Page 38 of Queen of Sherwood

I shook my head when I saw Little John step between them again, to defuse their imminent brawl.

“I . . . I need to think on this,” I said. Truthfully, I needed to speak to God about this, if He would listen. “We all need sleep. Might I recommend we reconvene later this evening, when we are better rested and have our wits about us, gang? Perhaps even tomorrow?”

Will and Alan nodded. Even John did, eventually.

Robin flared her nostrils at Marian one last time. “Fine. But we’re not letting this wretched woman out of our sight.”

I put a hand on her tense shoulder. “Of course not, little heathen. We wouldn’t dream of it.”

I SLEPT THROUGH THE morning and afternoon, only waking and praying at nightfall. Robin, John, and Will slept, too. Only Alan stayed awake, to watch over Marian, because he hadn’t been on a midnight adventure to the Oak Boys’ camp or Ravenshead.

Prayers got me nowhere, as expected. I kept playing things over in my head, and kept running into dead ends.

Could Bishop Sutton really be nothing like I thought? Could he be even wickeder than the rest of the bastards in Nottingham? Pulling the strings from behind the curtain—the true villain guiding Sheriff George?

I supposed he could be. I hadn’t known the man in years. After all, he had been entirely willing to execute men such as Dan the Dove when he knew they weren’t Merry Men, simply to appease the ravenous crowds and their bloodlust. To go along with the lies that Sheriff George peddled.

Yet I allowed him to live when I found him during that battle. I let him scurry away. And now . . .

Robin came to my tent as I was preparing to exit, wrapping my habit around my body and cinching it at the waist with a belt.

“What do you think, Tuck?” she asked earnestly. “You know Bishop Sutton better than any of us, sounds like.”

“Lass, I’m not sure if I do.” I let out a heavy sigh and brushed past her, outside. It was chilly, with campfires cooking meat and stews. The Oak Boys had brought a veritable feast of deer and hare.

I found myself gravitating toward a particular campfire where Wulfric and the Oak Boys’ cook, Bess, sat whispering to each other in hushed tones. Chuckling like schoolchildren. They seemed to be in good spirits, and Bess kept shouldering Wulfric’s skinny hide out of the vicinity of the fire.

I wanted to learn from Bess. I was a good cook, but she was excellent. More than that, I needed some sense of normalcy so I could try and work this out in my mind.

Robin joined me at the fire, sitting next to me on a log.

I said, “I’m not sure what to believe, Robin. I wish I did. Just know that we will follow you, whatever you believe. Even if it is against a holy man such as Sutton.”

Robin gulped and nodded. She kissed me on the cheek and said, “Thank you, Tuck. And . . . I’m sorry.”

“For what, lass?”

She stood and put a hand on my shoulder. “I know how bad it feels to be betrayed by people you trust. And I can tell you trusted Bishop Sutton, at one point in your life. So . . . I’m sorry.”

With that, she left for a different fire. I felt a burn of tears behind my eyes, but flapped fire-smoke out of my face and pretended it came from that.

The old lady Bess said, “You look nice and round, priest.”

I grunted at her. “So I’m told.”

“And a surly one. Guess you’re the cook of this lot, which is why you’re over here?”

I nodded. “I was hoping you could share your secrets. I need to get my mind off things.”

“I don’t share my recipes,” Bess said. She shouldered Wulfric again, and he nearly toppled over. “No matter how much this rapscallion tries to woo me into handing them over.”

I quirked a sad smile when Wulfric howled with laughter. “Oh, Madam Bess, you truly do rile my bones. How I love it.”

“Maybe you’d love it if we cooked up one of your hounds, eh?”

Wulfric gasped, hand to his chest. “For shame, old crone!”

“Hoy!”

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