“I guess.”
“Everyone has dreams,” she whispered. “They’re always good and bad.”
“Gilbert doesn’t dream.”
That gave Elena pause. “You talk to Gilbert about your dreams?”
He nodded. Gilbert wasn’t exactly known for his sensitivity. “I’ll cut your cock in half, the long way,” he’d threatened the lost gord. Most people preferred to keep a heavy distance from the White Hand, which was how he preferred it. He was the only one of their group Will and Elena had known from their old life—not a Red Lion himself, Gilbert had been more of an associate. Too old to be in the street gangs, but known to work with all of them. He traded things, things that couldn’t be procured within the city. A curious and closed man, but trustworthy—he took even the simplest task with solemn responsibility.
He’d be damned useful as they moved forward, but not exactly the best role model for Much.
“He taught me to count,” the boy continued.
“To count?”
“When I can’t think straight,” he added. “He taught me to count. I can count to thirty sometimes, without even blinking. He says the trick is to think about something else. If you think about blinking then you blink, but if you think about something else then it doesn’t hurt at all. He says you can make your mind blank.”
Elena didn’t know what to say. “And that’s why he doesn’t dream?”
He bobbed his head. “He says it’s like snuffing out a candle.”
Somewhere off in the woods, a tree limb snapped and fell to the ground.
“You know, if you ever can’t sleep, you can come and find me,” Elena said. “Doesn’t matter if I’m out on watch, doesn’t matter if I’m with Will, doesn’t matter if I’m asleep. You can find me, alright?”
Much nodded yes.
“Aahhh,” she added in a panic, “lessin’ you hear Will and I … wrestling. If you hear anything like that, maybe call my name first, right?”
The knowing look he gave was far too mature.
“Alright then. Let’s get back to the group. It’s sword practice next, and I think you were promised a turn today.”
* * *
ELENA PAIRED UP WITH David of Doncaster, to challenge herself against his longer reach. They divided into pairs, spread out in a long line beneath the Great Oak. Each of them held a long stick, tree limbs with the twigs broken off, bark smoothed down at the ends. Fake swords. There were plenty of stolen real swords about to use, but Locksley insisted they needed to work on the basics. It was more than a little insulting.
“One! Two! Three! Four!” Locksley yelled, and all the attackers swung high on the left, then on the right, then low on both sides, all at the same time. It was more dance than swordplay. Still, Elena followed his commands, readjusting her stance to compensate for David’s height. She swung hard, and David winced every now and then as he defended.
“Advancing! Three! One! Two! Four!” Locksley yelled and the attackers took a step forward with each attack, their partner backing up and blocking them away.
Locksley would pass by and inspect each of them. Elena purposefully shifted her weight as he approached. She brought her feet too close together, and swung for a spot well shy of David’s body. David blocked it, though he had no need to, their sticks click-clacked in the empty space between them where neither could get hurt. There was a pause in Locksley’s gait. He was considering fixing her stance, her aim.
Instead, “Good, Elena.”
No, it wasn’t.
Because he wasn’t training them to be good. He was only training them to be good enough.
Still, good enough was a high goal for some of them, so Elena did not object. Locksley put his hands on David’s shoulders, rotating him.
“Turn to the side, make yourself a smaller target.”
“Go on, John,” Will snickered nearby, paired up with John Little. “Make yourself a smaller target!”
John smiled and turned sideways, laughing at his own giant belly. “It doesn’t appear to be working!”
Will swung his stick to attack, but was blocked, and again. But next he smashed the stick in half over his knee and swung at both of John’s sides at once, tapping him for a killing blow.
John just swatted it off. “Be careful there, people will say that Robin split your sword in twain!”
Even Will found the humor in that, though he didn’t seem eager to show it in front of Locksley. As the laughter died out, one little voice came springing from the rest.
“It’s my turn now!”
“Not today, Much,” Locksley said, more patronizing than ever. “Why don’t we keep working on your archery instead?”
