Chapter 9 | Little John
Ihated seeing Maid Marian again, for obvious reasons. Even more, I hated seeing Robin’s face cycle through confusion, disbelief, and anger.
I stepped between the two women to separate them—the deceitful woman I had kicked out of camp shortly before I’d been captured by Sir Guy; and the fiery young lass I loved with all my heart.
I felt a sense of shame whenever I saw Marian, and right now was no different. I had allowed her to seep into the Merry Men like a creeping toxin in our veins. Well . . . at Tuck’s urging, long before we met Robin, because the friar loved to stick his cock in her back then.
Yet I’d had the final say, and the responsibility of that decision weighed heavily on me.
Now, I knew her as nothing but trouble. Cunning and beautiful, no doubt, but without a hint of loyalty on her curvy body. I knew if she was here now, turmoil would not be far behind. I tried to give Robin a look that said as much, but I’m not sure if she could read the expression in my eyes.
We went back to camp before any discussions began. Mainly to calm tensions, because I knew Robin was close to an outburst at seeing Marian, especially considering what we’d learned from Landon in Ravenshead about Marian’s new “operation.”
We needed sleep. Badly. As Will Scarlet and Friar Tuck kept Marian in a tent away from camp—a holding cell for the time being—I stood in a separate tent with Robert, Alan, and our little star.
Robin spoke to the room. “What the fuck do you think she’s doing here?”
“Couldn’t say. All we can do is ask.” This, from Alan. “She only arrived a few hours ago. So did some of Robert’s people, shortly before her. Said they arrived early?”
Robert was a nonentity in this conversation because he didn’t know Maid Marian like we did. He’d only heard stories of her, none of them good. So he kept to the back of the tent, watching us.
I said, “She’s here to stir trouble, undoubtedly.”
Robin paced like a madwoman, shaking her head. “Why now?”
“Perhaps she’s acting as a spy,” I ventured. “To get the lay of the land?” Turning to Alan, I asked, “Have you shown her around camp?”
“Of course not. But she waltzed through it to find me, so she’s seen enough, I fear.”
Robin turned to me, furrowing her brow. “Who would she be spying for? Sir Guy?”
I shrugged. “When you exchanged yourself for Emma, you said you stayed in Wilford with Marian, until she knocked you unconscious. Then you woke up in a room with Sir Guy. So, yes, I’d say them colluding is a good assumption.”
“Shouldn’t we at least hear her out before we jump to conclusions?” Robert asked from behind everyone.
We all spun, incredulous. Robin stuck him with a dagger-stare, and a grim, “No.”
The tent fell quiet. I could only imagine what Robin was thinking right now. I would have given anything to peer into her mind.
Marian had been loosely associated with everything that had happened to us up until this point. She showed her hand at random times, often months apart. Just when she would begin to drift from our minds, she would pop up with some new scheme.
Only Marian knew Marian’s mind, and that was dangerous.
Marian had been our original Judas, betraying us to Sir Guy, showing him maps of our hideaways. She had been in cahoots with Robin’s wicked father, even, using her wiles and femininity to seduce him. She had escaped the Loxley massacre unharmed as Robin opted to take out her vengeance on the man who sired her.
She had disappeared then, and reappeared as the heir-apparent of the Wilford estate—land that rightly belonged to Robin and Robert, if they weren’t outlaws. To dig the knife in deeper, she held Robin’s prior handmaiden, Emma, hostage there. Then she held Robin hostage there.
And now . . . I didn’t even know. None of us did, and maybe that was Robert’s point: It was best not to jump blindly into the fire when Marian manned the coals.
“Hold on,” I said, earning everyone’s eyes and ears. I spoke to Robin directly, massaging my beard and chin. “If we know she’s a spy—”
“Which we don’t know,” Alan pointed out.
“—then maybe we can use that to our advantage.”
Robin slanted her head, confusion rippling across her face. “How so?”
“Feed her bad information,” I said. “Assume she’s reporting to Guy or Sheriff George. Make her think we trust her again.”
Robin mulled it over, quiet for a drawn-out moment. Then she shook her had adamantly. “She’s too clever. She’ll know something is awry if we start divulging information to her and act nice. She knows we don’t trust her one whit.”
I shrugged my big shoulders up to my ears. “Then we don’t act nice to her. Should be easy enough, since we all despise the woman.”
When I locked Robin with a wicked grin, she smirked. “Do some scheming of our own.”
Alan-a-Dale stepped forward, putting his arms out between us. “While I’m loving this chat about duplicity and treachery . . . are we sure we can outsmart her? Are we not just better off kicking her out of camp?”
Alan’s gaze flicked between the three of us, ultimately landing on Robin last. Our leader. It was her decision.
“Nay,” she said. “This is an opportunity we should not squander. I like John’s plan. It’s either that, or torture her. And I think we’ve seen enough blood for one sunset.”
My head reeled. Those are the only two options?
She headed for the flap of the tent to leave before anyone could question her. I agreed with her decision, I supposed, yet something else bothered me.
