Page 1 of Queen of Sherwood

Chapter 1

Robin

Irode with Little John and Friar Tuck at my flanks, down the main trade road through Sherwood Forest. Our horses trotted at a steady pace. The trees blurred by around us. We kept to quiet contemplation, eyes likes turrets in case any enemies made themselves known.

We didn’t see a single soldier, though. Hadn’t in a while now—going on a month—which allowed us to ride through the countryside unrestricted.

Three months had passed since the disastrous evening at Rufford Abbey, which resulted in the deaths of Abbot Emery and Much the Miller’s Son, among others. For a while, we’d held Baron Melwin of Mansfield captive. He proved useless for information. Little John’s hard knock against his head had addled his brain, and he died in captivity shortly after.

Alas, the baron had died in obscurity, like he deserved after trying to traffic young women as sex slaves.

It was odd not seeing soldiers harrying the roads to and from Nottingham. Especially when we were used to Sir Guy of Gisborne vexing us at every turn.

As the months passed, so too did winter, and after the cold recesses of that season, spring was finally starting to show its first glint of fresh life. Morning dew glistened on green grass. Crisp river water ran alongside us. Trees bulged with new, green leaves.

Some of us felt that Sheriff George of Nottingham was biding his time. Planning something to try and do away with us once and for all. A big military excursion, perhaps? It was nerve-wracking to think about.

George and Melwin’s goal of sending me to a far-off land as a slave failed spectacularly, thanks to my Merry Men coming to my rescue. I knew the Sheriff wouldn’t sit on his haunches for long, especially after the debacle at Nottingham during the “execution of Little John,” which had been a farce. That violent day had shown the true colors of the Sheriff to the rest of the cityfolk, and I wondered if Sir George was too wrapped up dealing with the fallout from that, and didn’t have time to focus on the Merry Men.

It gave us a rare opportunity, no matter the case.

The evening at Rufford Abbey wasn’t all bad, either. A lot of good had come from it, despite the sadness of Much’s death after he sacrificed himself to save the girl he fancied, Maria, from the blade of Abbot Emery.

We had swelled our ranks with orphans from Nottingham and the women from the would-be slave carriage. God knew—and I knew—the Merry Men could use more women in our midst, to stop all the internal strife and pointless conflict that so many young men were privy to in these hard times. Our camp had grown exponentially, purely by happenstance, and we were constantly searching for new locations to move to and survive.

We had also chanced upon a bloated sack of coins under the floorboards of the slave cart. Presumably, the money belonged to the Sheriff, and it always felt good robbing that bastard blind.

Perhaps that is why he hasn’t attacked us in a few months—the money we stole also stole his ability to wage war on us, because now he can’t hire sellswords and mercenaries to do his bidding. And who wants to fight across snow-covered plains and ice-capped trees in the heart of winter, anyway?

With spring rapidly approaching, we expected Sheriff George to introduce new, inventive ways to try and assault us. After suffering humiliation at our hands, he couldn’t let that stand for long. We couldn’t be seen prancing and gallivanting through Sherwood Forest, without a care in the world, before people started talking about it and word got back to him that we were making the chief of Nottingham look like an impotent fool.

He has licked his wounds long enough. With spring and summer comes life and death. War.

After a handful of hours of our steeds calmly riding through the roads, our trek brought us north of Nottingham and east of Mansfield, near a forest village called Farnsfield.

We didn’t go to the village itself, with its Roman fort and squat structures. Rather, we burrowed a bit south.

There, we found the home of the Oak Boys, led by my brother, Robert of Loxley.

Briggs, my brother’s surly, mustachioed captain, greeted us on the fringes of the camp. John, Tuck, and I dismounted and led our horses by the bits after giving him stern nods as a way of greeting.

Briggs was already familiar with me and John, and Tuck didn’t look threatening with his friar’s habit.

As we made our way through the woods, past the meeting spot, Briggs said, “You’re early, Robin.”

“Better than late,” I replied.

He grunted and pulled at his mustache, which had basically become a beard at this point. “True enough. Your brother’s been expecting you.”

“I’d hope so. I’m just glad we aren’t being greeted by cocked bows and arrows this time ‘round.”

He grinned over his shoulder at me. “Liked that, did you?”

The first time John and I had arrived here, after narrowly escaping capture in Nottingham during the day of his execution, Briggs and his men had leapt out of the bushes with bows drawn. At that time, I’d had no idea about his association with my brother, and that had been one of the tensest marches in all my life.

“Aye, Briggs, there’s nothing more heartwarming than the notion of impending death.”

His smile faltered and he stared ahead, voice getting lower. “You’ve changed, lady. You’re not as fun to poke fun at.”

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