Nottingham

by Nathan Makaryk

  “Go take a fucking horse, Robin. Any one will do. Actually, no.” Her eyes leveled him. “The fastest one.”

  Whatever his response was going to be, the moment was stolen by Will Scarlet gliding back in from outside, swiftly, noiselessly. He slid an arm intently around Marion’s waist and eased her toward the rear of the hall.

  He said one word. “Riders.”

  Alan was beside him, rushing toward the hearth. “Put out the fire.”

  “It’s too late, they’ve seen it,” Scarlet said, loping to a slag of fallen stone. He rounded the hall, both knives out, until he flattened by the main hallway. Arthur rejoined the room from above and started down the stairs, but Scarlet signaled for him to stay put. Marion concealed herself behind the arched curve of an empty doorway, but no further. Her mind raced to think on who could have followed her here.

  Robin didn’t budge, oblivious to the possibility of danger. He gazed half-interestedly as footfalls echoed in from the entranceway. Whoever it was had already entered the building, which meant they had gotten past Sir Amon and Clarell. A single figure appeared, a man dressed in dark pleated leather armor. A thick hood slumped off the back of his head, the same outfit that Robin was wearing. A longsword was slung from his belt, and he carried another in his hand. Robin squinted at the stranger, then laughed out loud as the two embraced. “Now here’s a real hero.”

  “Thank God, Robin.”

  “William.”

  Scarlet was there in an instant. One blade he held gingerly out, the tip touching the intruder’s back. “Hullo, again!”

  “Put your weapons down.” Robin was all smiles. “How’d you find me?”

  “This was not the first place I looked,” the man named William replied. “These are … our friends now?”

  “Friends, no,” Robin said. “But we’ve come to an understanding.”

  Scarlet remained still. “I’m not so sure I’m understanding this understanding.”

  Marion pushed against the cold stones, hoping for a better look. Robin’s friend appeared agitated but held no animosity. “I’m looking for John Little, actually. We mean to negotiate a peace between him and the Sheriff.”

  “A peace?” asked Alan. Marion opened her mouth to reveal herself, but felt a large hand at her shoulder easing her back again.

  “Stay put,” John Little whispered into her ear. “Might yet be you need to disappear.”

  He tugged her back behind the doorway, and she reluctantly let him. They had long taken the risk of their enterprise together, but they would be in far more danger if she were ever incriminated with them. On their own they were forgettable. But with her, they were scandal.

  More noise came now, muffled and far-off at first like a storm, but then increasingly distinct. The rumble of new bodies poured into the hall, the clatter of chain mail and weaponry.

  Guardsmen poured in. Six of them, side by side, the signature dark blue of their tabards robbed of all color in the orange light. Behind them were two more—a skinny squire in an ivory cape, attending a man whose presence here was near blasphemous. His signature was written on every wall, with ash as his ink.

  EIGHTEEN

  GUY OF GISBOURNE

  THIEVES DEN

  “AS CAPTAIN OF THE Sheriff’s Guard, I speak for the Sheriff himself and you may consider my word his law,” Guy announced.

  He doubted they would cow to authority, but it was the only strategy he had. William de Wendenal had already compromised their approach by barreling ahead alone, forcing Guy to follow blindly. He counted only three combatants in the hollow dining hall, which meant there were likely more hiding in the surrounding corridors. His men were at every disadvantage, at risk of being surrounded, and in unfamiliar territory.

  Not entirely unfamiliar, he corrected. Guy had been here before. These ruins were a testament to the ease of destruction. A scant few months ago he had visited this place with the hopes of recruiting debtors to the Guard’s ranks, and instead discovered a rebellion in the making. The traitor lord had been quietly gathering an army of disciples who thought themselves more important than the law. Like a common cutpurse, the mad Lord Walter had fled when confronted, and chose to martyr himself before answering Guy’s questions. The most loyal of the lord’s crew escaped into the woods and had been causing minor disturbances since, ignorant to the damage they’d done. The true victims, Guy knew, were those desperate men and women who could have been part of a thriving community, but were led to ruin by one man’s misplaced ideology.

