Page 40 of Queen of Sherwood

“I mean, after all the bad things that happen. I feel like I used to believe in Him. But now . . . I don’t think I can. Am I broken?”

My heart ripped in two. I thought about her words for a long moment. Her innocent face stared into mine. I saw the deep well of sadness behind her eyes, and realized I was wrong. This is not an innocent girl, because that innocence was stolen from her. First when she was taken from her home to be traded on the flesh market, and then when she watched the young man she fancied die in her lap.

“You are brave, Maria, for asking such questions. You are not broken.” I leaned forward, giving her all my attention, and folded my hands in my lap. “Can I let you in on a secret?”

She nodded quickly.

“I struggle with my faith, too. All the time. Every day, in fact.”

“You do?” Her brow furrowed. “Then how can you call yourself a priest?”

I gave her a wry grin. “Well, I don’t. Not anymore.”

“So you’re broken.”

My smile widened and I let out a chuckle. Leave it to the younger ones not to pull any punches. “I don’t think so, Maria. I think I am simply human. And, being human, means acknowledging and reconciling the gamut of emotions we feel—even on a daily basis.”

“What do you mean, Friar Tuck?”

“Anger, happiness, sadness, laughter, pain.” I swept my arm out, trying to show it to her in a picture in the air. “These feelings are what make us human, and different than any other being on earth. You see? When I think of that, and how special we are—and unique, in our own ways—I’m reminded of God. I’m reminded how He put us here.”

“Then why is there so much suffering?” she asked. “Why did He let Much die in my arms, for instance? If we’re so special, wouldn’t He want to stop that from happening?”

My soft smile faded, and I nodded sagely. “You’re wise, Maria. And true. As humans, we can’t explain God’s reasoning. Often he throws these horrible situations at us in order to see how we persevere. To test us and our faith. And some . . . well, they never recover from it. Their questioning becomes doubting, and they lose sight of God.”

Her head drooped, chin to her collar. “I fear I’m one of them, Friar Tuck. One of the people losing hope, I mean.”

I put a hand on her shoulder, and she tilted her chin to look up at me. Tears made her eyes glassy. “Even if you lose hope at times, lass, God will be there. He won’t lose hope in you. He may not always protect you, but you will always feel stronger with Him in your heart. If that’s what you want. Otherwise . . . you turn out like him.” I pointed down to another fire, where Will Scarlet sat alone, sliding his whetstone against one of his swords.

Maria chuckled. “He doesn’t seem so bad. I think he puts on more of a façade of meanness than anything.”

I leaned back and laughed heartily. “You’re right about that, Maria!” Then my mood mellowed as I got to the crux of it. “Will has dealt with loss, like the rest of us. With him, however, it broke his faith. He no longer believes.”

“And he’s still your friend?”

I sighed, giving Will a faraway stare. “One of my best, lass. So you see? Those of us who believe must hold ourselves to a higher standard. We can’t let our faith guide our helping hand, because the truth is, we all need help at times. Like you. Like me. Even Will Scarlet and the other faithless ones.”

She gulped and nodded again. “Thank you, Friar Tuck. I believe I understand better. But I want to think about it some more.”

I smiled at her and patted her shoulder to send her off. “I’m the one who should be thanking you, Maria. I think you might have even been sent by God to me, in this moment.”

She gasped in surprise. “Me? How, Father?”

“Because you’ve made me see the light again, when it was getting pitch black.”

Chapter 11

Alan a Dale

The power of my music was not lost on me as I played that evening. I held the camp in thrall with my whimsical tunes, my soulful laments, and my gentle stories.

Humility never benefited the storyteller, after all, and I was that good.

I saw the power of my music in the glassy eyes of the younger folk in camp, when I switched from a rousing ballad to a stricken elegy. The dirge shifted my fingers from hammering speed to feather-plucked notes. My voice lowered into a breathy, raspy measure. The soft melodies carried through the trees, mingling with the breeze that shook the leaves.

I told a story of lovers lost and heroes gone. Relatable tales that my audience could appreciate, nodding their heads, eyes stuck on me like I was their entire world.

I mostly played for the forgotten lasses who were nearly traded to fiendish sex slavers, before Robin’s daring rescue. My lute sang for the orphans from the almshouse in Ravenshead, and the people we had lost along the way.

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