Page 2 of Queen of Sherwood

Was I supposed to feel bad about that? If anything, my blood boiled.

On my right, Little John cleared his throat. “Leadership changes a person, Briggs. Perhaps you’d know that.”

The captain let out a harrumph and slapped a low-hanging branch out of his face. “So it worked, then? Thrusting her to the head of the Merry Men?”

“All they needed was a little convincing.”

“From you, Little John?”

John opened his mouth, but I cut in first, saying, “We’ll discuss this with my brother.”

In fact, John hadn’t needed to do any heavy lifting when it came to my ascension to the Merry Men’s chief position. I had done that myself, after sacrificing my own freedom for my best friend Emma’s, which inadvertently led me down the path of capture and servitude at the hands of Baron Melwin and Abbot Emery. If I had never made the decision to throw away my own life for the sake of my handmaid’s, I would have never discovered the deep dark secret in the forest, which accounted for all the missing girls and boys in recent memory.

I also wouldn’t have gained the trust of the rank-and-file Merry Men, by showing them I wasn’t some pampered princess unwilling to make hard compromises or get my hands dirty. I was one of them, and my actions reinforced my belief that none of us was any better than the other. The poorest orphan in our midst wasn’t any less vital or important than Little John or myself.

“And what about you, Father?” Briggs asked Tuck, to my left.

“What about me, soldier?” Tuck’s affable face twisted with distrust. Or perhaps that was a grimace of pain. He hadn’t quite been the same since the wounds he’d sustained during the execution day, which had left him bedridden for days.

“The Oak Boys have no use for God.”

“Everyone has a use for God, if you know what to ask. I assume you’ve been asking the wrong things.”

“And what have we been asking of Him, oh priest of infinite wisdom?”

“Too much.”

Briggs scoffed. “Is it too much to ask for peace and prosperity from the Almighty?”

“That’s not His job.”

Briggs shook his head, raising a brow. “Maybe not. But we’ve seemed to do fine without Him in our camp.”

“That’s your judgment to make, sir.”

Briggs stopped for a beat, putting a hand to Tuck’s chest. “Don’t come in here stirring the pot, friar. That’s all I’m saying.”

Tuck slapped Brigg’s hand aside, flaring his nostrils. “Get your hand off me, soldier. I don’t plan to stir a damn thing, unless it’s stew.”

“We have Bess for that.” Briggs smiled and started walking again. “And she’s more likely to take your hand off than I am, should you toil in her culinary affairs.”

“A woman after my own heart, then.”

Briggs chuckled. “I like you, friar. You aren’t stiff and presumptuous like other men of the cloth.”

“I’m plenty presumptuous . . . Briggs, was it? I presume this clandestine meeting among our leadership is going to go to shit.”

“That’s enough, Tuck,” I said, eyeing Little John. It wasn’t like Tuck to be so up-in-arms after meeting someone. I wondered where this vitriol was coming from.

“You’re a mean one, aren’t you, Friar Tuck?” Briggs asked, but still smiling.

“Nay. That honor belongs to our battlemaster, Will Scarlet, and he’s not with us today. Fortunately for you. I’m simply cautious.”

“About what?”

“Let’s see, Briggs. Last time you met my mate Robin and her brother Little John, you held arrows to their heads. You led them on a march they assumed would end in their deaths. That doesn’t sit well with me.”

Ah. So there it is. Fair enough.

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