Page 63 of Queen of Sherwood

Sheriff George shrugged. “We could just raze the village to the ground. Would that satiate you, Montford?”

Montford stiffened at the implication of bloodlust.

Sutton gasped. “Sheriff! That is uncalled for. Those people are honest, hardworking folk. And they provide ample taxes to your coffers, don’t forget. Not everything can be solved with the blade.”

George glared at the bishop. “Then maybe it is you who should be keeping his people in check, no?”

I smirked at their back-and-forth. Seemed the camaraderie between George and Sutton was wearing thin, and I was pleased to see it.

A tense moment passed in silence.

Finally, Sutton lifted his chin. “You are right, George. This is my responsibility. Perhaps I’ve stayed cooped up in Nottingham too long, when my diocese needs me. My people may very well be getting restless.”

“What are you saying?” George asked, and I recognized the hint of panic in his eyes.

He didn’t like the idea of being separated from the bishop’s coin purse. I, personally, relished the idea.

“I am saying that I will make good on my claim that no one from Ravenshead would do such a thing as Sir Montford is suggesting,” Sutton said with a firm nod. “They are a peaceful people. Farmers and peasants.” He faced Montford. “As such, I will ride there myself to investigate the situation.”

“When?” George asked.

“Tonight. Hoping to return with my findings in a few days’ time.” The bishop raised a brow at the Templar Knight. “Is that an agreeable compromise for you, Sir Montford? If you won’t listen to the words of a ‘scared, shivering commoner,’ perhaps you will trust a bishop of England?”

The knight grumbled, shifting his feet. “I suppose that will work.”

“Good.”

I said, “I will prepare the caravan to make the trek comfortable and safe. Bandits are festering in Sherwood Forest, after all, Bishop Sutton.”

The bishop bowed his head to me. “Most obliged, Sir Guy.”

With that, I left the conference room, leaving Sheriff George looking like a lost pup without anyone to steer his shaky leash.

THERE WERE TWO PRIMARY roads to get to Ravenshead—northeast and northwest. I rode alone through Sherwood Forest that afternoon, checking each path.

The eastern path was favored by outlaws, because it went further toward the fringes of Nottinghamshire, bordering on Lincolnshire. If trouble arose in the eastern forest, it was a simple skip across county lines to escape the Sheriff’s scrutiny.

West held fewer bandits, overall, yet I knew it to be closer to the Merry Men’s camp. They preferred the thicker trees that made it easier to hide. There were more hideaways to escape to if something went awry.

I checked both paths, my horse galloping across the trade roads. No one dared stop me during my inspection. My black cloak, garb, and stature on my steed was easily recognizable, and if there were bandits peering through the trees at me—as I suspected there were—they were too scared to face me.

I brought the fist of the law with me, and no one wanted to squabble with the Sheriff of Nottingham if they could avoid it.

Both paths seemed suitable. The western one would be more dangerous because of the Merry Men. The bandits to the east—though likely more numerous—were not as dangerous or daring as the bandits led by Robin and Jonathan Little.

Down the eastern path, near a bend in the road, I reached into my tunic and brought out a scrap of torn cloth. Across the muddy white scrap was the large emblem of the Templar Knights’ red cross.

I dropped the cloth onto the road from horseback, in an obvious place.

Then I returned to Nottingham.

By nightfall, I was standing in front of the chief guard to the Sheriff of Nottingham, a man named Sir Connor.

I took the stoic man by the arm and said in a low voice, “You will focus your escort contingent on the western path to Ravenshead. Draw attention to your guard convoy through that road with your numbers.”

“Very well, sir,” Connor answered with a salute. “And the eastern path, sir?”

“Bishop Sutton will travel with a smaller convoy down the eastern route. Our strategy is to divert attention from the east, in case bandits get squirrelly. By the time they realize the western convoy is a farce, it will be too late.”

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