Will looked stupefied, and Elena kissed his cheek.
“Love you.”
That answers that, Robin thought. They had let him see the way to their camp because they were idiots.
The introductions shifted to the redhead Arthur a Bland, and a lean man with long blond hair named David of Doncaster. By quick glance they were the most able-bodied of the group, and they fidgeted at Robin’s sides in an effort to appear as though they were guarding him. Both had Crusader swords slung under their belts, with visible rust creeping onto the broad sides. Other men and women nodded in turn as Little named them out, and Robin smiled and looked each in the eye, all while scrutinizing their camp. A row of swords plunged into the ground a few paces apart each, a line strung across their hilts, wet laundry drying over it. Inside a tent, a bedroll was made of rolled Crusader tabards. The charred wood in the campfires wasn’t the dark remnants of firewood but of straight boards, crates, and boxes.
Robin picked a random girl in the crowd and asked for her name, which was Malory. The pregnant pause that followed was the exact length in which a normal person might ask for Robin’s name. But through all the introductions, he had yet to be asked for one himself. He assumed they were either terrible humans, or already knew who he was. Or both. Probably both. But he didn’t know yet what advantage they sought.
The only thing obvious here was that this hapless group of unfortunates had no idea they had started an international crisis, or the amount of trouble they had brought upon themselves. And if William came hunting for him with any help, this entire group might find themselves in chains.
A young boy, aged seven or eight, pushed through the legs of a woman to stare up at Robin, his blue eyes big enough to fall into. Little beamed, “Here’s the miller’s son, Much.”
Robin bent over to meet him. “That’s your name? Much?”
Much shook his head proudly.
“It’s more of a nickname really,” John admitted.
Robin wrinkled his nose. “Not a very good name, now, is it?”
Much angled his head with purpose. “It’s better than what they called me before.”
“Oh, and what was that?”
“Not much!”
Robin laughed, and the child shifted and kicked him hard in his shin, right into the arrow wound. Robin let out a cry for which any grown man would forever be teased.
“That’s for laughing!” Much squealed and vanished between Arthur and David, who tussled his hair as he passed. Robin was proud of himself for not muttering little piece of shit loud enough for anyone else to hear, particularly the small man who was in front of him next.
Again John introduced, “The curtal Friar Tuck.”
Robed in browns and tans, his body seemed to be confused about hair growth. It had forsaken the top of his head entirely and smattered his neck and chin with curly scraggles that, on anyone else, would have been in an armpit. The undeniable odor that hugged almost everyone was practically tangible around the friar.
“A friend of the Sheriff?” Tuck asked.
Robin chose a non-answer. “A friend of the King.”
“Funny, isn’t it, how different those two answers are?”
Robin answered by way of a noncommittal grunt. With the introductions apparently over, he seized the chance to take command. “John, may I have a word with you?”
“Your servant.” He gave a slight bow and signaled the crowd to go about their business. A young woman with a slight harelip smiled for Robin, while an older woman with two young boys at her side scowled ferociously. John led Robin closer to the mighty oak, walking past a well-used firepit and a lazy circle of makeshift benches. A small group of children watched nervously from afar. Still farther out at the perimeter of the field was a solitary hooded man holding a tall spear—his other hand bore a distinctive bright white glove, his attention unnervingly all on Robin, even from so far away.
Robin began harshly. “What the hell is going on here?”
The question bounced harmlessly off John’s face. “How long have you been gone?”
“John. Robbery in the Sherwood is nothing new, it’s long been a place for men to hide out their troubles. But women and children? This is no place for them, how are you living out here like this?”
“We make do.”
“I see that. By stealing.”
“I do what I can to protect them. And yes, that includes banditry.”
“You lead these people?”
John moved uncomfortably. “Not quite. But they respect me.”
“That’s evident. They trust you. So I hope you’re able to understand that living like this is a death sentence. My friend and I, his name is William de Wendenal, we have orders for the Sheriff from the King himself, to do anything necessary to keep his supplies safe. You’ve stolen too much, you’ve been too greedy. They’ll be sending men to hunt you. And since you ambushed us today, William has a damned fine idea of where to start looking.”
John fidgeted. “Well, my friend Alan is sure to outrun your friend William, so I won’t be betting our safety quite yet.”
That was certainly possible, but Robin hoped for Alan’s sake it wasn’t so. William could kill Alan in a heartbeat if he was forced to. And if these people foolishly chose to fight when William brought back a host from Nottingham … well, it would go exactly as well as the massacre in Acre. A wall of trained soldiers, cutting through these civilians like butter. He could blink and see them all splayed over the red grass, bodies cut to ribbons. Robin shuddered to think about it.
“If they do come, you’d be wise not to be here.”
“And where would we be wise to be?”
“You need protection. There are any number of lords and barons outside the forests, with land, with manors and castles. They need people to work the fields, and they’ll provide your people with protection. That’s how it works, that’s how it’s always worked.”
John hesitated. “Again, how long have you been gone?”
“Two springs.”
