Page 42 of Queen of Sherwood

It was the perfect moment for a minstrel—that space between reality and fantasy, night and day, light and dark—when not a breath could be heard as the musician held the tense moment, and the entire rapt audience, in the palm of his hands. I could hear the communal heartbeats of everyone rapidly beating.

Then my hand came down in a flash of notes, the crescendo breaking open, and my fantastical tale came to a sweeping conclusion.

Everyone cheered. They stood and clapped. Even the sullen adults, the veterans who had seen as much death and despair as anyone, hollered.

It was perhaps the best rendition of the song I’d ever played. Any song, even.

I took my flowers and rolled into a low bow to my audience, smiling wide.

Wulfric the healer’s eerie-white smile speared through the darkness more than anything. He had momentarily pulled his tongue out of Bess’ throat to cheer, his braids nearly undone from how roughly the robust older woman had scrubbed her hands through his mane.

Maid Marian smiled at me with her arms haughtily crossed under her chest. The smile was one of a succubus who wanted to rip my clothes off, or was imagining what I looked like without them on.

Robin stood next to her brother, Robert’s arm draped over her shoulder, and simply beamed.

My racing heart calmed as attention turned away from me.

I heard the sniveling lad Tick tell his friend Rosco, “I want to be King Arthur! His life sounds amazing the way Alan told it!”

Rosco scoffed and shouldered the small lad. “You’re not tall enough to be the king.”

“And you are?!”

Rosco raised his chin. He towered over his friend. “Sure am. I’m—”

“Lankier than a tree branch!” Tick scowled. “I’ve never seen a knight so skinny!”

Girls giggled nearby, and Rosco flushed.

Emma the handmaid, however, and Robin’s second-in-command when it came to domestic camp affairs, smiled coyly at the lanky boy.

I couldn’t help but also smile.

“There are plenty of Knights of the Round Table for everyone to play one,” I called out, chuckling as I stepped between Rosco and Tick before they could come to blows.

My tale had resonated. I looked over to Will to thank him, but the sullen lad was nowhere to be seen.

Of course. The man responsible for gearing me in the right direction didn’t stick around to hear my song.

I wouldn’t let it sadden me, because I saw joy—however brief it stayed—everywhere I looked around the camp.

Somehow, my song had helped bloom a closed flower, opening the petals and scattering love in the air. I saw it in Emma’s glance at Rosco, in Taffa and Brand’s coy exchange, and perhaps even Gracie and Ada’s disappearance. I certainly saw it in the way Wulfric and Bess embraced. Hell, everyone saw that, and the two elders of the camp weren’t ashamed in the least.

Let them have it. We’re free here. Both are exciting new additions to our camp—an Oak Boys chef, and a nomadic healer with pet wolves.

I’ve seen stranger things.

“Never mind the gallant knights,” Emma said, standing next to the arguing boys. “I just want to see the shining city of Camelot! It sounds splendid.”

“Silly, it doesn’t exist!” Taffa shouted, cupping her hands over her mouth.

Emma scowled at her.

Robin came to Emma’s rescue. “Are we sure about that?” my little songbird asked.

Tick swiped a thin tree branch off the ground and held it out like a sword at Rosco. “You be Arthur. I’ll be Sir Lancelot. And . . .” He trailed off, looking around.

“I’ll be Lady Guinevere!” Emma said, laughing and tossing her hair over her shoulders.

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