Page 98 of Queen of Sherwood

“Girl, do you have any idea who you’re—”

Bishop Sutton’s words cut off as the girl plunged her dagger into his side.

Sutton groaned, mouth opening on a silent scream, eyes bulging in shock.

That first stab encouraged the others, and then Ada stabbed into him. Then another girl, and a fourth. All over Sutton’s body they jabbed their daggers and knives, again and again.

I stilled halfway across camp, slapping a hand to my mouth. Watching in sheer terror and numbness.

The girls howled as they had back at the carriage. Feral, primal, angry, and needing somewhere to exact their retribution. Someone to blame.

It just so happened that that someone was a defenseless, tied-up priest, and one of the most powerful men in the country.

They pierced him over and over, until his pristine white robes were trailing with red streaks, lines of blood. Until the gore was dripping from his chin and his eyes were dewy, glassy, and sightless.

They kept stabbing him once he was dead, all but ripping apart the bishop’s body.

And I just watched, unable to do anything to stop it.

“Oh good fucking God,” Tuck eked under his breath as he sidled up next to me. He made the sign of the cross over his body. “Lord have mercy on our souls.”

The squelching of the girls’ daggers plunging into flesh became a wet, grotesque sound. They kept stabbing and stabbing until their skinny arms got tired.

By that point, everyone in camp was bearing witness in a circle behind them, dumbfounded. Emma was on her knees, weeping loudly into her hands.

Will Scarlet and Alan-a-Dale returned to my side, having just caught wind of what was going on here.

I had been too distracted by Griff’s wound to stop the young women from executing Sutton. We all had.

“Well,” Will said simply, hands on his hips, staring at the bloody carcass of Bishop Sutton. “That’s not fucking good.”

Chapter 26

Robin

Numbness coiled around every sinew in my body. I was more lost than ever. Didn’t know what to do when everyone in camp looked to me in horror, searching for answers.

I simply didn’t have them.

The fury inside me boiled over, mingling with pain and grief and sadness from so much loss. I saw black spots in my vision for a moment, everything going dim.

A hand fell on my shoulder.

The calming touch of Friar Tuck.

“Little heathen?” he said softly.

Except this time, his touch didn’t calm. It burgeoned the fires of wrath clawing up my spine.

I spun on him wordlessly, fixing Tuck with a glare that made him backpedal a step in shock. I could only imagine what he saw dancing in my eyes to make him pale and look so frightened when he stared down at me, a woman half his size.

I shoved Tuck in his strong chest, inching him back another step, toward his tent.

“You look . . . angry with me,” he said in a low voice. When I shoved him again, he grabbed my wrists. “We have an audience, lass. Is now really the time—”

“Move,” I ordered, and my voice brooked no argument.

I felt apart of myself, like a floating spirit looking in, pitying whatever darkness had corrupted me.

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