“Two springs.” John’s words were heavy, as if he thought that a lifetime ago. They couldn’t have been out here for that long. “You’ve missed a lot, Robin. Nottinghamshire’s not a safe place for those who can’t afford to pay the sheriff’s taxes. The lucky ones get prison. We have water here, and the forest feeds us, and we take anything else we need. We’re better off in the forest, trust me. We’ve tried it.”
Not hard enough, clearly.
Robin shook his head, watching the group of children disperse, chasing at each other. “Food will be scarce soon, and fewer supplies are going to be sent through the Sherwood Road. You have no fields to sow, and your shelter is … wanting. The seasons are changing, the winter will freeze you out. There are children here. You’re a big man, you can bear it. The others can’t.”
There was concern in John’s face. He had a lovable fatherly quality to him, when he wasn’t bashing your ribs in with a tree. “People live off the land. They always have.”
“And they die that way.”
His face twisted. “People die everywhere. Nobody will take us.”
The answer was right there. There was exactly one man on earth who could find more pity than poison in this group.
And he was nearby.
* * *
CHARITY WAS EVER A recurring argument between Robin and his father. As a young man he’d believed in his father, too naïve to question otherwise. They’d once been riding from a town, Robin and Edmond and Father between them. Lord Walter had given a coin to a beggar.
“What did he do to deserve it, though?”
“It’s charity, Robin. The man has nothing, and needs help.”
“Why must Edmond and I work all day for you to give us our coin then?”
“So that you’ll appreciate what hard work is worth.”
“Why can’t the man do hard work like we do to earn the coin?”
“He’s likely done more hard work in his life than you’ll ever know
, Robin.”
As the years progressed, and Robin grew more comfortable challenging his father’s stance, the conversation expanded.
“He offers us nothing, Father. He offers England nothing. Life is a difficult thing, and not everyone can be successful at it. He’s failed, and your coin won’t change that.”
“Are you so quick to judge the value of a man’s life, then? What is a man worth? Is it limited to that which he can do for England in his twilight years? Does a lifetime of hard work not earn him respect when he needs it most?”
“You’re only guessing that he’s worked hard. He could have been lazy his entire life, leeching off his family, until finally they kicked him out. If he’d earned respect his entire life, wouldn’t he have people to take care of him now?”
“Shall we go back and ask him? Would you have him explain every sorrow he’s been through so you can personally judge if he’s earned this one coin?”
That was when Robin was still young. But as a man, only weeks before leaving home, he was not so easily silenced.
“What breeds criminals then, Father? A man who has nothing, with nothing to lose, will lie for your money. He’ll steal it when he can, will kill for it if he has to. Show me the pauper who ever turned his life around through honesty and virtue.”
“This is the very reason why it is our duty to help them!”
“And degrade all society! You help one man but you foster an environment that breeds thieves, and it hurts the country! You were the one that taught me not to place my own value over the greater good, you called it selfishness!”
“It is selfishness now too, Robin,” his father had said furiously, “no matter what you disguise it as! Have I raised such an ungrateful child that he cannot find the value of an action that serves another before himself? I’ve lost one child to madness already, Robin, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let you there as well.”
His father had eventually apologized, and cried when he did. Edmond was a topic they were not to discuss. Not his madness. His father could never do enough kindness to make up for Edmond. But he’d tried, and was still probably trying. It still terrified Robin, too, not understanding what had gone wrong in Edmond’s mind. Not knowing if he himself carried the same desire for violence. His brother, staring vacantly, softly repeating to Robin, “I saw red.”
“I saw red.”
“I saw red.”
These people in the woods, John Little’s people, were a threat to others and themselves. There was no knowing who might suffer if these thieves weren’t stopped now. The child Much was staring at him, reminding Robin of the mercy he had shown to Stabhappy in Acre. Letting that boy go had meant the death of the Earl of Derby. Letting this entire community stay in the forest, continuing to steal whatever they wanted … there was no telling how much more damage they would do. Sometimes with consequences halfway around the world.
“Damn it.” Robin already regretted his decision. “Are you familiar with Locksley Castle?”
An odd pause. “More than passing.”
“My father has long been a friend to those in need. Usually to a fault.” He hissed in sharply, bracing himself for what would be an awkward reunion. The absolute last thing his father would expect would be for Robin to show up at his doorstep with a flock of refugees in need. Lord Walter would be so damned proud it made Robin want to vomit just thinking about it. His only solace was that some of this group—the men, and Will Scarlet in particular—would still pay for their crimes. “Locksley isn’t far from here. Your people can set up in the lands around the castle, earn an honest living. No prison, no torches.”
Little didn’t move. He just looked at Robin and bit his lip.
“As I said earlier, you’re all my prisoners. I’ll have to take you in immediately, I’m afraid. I can offer you the finest cells in all of England—lots of open air, no walls, that sort of thing. Your trials will be held the day after never, and your punishment is that you’ll have to work to earn your keep. In exchange you can live your lives in a way that best suits you. John. Get your families out of the woods. Stop robbing the caravans to Richard’s army. My father will help you out with the tax collectors, and I can get back to where I belong.”
It was the best offer they’d ever receive, and they would be fools not to see it. With one leg tied behind his back, Robin had just saved the war. His only regret was that William wasn’t there to marvel at his victory.
