Page 27 of The Wicked Prince

There was no point in saving them.

He should probably put the whole trunk into the fire.

The first one he picked up was from the first day he’d seen Robin in the training grounds. The sketch he’d done of her with the quarterstaff before he spotted her smile.

He shredded it further.

John wasn’t going to get her smile. He’d captured her, and held her precious men’s lives over her head to get her hand. Everything he said or did to her would always be questioned. Always some kind of trap she was trying not to fall into. She’d never lower her guard around him.

She was just a tool to keep Richard from dragging him to the frontlines.

But fine. She thought he was a monster? She thought he was always playing some kind of sick game?

His outlaw was out of her depth, and he’d be happy to show her. She wanted games?

He’d play.

And he’d win.

Chapter11

Robin was through the gate before anyone could stop her or her galloping steed.

Getting out had been surprisingly easy now that she’d spent enough time studying the layout and routines of everyone in the castle courtyard. She’d put on her training outfit, pulled her cloak over it and headed toward the training grounds, leaving the guards outside it. She had no idea why they always stayed outside, but she was grateful.

It was the only reason her plan worked.

With an excellent shot, Robin dislodged the rock holding her rope back and the loose end tumbled out of her open window. The other end was secured around her heavy bed. Robin stored the bow on her back with the quiver and she grabbed the rope. It wasn’t exactly easy, but she kept one hand wrapped around the rope, a loose knot keeping the end around her waist in case she slipped as she used the rope to help her walk the castle wall. More like run, as she used it to build up momentum to swing herself up high enough to catch the closest overhang and pull herself up onto the roof.

From there it was easy to sneak into the stables, saddle a horse, and make a break for the gate.

She was Robin Hood, after all.

She laughed at the guards as she galloped by, narrowly avoiding the cart delivering flour and earning a few dark curses. She didn’t stop, but as she rode through the city streets, she heard people gasp at her green hood and say it was Robin Hood.

They said Robin Hood.

Not Princess Robin.

She technically wasn’t Princess Robin, but if anyone tried to call her by her real name, she’d sock them. Prince John was the only one who had tried. She didn’t think anyone else other than Marian—and probably Guy—knew it even then. She’d told her Merry Men she was Marian’s cousin, but she’d never told them her legal name wasn’t Robin until the fake name had become their plan to save her from her marriage. Mostly because she never intended on anyone using it again.

When Robin came upon Lathe’s biggest market square, she slowed her horse to avoid trampling anyone in the crowd. The second she did, people were surrounding her, and even if she’d expected to make it to the city walls and outside of Lathe, she wouldn’t now. Her plan hadn’t been to make a true escape, not when she didn’t have a way to annul her marriage, but to make a point. The second she dismounted, the crowd enveloped her.

Robin was used to it with village crowds. City crowds were a little bigger than she was used to. But she could handle it.

Robin shook hands and smiled at people as they surrounded her. There were so many voices it was hard to hear even the person right in front of her, but she tried. It was a cacophony of demands and questions.

“Why haven’t we seen you since you and Prince John returned?”

Did they think she’d abandoned them? Robin turned to address the man at her right. She raised her voice so as many of them as possible could hear her. “Today is the first chance I’ve had to get away!”

Gasps went through the crowd and a woman to her left called out, “Get away? Does he have you locked in a tower?”

What? Where had that come from? “I—”

A hand grabbed at the cloak, pulling on it and exposing her bruised arm. It had happened the other day when her grip on her quarterstaff faltered and she’d smacked herself with it. The woman let out a choked gasp and Robin stumbled back as the woman asked, “Is he beating you, Robin?”

“What?” Robin pulled the cloak out of her grip and tried to pull it back over her arm to hide the bruise, but more people were grabbing at her. She was insulted that was their first thought. She was Robin Hood. “I—”

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