Page 159 of Queen of Sherwood

A few weeks passed, and the Merry Men-Oak Boys fell into a rhythm. Our alliance had become permanent, after I’d spoken to Robert about his thoughts on breaking up the camp now that George was dead.

“We never know who’s going to take his place,” Robert complained. “Until we’re sure the taxes will abate and the tyranny will cease, I say we stick together.”

“Agreed,” I told him.

Now, things were better than ever. Our camp continued to grow as more refugees came. Landon and his people started working on rebuilding Ravenshead, with the help of dozens of Merry Men. We provided lumber from the forest, and Landon stopped seeing us as a threat and nuisance.

He finally saw that, together, we could accomplish great things.

And then another messenger came.

This man came dressed in armor, surrounded by Nottingham militia, and our people took up arms, ready to defend ourselves.

We had nearly two hundred people packed in these woods. The messenger entourage, meanwhile, numbered ten.

It was hardly a threat.

I met the man outside the fringes of our camp, in a meadow past some trees. My mates joined me, as well as twenty other veterans of battle.

I didn’t recognize the man, but he carried himself as a knight.

“My name is Sir Connor, captain of the Nottingham guard,” he announced, twenty paces from me. “I hold here a summons.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, eyes narrowing. Robert looked over at me, and I nodded to him.

Unless I was given fair treatment, I wouldn’t deign to speak to this man. It wasn’t that I thought I was superior to him, rather that we wanted to keep our numbers and our leadership somewhat hidden from prying eyes.

Robin Hood was an idea, a symbol, and a message. Now that we had countless women in camp, she could have been anyone. It was better to keep the legend concealed from dangerous eyes.

So Robert did the talking, striding forward from our group. “How did you find us?”

“That’s not important, sir . . .”

Robert said nothing. He didn’t give a name. He just stared at the stern soldier.

Connor frowned. “Sir Guy of Gisborne wrote notes before his untimely death. We’ve been aware of your location for some time.”

I frowned. That didn’t bode well. It meant these bastards could easily just be biding their time before unleashing another siege.

“Yet you haven’t attacked?” Robert asked.

“We’ve been asked to stay our hand.”

“By whom?”

“That is the crux of this summons, bandit. Prince John is arriving in Nottingham, next week. He has gotten wind of Sheriff George’s death, as well as Bishop Sutton’s mysterious disappearance.” Sir Connor’s eyes narrowed into slits. “And he is not happy about either.”

“I wouldn’t be, either, I were him.”

Connor spat on the ground. “Aye, well, he brings regiments of the king’s army. Thousands, fighting in the prince’s name. Your rebellion is quelled, knave.”

“Our rebellion hasn’t even begun,” Robert snapped back. “Let him show himself. It’s about time someone bigger than the Sheriff of Nottingham takes notice—”

“Robert,” I whispered in a voice inaudible to the enemies across the meadow. “Now’s not the time.”

My brother clamped his mouth shut and gathered himself. His shoulders lifted as he drew in a deep breath. “What does the summons demand from us?”

“An audience with the prince, in Nottingham.”

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