Chapter 5
For the rest of the evening I watched and waited, keeping my eyes peeled for anything that might turn the situation to my advantage.
With a camp full of thieves and cutthroats around me, an attempt at a grand, dramatic escape would be foolish; subtlety promised better returns.
Besides, my last bit of theatrics had blown up in my face.
Best to look unobtrusive and let their arrogance do the work for me.
I sat quietly, keeping my face blank and seemingly oblivious, as I stared awestruck at the vibrant hues of the sunset and tapped a soft rhythm on my thigh, pretending to bounce along to an imaginary tune.
My guards, two men named Goric and Flavius, took little interest in me.
They were vocal in their contempt, grumbling that guarding a “vapid lass” was a bore and that Robin Hood wouldn’t trouble himself for a mere girl.
I was grateful for their remarks. Every sneer reinforced their idea that I was harmless.
I helped the notion along, asking loudly what on earth they were saying and feigning confusion about several of their vocabulary words.
They sniggered and rolled their eyes and became more complacent by the moment.
Goric was the larger of the two, slow to anger but also equally slow to think or analyze. Flavius was a wiry, twitchy sort and was sharper than Goric, though not sharp enough to foil my plans.
As twilight bled into night, the last thin shafts of sun died and the campfires took on the responsibility of providing light.
Smoke and roasting meat scented the air; the scrape of a spoon in a wooden bowl punctuated the periodic guffaws.
I shifted closer to a low berry bush tucked beside our fire, its leaves dark and its fruit a deep maroon with clusters like tiny bruises hidden under shadowed green.
Sophor berries. I remembered Will Stutely saying with a word of caution, “Berries maroon, make a man swoon.”
Without drawing notice, I pinched a handful of berries and waited. Patience, I reminded myself. Opportunity always presented itself to those who waited and were ready to seize it when presented.
When supper was brought over for them, my two guards ate like they’d never seen food before.
Goric slurped his stew and belched loudly.
Flavius fidgeted between clattering spoonfuls, and when he rose to use the privy, I knew my moment had come.
The second Goric’s back was turned, I leaned over Flavius’s bowl.
My fingers make quick work of crushing the berries, and I let the bitter, dark pulp fall into the waiting bowl.
With a nervous glance at Goric, I took a moment to give the stew a stir, hoping Flavius wouldn’t notice the color difference when he returned.
Flavius came back to his place and, as if on cue, Goric rose to relieve himself.
As Flavius dipped his spoon into his stew’s now tainted contents, I licked my lips, feigning a desperate hunger.
I reached for Goric’s unattended bowl, dropping the hidden contents of my hand in as I did so, and stirred what was left of his meal.
“May I have some?” I asked, injecting a feeble, tremulous quality into my voice.
Flavius snorted and snatched the bowl from my hands, then snarled, “I think not, lassie. Yer not a royal guest, ya know.”
When Goric returned from the woods, Flavius thrust the bowl back into his hands. “This greedy little wench thought she could sneak some of yer food, Goric! But I stopped ‘er in time.”
Fools, I thought in satisfaction as they wolfed down their laced stew.
The change wasn’t immediate but it came quickly enough.
Not twenty minutes later, their conversation slowed.
Goric’s hearty chortles lost volume and Flavius’s spoon dropped.
The firelight lengthened on their faces as they sagged and nodded, eyelids drooping.
Within moments, both of them had slumped, heavy as sacks, as their bodies succumbed to slumber.
I could feel my green eyes flash with excitement as I rose without sound and crouched over Goric so I could take his dagger.
The steel made a soft hush as it slid from the scabbard.
I paused as he gave a sleepy groan and moved slightly, but the moment passed, and after one careful slice through my bonds, the rope fell away.
Free wrists had never felt better. I let the rope fall from my hands and rolled my shoulders.
A grin crept up, half triumph over my success, half amusement at their mouths hanging open.
Had they truly thought they could contain the Robin of Locksley’s daughter?
I’d been captured for less than a day, that was it.
I left them where they lay, snoring softly beneath the stars, and melted into the familiar cover of the surrounding forest as the camp’s fires blinked behind me, innocent and unbothered.
My good fortune was short-lived. Still within earshot of the camp, I heard shouts rise—sharp, angry, and alarmed all at once.
I quickened my pace, fingers tightening around the stolen dagger in my hand, the metal cool and reassuring against my palm.
If they did hunt me down, all the better for me, and all the worse for whichever unfortunate soul found me.
I broke into a run, light-footed enough to keep my steps quiet, but still fast enough to put distance between myself and the camp behind me. Unless they kept an exceptionally skilled tracker among them, they would never pick up my trail in the dark.
I forced myself to slow to a steady jog.
As much as I wanted to sprint headlong into the night, I could not afford to burn through what little strength I still had.
My throat was dry and my stomach was shriveled; it must have been more than a day since I’d last eaten or drunk anything. Every step reminded me of my hunger.
After what felt like half an hour of silent movement—nothing but my breathing and the soft thud of my feet—I slowed to a careful walk.
I needed to think. The sheriff’s camp had horses; surely they would mount and follow.
I needed a hiding place, somewhere that granted both cover and advantage. I gazed upwards.
Few people ever thought to look up when searching.
I scanned the trees around me, the moon filtering through branches in pale, wavering silver. A sturdy oak stood slightly apart from the others, its lowest branch high—far higher than the “weak little tavern girl” I had pretended to be would ever reach.
Perfect.
I backed up several paces, feeling the soft pine needles shift beneath my boots.
Then I ran, placing one foot against the rough bark to propel myself upward.
My fingers caught the branch—barely. My muscles protested, but I hauled myself up, hooking my knee and rolling over to perch on the limb.
The tree was immensely tall. I climbed higher, careful, nimble, until the branches began to creak and bend under my weight.
No one would even be able to see me up here, let alone follow me.
At last I settled, pressing my back against the broad trunk. The canopy around me was deep and cool, smelling of pine sap, moss and autumn leaves.
I closed my eyes, a slow smile spreading across my face. I was safe for the time being, and very far from helpless.
Father would be proud.