Page 112 of Queen of Sherwood

Some things died hard, including opinions and fears about Nottingham’s preeminent swordsman. If I wanted, I could have reached through the bars swift as a viper, clutched his collar, and slammed his head against them.

I could have killed the Sheriff of Nottingham before the two lads beside him would even be able to get their hands close to their swords.

Alas, I would never do that.

“Care to explain what this is all about, George?” I asked, tilting my head. I acted like I was more annoyed than anything—peeved I’d found myself in the same cell I had thrown countless others into during my time as Sheriff George’s right-hand man.

“You heard the charges against you,” George grunted.

“Aye. Conspiring. Quite vague, sir.” I drummed my fingers on my forearm. “Conspiring to do what against you, exactly?”

George quirked a smile, and then replaced it with a frown just as quickly. “I should have imagined you would deny it.”

I said nothing. He was testing my patience.

George’s eyes gleamed when he stared into mine, as if he was proud of himself for holding a secret over me, when I was typically the secret-keeper in these parts.

His face was one I had grown so accustomed to seeing over the years, yet I hadn’t gazed so close into his orbs in quite some time. I saw tiredness there, and the prevalence of a lost man. A man who needed to be fixed, in more ways than one, and only had one option for whom to fix him.

I had long ago accepted my fate that I might one day find myself in this room, if I pried too far. Perhaps it was my hubris that carried me forward.

George said, “While you were conniving against Bishop Sutton, Guy, I was also scheming.”

I perked a brow, trying not to show my surprise. How enterprising of you, George. You must have learned from the best.

“I sent men to infiltrate the Merry Men, following your cues to locate them.”

“That’s good,” I said, nodding.

“Aye.” George absentmindedly tapped the cell bars in front of him with his knuckles. “One of them came back, Guy. The sole survivor of an ill-conceived attack on the Merry Men. He told me the tale of what happened.”

He stopped talking, as if expecting me to fill the silence. We weren’t even close to the interrogation portion of this meeting, however, and I stayed quiet. Letting him ramble and feel proud of himself.

“Sutton was cut off en route to Ravenshead, through the northeastern pass. He was engaged in a brutal ambush, and captured. My messenger told me he witnessed the bishop tied to an oak tree in the Merry Men’s camp.”

I pursed my lips. “Is that so?”

George nodded hard, then smiled cruelly. “And who might have told Sutton to travel the eastern pass, and kept it poorly guarded, while bloating the useless western pass with countless soldiers? Well, as it happens, Sir Connor, the captain of my guard, told me.”

I blinked. “I imagine you’re going to tell me, in turn.”

He smiled that strange, sadistic smile of his, eyes going crazed. He pointed slowly through the bars, leaning forward to rest his forehead against them.

“It was you, Guy.”

“It was me, George.”

“You won’t deny it?”

“What’s the point? Your story sounds nice and tidy.”

His smile froze, nostrils flared. A tinge of anger swelled behind his eyes. “It’s not a story, Guy. It’s the truth. Admit it.”

“I did not conspire against you, Sheriff. I conspired against the Bishop of Ravenshead. That part is true.”

“In my city! He was under my protection, Guy!”

I shrugged. “The man was a cur and a false prophet. He was causing you more harm than good.”

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