“No!” Much wouldn’t let him get away with that. “Yesterday you said tomorrow, and that’s today. I’m going to tell everyone that Robin Hood is a big liar.”
Elena made a point of it by breaking their formation, and quickly enough everyone was grateful for the break. Much likely wouldn’t get a chance like this again—it was the sort of thing Lady Marion would put an instant stop to. But Marion was gone at the moment, having traveled south with her heirloom knight to magically transform stolen jewelry into usable coin. Which meant nobody was like to stop a friendly sword match between Locksley and a child.
Much stood his ground, both hands wrapped around a stick that was only slightly too large for him, a grim determination in his eyes. He was, from head to toe, adorable. Locksley was left standing alone, curiously more uncomfortable than he had any right to be. He shifted his own stick around in his hands, but did not adopt any fighting stance.
“Why don’t we use real swords?” Much challenged.
“Real swords are real dangerous,” Locksley said sternly, a tone that was too condescending for Elena’s taste. “We don’t want anybody to accidentally get stabbed now.”
“You can’t hurt anyone with a stick.”
“Oh, you certainly can!” John blurted out.
“I’ve got a couple of ribs that would agree with that,” Locksley admitted, patting his sides. “Do you want me to go over the numbers with you?”
Much proudly recited each of the numbers, swinging his stick in succession, though his two highest numbers were closer to Locksley’s navel than his head. But the display was impressive, and the others started chanting Much’s name, along with “Get him!” and “Duel to the death!”
Don’t humiliate him, Elena hoped. Much needed a win.
“Watch your stance now,” Locksley pointed at Much’s feet, “and remember to keep your foot back.”
“I’ve been in a fight before!” Much yelled. But still he shifted his feet.
“And I’m sure you were ferocious,” Locksley answered, and bent his posture into reluctant readiness. “One!” he yelled, and swung his stick slowly at Much’s right shoulder. The boy was ready to block it long before it got there. Locksley went at the other side just as slowly.
“Not like that!” Much complained. “You’re going too slow!”
Locksley raised his eyebrows to the crowd, but received little support. John Little egged him on, and they started calling Locksley a coward, too afraid to fight the mighty Much. Elena couldn’t help but smile from ear to ear.
“Alright then,” Locksley said. “I’m coming two, four, one, three. Got it?”
He moved immediately, and Much flinched in the wrong direction and only barely blocked the first attack, and then had to jump backward away from the remaining blows, but it didn’t shake his resolve. As soon as the four slashes were over, Much pushed forward on one foot and stabbed up at Locksley’s gut. But Locksley stepped away casually, he flicked the tip of Much’s stick up and slid his own to lay full across Much’s stomach and held it there. “Dead.”
Elena, and the rest of the crowd, booed.
“You cheated!” Much protested, trying in vain to pull away. “You didn’t say a number!”
“Neither did you,” Locksley held onto Much’s back with one hand as he pretended to saw h
im open with the sword at his belly. “And neither will they. So, brave Sir Much, how did I kill you?”
“You’re bigger than me,” Much complained, finally escaping Locksley’s grasp.
“It doesn’t matter who’s bigger. Look at Will Scarlet, he’s not very big.”
“What?” Will asked.
“You gave up your advantage,” Locksley continued. “You attacked me, and you opened yourself up. An unskilled attacker is always at the disadvantage. You should focus on defense.”
“That’s boring.”
“Staying alive isn’t boring,” Locksley said, in that same tone he’d used before. He knelt down and looked Much in the eyes. “I’m only teaching you this so you can protect yourself, do you understand? Most people aren’t going to swing a sword at someone your age, but if they do, you need to know what to do. You block it, and then you run away as fast as you can, do you hear me?”
Much glanced at the crowd, but nobody would argue otherwise. Elena gave him a tiny nod, and he turned back to grumble, “I hear you.”
“Good, now try that. Parry and run. Watch, I want you to deflect me as I come in, alright?”
