Boy? The men are about our own age.
“I work for no one,” Nicolas says.
“Oh, look, he speaks!” the other man sneers. “The devil has a tongue after all.”
“Tell us who this ‘Robin Hood of the Bay’ fellow is,” the first man says, “whether you work for him or not.”
“Work for him?” Nicolas says. “IamRobin Hood of the Bay.”
The second man bursts out laughing. The first scowls and pokes Nicolas with a flintlock pistol.
“Do not mock us, boy. You are but one arm of the beast. We mean to chop off the head.”
“But, good sir, Iamthe head.” Nicolas’s voice lilts, light and easy, as if he knows full well the men will not believe him.
HeisRobin Hood of the Bay. I have no doubt of that. Yet they see only a pirate. A young man foreign in both his accent and his skin color, and so they presume he cannot be anything but a tool of their true target.
“Tell us—” one begins.
“I have. Do you wish me to lie? Lying is a sin. But I presume you must not know that, being in the employ of a man who lies as easily as he speaks.”
“You call the king a liar?”
When Nicolas laughs, there’s an edge to it, a bitterness he cannot disguise. “Oh, I have many answers to that question. Many answers. But you dissemble. You may wear the uniform of the navy, but you do not work for the king. Not unless the king is now employing former admirals to rob the poor of their livelihoods.”
“We are members of His Majesty’s Royal—”
“Yes, yes, but do you not draw pay from Lord Norrington? Answer carefully,mes frères, lest you be damned for your falsehoods.”
The second man’s pistol swings up, his finger moving to the trigger. And I do the one thing I can. I give the most “damsel in distress” screech I can manage, which is more genuine than I care to admit. I would much rather say I leaped out, sword in hand. But sometimes, screaming really is the right response, particularly as, even if I had a sword, it would not fare well against pistols.
Both men fall back at the sound.
“What the devil was that?” one says.
“It sounded like a woman,” the other responds.
I crawl away from the hedge, staying well hidden.
“Help!” I cry out. “Please, help! I have been beset by brigands!”
When there’s no response, I add, “I know I heard voices. Please help me, good sirs! We are wealthy travelers, and my husband shall pay you well for your aid.” I sniffle. “If he has survived the attack. I fear he has not and I am already a widow.”
A rich widow. A rich young widow. Surely, that is a tempting prospect. Unless, in my panic, I have overdone it. Yes, on second thought, I have definitely overembellished my tale of woe.
“Where are you, good lady?” A voice comes.
“I-I do not know. It is so dark and—”
As if on cue, thunder booms. Then there is a yelp. A shout. A gunshot.
I scramble behind the low wall. A figure appears at the hedgerow. Divingthroughthe hedgerow.
It’s Nicolas. I push myself to standing and wave my arms over the low wall. He sees me, stops short and then veers my way. He reaches the wall, vaults over it and drops.
“Thank you, lad,” he whispers. “I—”
A bolt of lightning illuminates my face. His eyes widen. “You!”