“Oh, that’s not the quandary.” Reginold hastened next to her, petting the neck of Bolt’s horse. “We both decided the question was ridiculous. The quandary is whether or not Bolt is actually insufferable, what say you?”
Bolt turned skittish and moved away. “Knock it off.”
Boys were boys, but at least they were predictable. “Oh, I don’t know,” Arable replied, keeping her tone playful. “How long have you two known each other?”
“Since the war,” Reginold calculated. “Fifteen years? Ever since I watched him jump off that curtain wall, right there,” he pointed. “Just a child, scared out of his wits, trapped on the wrong side of an invading army. Last time he jumped anywhere.”
He snickered, but the words an invading army stuck in her. Arable’s father had died in that army.
“Well fifteen years is a long time,” she smiled, without missing a beat, “and you’ve suffered every one of them. Therefore, he must be sufferable.”
“Thank you,” Bolt said from across the room.
“I’m not convinced that was a compliment,” Reginold called back, giving a friendly wink. But Bolt was gone, swinging his lame leg proudly as he left. Arable laughed it off, while giving a nonchalant check to see if there were any other eavesdroppers nearby.
“Can I ask you something?” she asked once she was convinced they were alone.
“No, I cannot marry you,” Reginold lamented, throwing an arm over his face. “My daughter would murder me.” Once he realized he got no reaction, his tone softened. “Of course, what is it?”
“Jon Bassett.” She tried to hide any disdain for the name. “A few months ago, was he ever … in any sort of trouble? Did the captain come down on him for anything?”
Reginold of Dunmow had a witty response for everything, which made it worrisome when he did not. “Why do you ask?”
“Nothing,” she tried to shrug it off. “Just something I heard.”
“What did you hear?”
“Nothing, forget I said anything.”
Reginold studied her, his theatrical characteristics turned serious, razor-sharp. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a secret, but nor is it something we’d want to be circulating as rumor. Captain had been grooming Bassett for command, but that stopped on the abrupt. Nothing scandalous there, as there wasn’t anything official about it, and the captain is certainly allowed to change his mind. The salacious part is Devon of York.”
Arable found herself leaning forward. “The new recruit?”
Reginold nodded. Arable had barely interacted with the newest member of Gisbourne’s regiment, but he had exactly as much of an impression on her as a wet blanket. “Devon had only been in the Common Guard for a week. Odd choice to promote him to the Captain’s Regiment, by anyone’s judgment?”
“I would think so.”
“Young fellow, and green as they come. Skittish as a stray cat, but here he is. And it may be just my imagination, but the captain’s curious protective of him. Almost as if he’s grooming Devon for something more, the way he used to do with Bassett.”
So Bassett had been punished. It was an odd relief. “That sounds very awkward for everyone.”
The idea seemed surprising to Reginold. “Oh, I suppose. Been a bit odd, lately, yes. But such are the rolls of the dice, you abide. So your turn then. What do you know about it?”
She recoiled. “Oh, nothing, just rumor, as you say!” She tried her hand at a girlish giggle but it came out something more like a dying piglet. She packed up the rest of the food and handed it to him. “Do you just want the rest of this?”
“Alright, keep your secrets,” he said slyly, taking the bundle from her. If he meant to say anything else, he abandoned it when he glanced at something over her shoulder. “Actually, give one to him, would you? Our visitor from the war.”
He returned one package to her and shouldered the rest, leaving the stables as she turned around.
What she saw froze every nerve in her body.
The walls of the stable fell away, the ground disappeared beneath her feet, the air in her chest flew out that it might see for itself. As if walking out of her dreams, William de Wendenal stood in front of her.
My God, someone said, probably him. Arable?
It took every bit of her strength to believe it could be true, but when she blinked he was still there, impossibly there. His cheeks were thinner, his neck was fuller, but every nuance of his face was unchanged, and a thousand emotions reached through time to punch her distinctly in the throat.
She said his name, her voice broke and tears poured out. She covered her mouth and retreated, but he came to her in an instant, his arms surrounding her, shutting out the rest of the world.
Over the years she’d imagined a moment like this, though with far less frequency as time rolled on. In some of those fantasies she’d stomp her feet and demand an explanation, while in others she’d remain aloof and let him grovel for forgiveness. But even in the beginning, those would have been acts. All she had now were reactions, and the naked joy of seeing him had flushed every other thought from her mind.
“What are you doing here?” William asked, and she pulled him in tighter. There was no telling what would come next, but she could make this moment last just a little bit longer. He tried to release her, but laughed when she wouldn’t let him, then finally pulled back long enough to look her in the face.
The years were evident, but the comfort of the young man she had once fallen in love with was still there. “What are you doing here?” he asked again.
“I’m not here. You can’t tell your father.”
“My father? No, of course not. I haven’t seen him, I don’t intend to.”
“Good,” she said and grabbed him again, but mostly to wipe her tears on his chest. “Thank you.”
“It’s been so long,” he said, distracted by something outside. “You never wrote back.”
