Page 133 of Queen of Sherwood

This was Sir Amadeus Montford. I was nearly certain of it.

He faced Gregory, gave a small nod of his head, then tilted the front of his helmet to close it completely. I lost sight of his grizzled beard, his salty hair, and could only see into the dark eye-slits of his boxy helmet.

Gregory tucked his billowing black cloak out of his way and stepped forward, matching the knight’s nod. He leveled his huge blade and struck a fierce stance, and I was reminded that this man, once upon a time, had been one of the most feared soldiers in the king’s army.

I blinked rapidly, drawn away from the two combatants with a sinking feeling in my heart.

No arrows in a while, I remembered, and spun a look over my shoulder. Just long enough to quickly investigate, before two more Nottingham soldiers were upon me.

My eyes widened. The space in the back, near the trees where I’d left her, was vacant.

I called out to Will, Tuck, Alan, anyone:

“Where the fuck is Robin?!”

Then Sir Gregory and Sir Montford charged at each other with ferocious battle cries that made my blood run cold.

Chapter 35

Robin

Ihad skirted around the entire enemy company, and my men. I hated having to do it, yet I knew a distraction when I saw one. This was the perfect—possibly only—opportunity for me to advance and try to find Sheriff George.

The Merry Men holding off the enemy soldiers allowed me to vanish into the woods behind us. I shot off a couple arrows to make sure everyone thought I was still around.

I saw Alan-a-Dale drawing his bow and snapping off some shots, and I hoped people would think he was me—that I was still firing into the crowded glade, even as I shouldered my bow and sprinted left into a thicket.

I hopped over gnarled roots and bushy undergrowth. Careened through vines and low-hanging branches, brushing them out of my face as I emerged on the eastern edge of the copse.

My heartbeat pulsed in my throat. I glanced around wildly, keeping low to the ground in a crouch. I drew my sword, knowing that in thick woods like these, my bow would be useless.

No one was around. The cries and clangs of battle were fading away behind me as I made my way to the first incline of the hillside.

I had to hop over stones and navigate a swift-running stream that sped down the hill. I slipped on the slick, mossy banks, nearly tumbling all the way back from where I’d come.

My legs kept moving, not allowing my treacherous brain or frail heart to stop me. This was simply the latest deception I had made. A reckless call I knew no one would allow if I’d told it to them.

I was the leader of the Merry Men. I didn’t need to ask anyone for permission. If I saw an opening, I would take it, as my mates had taught me to do.

And there was no better opening than now.

My fingers trembled on my blade as I climbed the hill, leaning forward. The slope became steep and I stabbed my sword point into the ground to use as leverage and help me along. At one point, I was nearly crawling on all fours.

My hood bobbed on my head as I reached the top of the hill, coming to a wide expanse. I looked back over my shoulder and noticed how high I’d climbed. The battle from below was a muffled noise that could have been mistaken for the blowing wind if you didn’t know to look for it.

I couldn’t see any of my men or the enemy soldiers below, covered by thick canopies. I had no idea how my family fared, and it made my stomach twist into knots.

Can’t worry about them now. Without me there, they can fight even harder, even more recklessly, because they won’t have to focus on protecting me.

Thanks to the size of the high hill and its position between camps, the sound of battle did not carry to the other side of it. Hell, it hardly reached the summit of the hill where I stood.

That was why there were still so many lazy camps on the other side—north, east, west. No alarm had been raised. No one in the enemy camp appeared awake, for the most part. Sure, there were the occasional campsites still bright with fires, as the night watchmen stayed vigilant. But considering what was happening right behind them, the camp was quiet and undisturbed.

From my angle on the hill, I could make out at least fifty tents splayed out in the grasslands sweeping in every direction below me. They stretched to the edge of Sherwood Forest, where the woods began again and ran into Ravenshead. It was an intimidating sight, because I knew this was not all of them—only what I could see. This wasn’t even accounting the tents inside Ravenshead, which would likely be vast.

If there were two men to a tent, then they easily outnumbered the Merry Men-Oak Boys four to one.

I chewed my lip as I hid behind a tree, moving my eyes from far to near to see what I was up against on the hill.

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