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“Good people,” I whispered as the mules plodded on.
“Good, indeed,” Tuck murmured, just as thoughtful as I was.
For the next minute, contemplative silence reigned.
Then Tuck cleared his throat. “Now, about Willa—”
I nodded eagerly, but he stopped, whipping his head around. When I followed his gaze, my blood froze.
A cloud of dust rose from a dozen galloping horses along a road — one of many converging on Nottingham, another mile away. The riders’ armor glinted, as did their spears and swords. A fine carriage brought up the rear, pulled by four coal-black horses.
Tuck cursed, studying the flag flapping over it.
The curtain at the carriage window moved, and instinct made me tug down my hood. A hand appeared next, and my breath caught. The grim reaper didn’t travel with such fanfare, but I swore, I sensed death and evil. So much, I felt the urge to flee. Even the mules panicked, pulling in opposite directions.
“Whoa there,” I called, pulling myself together. I didn’t have to stand by and surrender to that sense of fear. I closed my eyes, reaching out with my thoughts.
A moment later, the mules settled down. But as for the carriage in the distance…
One of the horses stumbled, and the whole carriage lurched. The hand at the window disappeared as the passenger was thrown back. The driver hung on for dear life as they careened along on the verge of stampeding.
“Whoa,” Tuck murmured. Then he glanced at me.
I kept a straight face. “Nice carriage, but it smells of trouble.”
He studied me a moment longer, then nodded grimly. “It does. That’s the Gisborne family flag.”
Word of Sir Guy’s death had traveled quickly through the land, and I, like most, had celebrated. But that didn’t mean the danger was past. Not with his sister still on the prowl.
“Lady Thornton,” I murmured darkly.
Tuck nodded. “Headed to Nottingham. We have to put off that rendezvous with Willa.”
Disappointment ran deep, but I suspected that was the least of my worries.
Tuck clucked to the mules, and they picked up their pace immediately.
“We’re not heading to Nottingham?” I asked.
He shook his head grimly. “We have to get back to the abbey — and get a message to Sherwood Forest. As soon as possible.”
Chapter Six
TUCK
That evening, I was still daydreaming about it all — er, I mean, deeply engrossed in Bible-study hour — when Brother Matthew snapped his fingers and whispered, “You’re wanted in the abbot’s office.”
I blinked a few times, then stood and strode for the door.
Twenty sympathetic pairs of eyes followed me, communicating something like, Good luck, man. You’ll need it.
Cyril gave me a tight smile.
For summons by the abbot, I usually called on my vast experience getting into trouble back in my school days. But today, I slipped my hands into the single front pocket of my robe — the second-best feature of the garb, after the hood — and rubbed them nervously. Had the abbot caught wind of my visits to the library? Worse, would I get Marian in trouble?
Father Benedict, the abbot’s assistant and head librarian, was inscrutable, as usual. He made me sit outside the abbot’s office for a good thirty minutes…as usual. Finally, at no discernible signal, he sighed and motioned me forward. After one solemn knock on the door, he opened it, shooed me in, then backed away, closing it.
“Good morning,” I murmured, taking a seat before the abbot.
