Page 13 of Queen of Sherwood

My dear friend and liege had been listening entirely too much to Sutton for months now. I had lost his ear, and it irked me, because George had always put his faith in me before this smarmy, self-righteous priest arrived.

I knew the true Bishop Sutton. Not the man who built hospitals and churches and almshouses for the poor all across England, or huddled with beggars at Mass, but the one who orchestrated a massive sex slave ring to appease foreign dignitaries and far-off nobles. He was most recently thwarted by Robin of Loxley and her Merry Men.

I secretly relished the fact that my little mouse had made Sutton’s life harder, though I didn’t much enjoy that she’d inadvertently made George’s life more difficult, too, by running off with his money. Or Sutton’s money. The Templars’ money?

Whoever that fucking money belonged to, it most assuredly wasn’t Robin’s. Little did she know that dozens of new wolves had joined the hunt, and were sniffing her trail.

I, sadly, was not one of those wolves, and that vexed me more than anything. Sir George had not given me leave to find Robin or her men, though I generally knew where they were staying. Sherwood Forest was vast, but it was small when you had my network of spies and agents.

Again, all I needed was for George to ask. Grovel at my feet, perhaps, and beg for assistance. I knew the time would come soon, because he couldn’t handle all this pressure on his own. The sweat lining his brow and darkening his tunic under his arms was proof of that.

“Fine,” George spat, after staying silent for at least four laps of pacing. “I’ll see him. I’ll see what he has to say.”

“I don’t think you have much of a choice, Sir George.”

“And where is that captain of mine? He’s been absent lately, and I’d like him in here with me.”

My eyebrows jumped. The time has some sooner than I thought.

I quickly made my way down the cobwebbed hall of the wall’s interior, toward one of the creaky doors that led into an adjacent study room. I opened the door, closed it, slid a bookshelf back into place to conceal it, and then sauntered from the room into the hallway that led to the conference chamber.

Bishop Sutton was opening the double doors of the chamber as I appeared around the corner, and his eyes landed on me down the hall before falling on the tall, broad knight standing near the door, facing away from me.

I didn’t need to ask if someone was a Templar Knight—they advertised themselves well enough. This one had the customary crisp-white surcoat and mantle on his shoulders embedded with a large red cross in the middle. He struck a fearsome sight with his height and accoutrements, including the great war-sword on his back, covered by his red-crossed heater shield. His hair was chalky gray and brown.

I arrived beside the knight just as Bishop Sutton gave him a small bow and muttered, “The Sheriff of Nottingham will see you now.”

“It was only a favor to you, Bishop, that I was kept waiting at all,” the man said in a gruff voice.

“Aye, Sir Montford, I understand. Your graciousness is greatly appreciated, both by me and the Sheriff.”

The knight grunted.

I strode up alongside him, sliding up like a wraith, and he glanced over as he began marching into the room. “Who are you?”

“Sir Guy of Gisborne, captain of the Sheriff’s guard. And you must be the great Sir Amadeus Montford of the Knights Templar. Obliged to make your acquaintance.”

I gave him a slick smile and a hand to shake. He just stared down at it and frowned.

Anger flared through me, yet I kept it to myself. “Welcome to Castle Nottingham, sir.”

“I’ve seen grander castles in the sultan’s land, and those bastards subsist on sand and dust.”

My lip twitched. “I’m sorry Nottingham is not to your liking.”

With that, we entered the large, high-ceilinged room together, with Sutton shuffling in behind us.

George approached, clapping his hands once with a sickly smile on his face. “Ah! Sir Montford, I apologize for keeping you waiting.” He gave me a quick glare, before bowing his head and accepting the knight.

He looked ready to sweat through his tunic.

I stepped to the side, clasping my hands in front of me, and watched the procession while trying not to wince. George did everything he could to placate the man called Montford, but nothing he did would have satisfied a man on a quest from God for the Order’s money.

“Bishop Sutton has apprised me of the situation here, Sheriff George,” Montford said in his grunting voice. Very unhappy man, I reckoned. Very devout.

“The situation, sir?”

“Of the missing funds. The failed taxation. The unregulated bandits who stalk your forests and villages, tormenting your citizens.”

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