Page 127 of Queen of Sherwood

I couldn’t lose those people who believed in me. Couldn’t forget about the folks back at home, holding onto that hope and wishing for a better future. I had to do everything in my power to help them, even if it meant me dying.

I wouldn’t be afraid of death if it stared me in the eye. I knew my mates and my family wouldn’t, either. It was why we were all here, riding in the darkest parts of night to an enemy camp that numbered hundreds.

We were resilient, capable, and furious. Though we couldn’t know our specific parts in this specific mission—this cosmic jest that God had seemed to thrust upon us—we would all know once we got there. And then we would let our intuition and experience take over.

I was not that pampered, sad, self-pitying girl from Wilford any longer. I was Robin Hood, the leader of the Merry Men, and I was a fighter.

This is just like any other perilous ambush we’ve partaken in. Waiting in the trees, stalking our prey—it’s our specialty. I shouldn’t tackle this any other way.

Except that wasn’t quite true, was it? Almost every other nighttime mission we’d partaken in, we had been waiting for our adversaries to come to us. This time, we charged headlong behind enemy lines, taking the fight to them.

Reckless abandon danced in my mind.

We brought our company toward the eastern fringes of Ravenshead, and then cut south toward Nottingham.

We recognized there was a chance we were wrong about Sheriff George. Simply off with our calculations, and that he was not camped in Ravenshead, but had simply destroyed that village for the sake of it. For his violent retribution in Bishop Sutton’s name.

But as we slowed our horses to a crawl, ducked low in our saddles, and peered through the dark tree limbs and knobby branches on the sides of the road, it became clear we were not wrong at all.

Even from a vast distance away, nearly a mile out from the village, we could see tiny, flickering lights of campfires dotting the horizon through the trees. In that sort of pitch-blackness, when the forest was even darker than the bruised purple sky above it, the smallest twinkle or pinprick of light was easily noticeable.

Wordlessly, I shared nods with the men. We were on the right track, and so far, nothing had gone awry.

We haven’t even made our move yet. Time will tell, soon enough, how much shit we’re really wading through.

As we cut south over hillocks, across streams, and under a few landbridges, we found a spot to hide our steeds. The horses fell silent as we dismounted, tied them away, and fed them grains before kissing their snouts, petting their necks, and moving on.

We were not meaning to ride into battle like some valiant guardsmen sent from God on a holy mission. We were sneaking our way through boggy, grassy terrain, slipping past crevices and down ravines, crawling over hills and through briar patches, as silent as could be. Horses had no place in a stealthy approach.

Were we foxes in the night, looking for hens to steal under the nose of our betters? Certainly. But that was our way. Despite the martial prowess of some of our warriors like John, Will, Robert, and Gregory, the Merry Men had always prided ourselves on getting things done with little to-do. Not raising alarms or city bells. Staying close to the shadows. Sneaking in and sneaking out before anyone noticed we were there at all.

That was what we had in mind tonight. Sneaking in, killing Sheriff George while he slept, and sneaking out before the camp became aware of our dastardly deeds. With the hope that, come morning, when the soldiers awoke and found their fearful leader dead, they would get bored, frustrated, and leave. Go back home to Nottingham, to their families and farms, where they belonged.

Stay out of fucking Sherwood Forest.

Like Will had said in the tent: This was our home. Not theirs. They already had the law and government on their side. Let us have this little slice to ourselves, to live in peace among each other.

If one man had to die in a brutal, cutthroat way for us to attain that peace, then so be it. It was worth it, and we were ready—each of us itching to be the one who held the knife and plunged it into George’s scrawny, supple neck.

As we left the horses in the alcove with draping branches and bushy foliage to hide them, we began to cut north toward Ravenshead. We found the path that led to the village from Nottingham—the same eastern path we had taken to ambush Bishop Sutton’s convoy, yet a bit further up the road.

We kept to the trees on the edges of the road, stalking slowly, crouched and silent. Whenever we heard so much as a twig snapping on the road, we pushed deeper into the forest to hide ourselves among the greenery. Our eyes always kept forward, north, glancing up at the dim stars through the cloud cover overhead when we veered slightly off track.

Hoods were pulled over our heads. Leather straps had been slung across our bodies to hide any clanking of metal or scabbards against us. Briggs, Robert, and Uncle Gregory had black paint deadening the features of their faces even more, until they essentially blended into the landscape around us. It was a common Oak Boys tactic, while the Merry Men opted for hoods and stern looks.

As we inched our way north toward the village, and the numerous glittering lights from the campsites’ fires dotted the horizon, the trees began to thin around us.

We were becoming more exposed, with fewer branches and verdant undergrowth to hide our approach.

Eventually, the thickest part of the forest ended altogether. Only little spurts of wooded groves separated us from the enemy camp beyond.

Far in the distance, we could make out a looming hillside with a lit campfire atop it, and a wooded thicket beneath it leading up the slope. It was the area which designated the southern hill Maid Marian had spoken of in the command tent. The location where Sheriff George was most likely holed up.

First, we had to make our way past a revealing pasture. And Will was correct: Countless horses roamed the countryside, while even more slept in the open night.

It was a wild sight to see so many steeds corralled in one place, as if they all lived here on this patch of land. Then we noticed the barding on some of the steeds—the body armor for war horses—and recognized many of these as Knights Templar horses.

I shared a nervous look with my mates, and we continued on, keeping to the fringes of the meadow. Tiptoeing, really, so we wouldn’t wake the sleeping mounts.

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