Chapter 18 | Robin
“He can’t be trusted!” Little John wailed.
“It’s certainly a trap or ambush,” Will added.
“Just who the hell is the subject of the message, anyway? Who is he?” Alan wondered.
The groans were loud and prominent. Other Merry Men around camp started to look over at us curiously.
I took John by the arm and tugged him with me as I walked to a tent so we could talk privately. The rest of the men followed, as did Marian.
I had wanted to keep my strange history with Guy of Gisborne a secret from my mates, because I was still so confused about it and didn’t know what to make of it. What he had done for me made me doubt my own mind at times, wondering if that had all been a dream.
But no. The man named Red, who had tried to rape me and earned shackle chains wrapped around his neck, was all the evidence I needed to know it had not been a fabrication of my mind. It had been one of the realest, scariest times in my life. Partly because I hadn’t had my merciless men to help me. At least not at first.
The men were in a public uproar, yet they quieted once we made it to a tent and their eyes focused on me. They saw the hesitation written on my face.
“What is going on, little thorn?” Will asked. “You look like you’re holding secrets, and you know how we feel about those.”
My eyes narrowed into slits. “We all have secrets, Will. Don’t try to pretend otherwise.”
“Aye. But they can’t stay that way forever. Sooner or later, they must see the light.”
For some reason, I glanced over Will’s shoulder to Little John’s face when he said that. Will was right—revealing the secrets would set us free. But what about John’s case? Noticing the trepidation and shame written on his features when I looked at him and he glanced away, I wondered if he would ever tell the Merry Men what had happened to him in that jail cell with Sheriff George.
On one hand, it might bolster our hate for Sir George, which was helpful, and paint him as the tyrant we knew him to be. On the other, I knew people were ruthless and heartless, and it might show John in a weak light. Even though none of it had been his fault.
I cleared my throat, eyeing each of my men in turn. Maid Marian stood near the back, inspecting all of us, having the decency to not interject when it was clear I had something to say.
“You’re all wrong,” I began, and my voice treacherously cracked. “I don’t know why, but you’re wrong about Sir Guy of Gisborne.”
Brows furrowed in confusion. Noses scrunched.
“What are you trying to say, love?” John asked.
“When I exchanged my freedom for Emma’s in Maid Marian’s . . . care . . . I woke up shackled to a dank wall. Guy of Gisborne staring over me.”
“That bastard,” John seethed, baring his teeth. “Did he touch you? I’ll kill—”
“No,” I eked out. It was another lie, which felt horrible telling, because Guy had seen my body bare. He had kissed me—“taking something” from me while giving something to me at the same time, as he’d said.
Sir Guy had also draped my cloak over my naked body, to protect my modesty. So, in the way John was saying, no, Sir Guy had not touched me.
“You don’t understand,” I said, shaking my head wildly. “Sir Guy might have imprisoned me, but he also helped me escape captivity. He put a key in my hood, which I used with the assistance of Maria in the carriage to loosen my shackles. When I was assaulted later on by one of the guards, I choked the life out of him with those very same manacles, before he could touch me. Sir Guy made that possible.”
“I . . . don’t understand,” John said in a raspy tone. “Why would he help you?”
“I believe Sir Guy and Sheriff George are at odds. That Guy didn’t even know of the sex slaving operation, and once he learned, he decided to fight against it in the only way he knew how—to help me escape it. I think he saw it as nothing more than a distraction for George.”
“That doesn’t check out, little songbird,” Alan-a-Dale said, shaking his head. “Sir Guy has only ever been a ruthless, wicked man. He’s also been loyal, not one to subvert his superior.”
“Aye. Yet he’s a cunning man, too, right? We all know that. If he thinks what he’s doing is in George’s best interest . . . even if it’s helping me . . .”
I searched their eyes, and still saw the bafflement in each one of them. Only Marian, over their shoulders, didn’t seem too surprised. Oddly enough, she seemed . . . angry. Her neck was taut, hollowed.
“If it wasn’t for Sir Guy,” I explained, “I would be a slave in some depraved nobleman’s sex dungeon halfway across the world right now. I’m certain of it.”
“Why not just unlock the shackles himself?” Friar Tuck asked. “Why go through the trouble of attempting to free you, yet leaving it in your hands?”
I shivered, hugging my arms around my torso, recalling Guy’s words. “Because he’s addicted to the hunt, Tuck. The game, as he called it. And I’m the prey.”
A harsh grumble came from my men. They looked at each other, death and fury in their eyes. As if they wanted to storm Castle Nottingham and kill Sir Guy and Sheriff George on the spot.
“He couldn’t give me too much of an advantage,” I said. “Just enough to give me hope.”
“And because he didn’t want to show his hand to Sheriff George,” Will pointed out, stroking his smooth, sharp chin. He carded a hand through his curly hair. “It can’t become public that he undermined George’s authority, or he’d never live it down. He could very well end up in the same shackles Robin was in.”
I nodded slowly. “That sounds true, Will.”
“He still can’t be trusted,” John said, clearing his throat. His warning was weaker now, lacking the enthusiasm of earlier as he tried to reconcile everything I was saying.
“Of course he can’t,” I said. “I’m just telling you what happened. Why I think we need to trust him now. Not always.”
