Page 136 of Queen of Sherwood

I drew back my bowstring, trying to find an enemy to shoot at. There were plenty of options, as my comrades were getting overwhelmed.

My brow sweated. If I couldn’t choose a target—because everyone was so close together now, and I feared hitting one of my own people—then I was useless. We were basically five, if Robin was missing and I was hiding away like a damned coward.

Robin! I thought again.

My mind was in a million places, all of them bad.

This was a scorching mess.

I got to my feet, loosening my hold on the bowstring. I couldn’t chance risking injury to the Merry Men or Oak Boys.

So I drew my blade again, begrudgingly, and rushed forward into the glade.

When Little John noticed what I had—Robin missing—I called out to him across the way.

“She’s not over here!”

“Find her!” he demanded.

I frowned. How the fuck was I supposed to do that? She could have gone . . .

My eyes veered over the nearest trees, north, to the looming hillside that watched over us.

. . . anywhere.

“Goddammit,” I said under my breath. “This is so typical and frustrating of you, little songbird. You’re lucky I love you madly.”

I turned to flee the scene, thinking I’d run west around the edges of the thicket, come to the hill, and climb it.

She had to be up there.

But before I could turn away, a soldier blocked my path. He sneered at me, and I smiled at him.

His head lurched when I reeled, so I added a wink for good measure, just to confuse him absolutely.

With his brow furrowing beneath his helmet, I charged at the man with a silly little battle cry.

Chapter 37

Friar Tuck

Alan-a-Dale was getting his ass kicked. Robin was missing. I sported a thousand cuts and bruises from my bare-knuckles form of fighting. Luckily, most the blood splotched on my habit wasn’t mine.

Some of it was, though, and I limped toward the tree line, trying to gather my breath.

Things were not boding well for the Merry Men. I had no idea how to turn the tide of battle, and I gave a futile pray to God to see us through this.

If we escaped this melee with our lives, I’d be sure to exact some punishment on Robin’s round behind after this. Perhaps a spanking or three.

I held my palm against a tree, above my head, ducking to take in deep lungfuls of air. My hands trembled, not from fear or pain, but from the number of times I’d smashed Discipline and Atonement into bodies. Blood, dirt, and grime caked my swelling knuckles.

I gritted my teeth, looked up, and saw double. When I focused, I noticed Alan backpedaling frantically as he tried to fend off a militiaman. Another soldier was heading for our minstrel, and I couldn’t allow that.

I pushed off the tree, waylaying into battle with a bellow. The soldiers glanced over at the sound of me tearing through the branches. Alan’s eyes widened when he watched me charge, as if seeing a holy ghost.

I cracked a bloody grin at my brother, fighting past the limp in my left leg. Somewhere along the way, a sword had found flesh there.

I was used to flesh wounds. Every battle, I seemed to come away with them. A life of drinking and whoring had made me a bit rotund, surely, and that hadn’t helped my martial prowess.

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