My indifference to youth my own age left me with only the adult men for companionship, who seemed to adopt me collectively as their daughter. Each one shared his knowledge with me, whether that was charting the stars, discerning which plants could be used for what purpose, knife throwing, or fire making.
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, reveling in my surroundings. My life here in Sherwood Forest was perfect. Nothing ever needed to change.
CHAPTER 2
Traveling on foot, I set off for my next assignment to the south of Sherwood Forest, where I’d been recently tipped off that the Sheriff of Nottingham was hiding. My journey took me outside a small village three days from where we lived, where there had been rumors of robberies. That sounded like the work of thugs employed by the sheriff. He had been dishonorably discharged from King Richard’s service many years prior, but rumors were circulating that he was lying low around Nottingham to gather support for Prince John.
Stories of Prince John’s lust to take over the throne were unsurprising and almost commonplace, but the prospect of a throng of mercenaries rallied to his cause, headed by a heartless man like the sheriff, was intimidating. With King Richard occupied in the Holy Land, it was only a matter of time before Prince John’s cause became an open rebellion.
All my life, I’d listened to my father and his men recount the numberless times they’d narrowly escaped the clutches of the sheriff, but I had never seen him myself. Despite that, I felt like I already knew the notorious Sheriff Blackwell of Nottingham.
I skulked in a far corner of a dingy tavern where a motley crowd of crooks congregated this time of night, silently observing all the customers streaming in and out of the taproom. The aroma of the woodsmoke mingled with the stink of cheap alcohol as the hearth’s fire cast a light haze over cloaked figures huddled around tables. I listened intently, waiting for information to present itself. So far, none but weary travelers and haggard-looking townsfolk had entered, exchanging idle gossip or lamenting the current tax rates, but I was patient.
A scruffy, overweight man staggered drunkenly over and flopped into the seat next to me. “’Ello, darlin’,” he slurred. “Care fer a pint?” He shoved a mug towards me, and I suppressed my urge to curl my lip in disdain.
“No, thank you,” I answered coldly, looking away from him. I’d never be able to pick up information about the sheriff’s men with this oaf hanging around. My father needed me to see how much of a threat the sheriff was, not be flirted with by drunkards.
“C’mon, don’t be like that, darlin’,” he persisted, and I pivoted back to stare at him.
His eyes were dim and slid in and out of focus. With a quick glance around, I leaned forward, teeth clenched, and pulled my knife on him under the table, digging the sharp point into his vest. Lowering my voice to a venomous whisper, I hissed, “Isaidno, thank you. Weren’t you just saying you were about to go home?”
He cast a terrified look down at the knife, the tip of which had punctured his leather vest and was scraping against his large belly underneath. I was pressing the blade just hard enough for the man to recognize the danger through his besotted state, yet not so hard that it would draw blood.
“Aye,” he gurgled, and stumbled to his feet. I raised an eyebrow in amusement as I watched the man weave his way outof the tavern. I re-sheathed my knife in one fluid motion and crossed my legs, clad in knee-high leather boots, under the table.
I sipped my drink slowly, still alert for any sign of activity. A knot of five men pushed into the pub, crowding up to the counter to demand some ale from the tavernkeeper. I eyed them with interest. These were no drunkards eager to escape a belligerent wife at home. Heavy knives and clubs hung from their belts, scars were visible on their arms and faces, and there was a rugged, mean quality to them. They were just the sort of scum that would be attracted to the Sheriff of Nottingham. Drinks in hand, the men sat at a table near mine and struck up a conversation.
At first, their dialogue was the normal small talk, but after half an hour, my patience paid off. One man rasped, “When’d Blackwell need us back?”
His companion growled an answer about it being a long walk back and that they’d best leave soon, and the others joined in, grumbling about their lack of free time and how overworked they all were. As the men heaved themselves onto their feet, I rose and followed, quiet as Death.
The cluster of men walked for a long time, winding their way out of town and down toward the forest on a lonely path. I shadowed them, dodging first from house to house, then skulking behind trees as they wound their way into the thickets surrounding the village. The silvery moon was bright enough to track them reasonably well, but there were still several tense moments when I had to squint through the dark night to find their shadowy figures again.