Why was she smiling when she spoke of torture?
“I COME IN GOOD FAITH, on my own volition,” Marian explained.
Robin stood at the front of our semi-circle, her four lovers behind her. Robert had left to welcome the newly arrived Oak Boys to camp and help them get situated.
Folding her arms under her breasts, standing over Marian, Robin said, “You do nothing in good faith, Maid Marian, except perhaps faith to yourself.”
We were on a razor’s edge here—rile Marian up, act deplorable to her, even, yet not play a hand that was heavy enough to oust her from camp. I truly did believe this was a blessing in disguise, if we played it right.
Sending Marian back to her handlers with false information could greatly benefit us. Robin had to be both a diplomat and interrogator, and I knew how hard that could be.
“It’s Madam Marian now, actually,” the curly redhead said with a tightlipped smile. She sat calmly on a bench, opposite Robin.
“Oh. Right.” Robin took it in stride, scoffing. “Since you’ve turned my family home into a whorehouse.”
Marian wasn’t fazed. She smiled wider. “I thought that might come to your attention, at some point.”
Robin bounced Marian’s arrogance right back at her, not taking the bait. I felt like I was watching two creatures I didn’t wholly understand partake in a war I didn’t know how to wage. A war of wiles and wit and backhanded reactions.
I was rapt with attention—all of us were—as the two waged their secret skirmish.
“Does it make you proud, Marian, selling yourself to the highest bidder?” Robin asked with a haughty tone.
Marian raised a finger. “I don’t even need to sell myself, anymore. I have workers for that.”
“You lost the men you truly loved,” Robin continued, undeterred, “only to give yourself over to the bottom-feeders of the realm.”
Marian stood from the bench with a harsh laugh. “From everything I’ve heard, the Merry Men are the bottom-feeders of the realm.”
“You and I both know that’s not true.”
“Do we?”
“Why are you here, Marian, if not to stir trouble? Give us a single reason to trust you.”
“I’ll give you a few,” Marian snapped back, counting off on her fingers. “Madam Marian’s Teahouse is not just any whorehouse—”
“Really? That’s what you’re calling Wilford now? How quaint.” Robin snorted incredulously.
Marian’s eyes flickered with fire, her defenses temporarily damaged. Tease her well-known duplicity as much as you wanted. But try to tarnish her reputation—her livelihood, even? She didn’t take kindly to that.
I felt this cat match was about to sprawl into pouncing lionesses, and my muscles tensed, ready to react at a moment’s notice.
“Because of the admitted opulence of your family estate, girl,” Marian said with a dip of her chin, “the Teahouse brings only the highest-tier clientele. The upper echelons of society: noblemen, wealthy knights, landowners, and traveling merchants. You’d be surprised at how much you can glean from those snooty bastards.”
Her eyes flashed with mischief, eyebrows bobbing with a smirk.
Robin took a moment to answer, caught off-guard. When lines formed in her forehead, she said, “You’re saying your brothel has become a hub for information?”
“Aye.” Marian waved her hand vaguely in the air. “Most of it is benign tattling: Which nobleman is sleeping with which; the everyday milieu of chattering penny-pinchers and schemers.”
“Then they fit right in with you.”
“Indeed. Well played.” Marian smiled at Robin, nodding deeper. “Yet some of the information is useful: trade routes and battle strategies; noblemen speaking with others about their plans and ambitions, while they’re getting their cocks sucked. Hell—while they’re sucking each other’s cocks. I’ve cultivated a rapport of secrecy and trust at my Teahouse, where nothing said inside leaves those walls. In theory.”
“In theory?”
Marian rested her hands on her hips. Realizing she had Robin somewhat entranced, she struck a fierce pose, pumping her wide hip out to the side. “That’s why I’m here, Robin. Because only I know how helpful my line of work can be for your people.”
Robin glanced over her shoulder at me and the rest of her mates, which was her first mistake. She needed to manage this situation on her own, and eyeing us for assistance only showed her weakness, in a time when Marian was showing strength.
“Why would you help us?” Robin asked at last.
It was an excellent question.
“You’ve only ever been a nuisance,” she continued, “ever since Little John expelled you from the band. Hell, before that, even.”
Marian’s smooth upper lip twitched. Evidently, she hated being reminded of what I’d done—how her reputation had been on the cusp of disaster back then.
Slowly, though, her twitching lip curled into a smirk. “Oh, you sweet, foolish girl. Little John did me a favor.”
Robin reeled, mouth opening and closing.
“Do you think I would have ever gotten to the place I am now as part of the Merry Men? I would have never climbed the social ranks of Nottingham scrounging for the scraps here. Being banished from the forest opened my eyes and made me think ambitiously for the first time, without having to claw after men who didn’t want me.” She faced me with a slight bow. “So, thank you for that, John.”
I flared my nostrils. She made another good point: Marian had found herself in a cushy, enviable position, all since being ousted from our band. Meanwhile, we had struggled to even survive.
This was what I had meant, and what we all knew, about Marian’s cunning. She could turn defeats into victories, failures into opportunities, and bad news into good.
