Page 27 of Queen of Sherwood

“It is, girl. The deputy lent it to me temporarily.” He tilted his head, an intensity taking over his features as he studied and made the measure of me. “Who am I speaking to?”

“My name is Robin of Loxley.”

A gruff sound escaped his lips. “Never heard of you. Should I have?”

I shrugged. “I’d never heard of you, either, before you showed up here. I won’t take offense.”

A smirk curled his lips. “You’re a brash one, aren’t you?”

I smiled. “I’ve been known to be a bit of a thorn.”

He nodded, leaned forward, and picked up his quill to keep writing.

“Are these other estates you plan on stealing? Sorry. Repurposing?”

“I’m not having this argument again, woman, despite your feeble attempts to goad me.” The scratching of his quill on parchment made me suppress a shudder. “These are land grants,” he finished.

I nodded, though he was no longer looking at me.

Sunlight brightened the edge of the table on Charles’ right side, coming in through the window behind him.

“Do you think your initiate will defeat Will?”

Sir Charles looked up again. Narrowed his eyes on me, as if realizing something, and then smiled. “Ah. William Scadlock the Younger is your man. Husband?”

I gulped. “How do you—”

“I saw him chancing looks at you over my shoulder during our . . . disagreement. And to answer your question, yes, Brandt will be victorious, because he fights with God’s favor. Your man is a wretch and will be dead before the sun reaches its zenith in the sky, and he’ll be colluding with Satan by sundown. I am sorry. He chose the wrong path.”

Colluding with Satan? Doesn’t sound so bad.

I clenched my teeth together. Studied him right back, trying to stand my ground. “Where does the arrogance stem from, Sir Charles?”

“Excuse me, woman?”

“To believe you have a right to other people’s property—”

“Robin,” came the warning voice of my brother behind me. “That’s enough.”

“This conversation is over, Robin of Loxley,” Sir Charles said.

The sunny patch on the desk blotted black for a fraction of a second as something passed by the window.

Sir Charles noticed, threaded his brow, and looked down. The desk was sunny again—golden-yellow on the chipped wooden surface.

“Who sent you to Ravenshead, sir?” I pressed, trying to keep his attention.

The shadow that had passed by the window swelled behind Sir Charles, growing large yet deathly silent, like a black-winged angel. I heard Robert’s foot fall on the floorboard from its perch on the wall behind me, either in surprise, or to hide any unexpected sounds in the cabin. He stayed quiet.

“God, woman,” Charles said with a firm nod. “God sent me.”

“So no person of flesh and blood made the arrangements for this cabin or”—I waved a hand vaguely at the pages in front of him—“these other properties?”

“You don’t need to know that information,” he said haughtily, squaring his shoulders. Almost like he was embarrassed, or perhaps he was starting to find our conversation boring and pointless.

I supposed it was. I never really expected him to tell me who he was working for. I had my theories.

Sir Charles sighed and looked past me, to the door. “Where in God’s name is Initiate Brandt, anyway? Let us get this over with, so I can be gone from this dim, backwater village.”

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