Page 39 of Queen of Sherwood

Wulfric reeled back where he sat, as if worried Bess might throw a punch at him.

“I’m a hag,” she said, “not a crone.”

Wulfric chortled again, smiling a wide toothy grin at our newest cook. “She has said I can contribute with some little-known ingredients of my own, though.”

“In time, dark chicken. Maybe when I trust you more.”

“Dark chicken, ma’am?” Wulfric asked. “Bit on the nose, don’t you think?”

“Why? You hobble around like a rooster with your bowed legs, man.”

The healer howled once again, slapping his knee.

I couldn’t help but smile. These two were nothing alike, yet everything I needed in that moment to quickly help take my mind off more pressing matters. I didn’t want to think about Sutton or treachery or slaves. I supposed I had the privilege to put it behind me until morning. Those poor girls on that carriage weren’t given that same privilege.

My eyes slowly veered over to another fire, where Alan-a-Dale was playing his lute. In front of him in a circle were about ten girls in question—all pretty, young lasses—enraptured by his playing and crooning voice.

I smiled at the sight, knowing Alan had the same idea as me: Protect those girls by showing them something sweet, after all the nastiness they’d been forced to endure.

Maid Marian, whether she had intended or not, had reopened a vile wound. If we let it sit for too long without making a decision, it would fester.

Part of me thought Marian relished the chaos she brought everywhere she went. The other part of me wondered if she had truly turned over a new leaf, and if this discovery of hers was really the “last straw,” as she had claimed it was.

Marian was a woman first, after all. Instead of being a whore herself, now she conducted whores. In a way, Marian was protecting her women who sold their bodies, giving them a safer, more comfortable place to trade their wares.

I was not so righteous to think there wasn’t some benefit to what she provided. Will Scarlet could call them whores and raise his chin at them all he wanted, yet I knew what Marian had said was true: The girls at the Teahouse weren’t evil . . . they were simply people. Doing their best to make it in this vile world, and find some semblance of peace.

Maybe the ladies of the night at Madam Marian’s Teahouse believed they were more likely to find high-class suitors there, lock them down, and start a family.

Stranger things had happened.

As Wulfric and Bess colluded and cooked an earthy-smelling stew for supper, I felt a tug at the sleeve of my arm.

I turned to find a skinny young waif I recognized, with ear-length brown hair and a heart-shaped face. Furrowing my brow, I said, “Aye, little lady? How can I help you?”

“My name is Maria.”

I smiled warmly. “Hail, Maria. Apologies for not remembering that. You’ve been here since . . .”

“Much the Miller’s Son died.”

My heart plummeted to my stomach, and I realized then where I recognized her from: the carriage when we brought Much’s body back to camp. Maria had been the young love Much often spoke fondly of. She had been in that carriage meant for sex slaving.

A damned shame the lad only got to see her one final time before his life was snuffed out. Thanks to that fucking slave caravan. I bristled, and Maria looked suddenly scared.

I leaned forward where I sat and put a hand on her shoulder, guilt rushing through me. “Apologies, Maria. I did not mean to grow angry. It’s not you, lass.”

She gave me a sad smile and ducked her head. She was a shy one, I could tell, and had come over to me from the fire where Alan played his lute. She showed bravery, and I wanted to reward her for it.

“How can I help you, lass?”

“You’re a priest, right?”

“I used to be. Not any—”

“How do you believe in God?”

I blinked, taken aback. Pouted. “Hrm? How do you mean, Maria?”

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