Locksley stood up, leaned back, and slowly pushed his stick straight at Much’s stomach. Much hopped to the side as instructed, pushed his stick away with his own, then slapped the tip onto Locksley’s forearm and ran away. The crowd rewarded his victory with a wave of encouragement, and Locksley bowed to Much. “You see, that was better.”
He was finally smiling, but it didn’t last long. “You don’t run away from fights.”
“Yes, well,” Locksley muttered, “I’m bigger than you.”
“Don’t worry, Much.” Elena sprang to her feet to escort him away from the field. “You’ll be bigger than John Little someday, and you’ll be the most feared fighter in all England! And remember what we talked about. Defending yourself is good, but don’t forget about the element of surprise!”
She knelt quickly, squinted her face at him, and pointed back at Robin. Then she whispered in Much’s ear and shoved him.
“Death to the Sheriff!” Much screamed, and ran directly at Locksley, who turned around too late. Much smashed into him and the two went tumbling down to the ground. Both of their screams turned to laughter. Locksley grabbed Much and rolled over and over, then lifted him up in the air again and threw him over his shoulder. They spun around in a circle, with Much screaming and laughing until Locksley finally set him down on his feet, too dizzy to stay standing.
It was, odds on, the most fun Elena had ever seen Much have.
Despite the play, Locksley glared at her, “Death to the Sheriff?”
“I don’t know where he got that,” she lied with her widest smile.
Good, Elena.
TWENTY-NINE
GUY OF GISBOURNE
NOTTINGHAM CASTLE
AT SUNRISE EVERY SUNDAY morning, before the church bells called their masses, the castle gates were opened with hot meals prepared for as many people as were interested. Few people were as old as Guy to remember how the tradition started. Sheriff Osbert Sylvanus, who was also a bishop, wanted to give an incentive to the people to get their asses out of bed and into a church. One’s immortal salvation was usually not reward enough, but a hot bowl of stew and potatoes could get anyone to their feet. A shambling crowd would enter through the castle gates and take their food, and then had little excuse to avoid St. Peter’s on their way back through the city.
Sylvanus had not lasted even a year in his role, but forty years later the Sunday Temperance Lines were still a tradition. Along the way it collected some additional religious slog, something about walking the savior’s footsteps by caring for the poor. This dubious description meant it was an “honor” to work the line, which for Guy meant it was easier to assign the duty to a Guardsman who would otherwise hate it. It wasn’t exactly near the top of Guy’s favorite tasks, either, but still he made sure to stand the Temperance once every other month or so, if his responsibilities allowed.
“You’re welcome,” Devon said, beside him, extra careful as he poured a ladle of the morning’s barley porridge into a bowl. Guy never ordered any of the men in his private regiment to stand the food line, but Devon was here of his own accord.
“That girl didn’t say thank you,” Guy noted dully.
“Doesn’t matter, she’s still welcome.” It was no surprise that Devon would delight in such things. The man had escaped the hell of captivity twice—first from the traitor lord, and second from a gaol cell. Now he was in a position to help those in need, and he reveled in it. Guy wondered how long it would take for Devon to become a sour old grump like himself.
“You’re welcome.” Guy gave a smile to the next person in line.
“Thank you for doing this,” came the woman’s reply, in earnest. Her muscles were pulled back in a reflexive wince, the sign of a life lived constantly at wit’s end. One knobby hand clutched two young girls who held out their bowls without emotion. “It’s good to know that someone’s looking out us.”
“Of course.” Guy put a husk of bread in each of their bowls, staring intently at each. Neither child moved a muscle.
“Thank goodness,” she repeated. “We don’t get any Robin Hood here in the city, so this’ll have to do.”
Guy bit his lip and said nothing.
“Don’t be fooled by those stories,” Devon chirped. “They’re just stories, after all. Believe in what you see, and what you can taste.” He winked, and gave the woman an extra scoop of the day’s sludge. Her eyes widened as she tugged her daughters away.
