Page 122 of Queen of Sherwood

He’d always been good at deflecting attention away from me, and I appreciated it none more than now. My heart was hammering against my ribs as I lied to Landon. Everyone in camp heard me lie, too, which didn’t bode well.

If the leader of the Merry Men couldn’t be truthful with potential new recruits, what did that say about the rest of us? Our trustworthiness in general?

I was ashamed about Sutton’s grim fate. No doubt about that. Yet I didn’t want to cause more strife than was already brimming between us and Ravenshead’s leader.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Will said, lifting a finger as he began to pace behind the backs of the countless people sitting around the fire. “There is only one man to blame for this: Sheriff George of Nottingham.”

I noticed the sea of nodding heads around the fire.

Little John could give a rousing speech to put valor in a man’s heart, Alan-a-Dale could lift spirits and morale with his music, and Friar Tuck could create an atmosphere of solemn understanding and hopefulness.

But Will Scarlet? He could make everyone fucking irate, and that was one of his greatest powers.

The young man’s unruly temper was infectious.

At times, it was utterly useful. I couldn’t deny the pulse of lust that shot through me when I imagined that sharp tongue and spiteful tone directed at me.

Our relationship seemed complicated and poisoned to outsiders, but to us, it was really quite simple: Will Scarlet hated to love, and I loved to hate. Mashed together, you got an explosion of carnal savagery.

“He won’t stop at Ravenshead,” Will announced, redrawing my focus. “He will rip down every village in Sherwood Forest if he thinks it will hurt us. If he truly thinks we are responsible for Bishop Sutton’s disappearance or death, he will stop at nothing to bring us down. To snuff us out, finally, and rid himself of the bandit scourge in Nottinghamshire once and for all.”

Voices rose, pumping out “ayes” and groans of understanding.

This wasn’t the Merry Men and Oak Boys shrinking from our obligations to the wronged citizens of Sherwood Forest. This was us coming to terms with what we must do, which, in this case, was to fight.

“If it’s not Sheriff George directly, it will be the Knights Templar at his side leading the charge,” Will continued. “As it was in Ravenshead. They are formidable, frightening, and filled with zealous lust for death. Many of them have just returned from the King’s Crusade, with nothing on their mind but raping and pillaging.”

“As they’ve done abroad,” Robert cut in.

“Aye.” Will nodded sternly. “I have no doubt George would create a shield between any danger to himself and the outside world. The Knights Templar are the perfect weapon to do that.”

Will paused. The fire in the center of us crackled and snapped. The boiling anger from moments ago simmered a bit once he mentioned the strength and formidableness of the Knights Templar.

I thought he might have misspoken there, deadening his own message. Yet he had to be honest with everyone: This was a losing fight. Will Scarlet wanted us to understand what we were up against . . . and it wasn’t pretty.

“You’re wrong, Scarlet. George will be front and center in this attack.”

Heads whipped around to Maid Marian, who stood three or four rows back from the fire, amid the orphan girls she had taken to.

I raised my brow. This is unexpected. It’s not every day someone disagrees with Will Scarlet in the middle of one of his angry diatribes.

If there was anyone to do it, and match energies with Will, it was Marian, whose hair whipped around her face with the same fervor as the flames in the fire pit.

“What makes you say that, Marian?” Little John asked for Will. When a few bystanders grunted at Marian’s interruption, and waved annoyed hands at her, John held up his palm. “Let her speak, everyone. Her voice is just as important as the rest of ours. We’re a free people, free to speak our minds, are we not?”

More gripes, but they relented after a moment.

Marian glanced around at the glaring faces. She seemed a bit nervous, which was rare for her.

“The accolades,” she said simply. “George needs Nottingham to know he’s responsible for quashing the Merry Men rebellion. Not Amadeus Montford and the Knights Templar. That’s his name, by the way—the leader of the Templar in this region.”

My forehead wrinkled when my brow lifted even higher. She knows more than anyone here. We can use her inside information, surely.

“Amadeus Montford?” Alan-a-Dale quipped, scoffing. “What a pretentious fucking name. Doesn’t even sound real.”

A smattering of chuckles swept through the camp.

Leave it to Alan to lighten the mood when things seem most dire, I thought. The man has a special power just as important as Will’s anger.

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