  All that remained now was char, and Guy’s men had chased raiders from the ruins on three or four occasions. With no heir claimant to the land, multiple rogue groups had tried to settle it in the last three months, earning it the moniker of Thieves Den.

  Guy continued. “This land has been seized by the Sheriff, and by staying here you are guilty of trespass.”

  He eyed his newest recruit at the back of their formation, wondering what effect this place had on him, but the young man’s face was rightfully concealed in the shadow of his heavy hood.

  Across the room, the remnants of the traitor lord’s army fidgeted nervously. They had long ago made the disappointing choice that could lead only to a prison cell. Unfortunately, they were unlikely to share Guy’s assessment of their fortunes—they were the type that preferred sharpened weapons over sharpened minds.

  Guy surveyed the room, and focused on the man with whom Wendenal was standing. “Is this him, then?”

  Wendenal confirmed with a nod. “I’ve got a hold of this, thank you.”

  Guy ignored the comment and smiled, hoping to put the stranger at ease. There was no need for hot minds when peace was an option. “Robin of Locksley, a pleasure.” He approached cautiously but shook the man’s hand with enthusiasm. There was not much of the man’s father in Locksley’s softer features, and Guy could only hope that extended to his personality. In this very room, Lord Walter had distracted Guy’s men by throwing a wine bottle, which had landed with a thud on the table, unbroken, and slid to an embarrassed halt. After that, the chase. “I am so sorry as to these circumstances. This is not a homecoming I would wish upon anyone.”

  Robin winced, genuinely. “Captain. Thank you.”

  “I’m sure you have many questions, and no doubt you’ve been given many answers. If I were you, I would doubt their authenticity.”

  The fact that Locksley’s hands were not bound behind his back meant the outlaws had potentially tried to radicalize him. No doubt they had played to his sympathies as a son, ignoring the truth of Lord Walter’s treason. But Wendenal had spoken strongly of Robin’s character, and there was always hope.

  “As the arm of the Sheriff, there are some complications to deal with in regard to your father, and his land. But as a father and a son myself, please accept my regrets for your loss.”

  “Piss off!” shouted one of the raiders, lingering at the edges like a carrion bird.

  “I also apologize for their disrespect,” Guy conceded, “and for your treatment in the last day or so. Policing the Sherwood is one of our highest priorities, and your capture is a disgrace. A problem which, I’m told, you’re here to help us with.”

  Robin relaxed, another good sign. “That’s true enough.”

  “Lord Gisbourne,” Wendenal interrupted again. “Thank you for your assistance, I shall take things from here.”

  “With respect, your task here is complete.” Guy eyed him strongly, unsure just where he meant to take things. “We’ve successfully found your friend, healthy and alive. But this search has also brought us to a group of woodland rebels—a trifling matter, but one in which, I assure you, I hold authority.”

  “Roger de Lacy asked me—”

  “Lay your weapons on the ground,” Guy raised his voice, knowing fully well that they wouldn’t obey him. They never did. Every fool criminal thought themselves a mastermind—they always thought they could outthink or outfight or outrun the Nottingham Guard, and it rarely went their way. Perha
ps it was animal instinct, or perhaps just a blind rejection of reality. Guy did his best to explain, to not startle them. “It will go much better for you, I promise, if you go peacefully.”

  “You will take no one!” growled Wendenal. “Captain Gisbourne, the Sheriff himself told me these men were not to be harmed or arrested.”

  He might as well have doused Guy with a bucket of river water. “What?” Guy reeled at the betrayal, but had no chance to strategize.

  “I have come with an offer of peace, and that peace will be respected!”

  “No arrests?” shouted a short scofflaw with a young face. The young ones always thought they knew the world. “Sounds like we can do whatever we want!”

  His hands drifted to his back, and Guy’s men responded in turn. Morg tightened his grip on his halberd, while Reginold and Bolt looked to each other for guidance. Jon Bassett’s fingers twitched, ready to pull steel. If anyone were to spring this too early, it would be Bassett.

  Guy’s eyes sharpened again on Devon of York, the latest addition to his regiment.

