Page 15 of Queen of Sherwood

This bastard walked in here, explained he was going to steal land right from under Sheriff George’s nose, and George was simply letting it happen with a smile on his sweaty face.

Fucking weak.

I couldn’t have been more disappointed in my liege.

Montford said, “Bishop Sutton will remain to watch over the situation as it unfolds. Is that agreeable, sir?”

George gave him half a nod.

“Good. Then I’ll be off.”

With that, Amadeus Montford turned—his white cape flapping across George’s front—and walked out of the chamber like he owned the castle already.

I supposed he did, after that introduction.

These fuckers are going to be even more annoying than the Merry Men, aren’t they? I wondered.

George turned to me with a scowl. “Guy. Handle it.”

I nodded to him and left the room . . .

But not before overhearing Bishop Sutton’s whispered voice on my way out, because he didn’t understand I had preternatural senses, including hearing.

“. . . Don’t worry, Sir George. We’ve found new buyers to off-load the pagan witches. You’ll recoup that money soon enough, and then you can get the Knights Templar off your hands.”

He spoke with sweetness in George’s ear, even as the words he said were venomous. Sutton, Montford, the sex trafficking—it all needed to go. I hated every part of it, and these ludicrous individuals were pushing me away from George’s ear.

I was the only man George could trust. He just didn’t know it.

As I exited the room, I realized I needed to be the one to save Nottingham, because Sheriff George would never be able to.

MY FIRST STOP, LATE that evening, brought me to the Wilford estate just east of Nottingham. Firelight filled the open windows in a dim glow as I approached the courtyard, and my eyebrows lifted a fraction.

This late, and someone is still awake?

Two Nottingham soldiers were posted at the door, which was open. Another surprise.

Then the biggest surprise of all: Two women slithered out of the doorway with wide, sashaying hips, heading right for me like a couple of snakes. Both women sported large breasts held aloft my tight corsets, and dresses that bloomed out in an indecent way. Stark white makeup on their faces glistened in the soft moonlight.

As they approached, smiling their crimson-red lips, I stopped, growing uncomfortable. Each one took a side of me, looping their arms in mine and trying to drag me toward the entrance of the manse.

“Hail, good sir,” said the one on my left in a low, sultry voice. “Welcome to—”

“I don’t have time for this. Where is Marian?”

The ladies of the night stopped. Eyes blinking, confused.

“Madam Marian?” the whore asked.

“Madam”? Not “Maid”? What have you gotten yourself into now, you conniving bitch?

A man stumbled out from the front door. He was a young rapscallion I recognized as Grant Fisher, brother of the tarnished, missing squire, Peter Fisher—long believed to be dead.

Fisher Younger held a goblet to his lips, belched, and tossed the cup on the ground with a clang. He pulled his pants higher up his waist, smiled at a friend who walked out behind him, and the two men wandered off into the darkness, past me.

Red curls showed in the doorframe, watching them leave with hands on her bountiful hips. Maid Marian scowled, turned to one of the soldiers at the door, and said, “Marcus, see to it that Grant and his accomplice make it home in one piece, if they make it home at all.”

“Madam?”

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