Page 166 of Queen of Sherwood

The boy continued watching, a smile on his young face—

And my hand landed on his shoulder. I squeezed tightly, pulling him close against me. “Barry?” I smiled down at him, and he looked up at me in confusion. “You don’t need to see this, lad.”

“But I want to!”

I pulled him close, forcing him to stare up at me. “Your parents are worried sick about you. Can’t you hear them? Here, let’s find them.”

Confusion dashed across his adorable face. He had the same sharp chin, the mischievous eyes as his mother.

“Well, fine, then,” Barry said.

We were the only two people facing away from the gallows, walking hurriedly away, deeper into the crowd.

I spotted a handsome couple looking around frantically, whose eyes lit up when they saw me.

“Barry!” the dark-haired woman shouted, rushing toward us. She wrapped the boy in an embrace, crouching to get eye-level with him. “What have I told you about running off on your own, silly boy?!”

She looked up at me, wild-eyed, confused because she’d never seen my face before.

And she would never see it again.

I smiled at her. “Keep a close eye on this one, ma’am.”

Then I disappeared into the crowd—still heading away from the gallows. Feeling guilty and sad.

A raised voice forced me to turn around, shrieking up to the heavens.

She deserves my eyes on her, I thought. At least that. She deserves to know her son is safe.

Marian’s cry was loud, tinged with defiance, and shook me to my core.

“Long live the Merry—”

The box shifted, the rope dropped, and hundreds of citizens gasped in unison.

Epilogue

Robin

One Year Later

Istrode through Nottingham with my hood down. The place I once called home would never be that again, but at least I could show my face here now without fear of reprisal. Without fear of being hunted down like a dog by Sheriff George, Sir Guy, or their ilk.

I never stepped foot near Wilford. That life was gone. I didn’t want to accidentally run across an old shopkeeper who might recognize my face.

For all intents and purposes, Robin Hood was dead.

To those in the know, however . . .

With the wind brushing across my face, tousling my hair, I skipped across town and collected meats from the butcher, grains from the miller, iron from the blacksmith, and some hides from the leatherworker.

Then I stopped off at the statue in the middle of the town square and tossed a penny into the water. I said a small wish, then stared up at the stone face of Sheriff George, and winked.

Yes, a statue had been erected in the bastard’s name.

“What did you wish for this time?” a voice next to me asked.

He stood tall and broad, arms crossed. We faced the water as if we were strangers, though I knew this man better than I knew almost anyone.

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