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He didn’t die immediately. When my uncle’s sword pierced into Father’s chest, I had to watch his eyes widen in fear, a silent whimper pushing past his lips as pain settled at the corners of his eyes and lips. The open-mouthed wail where no sound came out.
It was worse when I had to push. In order to get to his heart, I needed to ram through the bones of his chest. Once the grotesque sound of cracking and snapping filled the room, he let out a guttural groan, a final gasp, and then life fled his eyes.
I released the handle of the sword like it burned my skin, with a sharp intake of breath. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, and then the world came flooding back to me, the red curtain of rage subsiding.
The Merry Men watched, as did my uncle—none of them taking their eyes away from what I’d done. Their frowns showed me hard men, accustomed to battle and conflict. Yet the glints of sorrow on their faces made me wonder if they pitied me, or were disappointed in me for going through with this.
I’d had ample time to reconsider. If I had managed to calm down and still wanted Sir Thomas dead, I could have easily had one of the Merry Men do it.
I thought I would feel remorse and regret once I blinked, watched his body slump back with the sword jutting out of his chest cavity. But I didn’t feel anything for the longest time. I was dazed, awed.
Now I was no better than those greedy princes who sought to slay King Henry. Some would say I was worse, because I had actually succeeded where they had failed.
I hadn’t killed my father out of a need for more land or influence, though some would later say I’d done it in a heartless attempt to snag the Wilford estate for my own.
No, I had slain my father for my own peace of mind. For my safety and, yes, for revenge—to avenge the years of physical pain and mental anguish he forced me to live with. Never thinking I was good enough for the family; blaming me for Robert’s death; beating me over any petty disagreement; never loving me; and, most importantly, for killing the one woman I’d loved more than anyone—my single protector before the Merry Men came along.
This was for Mama Joan, I told myself. Still, I whispered, “I’m sorry,” under my breath, turning away from the scene before my father’s blood could trickle onto the floorboards of the cottage.
I was apologizing to Robert most of all.
But my brother didn’t answer. I feared I had scared him away from my thoughts and mind forever.
Little John brought his huge arms around me in a tight embrace. The way he folded over me, so protectively, made me feel warm and loved.
Loved like no man had ever provided me.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, little star,” he whispered. “I’m only sorry you had to do it alone.”
I buried my face in his chest. He smelled like cedar, birch, and the smoke from a campfire. “I wasn’t alone,” I eked out. “I had all of you here with me.”
A hand fell gently onto my shoulder, and I craned my neck to see Alan-a-Dale smiling wistfully at me. “And you’ll always have us with you, little songbird.”
“I’m hoping you didn’t do that for our sake,” Will Scarlet said. When I shot him a frown, he bowed his head sadly. “I never wanted to turn you into one of us.”
“One of you?” I asked.
“A merciless killer.” Will sighed. “Show you the harsh ways of living no highborn lass ever sees? Fine. But never this.”
“She isn’t a merciless killer,” Friar Tuck said in a low, solemn voice. “If anything, it was a merciful killing . . . of a depraved, lost soul who strayed from goodness.”
“Careful. You sound like a priest when you say that, chaplain,” Will said, his lips curving.
“Not a priest, lad. Just a human.”
While they touched on the finer points of my corruption, I looked around for Uncle Gregory. He had retrieved his sword and now stood outside the side door, arms crossed with his back to us as he surveyed the lavender-hued fields in deep contemplation.
I ducked away from the Merry Men to join him.
He did not turn to me. Gregory simply gazed out past the grassy meadow, toward the moon and the darker silhouettes of the trees punching into the bruised sky.
“What are your thoughts, Uncle?” I asked meekly, fidgeting in front of my belly. “Am I a horrible person?”
His beard flickered as his lips moved. He closed his mouth, sighed, and tried again. “The Merry Men aren’t wrong, Robin. After Thomas’ deceit, his zeal for power, he would have never stopped searching for you. You did what any sane, proactive person—any soldier—would do: You killed him before he could do the same to you.”
My uncle faced me, his eyes glassy with tears.
“I’m not a soldier, though,” I said with a sniffle.
