Page 17 of Queen of Sherwood

As I walked toward her, my head tilted and I thought of something. “Just what is my type, in your estimation, anyway?”

I paused at the doorway, our faces inches apart.

A slow smile curled her lips. “Cunning, pretty, young things. Breakable ones.”

I smirked. Drew closer, my lips nearly ghosting over hers, my chest pressing against hers. “Are you speaking about yourself, lady?”

“Oh, Guy, there’s no need for flattery. We both know I’m not young.”

My smile widened—

Then faltered as she continued.

“No, I’m speaking about the pliable ones. The lost ones. The ones who are in over their head, trapped with strangers, maybe even dressing like a boy to suit their needs. The . . . mousey ones, perhaps?”

Chapter 5

Robin

Battle lines had been drawn in Ravenshead, likely before we even arrived. Through the thick morning fog that greeted us in the village, my sleepy eyes became alert when I heard raised voices. I sat up on my saddle, eyeing my allies.

It was much too early in the morning for people to be yelling.

The last time I had been to Ravenshead had been a failure. Memories of that time rushed over me—back when I had been trying to make a name and assert myself. Back when I had failed on a constant basis.

William Elder had all but ignored his son’s aid. Possibly didn’t even remember Will’s face. The hurt of that was doubled when the de facto leader of Ravenshead—Landon, I believed his name was—rebuffed our efforts to provide free goods to the village. He called us vagrants and dishonorable knaves. And while all that was true, it pained me to hear it said so openly to our faces.

It was the first time I realized the thin line we threaded, fighting against Prince John and his underlings. Even if people believed in our cause in their hearts, it was much easier to withhold assistance than to jump into the fire and join us. One of those choices often led to an early death.

I couldn’t blame the townsfolk for cowardice. It was more a sense of self-preservation, which any logical person would hold dear. These folk had families to consider. The Merry Men? We were a family. We essentially had no one else outside this group. This was all we had, and, in a sense, we fought because we had nothing left to lose.

Our people were vagrants and knaves not because of our thieving ways, but because everything had been stolen from us and we had no other options but resistance, which made us outlaws and criminals.

Little John, Friar Tuck, Alan-a-Dale, even Will Scarlet, were some of the best men I’d ever known. I was proud to call them lovers and allies and friends. We had grown so close during my time with them, after our rocky start.

If only the people of this village—and every other town and village in Sherwood Forest—knew the character of my mates, on the inside, they would sing a different tune about them.

Sadly, it was always easier to join the mob and point fingers and blame someone for your hard life than it was to realize the people you blamed were actually the people trying to help you rise above your station and life of poverty.

Besides the inherent danger of being an outlaw, there were many factors that made a life in the Merry Men difficult, and all of them seemed to be present at Ravenshead this morning.

Near the center of town, men and women had crowded together, speaking in hushed voices to one another. I recognized a few. While a couple men scowled at me, a woman gave me a small smile when she wasn’t being watched by her husband, and that gave me confidence that I was doing the right thing coming here.

I recalled trying to give that woman a shock of clothing before, which she’d gratefully accepted, only to then have it smacked out of her hand by Landon, and told she couldn’t accept any “gifts” from us because it always came with the expectation of a debt owed.

Landon had every right not to trust us. But to turn the entire town against us? It aggravated me to no end, and I hated him for it.

Robert and Friar Tuck took the head of our group, with me and John staying behind them, making ourselves small. Or at least as small as a mammoth of a man could make himself. It made sense having the man dressed as a priest up front, though I couldn’t imagine why Robert had any right—

“Oh, look, it’s Sir Robert! Thank goodness you’ve arrived!” a woman called out, pointing at us as our horses walked us toward the village center.

Something like jealousy or frustration clawed through me, seeing the woman’s excitement, and I stiffened. Why on earth does Robert get the accolades, hmm, while I’m thought of like a harlot and sinner?

It annoyed me. I knew it shouldn’t have—it was another childish backlash due to being raised alongside my brother. I couldn’t help it. Just what has Robert done to earn these people’s goodwill? I’ll have to find out so I can try and replicate it.

Robert dismounted, pulled his horse forward by the bit, and smiled at the older lady before putting a gentle hand on her bony shoulder. “Florence, dear, a pleasure to see you again. Why is everyone huddled here?”

“Because we’re too scared to go up there,” the lady whined, pointing north toward William Elder’s estate.

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