everything so difficult, doesn’t he?
Griff gulped. “They’re staging the execution.”
