The King of Sherwood Forest

The King Of Sherwood Forest THE WOLFSHEADS BOOK ONE HARLEIGH BECK This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Copyright © 2023 by Harleigh Beck All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Cover design: Jay Aheer Editing: Chris Williams Proofreading: Green Proofreads & Passionauthorservices *Not suitable for readers under 18 Contents Trigger warnings Foreword Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Epilogue Author’s note Also by Harleigh Beck Acknowledgments About the Author Trigger warnings This book is a reimagining of the folklore and mythology surrounding Robin Hood. It’s not a children’s book, and it’s not suitable for readers under the age of 18. Trigger warnings include sexually explicit content, sexual assault, domestic abuse, graphic violence, and murder. Foreword The King of Sherwood Forest is set in a historical setting, but the author has taken privileges by including some modern references. Back in the times of Robin Hood, Sherwood Forest spanned over 99,000 acres. Today, only 1000 acres remain. Let that sink in… Prologue ROBIN Birds sing, and the air is thick with the smell of birch and oak trees as the sun filters through the canopy of leaves. I crouch in the ferns as I keep an eye on the open path. “How much longer until Little John lures him here?” Will Scarlett asks, shifting next to me. He never did have much patience. But I didn’t invite him to join us for his ability to wait for hours, crouched down and sweating buckets in the summer heat. Will may be hot-tempered, but he’s a damn good swordsman. “You know it’s a long ride,” Friar Tuck replies, adjusting the strap to his bow on his back. His brown hood is pulled low over his head, and his blue eyes gaze intently at the road. Raising my hand in the air, I peer back at them. “Hear that?” Far off in the distance, the sound of hooves breaks through the bird song and masculine laughter bounces off the trees. Much’s eyebrows shoot up, and he sniggers. Little John is good at disguises, but to trick the sheriff is no easy feat. Not when he’s hellbent on hunting us down like dogs. Friar Tuck’s eyes crinkle at the corners with amusement when he looks at me. Seems Little John pulled it off, and now I owe Friar a hare. That’s what I get for betting against Little John. His name means “tricky” or “clever,” after all, and I should have learned by now not to underestimate him. Throughout it all, Little John has been my right-hand man, robbing the rich blind to pay for King Richard’s ransom and helping the starving people of Nottingham—victims of Prince John’s greed. I draw my bow, careful not to disturb the ferns. My aim is precise, my hand steady. The hooves grow closer and closer. Little John’s voice carries through the trees, and the sheriff's laughter booms loudly atop his black horse. I’ve waited a long fucking time for this. Releasing the arrow, I send it flying with precision, and it nails the sheriff’s hat to the tree right behind him. What happens next is a blur of motion as the Merry Men charge. The horse rears back on its hind legs, sending the Sheriff of Nottingham to the ground. Dismounting his stallion, Little John draws his sword and places it below the sheriff’s chin while I step up next to John, bow in hand. Sheriff narrows his eyes and grits his jaw, his forehead coated in a layer of sweat. “Sir Robin of Locksley. I should have known,” he starts but abruptly stops when I release a sharp laugh. “I think we both know I gave up my title long ago.” “Oh, that’s right,” he spits, rising to his feet and gazing over at his hat, still nailed to the tree by my arrow. It’s so embedded, he couldn’t get it down even if he tried. “The infamous Robin Hood thinks he’s better than all the rest because he steals from the rich and gives to the poor.” He looks at me, and the hatred I see in his eyes reflects in mine. “You’re nothing but an outlaw. A common thief!” Little John steps back, giving me space, and I smirk at the pathetic man in front of me. “You say that like it’s an insult. I’d rather be an outlaw and a thief than a traitor like you, Sheriff.” Stepping closer, he chuckles. “I see what this is about, why you lured me out here in the forest. It’s to do with a certain woman.” “I don’t give a shit about Marian,” I spit, inching even closer. We’re matched in height, but I’m broader, thanks to the lifestyle I live out here in Sherwood Forest while he sits on his ass, counting the money he took from the poor. His answering chuckle grates on my nerves. He thinks he knows so much when he’s fucking clueless, and it would be funny if he weren’t such a complete fucking asshole who bends over backwards for Prince John. “Someone is feeling a little touchy. It seems I hit a sensitive spot.” I throw my bow on the ground, draw my sword, and place the sharp tip below his chin.