Page 110 of Queen of Sherwood

I couldn’t argue with that. Even if John’s words were harsh, they had the ring of truth behind them.

“He had such a bright future. Just like Much.” John finished with a loud gulp, his throat bobbing. He seemed close to tears, like me, Enid, Will, and so many others watching the scene play out.

Alan-a-Dale, of all people, flared his nostrils and stepped forward next to me. “That’s bullshit, John, and you know it.”

John was taken aback. Alan never had an outburst directed at his closest brothers.

“None of us has a bright future ahead.” Alan threw his arms up in defeat. With the way his eyes glistened, seeming so distant when I looked into them, I wondered if he was thinking about his own past—about his grand delusions and plans to become a minstrel to noblemen and the masses. His schemes for a bright future.

Before spinning away, he loaded another barb on his tongue and shot it off, then marched away in anger to let the words sit and unnerve everyone who heard him.

“We don’t have a bright future, dear John, because, together or alone, we’re going to die in these goddamn woods.”

Chapter 29

Guy of Gisborne

Istalked through the courtyard, agonizingly slow, twirling my thin blade in my hand. Peering around every corner—jumping out to find nothing there.

The cobblestones thudded under my heavy boots. I made my way around a stone fountain of an angel, peeked out the corner of my eyes, and continued on.

Creeping. Clicking my tongue. Pondering aloud, “Where could he be hiding, hmm?”

When I came to the hedgerows lining the edge of the estate, which fell away into a slightly wooded area beyond, I caught sight of a shock of curly red hair on the other side of the bushes.

Smirking, I continued on, evidently oblivious to my findings.

I continued tsking and clicking my tongue, as if calling a dog to heel. My sword swished through the air, catching an errant twig sticking out of the neatly trimmed hedges and snapping it.

A sharp gasp cut in behind me.

Smiling, I kept walking past the hedgerow. At a break in the line, I pushed through and meandered into the woods. I crept through them with lithe movements, gracefully shuffling through without stepping on a single branch or fallen leaf.

I made my way around to the back of the hedgerows from the long way, then hid behind a tree. My grin grew wider and crueler.

The boy stood not five paces away. He was ducking, staring out with an obstructed view through the bushes. Hiding as best he could. Completely unaware of my whereabouts.

Finally, in a dramatic motion, I jumped out from behind the tree and tapped my blade on his shoulder.

“There’s the young firehound. I have you.”

The lad spun around, shock registering on his face. The point of my sword stayed a hair’s breadth from his thin, supple neck. His freckles seemed to dance in the morning sunlight overhead.

It was a fine day in Nottingham. A finer day to catch young ragamuffins sleeping in the flowerbeds.

Our game was over. As usual, I was the victor.

The boy balled his hands into fists, little nose scrunching. “By all that’s good, Uncle Guy! You always catch me. How are you so good at that?”

His voice cracked as he finished. The whelp only came up to my waist, and hadn’t yet seen ten summers.

I sheathed my blade at my hip and crossed my arms. “It is what I was born to do, Sir Barry.” I crouched and tousled his hair, spreading my sinister grin once more. “Catch rapscallions.”

He beamed at me. “I want to do that, when I’m older.”

“I’m sure you will.”

The boy was, of course, not a knight. The “sir” was a way to make him feel important, because he had high dreams of becoming a champion who saved damsels. I hoped he could make it happen—his chances were high if he stayed with his noble guardians.

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