Page 129 of Queen of Sherwood

Another armed man stepped out from another tree, and then a third, and fourth, and fifth . . .

The glade quickly filled with no less than twenty soldiers, decked in chainshirts, helmets, swords, spears, and shields. Facing us. Lifting their weapons in preparation.

My stomach plummeted to my boots, and our party froze in place.

I heard someone in our group mutter, “Fuck,” and the sentiment was shared all around.

These men weren’t a rear watchman guard, making sure George’s southern flank was protected.

These men had been waiting here. Waiting for us.

My thoughts swirled with our options, and they were all bleak. One thought roared louder than the others, so incessantly, I knew it was true:

We’ve been betrayed.

Chapter 34

Little John

The soldiers in front of us were amassed in an uneven wall of humanity, a mere twenty paces ahead.

There was no way around them—only through them.

And the wall marched forward.

Heavy boots thudded toward us.

I cursed us for not being more aware. Even Will and Robert had missed them in our excitement to make it to the hill past the glade. They had been well-hidden and prepared for our rear approach.

“Back break,” I hissed for my people to hear.

Everyone I traveled with knew the command: a slow retreat back into the woods, and a scatter that spilled east to west. The idea was to hide ourselves and circle around, even though I knew we wouldn’t be circling around this wall.

It was twenty against seven.

I hated the idea of separating from my men—from Robin most of all—even if that separation was only a few feet away. Yet the necessity was there: If we simply mashed our group against theirs in a shield wall, the sheer numbers of their force would overwhelm us and swallow us whole. We had no one to protect our flank, because we were so few in number.

We needed to be precise, and give each man on our side—and woman—a chance to pick their particular fight that would be well-suited to their strengths.

Our seven could not take out twenty.

But individually? Maybe each man could take out three.

The worn, fortified wood of my quarterstaff felt like an old friend as I gripped it loosely at the base and middle. My staff was an extension of me. Ever since I’d lost my finger in the Nottingham jail I’d been retraining myself and adjusting my approach.

Now, so many months removed from that hellscape, I was back in the prime of my fighting life. A little older, less springy, but all there.

I staggered my position in front and to the side of Robin, to let her drift slowly back into the woods as she drew her bow and arrows from her shoulder.

As long as she was behind me, and I didn’t let the enemy behind me, then she was safe. I needed to always keep that in the forefront of my mind, because if we lost Robin, we lost everything.

There was no retreating. I could tell by the severe expressions on my friends’ faces that it wasn’t even a question. We would make our stand here, in this nameless glade beneath a sloping hillside.

My eyes danced left to right. I dug my back heel into the soft earth, bracing myself, and became as large as possible to try and draw as many of the bastards to me as I could.

Will was to my left. Tuck to my right. Alan somewhere near Robin, a bow in his hand, too. I wouldn’t have rather had any other men by my side. These were my brothers.

My muscles flexed as the guards approached wordlessly. None of them had retreat on their minds, either. These looked like well-trained militiamen from Nottingham—not Knights Templar—so at least that was a relief.

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