I had failed, and that failure might have cost my father and the Merry Men their lives.
Undeterred, Baron wrung out a damp cloth and held it against my throat. He put just enough pressure on it to staunch the bleeding, but not so much as to cause any trouble breathing. He cupped the back of my head in his other hand and began dabbing at the blood that had already fallen, which was beginning to congeal on my neck and chest. After removing the bloody cloth strip I kept around the collar for warmth, he gently turned my head this way and that, then moved the metal collar up and down to make sure all the blood was cleaned off. I let him. I didn’t want the sheriff to have any reminders of his victory. I didn’t want to think about anything at all. The cut wasn’t deep enough to be dangerous. It would heal. I stared at the tent canopy overhead, my gaze unwavering, and refused to let a single tear fall despite them welling in my eyes.
“There,” Baron said as he finished. He carefully patted my neck dry, wrapped a clean strip of linen around it, and fastened my cloak back around my shoulders. “If it still hurts in a few days, I can?—”
“Why are you doing this?” I asked bluntly, cutting him off.
“Doing what?”
“This!” I gestured to my neck where he had cleaned my wound. “Why are you being nice to me? I know I’m your prisoner. You don’t have to pretend like you actually care. I know it’s all an act. You won, all right? You have my father and all his men. That’s what you wanted all along, so there’s no need to keep up with this façade now.”
“So sorry for treating you with respect,” Baron said sarcastically. He huffed and turned away. I thought he was finished, but he muttered, “Change out of that tunic and we will rinse it out before the stain sets too badly.” With those surprising words, he stepped just outside the tent flap, granting me the most privacy he could.
When I was finished, we got the tunic rinsed and spread out to dry and then Baron retreated to his bedroll. He flopped down and angrily pulled his blankets over himself.
I turned away from him, kicking at the hated skirt I was now wearing, and furious at the world.
CHAPTER 21
Baron kicked up the tent stakes and began pulling the canvas down around me. “Get up,” he grunted. “Sheriff wants us moving before sunrise.”
I shoved my bedroll into the pack the old woman had given me during my last escape. My tunic and leggings were nowhere to be seen and I assumed Baron had already grabbed them. “Where now?”
“The Crags.” Baron tied off the canvas and tossed it to me to fold. “Cresswell Crags; have you ever been?”
I blinked at him. “That mountain gorge? With all the caves? I’ve heard of them but I’ve never been.”
He nodded. “Nomads used to live out entire winters there. The stone isn’t comfortable, but at least it provides more protection than here.” After taking the folded canvas from me, he rolled everything into a tight bundle and cinched it. “Besides, the sheriff wants a little more distance from Richard’s patrols.” He motioned to a pile of supplies and to the nearly empty pack next to me.
“Of course he does,” I muttered, stuffing the supplies in and then tugging the strap of the pack to tighten it. “Farther away from my father, too.”
Baron paused and shot me a sideways look before continuing. “The sheriff won’t risk riding near Nottingham now,” he said. “Not with Richard’s men combing through the forests.”
“So he’ll drag us to a rock maze instead.” I slung the pack over my shoulder. “Perfect.”
We joined the shuffling line of men. Dried and crumbling leaves crunched beneath my boots and the pale hills stretched ahead of us, quiet and glittering under a new layer of snow. The beauty of it made my chest ache as we moved through the land. If only I were here on my own terms—free instead of tethered. The snow would be melted by midday, but the swirling clouds threatened more snowfall tonight.
Baron walked beside me, adjusting the strap on the supplies he carried. “The Crags will shield us from the wind,” he said, more conversational now. “It’s an easy place to defend. Better than this.” He gestured toward the skeletal forest around us, its branches rattling with every icy gust.
Ahead, the sheriff’s men veered off the road toward a cluster of small farm cottages. I slowed. “No,” I whispered.
The men were pounding on doors, shoving inside, carrying out sacks—grain, potatoes, whatever the farmers had put aside to last them through the winter. A woman’s raised voice cracked through the morning air before being abruptly cut off.
My stomach twisted. “They won’t survive that,” I said under my breath. “Stripping their larders at this time of year? They’ll freeze or starve.”
Baron’s jaw tightened. “Don’t look,” he murmured. “It won’t help.”
“I can’tnotlook.” My hands balled into fists inside my sleeves.
Baron walked a step closer. “Just keep moving.”
Each step was brutal. I wished I could help them, but I couldn’t even help myself.
The woods had fallen awaybehind us hours before, replaced by the Crags’s unforgiving cliffs casting long shadows over a deep, dark lake. Baron claimed few knew about this route, and the way the path crumbled under our feet made me wish we weren’t among the few.
Wind funneled between the cliffs and pierced straight through my dress, even with the cloak on my back. I hugged my arms to myself, wishing for my leggings—not because they were any warmer, but because I couldseemy steps better with them on. Now the hem of the dress fluttered dangerously near the trail’s edge, threatening to tangle.
Baron moved ahead of me, one hand locked white-knuckled around any scrub bush sturdy enough to hold his weight. The heavy pack on his back threw off his balance, and every time he swayed, the chain between us jerked my neck. I could hear his breath, harsh and deliberate.
