Page 62 of Queen of Sherwood

I just needed to make sure I could still trust her.

Marian shrugged at my question. “It’s hard to explain. They’re more . . . mature? Other than a recent food mishap, that is.” She looked up at me once she figured out how to parse through her jumbled thoughts. “They’ve taken in younglings. They’ve started training classes—swordplay, scripture, music. Women inhabit their camp in droves, now. They’ve grown softer. And it’s no accident, I think, that it’s all come during Robin of Loxley’s leadership stint.”

“Softer? Excellent. Easier to crush them, then.”

I didn’t much care for all the extra opinions Marian shared. What it meant for there to be more women and children amid the Merry Men. It wasn’t my job to sympathize, and empathy had never been a strong suit of mine anyway.

She grew frustrated at my quick rebuttal, the soft pillar of her neck tensing. I imagined running my thin blade through the cartilage and watching her thin neck peel apart in the middle.

“There are children there, Guy!” she whined. “Whelps who want nothing to do with this conflict. Many of them who know nothing about this conflict.”

“Yet you’ve just told me they are preparing for battle and war.” I narrowed my eyes. “No one is innocent in this, Madam Marian. It’s the cost of doing business.”

She froze, eyes dancing as they searched my face for answers. She looked close to tears, which was pathetic to see. “You really are as heartless as they say, aren’t you?”

I leaned forward, until my lips were mere inches from hers. “I’m more heartless, woman. There are children here who also need help. And don’t forget what I have of yours.”

Marian inhaled sharply. “I haven’t forgotten.”

I’ve always made sure to have contingency plans in place. Did I ever expect Maid Marian to work under me because I paid her well enough? No. If that had been the case, then the highest bidder would always have her ear.

But a threat? Well, that went much further.

“Good,” I said lowly, pulling back. “Because the children here suffer too, Marian, and it’s because of the antics of the Merry Men and knave bandits like them. So do I still have you? Will you be strong?”

Her full ruby-red lips puffed together. Slowly, she pursed them, and I could read the fury in her eyes as easily as anything. “Aye,” she said at last. “You still have me, Sir Guy.”

I studied her face for any deceit, but couldn’t find any. I knew I wouldn’t—not when I had something precious of hers to hold over her head.

I reached into my coat and pulled out a small slip of paper. Handing it to her, I said, “Here is your next message to the Merry Men. Don’t fail me.”

With that, before she had even opened it, I pushed past her to leave the room. At the door, I turned, deciding to leave her with one last bit of fuel—a reminder.

“Good luck with your endeavor to reunite the lads, Madam Marian. I hope your efforts to do some good in this world are not dismissed by the bandits you’re helping . . . as they always seem to be.”

I STOOD OFF IN THE corner of the grand conference room in Nottingham Castle, the morning after my nighttime rendezvous with Marian. Not relegated to the shadows, per se, yet relegated to the side. The least important man in the room, which irked me.

Sheriff George sat in a high-backed chair as if it were a throne. Bishop Sutton stood near him, hinting at their solidarity with his closeness and his clerical robes. Sir Amadeus Montford, the head Templar Knight in this region, stood across from them. His face was ruddy with barely concealed anger. The large knight had his arms crossed over his chest, looking impatient and flustered.

“This disaster in Ravenshead will not stand,” Montford announced. “My people will react with force if need be, should we learn of barbarism in that region.” He narrowed his eyes on George. “You would do well to keep the people of your land in check, Sheriff.”

George scoffed, adjusting himself on his seat in a sign of discomfort. “I can’t control what every person in Nottinghamshire does, Sir Montford. You know that.”

“The people of Ravenshead are my flock,” Bishop Sutton said, bowing his head. “I cannot imagine there is veracity to this claim of treachery. The messenger I spoke with said your knights never arrived in my town.”

“And you believe them?” Montford snapped back incredulously. “Sir Charles and Initiate Brandt were tasked with collecting vacant land in Ravenshead for the Order. If they are not there, then where did they go?”

The bishop shrugged. “I cannot say.”

“Aye. And I cannot ask them, either, because they are missing. Every Templar Knight is loyal to our cause, but Sir Charles more than most. He would not dally or neglect his duties. Which is why I will trust my gut instinct more than the words of a scared, shivering commoner.”

“And what does your gut tell you, Sir Montford?” I asked from the side.

His head snapped over. “That something is amiss. Charles and Brandt can take care of themselves—they are fierce fighters. Still, I will send other knights to uncover their whereabouts, unless I hear more.”

“I don’t believe that is necessary,” Bishop Sutton shot back. “Wasting more manpower on a situation we don’t understand yet.”

“It may be the only way to learn more about the situation, Bishop,” Montford pointed out.

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