Page 97 of Queen of Sherwood

“Aye, I saw.”

“He’s going to report to the Sheriff of Nottingham what’s happened here. It was a ruse, John.” I hugged him tight, shoving my face against his chest. “I’m so stupid for letting them in. I’ve been entirely too trusting.”

“It’s not your fault, little hope,” John said, wrapping his arms around me. “It’s mine.” His voice was low, raspy, and tinged with grief. He looked over at Robert, nearby, and said, “You were right, Loxley. You were fucking right.”

My brother sheathed his sword and sagged where he stood. “I wish to God I hadn’t been, mammoth. Fucking hell, what a mess. I’ll go count the dead and wounded on our side. Gregory?”

“Coming, nephew,” my uncle said, and turned to leave. Then he stopped and shot me a pitying look. “Don’t blame yourself for this, dear niece. There’s a reason why John here calls you ‘little hope.’ It’s because that’s what you represent to the Merry Men and Oak Boys. Don’t lose that. You can’t go changing yourself or losing your virtue for every wicked, vile person on God’s green earth. Otherwise, they win. Understand?”

I nodded dumbly, like a child, sniffling. His words helped quell the angry spirit rioting inside me, yet it did little to help how I felt about this situation.

Maria was dead. Griff was possibly on his way to join her. Another man who we couldn’t even identify had been burned to death. Six men and women who called themselves Muddy Meddlers were meeting their maker.

And that wasn’t even counting the dead from earlier tonight.

Tears fell down my cheeks.

Little John pulled me back and wiped them away. The towering wall of a man stared down at me. “Your uncle is right, love. You can’t take on all this heartbreak and pain alone. Leadership is a heavy burden to bear. You don’t have to do it alone. Please let me be there for you.”

I nodded again, unable to speak.

Griff’s moans abruptly faded, and it was a stark change from the layer of agonizing sound that had been surrounding us up until that point. I dashed a look over, and saw Tuck breathing heavily.

“He fell unconscious when I pulled the blade out,” the friar said. “He’ll live, though. God willing.”

I nodded to him and Will and Alan.

Alan said, “I’ll go join Robert and Gregory and help count our losses. You have this handled, little badger?”

Will nodded. “Go.”

Alan turned to leave—

And froze where he stood. “Oh. Fuck.”

Everyone spun around to where he was looking.

“Get away from me, you wretched, godless little cunts!”

A gasp ripped from my lungs.

Bishop Sutton’s head was moving left to right—the only part of his body he could maneuver tied to the tree like he was.

Surrounding him, closing in on him like a pack of hellhounds, were girls I knew well: Enid at the front, a jagged knife in her hands; Ada next to her, also armed; Emma holding her hands on her head behind them, struck dumb; and three other girls from that slaving carriage.

“Enid!” I shouted, bolting out of John’s arms to run across camp.

The poor girl glanced over her shoulder at me. Her face was slack, eyes unseeing. She had always been troubled, ever since her assault. The terrors she relived nightly still scarred her, months later.

Perhaps troubled was not the right word, because now she looked positively possessed.

Just like that full-moon night when we escaped the carriage and flew through the woods in our bleeding rags and rage. Howling at the moon like feral animals.

Enid displayed all of that in her single, unblinking expression at me over her shoulder.

Then she turned back to Bishop Sutton.

“Enid, wait!” I gasped.

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