Page 41 of Queen of Sherwood

More than anything, however, I played for myself.

Music had always been an escape for me. When I sang and plucked, I thought of nothing else but the story I told. And that was the perfect thing to occupy my mind with when I had so many intrusive threads cycling through me.

I didn’t need to think of Maid Marian or her near-certain treachery at hand. For a few hours of the night, I could forget the death of Much the Miller’s Son, and the capture of Little John, and the deaths of those Templar fellows Robin and the band told me about once they’d returned.

Did those knights deserve to die? Who was to say? I hadn’t been there. And I didn’t need to contemplate that right now. It could wait for tomorrow.

I took note of the first listener I lost. She was a slight thing named Maria—the girl Much had talked incessantly about before we’d rescued her. She rose from her little spot on the dirt at the campfire and wandered off toward Friar Tuck’s fire.

Furrowing my brow, I missed a note on my lute and cursed myself. Quickly, I recovered, before any of the other lasses and lads around the fire could notice.

Across the way, however, sitting by his lonesome at another fire, Will Scarlet noticed. He shot me a smug, shitty little smirk, which almost made me miss another note.

I cursed again, then continued my requiem and tried to ignore him.

I could feel the little badger’s eyes on my shoulder and the side of my fire-lit face. Half of me wanted to throw down the lute, storm over there, and bend him over a log to wipe that shitty little smirk from his lips.

Will could destroy me in a battle, undoubtedly. But he preferred me to do the destroying behind closed doors.

My cock twitched in my pants, and I shook my head to continue telling my tale.

Once I was finished—barely making it through the song—I glanced over again. Will had his eyebrows raised, as if trying to tell me something. He nudged his chin toward my seated audience of a dozen, and my eyes followed his.

The younglings were starting to fidget and look around. Shifting in their seats. I was losing more of them.

Moving my gaze back to Will’s challenging stare, I narrowed my eyes. Then I realized what he was trying to tell me. Perhaps sad songs of death and lost love are not what the folk want to hear right now. I should read the room better.

That’s my mistake.

I readjusted myself on the overturned log, sat up, and cleared my throat. With a flurry, I strummed my lute louder than I had all evening. It rang out, almost jarringly, and got everyone’s attention.

Ears perked up. People sat straighter. They listened as I began another rousing tale, this one about a great dragon and the slippery thieves who would steal his greatest treasure—the maiden the fierce dragon kept captive among his treasure.

The soft faces of the younglings broke into smiles and grins. They bumped shoulders with one another, nodding along as my story unfolded and the notes rang out of me like a flood ripping toward a dam.

I broke the dam with another melodic flurry of plucked notes, my staccato rhythm picking up speed. The whelps cheered and clapped along. Even Maid Marian, standing far off where Robin could keep an eye on her, bobbed her head along to my tune.

At a nearby campfire on my other side, the strange old man Wulfric had the large cook Bess nearly on his lap, arms tangled together as they kissed in a passionate embrace. I smiled at the sight, while some of the younglings at my fire noticed and snickered and teased.

I caught Taffa and Brand—a fierce girl and a one-eyed boy, both from the orphanage—exchanging sly glances and smiles across the fire. Their cheeks were heated pink, and more from just the warmth of the flames.

Two others, Gracie and Ada, stood from the fire together and skipped off into the shadows. I raised my brow at that, but thought nothing of it. Gracie was the younger sister of Emma, Robin’s former handmaid, and had been rescued from the almshouse in Nottingham with the other orphans. Ada had been rescued alongside Gracie’s sister during Robin’s daring Rufford Abbey rescue. Gracie and Ada had become fast friends.

My smile widened as I recognized the community we had built here. Boys and girls and men and women from all corners of life. At first, the older bandits and veteran scoundrels in our ranks had been hesitant and against the idea of allowing orphans and younglings into our camp.

Robin had persuaded them.

Now, I truly felt like we were building a family . . . and we were doing it on our own terms. Here in Sherwood Forest, we didn’t have the stringent laws and rules of the cities and towns hovering over us like dark clouds. We could be our own people.

For the first time, I started to truly see what Robin had always wished for, and what her brother Robert had begun with the Oak Boys.

The sensation swelled my heart with joy. I played harder, faster, and more whimsically. I stood from the log, pacing around, nestling the lute against my hip as I tore from one side of the fire to the other, everyone’s eyes now on me with rapt, unmitigated attention.

There were gasps when I told of the dragon fighting the gallant knights and thieves. Claps when I spoke of the dragon falling to the invaders. Cheers when I announced the king winning his prize: the damsel in distress.

Time seemed to stop. I raised my leg and stomped my foot on the log, striking a pose. My hand stuck in midair on the final stroke, moonlight glinting off it as my penultimate notes faded into the black night. Somewhere off in the distance, an owl hooted and pierced through the crackling of the flames in front of me.

I surveyed my audience, everyone holding their breaths, their eyes wide, leaning forward.

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