Perhaps she would be useful to us, if she could really provide us with information about the goings-on in Nottingham.
Doubt rippled through me. Doubting myself and the strategy I had suggested about double-dealing with Maid Marian and feeding her false information.
Truth be told . . . I wasn’t sure we were clever enough to pull it off. Perhaps Robin was, but I was not too proud to admit when I was outmatched. On the battlefield, or tactically in the war room? I rarely met my better. But right now, Marian clearly had the upper hand.
“You haven’t told us what brought you crawling back,” Robin said, not letting my doubt cloud her judgment. I was proud of her for it. “If you have such a rumor mill at your disposal, why give it away for free—to us, of all people, when we have evidently treated you poorly?”
For the first time, Marian’s snarky attitude vanished. Her treacherous smile flipped into a frown, and she looked away. “Because I’ve discovered things that have made me uncomfortable. Believe me, I have agonized over coming here. Yet staying on the sidelines no longer seems like an option.”
“Because of what you’ve learned in Nottingham?” Robin pried.
Marian nodded. “Aye.” She let out a heavy sigh.
It was impossible to tell how truthful she was being, or if this was just another one of her games. Honestly, I was relieved Robin was taking the reins on this one.
“To prove my faithfulness, I will provide you with something that few others know. A piece of evidence you are missing, which will change everything. I must forewarn you, however, it will bring righteous hatred out of you, as it did me.”
Robin scowled. “I don’t know if I need more hatred in my heart, Marian. I seem to be sinking in it these days.”
“Robin,” I croaked, the first of her Merciless Men to speak. I wasn’t trying to sway her mind—only speaking because it pained me to hear her say that. To hear her say something that the rest of us had recognized: She was changing, and not in a good way.
It was an element we’d have to tackle eventually.
“Tell me, Madam Marian,” Robin spat, “and I’ll be the judge of its veracity and worth.”
“Very well,” Marian answered, and cleared her throat.
She seemed to struggle with her words, which simply did not happen with Marian. Again, it could have been part of her artful display, yet I wanted to believe she was being honest and forthcoming. Perhaps for the first time in her life. Lord knew her face looked pained and racked with enough guilt. Either that, or she was an even better actor than I’d known.
“I did not know where Sir Guy would take you when you traded your safety for the handmaid’s,” she said at last. “He simply ordered me to keep you until he arrived.”
“So knocking me unconscious was just for fun?”
Marian shrugged. “I was angry. It was the easiest way to detain you.” She shook her head, her elegant brows flitting with consternation. “I should have suspected something when I was told to feed the female inhabitants of Wilford with that white powder in their drinks.”
A gasp slipped past Robin’s lips, which she tried to hide by clearing her throat. “I knew it—I knew you had tampered with the drinks!”
“Aye, except that order didn’t come from Sir Guy. It came from the Sheriff of Nottingham himself. I was getting mixed signals. That is when I should have noticed something was awry: Because, despite everything you might believe, Sir Guy of Gisborne has a shred of honor. Sir George doesn’t.”
I let out a heavy snort and shook my head. Even if it was true, I would never admit it. Never believe it, really, because I’d had too many run-ins with that despicable, emotionless man.
Marian raised her hands in surrender. “Believe what you will, Little John. But Guy has always treated me favorably.”
“You never thought it might be because he wants something from you?” I asked. “If there is anyone more cunning than you, Marian, it is him.”
She quirked a sad smile. “Aye, that’s the truth of it. You may be right. Even so.”
I glanced at Robin to see how she was taking this, and was surprised to see that her face had gone pale. She wasn’t disagreeing with Marian. Why? Does she actually believe the same thing as her? That Sir Guy of Gisborne is not a horrible fiend?
“Regardless,” Marian continued, “Sir George ordered me to taint the drinks for my guests. Guy simply ordered me to hold the woman captive. And when I mentioned to Sir Guy the white powder, given to me by George, he was shocked. Went and did some digging on his own, and came to a startling realization.”
“That the women you had holed up in Wilford—and in other hideaways, no doubt—were being sold as sex slaves,” Robin announced, baring her teeth. “That isn’t news to us, Marian. We already knew. Already had a huge battle about it, even. You should have seen it.”
“I wish I had,” Marian said, without her typical snark. “If it meant seeing the slavers suffer.”
I was a bit surprised at that response.
Her face was a storm of thinly veiled rage, and it was the first time I’d ever seen her so serious. “Yet I already suspected you knew, Robin, because you’re smart. No, that’s not the information I wished to relay.”
“Then what is it? I’m growing tired of reliving that horror. Many of the girls meant to be offloaded from the carriages are staying with us even now, Marian. They’ve found a home with the Merry Men.”
Marian stepped forward, locking gazes with Robin before flicking her eyes to me, Will, Alan, and Tuck. “Sir Guy discovered the mastermind behind the slaving operation, and it’s not Sheriff George.”
My stomach soured.
“His name is Bishop Sutton of Ravenshead.”