The Prize of a Golden Arrow: Wild Sherwood

By Edie Roones and M.A. Lee

"The Prize of a Golden Arrow"

By Hook or Crook or Arrow

Gil vowed never again to take up the long bow.

Hosting at the Tinker's Wife Tavern is far distant from Gil's years of service with King Richard. When he learns that the May Day archery contest is a trap to capture Robin Hood, he vows to foil this plan conceived by the Sheriff of Nottingham.

~ ~ ~

Lovers of fantasy and the Robin Hood legends, Edie Roones and M.A. Lee enjoy fusing the stories of the medieval English outlaws with the dangerous faeries of British myth.

"The Prize of a Golden Arrow" is the tenth story in the Wild Sherwood series. The first five stories appear in the anthology Into Wild Sherwood, available now.

 

Watch for more stories about the Outlaws of Wild Sherwood, men driven to crime to fight evil and corruption: Dav the wrestler, "A Twist of Faerie Magic"; Alan-a-Dale, "A Faerie Song for a Feast";  Arthur à Bland, "Mischief of a Faerie"; and Jack Greenleaf, "The Green Man" Novellas with Robin Hood, Will Scarlet, Little John, and Much the Miller's son will follow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Writers Ink Books
• Release date: Aug 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9798701169867

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title Page

The Prize of a Golden Arrow (Wild Sherwood)

The Prize of a Golden Arrow

Thank You!

Please write a review.

Fiction by Edie Roones

Fiction by M.A. Lee

Further Reading: Into Wild Sherwood

Also By Edie Roones

Also By M.A. Lee

The Prize of a Golden Arrow

A Wild Sherwood Story

by

Edie Roones and M.A. Lee

Logo Description automatically generated with low confidence

The Prize of a Golden Arrow

Ajester did a cartwheel before the viewing stand. His parti-colored tunic flashed brightly. Then he landed on his feet, beribboned cane still in his hands. He did two high kicks, red leg then green.

After a twirl and two more kicks, he tossed the cane into the air. It cartwheeled, green and gold ribbons flying. When he caught it, the gathered townsfolk shouted with glee and clapped.

Gilbert Whitehand ignored the jester. He strung his longbow then rested the butt end on the ground. He cast a hand back to touch his quiver, sliding upward until the fletching on the arrows brushed his skin.

He’d come well prepared for the competition. Two dozen arrows, fletched with feathers he’d chosen, shaped, then fitted into the shafts. Those were hazelwood, cut in the dawning, straight branches of old wood shaped into straight shafts that flew true. His trusty bow he’d carried for a decade, hardy yew wood, sturdy yet springy.

The bowstring was his only worry. He