With luck he might come across the horses and return to heroically save the day, but he was just as likely to be ambushed by more of the thieves’ gang. He could not risk the latter. He braved one glance backward, but had already lost sight of Robin. Alan, however, was back on his feet and giving chase.

William controlled his breath for a long run and focused on the terrain. A tiny dark doubt in his gut screamed guilt at him for abandoning Robin to the mercy of these bandits, but this was Robin’s plan after all. Odds were they’d be drinking and laughing about this within hours.

Either way, it was a fitting punishment for Robin having lost the damned, damned horses.

TWELVE

ROBIN OF LOCKSLEY

SHERWOOD FOREST

STARING AT THE YOUNG brat Will, who was rolled into a ball and clutching his head, Robin decided against all reason to run away. He had not meant for Will’s skull to collide with the boulder, but he was certain that an apology would not protect him from John Little’s massive quarterstaff. Fortunately the brute took a moment to tend to his friend’s injury, and Robin did not intend on being punished for it. Despite his shin, he knew he could navigate the forest better than the giant, so he hopped away from the road and down the slope on one leg.

The grass grew longer as he made it closer to the river, wide and shallow here. His limping made a terribly sloppy noise of it all, but he hoped the water and softer ground would hide his movement. He only needed to hide long enough for the man to outlive his anger. Robin sloshed on, though certain pockets in the ground turned out to be deep and his good boot was now soaked through, and it hurt fierce to pull his injured leg out of the mud whenever it sank in.

When the land flattened out again, the huge bear man was simply standing there waiting.

John Little barreled forward with surprising speed, and Robin’s stomach lurched at the inevitable impact. But it didn’t come, and instead the quarterstaff slung wide toward him, too short, and Robin slapped it as it passed and grabbed at its other end with both hands. The brute slammed his shoulder full into Robin, and he dropped into the water trying to move with the blow. He rolled, out of the mud, deeper into the river where movement was slower but the ground was even. Breaking the water between a few nearby rocks was a thick, straight birch branch, which Robin pried free and turned to defend himself.

Little was close, but not advancing. He squinted, letting Robin get his bearings, the way a man might watch a child learning to walk.

“Nice stick.”