“Neither of those girls are touching their food,” Guy said, leaning back to spy on them as they left.
Devon shrugged. “What of it?”
“Probably not her children. She’s using them for the extra rations, I’d wager. Beats them, too. And you gave her an extra helping.”
Devon’s reply came in the form of another smile, for another stranger. “I’d rather trust and be disappointed later, than to just assume everyone’s awful. They’re not, you know.”
“Sure they are,” Guy responded. “You just have to meet them first.”
The Temperance Line kept on.
“Ho now!” Guy barked at the sight of an impressive brute, a tall man that was clearly built for pulling a field plow. “What are you, a mason?”
“Docks,” the stranger grumbled, tilting his head back. With even a single word Guy could hear his northern accent. Most of those that came to the food line were desperate—it was rare to see someone in good health.
“Docks are full of runts and skivers. You ever think about putting those muscles to better use? The Guard could use a man like you.”
“Yeah, maybe,” the man grunted, but did not pause as he moved along. Behind him, a skinnier fellow snickered, trying to keep in the former’s shadow. He wore a loose padded arming cap, a trend that Guy loathed. It practically screamed that the wearer had no intention of ever putting a proper helmet on top of it.
“Good Sunday to ye.” Devon offered out his ladle. Guy reached out and pulled it back to the pot.
“Mind taking that cap off?” Guy asked.
“What for?” returned the skulking man.
“I said, mind taking that cap off?”
He scoffed a non-answer and held his bowl out to Devon. The cap’s ties dangled loosely down to his chest, which made them quite easy for Guy to snatch and whisk from the man’s head with almost no movement at all. The man was slow to react, first at the offense of having his cap stolen, and second to hide the puffy red scars of his left earlobe.
“Outside,” Guy demanded, thrusting the cap back into the man’s chest. “Temperance is for honest folk. Get back to the wharfs.”
“Fuck on you.” The man sent his empty bowl flying, twitching as he broke out of the line to head directly to the gates.
“Sorry,” Devon apologized once it was clear the man would make no further incident. “I didn’t know.”
Guy brush
ed it off. “Don’t apologize.”
“That would never have occurred to me, but it’s the first thing you noticed.”
“I have a significant head start on you in being cynical.”
“I’ll do better.” Devon straightened himself, eyes flicking about the crowd as if he hoped to identify an assassin amongst them. “I want to learn.”
“Not too quickly, I hope.” He tried to make it seem casual. But he had pushed Jon Bassett into responsibility too quickly, and did not want to make the same mistakes again. He hoped Devon would hold onto his youthful optimism for years, rather than go too fast. And frankly, Guy hoped that some of that learning might come back his way as well.
A few tables down the line, a basket of fresh bread was being delivered by none other than the servant girl Arable, who kept her face down and a bonnet to mask the scars Jon Bassett had given her.
Not too quickly, Devon.
“Unbelievable!” came a deep-hearted roar, and Guy snapped his attention to a throng of men pouring through the front gates. Not a crowd of miscontents, this was the entourage of the visiting Lord Geoffrey of Oughtibridge. Every movement seemed to take effort from the huge man, and his face was bright red and bursting just at the slight incline from the gatehouse. “This is the top of it all, that’s what this is!”
“Your lordship.” Guy slipped from behind the table to meet the dignitary. “Is anything the matter?”
“Everything is the fucking matter!” he belched, and did not stop as he barreled to the front of the line to inspect the day’s offerings. “What is this?”
The crowd retracted from him, watching in alarm as he snatched a lump of bread and squeezed it to pulp. Guy wondered if this was supposed to be a demonstration of strength. It was tempting to answer the man’s question of What is this? with the obvious word bread, but decided to keep quiet until he learned what had prompted the lord’s rage.
“I came to see the Sheriff,” Oughtibridge continued, sending a look of disgust to everything within arm’s reach. “He keeps sending tax collectors at me, so I decided to finally pay.”
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