“She looks a bit like him, if I remember right,” the nasal voice said. “I’ve only seen Robin once before. Was she hard to catch? The others say she came flyin’ right out the window. You toss her through yourself, or what?”
The gruff-voiced man hesitated for a mere fraction of a second before he said, “Yes, I did.”
A smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth, though I didn’t let it show.Ha.Pride—every man’s downfall. He’d rather claimthe throw than admit I’d escaped him, and that arrogance would serve me well. Let them all believe I was some frightened, helpless girl. That illusion had lured more than one fool into lowering his guard around me.
“How much of that brew have you got left?” the gruff man asked. “King’s wort, is it?”
“Aye,” said the nasal one. “Not much left, and that was the last of my stock. But a little slip like her won’t be trouble. Pretty ones are always the easiest—soft in the head, soft everywhere else. Soon, Robin Hood’ll come crawling in begging for her back, and the sheriff’ll have his prize.”
“Just as well,” the gruff voice muttered as he turned toward the exit. “The sheriff’s been obsessed with Robin Hood for years. It’s about time we turned the tables. If she’s who we think she is, this’ll end things once and for all.” The canvas flapped, and the heavy footsteps faded.
I opened my eye a crack again, surveying the tent’s dim interior. The canvas walls were light gray from the sun shining down and there, close enough that I could reach out and touch it sat my target—a shallow bowl filled cloudy liquid—king’s wort, they had called it. One touch of that to my face and I’d be back in the void.
I waited, listening until the gruff man’s boots were swallowed into the other background sounds of the camp, then shifted ever so slightly. It was time to act.
With an exaggerated, sudden movement, I feigned startling in my sleep, stretching an arm just far enough to knock the bowl over. The bowl flipped, spilling the drug across the packed dirt.
“Blasted girl!” the nasal man hissed, leaning forward to mop it up.
That was all the opening I needed. I moved faster than a striking snake, wrapping an arm around his neck and dragging him backward off his stool. He clawed at me, but I already hadthe drug-soaked cloth in my other hand. I held my breath and pressed it hard over his mouth and nose.
He thrashed once, then twice, then went limp.
I released him carefully, lowering him to the ground and brushing a strand of hair from my eyes with the hand that wasn’t damp from touching the cloth. “That’s better,” I whispered, heady satisfaction warming my chest.
After straightening, I slipped to the tent flap, every muscle tense with anticipation.I was almost free. Soon, I’d be able to vanish into the woods.
But the moment I stepped outside, my confidence faltered. The clearing beyond teemed with men—dozens of them—gathered around crackling cookfires or else sharpening blades. Their laughter died at once when they saw me.
By the saints—I was in troubleagain.
CHAPTER 4
Ithought fast and leaned into the part I knew best—the sniveling, weak girl. “Where am I?” I asked in a high, innocent whine, then pointed at the tent. “I woke up and there was a strange man asleep in there.”
“Bilius!” someone spat, slinking past me to enter the tent and inspect his comrade. “Too much drink, no doubt.”
Nobody moved for a heartbeat; they seemed stunned that a prisoner would simply walk out. The pause broke as a rough hand closed on my arm. “Ouch, you’re hurting me!” I protested, plucking at his fingers and letting my voice tremble.
“Graves, we don’t even know—” one man started, but the man holding my arm yanked a coil of rope free and began lashing my wrists together in front of me.
“Wait, stop! Why are you tying me up?” I asked, batting my eyes in bewilderment. “Did I do something wrong? What’s happening? I insist on seeing the man in charge!”
With a final tug, Graves cinched the knots. “Lucky for you,” he said, “I’m taking you there now.”
He led me across the clearing to the great tent at the center where my previous hunch hardened into certainty when the flap parted and the Sheriff of Nottingham stepped out to greet me.He was tall and broad-shouldered, just as Father had described, but this man had more silver than black in his hair, and he was heavier around the middle than I’d pictured. He looked like an aged bear, still powerful and strong, but slower than he must’ve been in his younger days. Nevertheless, he still carried the weight of authority and command.
The sheriff greeted me kindly and motioned for me to follow him into the massive tent. “Sit down, my dear, sit,” he purred, patting a wooden stool. I sank into it and folded my bound hands in my lap in a picture of disoriented sweetness.
“I’m sure you have questions,” he said smoothly. “And I have a few for you as well.”
“May I ask mine first?” I asked, eyes wide.
“Of course. Go ahead,” he answered, all courtesy and charm.
“Where am I? Who are you? Why am I here?” I sniffed, slipping into a slight accent I’d practiced with Dale. Good acting was a trick almost as useful as a blade. “I’m terribly frightened. Ma and Pa’ll be worried. Look”—I held up my hands, the cuts and scrapes still fresh and obvious—“a brute throwed me from my bed right out the window.”
“And who are your parents?” the sheriff asked, quick as a hawk.