I covertly tailed the unsuspecting mercenaries for well over an hour and a half, until the forest path opened and descended into a valley. I stopped at the crest of the hill and looked down upon the scene below. A sea of tents sprawled across the clearing, their canvas walls gleaming beneath the moonlightwhile campfires burned before each dwelling, their flames licking the darkness and casting restless shadows that danced across the ground. But at the center rose one tent—massive and imposing, with silken banners rippling in the night wind. It dwarfed the others, the perfect symbol of power and arrogance. That could only belong to the sheriff.
I quickly calculated the number of tents and multiplied it by my estimation of the occupants in each shelter. Ironically, it was the large tents that would house fewer men. Larger tents would be solely used by high-ranking officers, while smaller tents would be crammed with four or five entry-level men-at-arms.At least they’ll be warm in the winter, I thought, biting my lower lip to stop myself from laughing.
All in all, I estimated a minimum of one hundred and fifty men to be camped out here. A sufficient number to be a credible threat. With King Richard and most of his men still in the Holy Land, Prince John could easily continue to amass more followers and potentially refuse to allow Richard to reclaim the throne once he came back.
All I needed to do now was report my findings back to my father, but this trailing and observing had been too easy for me to feel like I had accomplished anything challenging. I was already this close; what was the harm in investigating a little more? So I stayed, hidden at the edge of the forest for the entire night, a silent observer to the proceedings of the camp below. There were only a few guards standing sentry during the night, bored and uninterested in the night sounds, and I couldn’t help but share a small portion of their sentiment. Though I kept my eyes peeled for any unusual activity, I didn’t see any, nor did I see any sign of the sheriff.
To ensure my vision wasn’t too affected from the dark, I continually kept my gaze roving on and off the light cast from the campfires, using my peripheral vision to scan thesurroundings for any unusual movement. It would hardly do to be snuck up on from behind. But their night watchmen shuffled along, unbothered as they simply went through the motions of patrolling the camp’s vast perimeter.
Despite the lack of action, I stayed vigilant and left an hour before sunrise. Needing to rest for a bit to clear my head before I trekked back to our base camp, I returned to the tavern I had visited the previous evening, which doubled as an inn, and requested a room. The tavern owner peered with interest at my Lincoln Green tunic and then at my dark-red hair as I threw back my cloak’s cowl. “Ye can’t be related to Robin Hood, can ye?”
I smiled and intentionally neglected to answer the question. My hair was how most people recognized me, as Father also had red hair, an uncommon feature. “One room for a single day, please.”
“Ye are!” he exclaimed, and called his wife out of the kitchen. “Aleece! Come see who it is!”
A plump woman emerged from the kitchen, still wiping bowls. She gasped upon her husband’s excited pointing as she recognized me and began a lengthy story about a time when her mother had been helped by the infamous Robin Hood. I smiled and nodded, impatient for the chance to rest until nightfall, when I could slip away to Sherwood Forest beneath the cover of darkness.
At long last, I was shown to my room, a small chamber beside the noisy kitchen, and flopped onto the bed, casually brushing several spiders from the musty bedsheets as I did so.
I intended to rise at dusk and begin my preparations to leave, but before the sun had even begun to sink in the sky, I felt another presence enter the room. The feeling began even before I was fully awake, but I couldn’t be sure what drew my attention—the draft from the opening door, the gentle creak of a floorboard, or perhaps the ragged breathing of an unfamiliarperson. I didn’t move a muscle, just listened intently with my eyes closed so as to not give away my cognizance.
It must be a heavyset man. He was putting great effort into drawing his breath quietly, and the floorboards groaned in protest more loudly with this stranger’s footsteps than they had done with my own. I opened my eyes a fraction, still not moving from my side-sleeping position. Bright sunshine poured in from the window, illuminating the man’s silhouette against the daylight streaming in behind him.
He approached me with a short sword held in his right hand. Time was up. With sudden agility, I sprang from the bed, rolled across it, and vaulted to the floor so the man was now across the furniture from me.
