Page 57 of Queen of Sherwood

“What the fuck did you do to our food, charlatan?” I snapped, baring my teeth in a snarl. “What poison did you beset upon us?”

From the ground, Maid Marian looked up at me with huge eyes. Her red curls, which were usually so uniformly positioned, were disheveled and unkempt. Her pristine face was sweaty and even paler than usual.

“W-What?” she croaked.

“You heard me, witch,” I growled, and then crouched in front of her to get to eye-level. “If I’ve learned you’ve tainted our meal—”

“I did nothing of the sort!” Marian yelped. She crawled back on her ass and palms, until her spine smacked against a tree and she winced.

“I’ll gut you from cunt to throat, Marian,” I growled, and my lip twitched. My fingers whitened on the handle of my blade. I could imagine what her silly little perfect face would look like when I plunged this steel between her oversized breasts and gleefully watched the blood spill out of her chest cavity.

In fact, I wanted to be the one to do it. To bathe in her blood and feast on her entrails and—

“Robin,” a stern, deep voice said about me. A large hand fell on my shoulder. The gentle touch of Little John trying to bring me back to reality.

I blinked, snapping to, and escaped my violent thoughts. At least for the moment. But I wanted answers.

“Enough of all that,” said another voice, this one feminine and surly.

Bess waddled out from a tent in a nightgown, shaking her head. Wulfric sheepishly stepped out behind her, wearing only his fur coat, thankfully clasped in the middle to hide his modesty from everyone.

I had seen quite enough immodesty for an evening.

“It wasn’t the red-haired whore,” Bess explained.

I stood, still keeping the point of my dagger thrust toward Marian’s eyes. “Explain yourself.”

Bess stepped aside. “Perhaps you should, Wulfy, you enigmatic little prick.”

The dark-skinned man scratched through his thick white braids. He pouted and sucked on his teeth, tilting his head in apparent shame.

I’d never seen him look so guilty and timid. Apologetic, even.

“Aye, erm.” He cleared his throat. “I may have filled the eating cauldron with the wrong kind of mushrooms this afternoon. I thought they were the kind to eat and spice up a meal. Turns out . . .”

As he trailed off, I lowered my dagger from Marian and leaned my head forward. “Turns out what, Wulfric? Spit it out.”

He threw up his arms. “Turns out they might have been the kind that heighten euphoric sensations and lustful needs. The kind that bend the mind and, at times, cause the subject to inhabit false thoughts and hallucinogenic states when ingested.”

I blinked at him. Nothing he said made a lick of sense. “They were . . .” What were they, even?

He shrugged his shoulders high, to his ears. Gave me a pleading look. “Magic?” he asked, with a hint of hope in his voice.

“You . . . poisoned the entire camp?”

“No, Lady Robin! Not, erm, intentionally, anyway. So, I suppose, yes, then. Yes, I did.”

His shoulders slumped.

I gawked at him.

Heads around camp swiveled to one another, low murmurs breaking out.

Before I could lash out, Little John took up space beside me. He spoke loudly, for all to hear. “Well, we can’t say it wasn’t fun, can we, Robin?”

I fought past a dry throat, and could think of nothing to say. When he puts it that way, it’s hard to argue with.

I said, “How long will this heightened condition last?”

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