Page 148 of Queen of Sherwood

It was so obvious, now. George had likely had aspirations for an even higher station—one of true nobility outside the Sheriff’s seat of Nottingham. Sutton, well, had probably been well on his way to becoming a cardinal.

I shook my head of the thoughts, trying to tamp down the spinning wheels in my head. My legs had slowed from the burn in my muscles, yet I kept trying to follow in Robert’s wake. He ran at a sprint, and I was struck with confusion and tiredness.

“Come on, Robin! Don’t slow now!” he yelled back at me. “Just a little further!”

I gulped, nodded, and flared my nostrils to push on. The air was dry and chill in my nose, sweeping down to my lungs. My clammy body felt on the verge of collapse, yet I didn’t slow. I ignored the pain of my bruised body from the beating I’d suffered.

We reached the base of the hill and charged into the tree line. Branches and bushes blurred by as we ran toward the glade, where my senses erupted all at once from the sounds of groaning, dying voices, and the stench of piss, sweat, and blood.

My heart seized in my chest. If anything has happened to my men because I abandoned them, I’ll never forgive myself.

I bit back tears. Even if I had wanted to cry, the rushing wind in my face wouldn’t have let me. My whole body was dry and cracking.

We reached the northern edge of the trees, and leapt out into the meadow, swords drawn.

I gawked at the sight, nearly dropping my blade.

Bodies littered the field, piled on every patch of earth. Men on their backs, bleeding out; on their sides, their stomachs; appendages splayed awkwardly in death. The grass felt an inch thick with blood.

Standing tall—or, rather, doubled over, knees bent, crippled-looking—were my Merry Men.

Tears trickled in rivulets down my cheeks as I beamed. I let out a disgusting sound of relief, a mix between a sob and a yelp.

The men heard me, and their faces lifted: Little John, Will Scarlet, Alan-a-Dale, Friar Tuck. All alive. Briggs was, too.

For some reason, they didn’t smile wide when they saw me. I noticed the blanket of relief and the huge exhales of breath, learning I was alive. But something else bothered them greatly.

They were standing over a body, and from my angle I couldn’t make it out in the darkness.

“Oh, no . . .” Robert croaked.

I took his arm, my fingers trembling, my smile twitching. We rushed over to the scene, and my smile fell completely, flipping to a horrified expression.

Uncle Gregory lay on his back, arms splayed wide. Staring up at the heavens with unseeing eyes. There were a dozen cuts across his armor, tunic, body, and blood patched his skin and thickened in his white beard. His greatsword was flung off to the side. A hint of a smile showed on his pale, gray face.

My voice was a whisper. “No . . . uncle . . .”

I crumpled to my knees, heart twisting and clutching and finally shattering into fragments.

“I am so sorry, little hope,” Little John said in an even deeper voice than usual.

His huge hand fell on my shoulder. Will Scarlet’s hand fell on my other shoulder, both of the men trying to console me with gentle squeezes.

My life paused, memories taking over, the sounds of alarm behind us drowning away.

I was brought back to my childhood with this man. This stalwart beacon of resilience, endurance, and honor. My childhood was not an unpleasant time, and Uncle Gregory had played a large part in that. Visiting him with my elder brother always brought us great joy in the summer months. It was the only time, as a child, when we were freed from our respective duties: one as heir-apparent, the other as pampered princess who had to learn her duties.

Gregory was different than other noblemen. He didn’t carry himself like one. He respected the common man, not adhering to the entitlement and pettiness of the gentry. Gregory brought out the best in everyone, and anyone who met him left his presence being a bit better for it.

He was a spark that lit a fire under your ass. Fiercely loyal, even when I thought he hadn’t been at one point during my stay with the Merry Men. Even more fiercely protective. A master strategist. Even better on the field of battle.

The corpses surrounding him were proof of it. Judging by the gaping wounds across their bodies, it looked like Sir Gregory of Wilford had damn near brought the entire company down by himself.

“He was heroic in his final stand, urging us to try and find you,” Friar Tuck said. “Yet we couldn’t leave him to die alone.” He was embracing a staggering Robert, arm wrapped around his middle while Briggs kept my brother upright on the other side.

“An honest-to-God champion, worthy of a song,” Alan-a-Dale murmured. “He will be missed. He went out the way he wanted, little songbird.”

I gulped and nodded, coming back to life. The tears had dried, and too much had happened for me to register all the emotions I was feeling.

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