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Those two things, evidently, needed to be snuffed out in Nottingham.
“Fuck,” Will growled under his breath.
“Who is he?” I asked quickly.
Alan whispered, “Tuck would know more, but I recognize him. He would come by the orphanage at times for charity.” He tapped his temple. “Not all there, you see.”
I struggled to breathe. Tried to recalibrate. “W-What do we do?”
“Up to you, little thorn,” Will said.
This new development changed everything.
“Could he be, erm, a precursor to the main event?”
Both men shook their heads. We spoke in a hushed huddle, hidden enough rows back for guards peering into the crowd not to notice us.
“You heard how Guy introduced them,” Alan said. “He’s convinced the town that this poor sap is Little John. While he’s tall, intriguing, and certainly handsome . . . he’s no John.”
Will said, “Guy’s ploy is working, too. The average commoner here has no idea what Little John looks like. Why would they? They’re fed lies to fuel the horrors of their imagination.”
I fidgeted, wringing my wrists and biting marks into my palms with how hard I tightened my fists.
The men were being forced to stand on the crates, drawing out more cheers from the audience around us.
“Whatever it is you decide,” Will muttered, “better make it quick.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I couldn’t put any other word into my mind, yet I knew I had to. Time seemed to slow down as I drew in a deep breath and thought about the situation pragmatically. Or at least I hoped it was pragmatic.
I’ve made a vow never to let something like this happen again—the murder of innocents. Not when I can stop it. And especially when it’s not these prisoners’ faults in the first place.
I simply couldn’t abide the idea of men dying when they weren’t guilty of the crime they were said to have committed.
Were these five men criminals? Possibly. Yet they certainly weren’t bandits of the Merry Men. And thus shouldn’t get the reputation—and consequences—of our band thrust upon them.
I knew this was a trap. I could sense it, the smell of deceit strong on the wind. Stifling in the heat. The selfish, safe part of me told me another truth: Outing the Merry Men to save these strangers was not in our best interest. It would have very little, if any, positive effect, and would only go against us.
Seething, I clamped my mouth shut.
“Little songbird?” Alan called out a bit louder, his voice growing hectic.
The nooses were being lowered onto their necks. Wrapped and tightened by the hooded executioner.
My heart stuttered, my pulse spiked. I reached behind me, feeling the worn wood of my bow, and it brought me comfort. We can’t live a life of cowardice if the Merry Men are going to change their ways. When we see wrongness happening, and we have an opportunity to put a chink in the armor of the despots, we must act.
I steeled myself.
Whether it was my brother Robert taking the name of his childhood friend, Oliver of Mickley, or whoever this pale man was, disguised as Little John for the masses . . .
“No man should die with another man’s name attached to them,” I growled. There’s no dignity in this man dying in Little John’s stead, and I can’t stand to see it.
Alan and Will spun to me, eyes widening at my confusing comment.
“We act,” I ordered. “Same plan.”
Their nods were firm, steady. They understood.
They dashed forward, shoving men and women hard in the backs to get through the few remaining rows before the front.
