The fire was dying but nobody could be bothered to add a log, or to stoke its embers. It left a low smolder that changed directions at its own whim and burned the eyes, so each of them kept their face turned away.

Marion almost had not come to the Oak Camp at all. She had doubted her ability to control herself, certain she would burst into tears or fury upon seeing them. In the end she was glad to visit one last time, even if just to say goodbye. They had planned a short service for Much in the morning, which would be more terrible to miss than to endure. But she could not help them anymore. It didn’t matter that Will and Elena had acted on their own, disappearing after Bernesdale. Everyone associated with this group was a traitor now in the eyes of Nottingham.

That judgment included Marion. She had traveled to the castle, ignorant of everything, and luck alone had put her in the company of William de Wendenal. He ushered her safely away again, warning that the Captain would likely arrest her on sight. Whatever fleeting power she once held was gone, and she had no idea how deep was the hole into which she had fallen.

“Why are you singing about Robin still?” grumbled John Little, looking up into the sky.

“The people like him,” Tuck explained.

It was true that the commoners liked the stories of Robin Hood. But that, too, would have to end now. It was one thing to spread scandalous stories of barely gentlemanly conduct with traveling ladies—it was quite another to idolize an assassin. The public already attributed Roger de Lacy’s murder to their fictitious Robin Hood, not knowing Robin had abandoned them. Marion wondered if Tuck could insert Robin’s departure into the lyrics. He’d have to find an elegant rhyme for “your fastest fucking horse.”

John coughed. “You should be singing about Much.” It wasn’t a suggestion, and there was no point in arguing with him. For some, grief was a boulder cascading down the side of a mountain. There is no stopping it, no slowing it, and no telling how much damage it would do along the way. All one can do is stand aside and help pick up the pieces when things begin to settle. “There’s some generosity, I think, in that his parents weren’t alive to see this happen.”

Tuck let his fingertips brush the lute’s strings. “Did you know his parents, John?”

“I did not.”

“Nor I,” Tuck admitted. “I think the only person who knew them was Much, and he never spoke of them. Which means they’re gone now, too. So yes, I’ll be singing a song about Much. So that people don’t forget.”