  The only gerold who might prove himself worth the spit on his sleeve.

  Guy squinted, hoping the young man would have any insight. Devon’s head gave a quick quiet nod, an affirmative. It was Guy’s only advantage here amongst the enemy, crippled by the Sheriff’s short-sighted pacifism. Guy chose—and prayed he chose correctly—to trust.

  Guy ordered his men to stand down.

  “If you are eager to throw your own lives away, then think not of yourselves. Think of your friends, your family. Look around at this place, and consider heavily what comes next.” They were quiet, and Guy reserved a small place in his mind to hope this might go well.

  A deep voice bellowed from the edge of the room, “Let us hear this peace then!”

  Emerging like a bear from a cave, the man carried a quarterstaff that made a heavy thunk with each step. Guy gave a quick glance to his men, whose eyes clearly begged for instruction.

  “Weapons down, then,” he commanded. “And take a seat. Let’s talk of peace.”

  Their eyes screamed with fear, but each of Guy’s men obeyed. The halberds lay down on the ground. Their hands did a remarkable impression of laziness. Guy let his own belt slip loose, sloughing its weight into one hand and lowering it onto nearby slag. The beast of a man with the staff nodded with some gravity at the gesture.

  Wendenal bowed his head. “John Little?”

  “Aye,” spake the bear.

  “I am Lord William de Wendenal, and I parlay for the Sheriff.” Guy flinched at the implication. Wendenal was the son of a marcher lord in Derby, and should have no grounds to speak for the Sheriff. Guy began to compose a library of grievances to pound at de Lacy’s door when he returned.

  John Little smiled darkly at Wendenal. “I remember you.”

  “The Sheriff does not wish to aggravate you, but instead to find some common ground.”

  Little grunted. “The spirits in this hall may disagree.”

  “An unfortunate coincidence.” Wendenal lowered his head in respect. “Perhaps we can give them some peace.”

  John seemed to accept the answer, or at least to pretend to. “What does he propose?”

  “You will not be persecuted for your crimes of thievery against the King, provided that you return what you can of the weapons and supplies belonging to the King’s armies, and will refrain from interfering with future shipments. He is eager to make arrangements to bring your people back to fealty, under conditions you both consider fair. It is in everyone’s best interest for you to live productive and healthy lives, so long as you abide by the King’s laws. Agree to these terms, and all else is forgiven.”

  “All else is forgiven?” shouted out one of the thieves.

  “Oh, all we have to do is hand over our weapons?” mocked another. “And you promise not to arrest us? We’ve seen what the Sheriff’s word is worth.” He spat on the ground. They had no idea how insanely lenient this offer was.

  “What the hell do you forgive us for, anyhow?” asked the young one. “Maybe instead, we take these very weapons you’re asking for and watch you bolt for the hills again.”

  “There’s a slight problem with your plan, Wendenal.” John Little eased his staff from hand to hand. “Most of the weapons have long been sold off. Some are still ours, aye. But if they weren’t, I don’t think your boys would have stopped at that door. The rest bought us soup and bread. Should we open our bellies up? We could give it back to you, but you may not like what’s become of it.”

  The gallery laughed at this.

  “If you don’t accept the offer, then the Sheriff’s peace is off.” Guy eyed Wendenal, who reluctantly confirmed. “Which means you will each return with me to Nottingham. Whether on your own two legs or not.”

  It was taken as a challenge. “How are your legs, boys?”

  “I think I’ll be walking fine,” another snarled. “Arthur?”

  “Let’s dance.”

  Damnation. The thieves poised at readiness. They did not move yet, but the young one slid two knives out.

  “There will be no blood spilled here today!” bellowed Robin of Locksley, with startling authority. “This is my father’s land, passed on to me. These men were his servants, which by right makes them now mine. I am Lord of Locksley here. If you have need of arresting someone on my land, you will kindly bring the matter to me.”

  “Your servants?” the one named Arthur nearly choked on the word.

