Page 25 of Queen of Sherwood

“Blemishes on the soul.”

My eyes widened. “Blem—wait. What?”

He sat back on his heels, keeping his eyes on me. Darted his glance away, then back to me. I saw the moment he braced himself by the way his eyes darkened.

Braced himself for what? Perhaps my outcry and anger at what he had to say.

“I fear, lass, that we . . . that we may have caused something irreversible in you.”

“How do you mean?”

“I recognize that look, little thorn. It’s nothing to be ashamed of—”

“How do you mean, Will?” I bellowed, growing tired of his reticence. My hands curled into fists on my slanted lap.

He took a beat. “I worry that, in trying to ‘corrupt’ you when you first arrived, and desensitizing you to the violence that surrounds us, we’ve . . .”

“Created a monster?”

He sighed heavily. “In short? Yes.” I opened my mouth to speak, but he interrupted me before I could, raising a finger. “Just think of all the death you’ve seen in such a short time. Peter Fisher, Much the Miller’s Son, Stump, Lewis, Skiff, Carter, Carter’s father, Dan the Dove, everyone during the execution riot, the guards holding the women hostage on that carriage, Abbot Emery, your . . . your father.”

My jaw tightened, muscles bulging. I hadn’t thought of my father in a while now.

“Those are just the ones I can think off the top of my head,” he added.

“I get it.”

“So—”

“We have no time for this,” I interjected, abruptly jumping to my feet. When he looked up imploringly, I pointed behind me. “We have a dead man in the bushes back there. Add another to your tainted list.”

“Robin, please,” he said, standing and taking my arms. “You know I’m not good with words. I didn’t mean you’ve become a monster. I love you. You know that.”

I blinked away tears. Nodding silently, I stuffed my head into his chest so he could hug me again. I wasn’t angry because he had called me a monster. I was angry because I knew he was right, and I had no idea what to do about something like this.

What does a person do when their soul is held hostage by your darkest, most twisted thoughts? By thoughts that should never be there in the first place?

Perhaps he was right. Maybe I needed to talk with Tuck—as long as he didn’t try to baptize me. “We need to go back to the village,” I whispered in his ear, then pulled away from his neck, inhaling his scent of cedar and hide leather. “People are going to wonder why we’ve been gone so long.”

He gave me a smirk, trying to lighten the mood. “Our friends will just think we went off to frolic before my imminent demise.”

I snorted. “Imminent demise? Don’t be silly. You would have taken Initiate Brandt in a duel. I don’t care how esteemed and feared the Knights Templar are. They don’t know you like I know you.”

He smiled roguishly. “Guess we’ll never know the outcome, now. Fool lad, trying something so damned stupid like that.”

“Almost got away with it, too.”

His mischievous smile remained plastered on his face. “Aye, if it weren’t for my brat princess. Always a thorn.”

I took his hand in mine and we walked away from the pond, the sounds of chirping birds and rustling branches filling the solemn silence. Our heads bowed, still trying to recover from the suddenness of the ordeal and violence.

Yes, Will was certainly right about one thing: I had become entirely desensitized to it all. The robbing, the killing, the fighting. Seeing friends and enemies die. Watching innocent people suffer.

“Promise me you’ll talk to someone after this?” he asked quietly as we strolled.

I nodded, fighting past a lump in my throat. “I will.”

Maybe I’m overreacting. Perhaps this is just the next evolution of my indignation at how the people of this country are treated, and I’m tired of accepting it and letting it roll off my back. I’ve had enough.

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