Page 125 of Queen of Sherwood

“Keep the group small,” Robert added, “but Gregory and I will be joining you, sister. Don’t try to stop us.”

“Aye,” Gregory agreed, crossing his arms. “I’ve been waiting to be made useful again.”

Robert snorted and shouldered our uncle. “Again? When were you ever useful, old man?”

Gregory’s gray beard twitched as he smiled. “Fuck you, dear nephew.”

Everyone inside the tent chuckled. It was nervous laughter. Perhaps the last time we’d get to laugh together, if we went through with this.

“We’re all in agreement, then,” I said. “Which means there’s one final question to pose.” When eyebrows lifted, veering to me, I stood tall. “When do we go?”

A pause.

My brother put his hand on the bow slung across his shoulder. “There’s no time like the present, Robin. Let’s get this fucking bastard before we lose his location, and before he can terrorize more of our people.”

Chapter 33

Robin

It was perhaps our most daring, reckless mission yet, in a year filled with daring, reckless missions.

The margin for error was slim. Nonexistent, really.

If we fell, our camp would be in disarray and dozens—no, hundreds—of families would be impacted. Our rebellion would die before truly getting off the ground.

We could have spent all year planning small raids on carriages, trying to defeat Sheriff George by a thousand tiny slices. Robbing from shipments, terrorizing guards, reimbursing the needy.

But this kind of opportunity didn’t come very often. We all saw it for what it was: a chance to rid ourselves of our greatest enemy, and perhaps buy the freedom of our people in the process.

What would Nottinghamshire look like without Sheriff George in it, stifling growth, pushing down peasants, and overtaxing everyone?

In my mind, it looked rosy without him.

That being said, the entire leadership of the Merry Men and Oak Boys were headed out on the clandestine job. We needed all of us, far as I was concerned, which meant leaving our most vulnerable behind.

We had too often been round-abouted by George and Guy—our camps attacked when we were off doing other things. It was partly why we needed to act now, while they still didn’t know where the Oak Boys camp was located. The secrecy of our newest hideaway would only last a matter of days. If that.

No, I couldn’t waver. All signs were pointing toward doing this thing, tonight, when the moon was highest and shrouded by a layer of murky, ominous clouds. We would use every bit of terrain, weather, and landscape knowledge to our benefit.

If we were discovered on our assassination mission, then the alliance was doomed. Being found out meant pitting hundreds against eight, and we would surely lose our lives. Not just us, either: We were putting everyone in camp in severe jeopardy by doing this. Yet we didn’t know any other way.

We left camp without little explanation to the rest of the outlaws. We didn’t want anyone being foolhardy and following us on their own. Didn’t want to frighten the folks with our decision, or stir the pot and put more burden on our shoulders.

The burden and pressure was already heavy enough.

Our night watchman at the stables—a young lad who had replaced Jamie after his death—stared at us with big eyes and jolted up from his seat when our group of seven approached: me, John, Will, Tuck, Alan, Robert, Gregory, Briggs. Maid Marian was the only one from the command tent who would stay behind, because, despite her heroics from the other night, she wasn’t a fighter.

She had helped us hatch the plan, and that was enough.

As we rounded up the horses, doubts gnawed at me. I swung myself onto Mercy and leaned forward, running a hand down her neck and through her mane. I leaned over and asked Little John, “Do you think we should be bringing more people with us? Now that I see the paltry size of our company, it doesn’t instill confidence.”

He chuckled lowly. “Who would we bring, little hope? Rosco? He’s busy trying to get under Emma’s gown. Tick and Jimmy? They’re likely busy doing their best Will and Alan impersonations in their own tents. We have veterans fighters, sure, yet who would stay behind and protect the whelps? The orphans?”

He made good points all across, yet I still felt uneasy.

Until he put a hand on my shoulder, and his touch heated my skin and calmed my nerves. “We made this decision, lass. We shouldn’t jeopardize the rest of the band more than we already are. If you want”—he straightened on his saddle, grabbing the reins—“we can call it off and go to bed. Chalk it up to wishful daydreaming, and do our best come tomorrow. There is no shame in regretting—”

“No,” I cut in, shaking my head. “You’re right. We’ve made this plan, and we must stick to it. I’m just scared for us, is all, John.”

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