Page 107 of Queen of Sherwood

Alan, Tuck, and Will were close behind me. We all expected the worst, I supposed. John was silent and brooding as he marched with his long strides across camp.

I had to nearly run to catch up to him.

Before he could get to the group around the small campfire, I grabbed him by the elbow. When I turned him around, I said, “Please, tell me your thoughts.”

“I can’t, little hope. Just let me go.”

I blinked back tears. “She’s already been through so much . . .”

John cradled my chin with the rough pads of his hand. He swiped a thumb across my cheek, smiling sadly. “I know, love. Which is why I must go.”

Leaving me with that vague response, he unhanded my face and walked to the huddle of orphans. When he arrived, he crouched next to Enid, and I heard the girl let out a sharp gasp.

I stood back, watching intently, my heart hammering. Will, Tuck, and Alan looked just as nervous as I did, and a small group of Merry Men converged on the spot, moseying over to see what was happening.

“Enid. Lass.” John’s voice was deep and soft. He sounded as if talking to a child. “Look at me.”

Sniffling loudly, the small woman looked over. Even shorter and tinier than me, she was truly one of the littlest Merry Men in the band, yet with one of the biggest vindictive streaks inside her. The pain clamped around her heart must have been overwhelming.

The contrast between her size and Little John’s was stark. The other orphans surrounding Enid said nothing, their eyes wide with fear and trepidation as they watched John. Some of them were gawking, because it wasn’t very often the former leader of the group came to speak with them directly.

“S-Sir?” Enid stammered, wiping her teary face with her forearm. When she stared up into John’s bearded mug, her resolve broke. She let out her words in a tumble. “I a-am so sorry, Sir John. I know I messed everything up. I don’t know what came over me—I was just s-so, so angry. If you wish to outcast me, I understand. But please don’t take out your anger on the other girls who partook in that . . . evilness.”

“It wasn’t evilness,” John said simply. His voice was even deeper than before.

Ears perked up. More people arrived, and there were no less than twenty Merry Men and Oak Boys around us now, in a large circle—veterans and new recruits alike. People I had come to trust and love.

Little John gently squeezed Enid’s shoulder. The action caused her to shake, eyebrows cinching together as she stared into his dark eyes.

“I don’t fault or blame you for killing Bishop Sutton. None of us do.” He swept his free hand out behind him, to where I stood with my mates. “I wish I could kill my attacker, too, lass.”

Enid’s face shifted with more confusion. Low murmurs broke out among camp, with the general question clear: What the hell was Little John talking about?

I already knew. In fact, I was the only one who knew.

My heart wedged itself in my throat, my pulse rioting ever higher. It was hard to breathe, yet I coaxed him on in my mind, thinking, Yes, my love. Now is the time.

John glanced over his shoulder and realized he had an audience. He kept his gaze on them for a moment, saying, “You all might know me as someone who has sought to protect you. A fighter, perhaps. Even so, I admit my lack of strength at times.” When the murmurs continued, he nodded deeply. “Aye. Even me.”

He made a show of gesturing to himself, as if to point out that a man of his giant stature and larger-than-life attitude was still not impervious to pain and conflict.

His eyes returned to Enid. “We’re not so different, you and I, lass.”

She bit her lower lip, chewing it.

“What happened to you was not your fault . . . just as it was not my fault when it happened to me.”

Gasps from his audience. A few cries of confusion.

“The truth, Enid, is that it can happen to anyone. From the smallest girl to the largest man. So long as there are twisted men in this world. That’s why we do what we do, lass. Do you understand?”

“No, I don’t think I do, sir.” She shook her head adamantly. “W-What are you . . . saying?”

John sighed and stood, finally releasing her shoulder. He stared down at her for another beat, and then faced the onlookers. He glanced at me last, and I gave him the smallest, firmest nod I could muster. It was a look of pride.

“When I was imprisoned inside Nottingham’s jailhouse,” he said, rolling his wrists, “Sheriff George raped me, just as his soldiers raped poor Enid and her friends. It was why I was not present during my own execution.”

Shouts of shock and outrage lifted from the crowd—Little John? Our strongest and most imposing member? It must have been a fabrication, no? A story to relate to Enid.

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