Page 167 of Queen of Sherwood

“Same thing I wish for every time, sir.” I looked over and shot him a smirk and a wink. “That someone will tear this fucking statue down.”

He laughed, tossing his head back.

“The carriage is ready,” he said after a moment.

My smile remained on my face. I reached into my tunic, presented a small bag of coins, and handed it to him. “Thank you, Sheriff Oliver.”

Oliver of Mickley—newly appointed Sheriff after an historic vote where the populace learned he was an “honorable crusader” and “valiant server of justice”—grinned fondly at me. “Careful with it, aye? Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, sister . . .”

I RETURNED TO THE MERRY Men with my cart full of goods. More than the leather, the iron, and the food, I came back with fair news.

Our band was nestled deep in Sherwood Forest.

We hadn’t vacated the premises since Marian’s death, though we had stayed undetected. We didn’t pull dangerous carriage robberies any longer, because we didn’t need to.

Things had softened around here. Villages had been erected in the woods, run and inhabited fully by Merry Men and Oak Boys. In the year since Marian’s death, families had sprung up—families of outlaws and bandits, living merrily with each other.

Ravenshead was an ally. So was every other village in the vicinity.

The Merry Men had lived up to their name. Through all the trials and tribulations, we had survived long enough for the people of Nottingham to forget us.

Little John met me in the woods at the outskirts of camp. He climbed onto the bench and we rode with my head nestled against his bulky shoulder.

“Well, little hope?” He absentmindedly played with my hair while I rested against him.

“It’s all set,” I said.

At the end of the road, we reached camp. Will Scarlet was busy training the newest recruits with wooden weapons, and I dropped off the steel for him from the carriage.

Next, I moved onto the class where Tuck taught holy words and educated our youth. He gave me a sinfully delicious smile as I laid down the leather for him to make into the binding of books—one for each of the whelps.

Bess and Wulfric received the grain, because the particular shop I went to in Nottingham had the best in the land, as I told it.

Alan-a-Dale’s voice crooned through camp as he showed lasses and lads how to make a song stand out. Today, he was teaching them the “Ballad of Sir Gregory.”

It nearly made me tear up.

Once all the goods from the carriage were distributed, John and I stared into the door, at the floorboards.

I bobbed my eyebrows, grinning like a child, and crouched to lift them up.

Under the boards were three iron keys.

I rubbed my hands together, licking my lips.

I couldn’t wait to get back into the action.

“Good,” John said, patting my back. He leaned over and kissed my forehead. “I see you getting so excited, you little devil.”

“I can’t help it. Been a while since we’ve run a job, love.”

“Aye.” Little John scratched his forehead. “Fucking Rosco. If he had wanted a ring for Emma’s hand, why couldn’t he have just asked? He had to go stealing it from a noble?”

“Worse that he got Tick and Jimmy caught up in his little games, too.”

“Aye.” I nodded, putting my hands on my hips. “The lad’s gotten rusty in his time away from the alleys.”

“Right he has, love,” John said, and sauntered away. “Right he has.”

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