Page 81 of Queen of Sherwood

Guards popped out of the three carriages as they came to a stop, showing the very hesitation I expected. They were dressed in dark garb over their chainshirts, with shields raised. Expecting the worst.

There was no way around it: If Bishop Sutton was in one of those carriages, there would be bloodshed. I had hoped the bishop’s entourage would consist of few soldiers, but now I saw at least ten. A small number, and easily manageable, yet not something I took lightly.

Taking a life was never easy, and if these men refused to lay down their arms . . .

Three guards approached the fallen trunk. It was actually a grouping of three thin-boled birches, which wouldn’t take too long to move or cut through.

Luckily, we didn’t need long.

“Slice through or move them?” one of the guards asked.

The second, a helmet cross-guard covering his face, peered out the sides to the edges of the road. “Can’t barrel through. Whatever we do, got to make it quick. Captain?”

The third guard grumbled. “Just our luck.”

“Luck . . . or an omen?”

“Shut up, Halbeck.”

“Just saying, sir. The odds of this being a coincidence are . . . suspect.”

The guards fought among themselves, deciding how to move past the fallen trees.

Meanwhile, in the trees, I motioned in silence with my fists to my people. Everyone stilled, though some moved a few inches left or right. We had men on both sides of the road—Robert, Briggs, and his people across from us; me and my mates huddled about ten feet from the road’s bank. Cloaked in darkness and silence.

My eyes caught a gleam—a quick reflection of light from the moon on one of the Merry Men’s blades—across the road. Robert hid his blade once getting my attention, then nodded his painted face toward the second carriage.

Other guards were slowly meandering out of that carriage, too, hesitant and cautious as they drew their shields and swords. They scanned their surroundings, as any smart soldier would.

My bow slid down my shoulder. We could have attacked immediately, yet I wanted to see how many they numbered, first. It very well could have been a reverse ambush, where each carriage was stocked with ten to fifteen soldiers and no one else of importance. Then we would be in trouble.

Will Scarlet elbowed me. He made swift hand gestures he’d taught me, pointing at the first carriage, then the second, then the last one on the line.

I read his hands and learned a few things, based on his expertise: There were three to five soldiers in each carriage—or at least people. It was impossible to tell who sat inside those wooden hulls. He judged this by the way the carriages bowed from the weight of their occupants.

Ten to fifteen soldiers total. It was more than I wanted.

On the other side of Will, Little John watched me for any decision. I expected everyone did.

I held up a palm to make them hold a bit longer. Above me, in the trees, I heard the taut creaking of bowstrings being pulled back.

My heart rampaged in my chest, beating against my ribs. It was so loud I was sure everyone could hear it, even if they said nothing about my nerves.

Within seconds, those nerves melted into something else: a fierce protectiveness that wrapped around my body. I recalled the girls and that slave carriage, these three looking so much like the one we had ridden on our fateful night to Rufford Abbey.

I gritted my teeth, the anxiety lifting and morphing into fury. Fury for the girls, and for the pompous way these soldiers carried themselves. They had always thought lesser of us—that they owned the woods and villages.

They couldn’t have been further from the truth.

This was our home.

With a firm nod, I pulled my bow in front of me. I held two fingers up so the Merry Men in the trees could see my signal, while holding an arrow and my shortbow in my left hand.

This close—fifteen feet at the most—would cause dramatic damage from a well-aimed arrow, even through chainshirt armor. It would punch through cloth, iron, flesh, and muscle. It would snap bone and puncture arteries.

The vileness of war and combat overwhelmed me. It took over my mind, and that sick gleefulness, the anticipation of bloodshed and chaos, filled me.

I became something other than myself.

---