The only thing obvious here was that this hapless group of unfortunates had no idea they had started an international crisis, or the amount of trouble they had brought upon themselves. And if William came hunting for him with any help, this entire group might find themselves in chains.

A young boy, aged seven or eight, pushed through the legs of a woman to stare up at Robin, his blue eyes big enough to fall into. Little beamed, “Here’s the miller’s son, Much.”

Robin bent over to meet him. “That’s your name? Much?”

Much shook his head proudly.

“It’s more of a nickname really,” John admitted.

Robin wrinkled his nose. “Not a very good name, now, is it?”

Much angled his head with purpose. “It’s better than what they called me before.”

“Oh, and what was that?”

“Not much!”

Robin laughed, and the child shifted and kicked him hard in his shin, right into the arrow wound. Robin let out a cry for which any grown man would forever be teased.

“That’s for laughing!” Much squealed and vanished between Arthur and David, who tussled his hair as he passed. Robin was proud of himself for not muttering little piece of shit loud enough for anyone else to hear, particularly the small man who was in front of him next.

Again John introduced, “The curtal Friar Tuck.”

Robed in browns and tans, his body seemed to be confused about hair growth. It had forsaken the top of his head entirely and smattered his neck and chin with curly scraggles that, on anyone else, would have been in an armpit. The undeniable odor that hugged almost everyone was practically tangible around the friar.

“A friend of the Sheriff?” Tuck asked.

Robin chose a non-answer. “A friend of the King.”

“Funny, isn’t it, how different those two answers are?”

Robin answered by way of a noncommittal grunt. With the introductions apparently over, he seized the chance to take command. “John, may I have a word with you?”

“Your servant.” He gave a slight bow and signaled the crowd to go about their business. A young woman with a slight harelip smiled for Robin, while an older woman with two young boys at her side scowled ferociously. John led Robin closer to the mighty oak, walking past a well-used firepit and a lazy circle of makeshift benches. A small group of children watched nervously from afar. Still farther out at the perimeter of the field was a solitary hooded man holding a tall spear—his other hand bore a distinctive bright white glove, his attention unnervingly all on Robin, even from so far away.

Robin began harshly. “What the hell is going on here?”

The question bounced harmlessly off John’s face. “How long have you been gone?”