Page 160 of Queen of Sherwood

“You can’t be serious. We would never leave there alive.”

Connor shrugged. “That’s the risk you take, being an outlaw.”

My teeth crunched together, grinding hard. I disliked this knight’s flippant attitude. He was no different than all the others we’d fought.

Prince John was no different than the other lords, either. At least that’s what I told myself at first.

But I knew I was lying to myself. John Lackland was the regent-king of England while his brother Richard was away in the Crusade.

Once King Richard returned, our hope was that these diabolical countrywide taxes would cease, because there would be no more war.

Yet no one knew how long that would be. The Crusade had already dragged on for a couple years, and showed no signs of stopping anytime soon.

And if Richard died abroad . . . we could very well be at the mercy of the contemptible King John for the foreseeable future.

I felt we had reached a new level in our revolution. We had caught the eye of the sovereign of the nation—the Crown itself.

It wasn’t good news, or anything to celebrate. Obviously.

“It’s either you come to Nottingham Castle,” Sir Connor said, “or Prince John comes here.” He let go of the missive in his hand and let it float to the grass beneath his feet. “I don’t care either way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you, outlaw. Prince John is not Sheriff George.”

With that warning, Sir Connor turned around and left with his men.

We let out a collective breath and sighed.

“The would-be king has his eye on us,” Little John said, scratching the back of his neck. “John Lackland.”

A few men snickered wryly.

“Curmudgeonly bastard,” Will snapped.

“What should we do, sister?” Robert asked me.

I was at a loss. I blinked at him. “Well, we definitely aren’t sending anyone into Nottingham.”

“Then we will be raided. You heard the knight.”

“Fuck the knight.”

“Robin . . .” My brother took me by the shoulder and led me away from the group, before I could show my temper any further. “Let’s not get hasty, eh?”

“What do you want me to say? I’m scared, brother.”

“We all are. Prince John is not Sheriff—”

“I know what Sir Connor said. I heard him just as well as you.”

“Right.”

“I suppose we need to move,” I said.

“Or . . . we could surrender. Plead for mercy.”

My head reeled back. “Are you serious?”

He winked. “No.”

SIR CONNOR WAS NOT lying. A vast army arrived in Nottingham less than a week later, numbering close to a thousand. Evidently, he wanted to make this quick.

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