“Why?” Alan-a-Dale asked. “When it’s obvious he is searching for your capture and demise on his own terms? He essentially said it when he assisted your escape, love. From what I’m hearing, Guy had a specific interest in you, love. Not the other girls in that carriage. He couldn’t care less what happened to them. For whatever reason, he’s fixated on you.”
“I don’t think that’s the entire story, Alan. My instincts are telling me he didn’t want that auction or trade to happen. That he knew if I escaped, I was the best chance of the other girls getting out of there, too. That I wouldn’t be able to do it alone. Perhaps he wanted to see how hard I was willing to fight.”
Little John huffed. “Altruistic or not, a man like Guy of Gisborne can never be trusted. Even now, Robin. He is an opportunist. Right now, you are clearly his mark.”
“What’s the opportunity, then?” I pondered.
“To take care of his dirty work for him. He doesn’t want to get his hands scuffed, and thinks he can convince you to take out his perceived adversaries.” John thrust a thumb over his shoulder at Marian, regarding the note she still held.
“Maybe he’s right, in this case,” I muttered, bowing my head.
“What? How?” Friar Tuck asked incredulously.
I lifted my eyes to him. “Because I think I know who that message is talking about, Tuck. It’s talking about Bishop Sutton.”
Tuck’s body went rigid. Fear danced in his eyes for a split second before they smoldered darker. “We can’t know—”
“This is all too neat and tidy,” Will interrupted, shaking his head. He turned around and started pacing the tent, stealing everyone’s focus. Tapping his chin as he walked and turned, he continued. “Marian showing up here. Giving us information. Returning to Guy. Giving us more intelligence from him. Does he truly think he can control us with marionette strings?”
“The man is a handful of steps ahead of us, as always,” Alan muttered.
“Why would he want to help us with Bishop Sutton—or have anything to do with him?” John asked.
Marian cleared her throat. “Because of what I told you when I first arrived. Sutton headed the sex slaving operation.”
“I still don’t believe that, harlot,” Friar Tuck growled over his shoulder at her. “It’s hearsay.”
“You simply don’t believe it because you don’t want to, chaplain,” Marian replied. “Because it puts your entire faith in jeopardy. And because you have history with Bishop Sutton.”
“Aye, I’m not afraid to admit it,” Tuck answered, lifting his chin. “Sutton was one of my only allies when I needed one most in the priesthood. He vouched for me and kept me off the gallows.”
“Then your opinion of this situation is tainted by bias,” Marian said with a simple shrug. “It’s obvious.”
Tuck spun on her. “Quiet you—”
“Tuck, please,” I begged, grabbing his elbow. “This isn’t the time.”
“These are all just words!” Tuck shouted, pulling his arm from my grasp. It pained me to see the hurt in his eyes, and to lose his touch, as if he felt threatened by the train of thought I entertained.
“What is it you plan to do about all this, Robin?” he demanded to know. “You still haven’t made that part clear.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek. A gnawing pit settled in my belly, growing by the second. Tuck was clearly against anything having to do with Bishop Sutton, and he might have been right.
In the past, I thought, morosely. Tuck hasn’t had history with Bishop Sutton in years. People change, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it. They turn wicked. I’m a perfect example.
Everyone stared at me. I could feel the weight of their eyes burning into my soul. I knew this was a pivotal moment—an important decision for the entire band.
I didn’t want to fuck it up.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Then I thought about the girls from that carriage. The drugs coursing through their veins as they were mostly unconscious, no idea where they even were. The maddening hold of the moon that commanded them after escaping—and the bloodthirst that followed. The stark-raving sprint through the forest as we descended on Rufford Abbey. The cold fear in those dilated eyes. The rape of Enid. The near-rape of me.
It was a nightmare I never wanted to revisit, but now it was thrust into the forefront of my memory. I couldn’t forget it, and I couldn’t let it happen again.
Those poor girls deserved better. Even now, they struggled to make sense over what happened to them. They struggled with day-to-day life because of the despicable trauma thrust upon them.
I found my teeth grinding so hard I felt they would crack. The awful memories brought the darkness roaring in my brain, heating my anger into righteous fury. Forging a knot of hate in my chest that sat right where my heart should be.
And all of that pain and grief had allegedly been caused by Bishop Sutton and his greed. Maid Marian had no reason to lie to me about Sutton’s involvement—no reason to hate the bishop, from what I could deduce.
No, this had been about the sadistic tendencies of evil men. Not even Abbot Emery or Baron Melwin of Mansfield were important in the overarching scheme. They had been simple bit players in a larger, more sinister scheme.
Bishop Sutton was the chief culprit, and he was playing Sheriff George like a fiddle to extract action out of him. I was certain of it.
That might be why Sir Guy is at odds with Sutton—because he sees his own reputation and status with Sheriff George diminishing each and every day Sutton sticks near George’s side and whispers menacing ideas in his ear.
Guy feels he’s being replaced, and that won’t do.
And he also knows we have a shared loathing over this “holy man.”
“Who cares what Sir Guy’s motives were for helping us?” I said at last, raising my chin to stare at my men. “We rescued the girls. That’s all that matters.”
Friar Tuck gulped loudly. “Aye, that’s true. What are you saying, exactly, little heathen?”
My eyes darkened as I stared into his.
“I’m saying it’s time to exact revenge against those who have harmed us.”