Page 28 of Queen of Sherwood

“I imagine your initiate is speaking with God right now, Sir Charles, confessing his sins of pride, greed, and wrath.”

“What?”

“I hope He gives you everything you deserve at the pearly gates, sir.”

With that, I nodded firmly, even as Sir Charles bellowed, “You dare speak to a man of my station in such an impudent way? Are you all vixens of insubordination in this miserable place, whore?”

I frowned, even as he leaned forward, anger running through a vein in his temple. Then I turned away from him—

To avoid seeing Will Scarlet jab his dagger through the back of Sir Charles’ bald skull.

I had seen enough seeping blood and bulging eyes to haunt me for weeks already, today.

Though I didn’t see it, I still heard it. The wooden thunk of Sir Charles’ forehead abruptly falling forward, smacking against the desk and sending his quill and ink skittering.

Robert let out a gasp of shock. I caught his eyes—fearful and confused, as if he didn’t recognize me as his sister or anyone he’d ever met.

It filled me with sorrow, so I quickly turned back around.

Will slid his blade out of Charles’ spine with a grotesque squelching sound, then cleaned it off on the man’s white mantle. There was no blood this time—at least not at the front—though the darkening blot of ink slowly washing across the pages brought an ominous shudder to my bones.

I called out, “John? Tuck? The knight would like a word.”

My two burly lovers meandered into the room, and froze two steps inside.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Will,” John gasped.

“What have you done, you damnable whelp?” Tuck added.

“What needed to be done,” Will answered simply. He stuffed his dagger away.

I stared down at the slumped-forward body of Sir Charles. Glad I didn’t have to see his face, or what final rictus expression he held in death, frozen eternal on his features.

I felt nothing looking down at him. Preferable to the sick satisfaction I felt as Initiate Brandt died, I supposed, yet I knew the dull ache of nothingness wasn’t much better.

“You’ve doomed us,” Tuck said, stepping forward. “No. You’ve doomed this village. The innocent people of Ravenshead—”

“Initiate Brandt attacked us in the woods,” Will cut in. “Attacked me, anyway.” He nudged his chin toward me. “Our little thorn saved my damn life.”

John and Tuck exchanged a glance, eyes wide.

“So, you see?” Will continued. “The duel couldn’t happen. Sir Charles couldn’t know. He got what he deserved.”

“Yet now the people of Ravenshead will get what they most assuredly don’t deserve, once news of this gets out,” Tuck muttered, shaking his head and putting a hand to his forehead. He looked up, angry. “You think we can possibly hide a murder of this magnitude? Two murders, William?”

“Yes,” Will answered. “Because it never happened.”

“Make this fucking idiot make sense, little hope,” John chided, looking to me. “Give me a glimmer, I beg you.”

I cleared my throat. “We need to talk to Landon and convince him that there was no other way. Leaving one Templar alive and one dead was not an option. Brandt made his choice, and thus made the choice for Sir Charles, as well.”

“Where is this heartlessness coming from?” Tuck asked, head reeling on his neck.

I scowled at him, brow arching in fury. I was tired of this line of thinking—or perhaps thinking about the new callous wickedness I had apparently developed. “I’ve always been your little heathen, Tuck. It’s always been there. Just better hidden than it is now.”

“Fucking hell, lass,” John said, putting his hands on the top of his head.

Robert still hadn’t said a damned thing. He stood behind the two of them, against the wall, looking at us like we were . . . well, murderers.

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