Still, it surprised him that John did not put up any resistance.
“We ought to see the place, then,” he said. “Just a handful of us, for now. Spend the night here. In the morning, we’ll follow you home.”
FIFTEEN
ARABLE DE BUREL
NOTTINGHAM CASTLE
SEVERAL BURLAP BUNDLES OF wrapped meats and hard sausages waited side by side—meals for a dozen Guardsmen and a few days’ worth of travel. Arable had been instructed to deliver them to the stables, and it did not yet appear they would deliver themselves.
Gunny could do it instead, but if word got back to Mistress Roana, questions would be raised that Arable did not want to answer. The truth was she felt like a captive in the castle of late, existing only at the mercy of the secrets she had told, and yet knew so little about.
It had been three months since she informed Captain Gisbourne of Jon Bassett’s unusual late-night meetings in the wine cellar. So far as Arable could tell, absolutely nothing had come of it excepting her own misery. How foolish. The moment she recognized Bassett’s face, she should have realized he was too important to be punished. But seeing Gisbourne laugh with Bassett in the dining hall that night, she couldn’t help herself. She could have held back, pretended she knew nothing. Instead she’d pounded that infernal cup by Bassett’s plate, thinking someway it would matter. She thought Gisbourne would do the right thing. But Bassett was not only still in the Guard, he was still in the Captain’s Regiment. And Gisbourne had not spoken to her since.
Every time she was now assigned a task involving his regiment, she froze with fear. She did everything she could to avoid them, at the expense of some of the only friendships she ever had. But she didn’t know if Bassett knew she had fingered him, or what the rest of the regiment knew at all. That uncertainty was a danger all too familiar, as it had been her companion for half her life.
The only advantage of this servant’s life was supposed to be anonymity, and she had foolishly thrown that away. Her honest deed had made her an enemy of some of the most powerful men in the castle. Thinking on it too much led to fits of panic, and she physically ached from being constantly on edge. She flirted with the idea of running away again, out of Nottingham entirely, but the reality of that dream was so much harder than the dream itself. Over the years she had stashed enough coin aside to travel south, but it was useless without knowing where to go. She only had a single bit of rumor, overheard years ago, that implied a Burel had made it to France. She didn’t know if it was a brother, a cousin, her mother, or an absolute lie—and it didn’t matter. “France” was as useful as “the moon” without better information. The world was full of hungry mouths in need, and she would just be another beggar. There was terror in taking her chances on the road, terror of the unknown. At least here, she knew the terrain.
A palpable relief overcame her as she entered the stables and realized Jon Bassett was not there. Only Reginold and Bolt sat on the ground, preparing their packs, and they greeted her warmly.
“Arable, my darling, what wonderful timing, perhaps you’ll help us settle this philosophical quandary!” Reginold twisted the tips of his moustache tight and rolled up to his feet, extending one hand for her.
“Hi, Bellara,” Bolt grinned, looking away.
“Hi, Tolb.” She kicked at his good leg, causing him to snicker silently and twist. Reginold and Bolt often included her in their antics, ever since they discovered they could make her laugh. She also suspected Bolt had taken a bit of a liking to her, despite his being a few years younger. She rarely saw t
hem anymore. And she had only herself to blame.
“We were discussing death,” Reginold said dramatically, his eyebrows dancing. “Not the kindest subject for your ladylike lady-ears, but we’ll skip the grisly parts. More specifically, we were discussing the inestimable mystery of what happens after the grisly part. What happens to the soul.”
He accentuated that by sheathing a sword, and proceeded to buckle it to his horse’s saddle.
“You either go to heaven or you go to hell,” Arable answered cautiously, certain there would be some clever linguistic trap awaiting her.
“Nobody contests that,” he continued. “Nor do we contest which one awaits us. Heroes such as we,” he spread his arms wide toward his little brother, “already have our stations reserved.”
“That’s not the point.” Bolt got up, some embarrassment overtaking him.
“The point is what constitutes heaven.” Reginold raised a finger. “Heaven is supposedly an unending paradise, beyond this world, in which you are reunited with all your loved ones. Therein lies a difficult question. What if your loved ones don’t love you back? Would they be forced to spend their heaven with you?”
Arable shook her head and smiled. “I’m sure I don’t know.” She placed a bundle of wrapped sausage in his hands.
A quick sniff apparently marked his approval. “Let me ask it another way. What if your idea of heaven is to spend all your time with someone you’ve long … admired?” He flashed a knowing smile over to Bolt, who busied himself obviously with his belongings. “The old sheriff, for instance, Murdac. Let’s say Bolt wanted nothing else but to spend his eternal days chatting with Murdac, because he admires him so much. But Murdac, quite famously, found Bolt to be insufferable. So whose heaven wins?”
“Just to be clear…” Arable offered a package for Bolt, but he averted his glance. She tucked it into one of his saddle bags, patting it so he’d know where it was. “In this scenario, both Bolt and Murdac are dead, and you want to know which of them suffers more?” They both laughed for that. “Sorry, I’ve never been dead, so I can’t really help you with your quandary.”
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