  “Robin,” Guy was careful not to acknowledge his newly claimed title, “legally speaking, your father failed to pay his taxes. He was posthumously evicted, his lands were seized, reclaimed for the Sheriff, in the name of the King. Your intent is commendable, but for now you have no official standing here.”

  “Forget the weapons,” Wendenal surrendered, a master of negotiation. “But leave the forest. Find new homes. Let this pass.”

  Wendenal and Locksley were amateurs here, who apparently thought they could sweep merrily into town and make everyone work together. That was a dream too fanciful even for children’s stories. A lifetime of working and running the Guard had taught Guy otherwise. He would give de Lacy’s peace one last shot, then do things his own way.

  “You should take the deal,” he said, honestly. “You will never, I promise—” he made pointed contact with Wendenal, “—receive another like it. Decide quickly. Do you take peace, or do I take your men into custody?”

  “I think I may take something of my own.”

  A female voice, full of venom, it came from behind. Guy couldn’t react before the blade touched his throat. He jerked away by instinct but her hand was in his hair, yanking his head backward, white fear his son’s face falling snowfall on the castle walls, but the blade did not cut him.

  Guy gasped to be alive. He blinked furiously at the tears that had sprung to his eyes, while his heart smashed against his ribs. He forced himself to focus, he stood as still as a statue and wrestled his attention back from the brink. A riot of noise, men screaming, the girl’s voice in his ear, black water in the hole, Murdac’s funeral, no—the pain in his scalp, metal on stone. He raised his hands, slowly. “Hold then, hold!” he sputtered, his apple brushing the sharp steel.

  Glimpses of his men. Eric of Felley screaming for him. Morg desperate to grab his weapon from the ground.

  “Hold, then!” Guy insisted, then she pulled his head back farther, his throat stretched, blood on his son’s lips, coughing, purple crocuses blowing off the lump of his grave. He focused on the dim charred roof of the dining hall, and the monstrous shadows. The noise settled. He could sense a hesitation in the air. Calm, he forced himself. His assailant had snuck up behind him, and there was no knowing how many others lay in wait.

  “Do you see, Wendenal, what it is we’ve been up against?” His neck muscles clenched. “These men only know violence.”

  “Be careful who you call a man,” warned the voice behind him, her sword’s point tracing up to the hook o
f his chin.

  “That is quite enough!” came a new voice, a woman’s this time, and Guy could tilt his head just enough to throw an eye at its bearer. Openly mingling with criminals was a new pastime for the Lady Marion Fitzwalter. There was no secret to her involvement with the traitor lord in life, but only rumors placed her with the fallout of his followers. It seemed she had no problem confirming those rumors now. She emerged from a side gullet, a heavy cloak stirring up the ash at her feet.

  “Weapons down,” the girl’s voice came from behind, “or I slice him open.”

  “You will do no such thing, Elena,” Lady Marion ordered.

  “My apologies, lady,” Wendenal’s voice, “but I’m not sure that I know you.”

  “My name is Lady Marion Fitzwalter. I am kin to King Richard the Lionheart, and you will hear me out.”

  “Under what capacity,” Guy said carefully, feeling the blade follow his jaw, “do you speak here, Lady Marion? Which authority do you claim?”

  “As I say, that of my relation to King Richard, and my grandfather, Earl of Essex.”

  That was a curious vaguery. “You stand with these outlaws?”

  “I stand for what I believe to be right. And it appears you are in need of a calm voice to negotiate.”

  Guy would have laughed if the action wouldn’t have killed him. “Just passing by, then? How coincidental.”

  “Lady Marion,” Wendenal again, “what do you have in mind?”

  “The Sheriff’s offer is decent, but there are too many details to be decided upon here. Here, of all places,” she sounded disgusted. “I will accompany you to the Sheriff along with John Little, whom you will promise safe passage.” That elicited a grumble in the room, though Guy could not tell if it was from his own men or the outlaws. “The four of us will come to an agreement, and until then both sides remain at bay. Little, do you agree to this?”

  “Don’t do it, John,” warned one of the thieves.

  “All they need is an excuse to put you away.”

  Lady Marion’s voice was slow and precise. “I won’t allow that.”