Page 126 of Queen of Sherwood

His face crinkled with a soft twist, lips drooping into his beard. “The fear is normal, love. I’m scared, too.”

“Really?”

A stern nod, before he turned to stare straight ahead. “Scared of losing you, little star.”

I blinked back tears and swallowed over a knot in my throat. “You won’t lose me, Little John.” I reached out and ran a hand over his bulky arm. “No one is dying tonight.”

His lip curved just long enough to put me at ease. “That’s my girl.”

I smiled, then purred Mercy into action with a swift kick. She whinnied and took off out of the stable. John was right behind me, and the other five behind him. Our steeds streamed out of the Oak Boys camp and into the dark night, unsure what awaited us.

I kept repeating my words in my head as we took to the road and headed west, hoping that if I said them enough times, they would become true:

No one is dying tonight.

No one is dying tonight.

No one . . . except Sheriff George.

WITH OUR BREAKNECK speed toward Ravenshead, only a couple hours passed until we were nearing the village. The village deserted by its natives and held captive by ruthless, evil men.

During the ride, I leaned into Little John’s words and let my doubts and hesitancy drift away. It was a hard thing to do, preparing yourself for the unknown. There were so many variables at hand, and if one little thing went wrong, it spelled disaster.

I couldn’t worry about any of that, I realized. I could only do what I knew how to do, and do it well. In this case, that meant leading, shooting my ass off, and getting away unscathed.

I had made it this far from my time as a young noblewoman destined to inherit copious land grants, businesses, and wealth.

Turned out, that hadn’t been my destiny at all. My father Thomas, and the Merry Men, had helped rewrite it.

I thought about my history as we rode four-and-three abreast on the main trade road, not bothering to hide our numbers until we were close. If enemy scouts found us en route, well, we would hopefully be finished with our task by the time they arrived at George’s camp to report us. They would be too late, and the damage would be done.

I had left Wilford looking for adventure. Looking for a way to break out of my stagnant life. Yes, my mother’s health had been at the forefront of my mind at that time, yet there had been something else there, calling me.

Perhaps it was that damned skull I used to talk to, pretending it was my “dead” brother. Giving me advice that was, truly, just my own conscience and wit filling my mind with fantastical ideas.

Or maybe it was the attack from Peter Fisher—a squire suitor who got more than he bargained for when he attacked me in the woods outside my home, and essentially woke me up and forced my hand into hiding away in Father’s carriage to escape Wilford.

It could have been the orphans and destitute folk I saw on a daily basis during my walks into town, such as the guttersnipes and transient peasants wandering the streets of Nottingham.

Back then, I hadn’t thought of them as equals. I hadn’t thought of them much at all, and that was explanation enough for how naïve and sheltered I’d been.

I clothed myself as a boy to be rid of my predicament. To pretend, as usual, that I was someone I wasn’t. I learned more as a young man playing dice with the poor whelps in town than I ever did with my nose buried in a book or daydreaming in my plush estate.

Now, I was no longer pretending. I had found the adventure I’d sought. I had made the friends, the lovers, and the community I wanted. A family had been forged, and I hoped to know these “strangers” for the rest of my life. I cared deeply for each and every one of them.

They weren’t mere bandits or outlaws to me. They were brothers and sisters, each with their own story. Every person back at camp had a tale of their own, usually involving some mistake, misstep, or tragedy that brought them to Sherwood Forest and the Merry Men.

Losing family, losing land, losing money. A stolen loaf of bread, or a thieved horse caught being sold illegally. Estate disputes that ended in injury or death, and one party fleeing the law. Orphan children, tragically losing their parents, who had nowhere else to turn and no choice in the matter—their lives already made up for them before it even started. Overtaxed and overburdened folk—honest fucking people—who had no alternative but turning to a life of “crime.”

Was it really a crime when it was borne out of dire necessity?

Every person back at camp had come to us with a story and a reason they were there. Through all the death, conflict, and strife, they had stayed. Through the inner conflicts over leadership and constantly moving locations to stay one step ahead of our pursuers, they had stayed.

The one thing in common they all held onto? The unifying force that brought them there, kept them there, and bound them together as equals and comrades?

Hope.

Little John, Will Scarlet, Friar Tuck, Alan-a-Dale, my brother Robert, Uncle Gregory . . . they had all told me at one point or other that I was an embodiment of that hope. It was the reason I was made leader of the Merry Men, despite being the first full-fledged woman in the group of bandits.

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