“I left Derbyshire,” she said quietly. “You know I had to.”
He opened his mouth to answer, but closed it again. Because he knew she was right. He knew exactly how far his father had gone to remove the name of Burel from the earth. She’d grown a comfortably thick callus over the idea that William could have done anything to stop it, and wouldn’t let him ruin that thought by doing something as silly as talking about it.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” she said hurriedly. “I heard you joined the war.”
“I did. I’m still part of it, really.” His hand came up to wipe a tear from her cheek, and she almost let him. But she turned away instead, surprised to realize how quickly her excitement had faded. He continued, “I’m only here on an errand for King Richard. Once it’s settled I’ll have to be off again.”
That was a second punch. “I see,” she said. She did not know what else to say.
“It’s nothing … negotiations. I don’t have much time, I’m leading the captain’s men out momentarily. How … how are you?”
How are you? As if she could answer the lifetime of struggles she’d endured since last they’d been together with a single sentence. She wondered what word could possibly describe the loss of one’s whole family, to leave a comfortable life and to go into hiding with nothing. How might she describe the humiliation of asking old family friends for help and being denied? What clever turn of phrase would summarize the years of traveling from town to town, trading what few skills she had for food and shelter? Which word would tell the man who once loved her that, at her lowest point, she had nearly resorted to prostitution to survive?
“Fine,” she said, gasping on the word. “I’ve been fine.”
“But like this? You could have reached out to me.”
“I’m serious, William, I’m fine.” She controlled herself now. She would not allow him to pretend he could simply change her life in an instant. That would be too cruel. “I reached out to Roger de Lacy, I’m under his employ. This is just…” She gathered her maid’s gown in her hand and shook it dismissively, �
��… it isn’t perfect, but it is what it is.”
He frowned, but with that young coyness he always had. “I would have thought you married.”
I tried, she didn’t tell him. Nobody nearby wanted me, and nobody farther away cared who I was. There were other things she could have said. None of them were you. Instead she settled for a shake of her head, and tried desperately to transition away. “There’s a shortage of good men in Nottingham.”
William laughed. “There’s a shortage of good men everywhere in England.”
“Baron de Lacy could use someone like you. Someone trustworthy.”
He paused. “What makes you say that?”
“He doesn’t have much support here. He was assigned this post by Richard’s court, which upset a number of people. The High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire, and the Royal Forests? Your father was amongst those that could have taken the seat.”
William grimaced, but wisely didn’t respond. Once upon a time, Lord Beneger de Wendenal had been like a second father to her, and there were still times when she had difficulty separating her warm memories of him from what he had done later.
“Please, don’t repeat anything I said,” she added hastily. Within only a few minutes of seeing him, she had said too much. That was a lesson in trust she should have learned months ago. It was too easy to fall into old traps, of sharing everything with William. Only to be disappointed, she reminded herself.
“Arable, I promise you, anything you want to say is safe with me.”
She had to laugh at this, sadly, and he could sense the weight it carried. With some difficulty, “You shouldn’t make me promises, William. The last promise you made was that you’d come back.” She laughed at this, too, because in retrospect it was hilarious. Hilarious that she thought it would end any other way.
“I did come back.” William was quiet, almost ashamed. He reached out to touch her shoulder, but she moved away. “I’m here now.”
“Yes, well…”
“And I have to go.”
“You do.”
“I’m sorry.”
“There’s food for you.”
“I’ll see you again.”
“Don’t say that.”
William reached out and touched the back of his hand to Arable’s cheek, but she didn’t recoil this time. “I promise.” She reached up and held her own hand on his, and his wet eyes reflected the sun’s brilliance. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
She closed her eyes and he disappeared, but she held onto that. She did not want to dare hope, for she had learned long ago how useless a hobby that was. But just a sliver, she thought, just a sliver of hope might go a long way.
For a moment, her own problems seemed a thousand years ago. But once William’s mission was complete, he’d leave. Everyone only cares about their own world, that’s just the way it works.
She wondered if she ought to take this as some sort of a sign, proof that there was nothing for her in Nottingham. If she truly had a family member living in France now, she could only hope to find them by going there. It was only fear that kept her from trying, which meant that she’d always be living in fear. Once William returned to the war, it would be her turn to leave as well.
Arable slid into the back of the stables to compose herself, but was startled by a movement behind her. William had returned, she wiped at her eyes.
But before she could look she was jolted sideways, a rough hand was over her mouth. She tasted the salty sweat of a man’s skin, blocking her air, pushing her down.
“So you’re the little spy, are you?” came Jon Bassett’s all-too-familiar voice. Reginold had told him of their conversation. She panicked and pried at the fingers over her lips, but lost all sensation as she went crashing down into the straw. She had no bearings, she kicked out, and then something hot was dragging across her cheek, and fear turned her vision white.
“This is what happens to nosy young ladies.”
She couldn’t scream. The hot sharp thing flashed against her other cheek, then the ground bit her in the face and his footsteps were disappearing outside.
But all she could see was her own blood dripping into the straw beneath her.
