Page 147 of Queen of Sherwood

I wiped my nose with my forearm. “Sir Guy?”

I gently shook him.

Robert stood over me, panting. “Robin! We’ve got to go. Soldiers are en route. More than we can handle.”

I looked up blankly. I wanted to be angry at him, but how could I? He looked so helpless and pitiful right now, staring down at me in confusion, eyes wide like a child filled with wanderlust.

He reached down. Just how Guy had reached down to help me up.

“B-But . . . Guy?” I asked.

“He’s dead, sister. I won’t apologize for it.”

My lips folded into my mouth. My chin trembled. The shouting from the northern side of the hill was growing louder.

“And the others?” I asked.

“That’s what we need to find out.”

His words hit me a moment later. It shocked me back into my body, and I gave him a firm nod.

I still had John, Will, Tuck, and Alan.

Men who I knew loved me, and I loved them.

Fiercely.

With a final look down at my lap, I frowned at the handsome, pale face staring up at me.

Guy of Gisborne looked at peace in death.

It was where he belonged.

I took Robert’s proffered hand and stumbled to my feet. He averted his gaze, bashful, and I looked down. My torn shirt had opened, exposing me. I covered myself completely—like Guy had done moments before meeting his end.

We ran from the hilltop, heading south, leaving the bodies where they lay. I wished I could have defaced Sheriff George’s corpse on my way out, but alas.

The darkness inside me seemed weaker after the deaths of Sheriff George of Nottingham and Sir Guy of Gisborne.

And the entire time we ran for our lives, down the sloping meadow and into the trees, I thought of that kiss from Sir Guy, and I wondered:

Oh, what could have been.

Chapter 41

Robin

Even with Sheriff George dead, we were not out of the proverbial woods. Because no one knew he was dead other than me and Robert.

George’s words sputtered through my mind, except this time with a ring of truth: “What do I gain from having you killed . . . without anyone knowing about it?”

I understood what he meant. We needed the soldiers of Nottingham to learn George had died, in order to stop all this madness. If he was the only man keeping this army going, then his death should cause it to falter.

Then again, there was a chance I had misjudged the situation completely. A chance that Sheriff George himself had only been a puppet-king, and someone else was funding this entire endeavor. That even if George died, his vengeance against the Merry Men and other bandits of Sherwood Forest would not end.

Of course, I thought with a start. That’s what Bishop Sutton was for. Who better to subsidize a war against an idea—freedom from tyranny, in this case—than a bishop of England? A man above reproach? Even laymen commoners would support such a vile war if a man like Sutton backed it.

That must have been their primary goal in working together, I realized. More than the sex slaving and the cathedral building: War brought higher taxes, higher taxes brought more money, and more money brought more power.

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