Page 153 of Queen of Sherwood

He quirked a smile. “It was Madam Marian, sir. I suppose she feared for your safety more than she was letting on.”

Chapter 43

Robin

Feared for our safety? The thought sickened me.

Because I knew the truth. It all came crumbling down around me after Wulfric told us who had alerted the camp about our disappearance.

When we arrived at camp, one man down, the fury that had been fading in the background of my mind burgeoned to life. It flared so hot that my skin itched, and I felt as though my blood was boiling.

One thing cooled that sensation for a moment as Will and I pressed into camp, and noticed John, Tuck, Alan, and Briggs carrying Uncle Gregory’s body through the site, between the parted seas of our bandit brethren.

It wasn’t the sight of Gregory or my mates that tamped my anger: I was impressed with the stand the Merry Men and Oak Boys were willing to make in our absence. Had George’s army ambushed us during a night attack, they would have been met with cold steel and hard faces.

Even the whelps—the orphans and girls who had only recently started their training, were awake and wielding clubs, daggers, and farming tools to fight with.

One problem about the sheer size our group had grown to was that we didn’t have all the necessary weapons to arm everyone. Our coffers stolen from Sheriff George had been dwindling, and we hadn’t gotten a chance to acquire more spears, axes, and other inexpensive weapons.

So the girls had knives. The boys had roughly hewn bows and logs of wood shaved down to a point. Emma had been ready to lead the girls to war if it came to it. Rosco and his guttersnipes were ready with the veteran fighters and the boys.

I couldn’t help but smile proudly at the arrangement they made. It was a fierce expression of our resilience: girls and boys in trees like feral monkeys ready to pounce down on the heads of invaders; quivers full of arrows resting on the ground next to overturned barrels used for concealment; men stationed at every entrance into our camp.

The pride only lasted for so long before the vengeful wrath came back twofold when I saw her walking away from camp, into a tent.

Marian all but sagged into the tent, and I stormed after her, breezing past my comrades as they focused on the heart-tugging funeral procession of Uncle Gregory.

Mourning can wait, I told myself. I have things I need to get off my chest.

When I came to the tent with heavy footfalls, I faltered at the closed flap. I heard weeping on the other side. It was a broken sound, snotty sobs ripped free from wet lungs.

I stormed into the tent anyway, with my guard up and my fury dampened a bit.

Maid Marian was a sorry sight. She was huddled in the corner of the tent, against her cot, with her knees pulled up to her chest. Her head was between them, arms wrapped around her knees to hide herself from the world.

But she couldn’t hide from her treachery.

She couldn’t hide from me.

I stood over her. “Marian.”

She looked up with red-rimmed eyes spilling big droplets of tears down her cheeks. Her usually-pristine face was marred with streaks of dirt, and her hair was at ends, like she’d been yanking on her luscious curls for hours.

The sight of her startled me, and I lurched where I stood, head reeling. I had never seen Marian exhibit such emotion—never seen her weep openly, or show something so visceral on her face.

In fact, I’d never seen her show any real emotion at all. Everything with her was a ploy, a scheme.

Could be right now, too.

Marian had always been a guarded, snappy woman. A sarcastic succubus who got what she wanted with her quick wit, her snide comments, and her impeccable beauty.

Now . . . she looked broken.

Marian was clearly lost. Either that, or she was a better actor than I realized. If her state was anything to go by, her hubris had taken a dramatic hit—so much so that she didn’t try to hide her sorrow from me.

“R-Robin,” she croaked through her sobs, trying to bring down her hysteria. “This is all my fault.”

“I know, Marian.”

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