SIXTEEN
ELENA GAMWELL
LOCKSLEY CASTLE
THE WAGON WHEELS GROANED, because that’s what wagon wheels do. Nobody comments on how miraculous a thing they are, to turn and move, move and turn. Every creak and bump leaves the impression that the wagon is a little worse for wear, a little closer to the end of its life. And still the wheel doesn’t ask for recognition. It doesn’t demand applause for its job.
This Robin of Locksley would do well to learn from the wagon wheel.
Elena Gamwell was perched on the seat of the wagon, foot on the rein hitch, enjoying the rumble of the Sherwood Road. Will vaulted up and balanced, teetering over the buckboard, to steal a kiss from her. Another push and he was off again, darting away. He took every opportunity to scout the road ahead, while Elena was trapped listening to their guest’s version of conversation. Elena made a note to make Will pay for his escape in some delicious manner later. He was, as always, damned lucky that she loved him.
“What about me?” John Little asked beside her, pawing at the space Will had been, pursing his lips for a kiss.
“Here.” She grabbed his arm with both hands and planted her lips on his big furry cheeks.
“Oh my.” His eyebrows danced. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to kiss dirty old men?”
“Oh John.” Elena leaned her head against his shoulder. “You’re not that dirty.”
“I knew I should have driven the horses today.” Alan gave a weak laugh, sulking. Elena threw him a smile out of pity.
“Now if you want to ride a real horse…”
Locksley started talking again. It seemed to be his only skill. She was more than happy to let the man earn their respect, but so far he’d missed every opportunity. Elena had not known old Lord Walter of Locksley as long as the others, but she had grown to care for him. That fondness should have extended to his family, but she was beginning to suspect that the son was a thousand miles from the father in character. Admittedly, he was at a disadvantage, and it was Elena’s fault. When John gathered them around before bringing Locksley into their camp, she had been the one to suggest they keep quiet. “Don’t let on that we know who he is,” she’d said. “Nothing about Lord Walter.” Some of them still didn’t have that instinct, to realize that every bit of knowledge is power. Not just what you know, but what others think you don’t know.
So it was hard to see the man as anything other than a fleeting day’s worth of entertainment, no different than any other mark. But John Little urged for their compassion, and he had his reasons for most things. Elena forced herself to smile as Locksley continued, thinking he was regaling some random travelers who didn’t know him. He talked and talked, little memories about this spring or that cluster of woods, more frequently as they grew closer. Elena tried to find the man behind the bluster, but it was hard to hear the stories as words at all. All she heard was Locksley’s wheel groaning, closer and closer to its breaking point.
Some of the others, they couldn’t distinguish the son from the father. “If you’re better with a bow than a sword,” Alan crooned, “why did you leave the archers for the Royal Guard?”
“Well, my swordsmanship isn’t exactly poor.” The mare in front of Elena took the opportunity to release a hefty fistful of her shit, and Elena decided she’d call the horse Robin from now on. “But my skills as an archer would have been wasted if I’d stayed where I was. In a war, archers don’t need expert marksmanship, they just need to be part of the volley. Fifty men release and a cloud of arrows goes up in the air, and come down on the enemy like rain.”
“That’s a lot of arrows,” marveled Alan, throwing a smile toward Elena to include her in the amazement. She just stared at him. He should have been atop the cart, as he was best with the horses. Instead he lingered at L
ocksley’s side, a little girl in love.
“Can’t say we hear much about the war.” Arthur scratched at his beard. “Is it … uh … going well? You doing important things?”
Locksley seemed to find that amusing. “I don’t know that I’d call it important,” he made a mockery of the word, “but it has its moments.”
Aside from herself and John, the others walked—making a long day’s journey to Locksley Castle. Will had joked that John’s weight would be too much for the horses, but Elena saw that his age was catching up to him. He was known to complain about his knees, and his back too. His massive quarterstaff was carried more often as a cane than a weapon. Living off the land had trimmed John’s body of much of the fat he’d worn a year ago, but underneath he was thick as a log. Moving that amount of muscle couldn’t be easy.
As the daylight hours rolled by, she made a game of counting the times Robin mentioned how close he was to the King and the times he’d counseled the King or when he’d ridden with the King into battle or thought the word ring, which rhymes with King, and fuck all. She lost count at thirty, but only because she’d gone from thirty to fourteen and not realized her mistake until she hit thirty again.
She reached down and touched Locksley’s longsword at her feet. The longbow, too, finely made, a deep purple stain at its tips and a smooth notched grip entwined into the first. Not a fighting bow, this was a dandy’s collector piece. It could buy them a parlie chest of food for the winter. Will, having wandered close again, sensed what she was thinking and pulled the bow from the cart to inspect it. He gave a self-satisfied shrug to dismiss it, then gave its string a test pull. He snapped out a little yelp and grabbed at his arm, hopping around in pain.
Elena could only laugh, but Locksley apparently saw an opportunity to dazzle them with his expertise. “You’re holding the bow incorrectly, you know. You have to turn your elbow out to the side.”
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