Nottingham

  But a part of him was sad that he might lose this sense of connection.

  “Help me, a bear has eaten my arm!” came a cry from the road, entirely too intelligible if it was meant to be believed. “Oh please, kind sirs, please, would you tell me if you have spied any bears about, perchance one with an arm in its mouth?”

  “One carriage, two drivers,” Arthur a Bland whispered, suddenly beside Robin. “City horses, bells. No onlookers. I’d say one woman inside, and I’d bet anything that she’ll make suggestion about you ‘stealing a kiss’ instead of her jewelry.”

  “I’d warrant you’re right,” Robin sighed, making out the faded colors of the carriage through the trees. “Why don’t you take this one, then?”

  “Ah, no,” Arthur huffed. “I think they want Robin Hood.”

  It went exactly as Arthur predicted. The two men atop the carriage’s bench were alarmed, but not surprised, and were quick to throw down their weapons at the sight of Elena and Alan’s bows. There was only a small purse between the two of them, which was tossed to Much once John Little ambled close enough. Robin bowed to the two drivers, noted both of their names, thanked them for their time and patronage, and convinced them to calm their passenger within into compliance. Then he poured every drop of grace he had into a swing that brought him inside the carriage’s belly, finding himself sitting across from a somewhat mousey but pretty woman with dark curled locks nearly obscuring her face.

  “My apologies,” he swooned.

  “You’re Robin?” she asked, all business.

  “I am enchanted,” Robin answered, diving into the character that had somehow taken a life of its own. “But you may call me Robin if you prefer to save your lips the extra syllable.”

  “I bring a message from William.”

  It was the last thing he had expected her to say.

  “William de Wendenal,” she added. “Or King William, he said you might understand that.”

  Robin’s mouth talked without him. “Who, what, you?”

  “My name is Arable.” She glanced through the curtains of the window. “I’d ask that you keep your voice low, as my drivers do not know I’ve come to speak with you. They think we are delivering a gift of rare wine to the Lord of Oxton, which you will kindly steal from me so we can immediately return to Nottingham.”

  She pivoted her legs to the side to reveal a small swollen cask, stained red at its mouth.

  “You bring a message from William,” Robin repeated, unmoving, his voice low. It was still another ten days until November’s full moon, when he and William had planned on regrouping at Locksley to make their way back to the war. “I’ll take it.”

  “He did not write it, for fear of the other thieves finding it and turning on you. He trusts me with the message, and begs you to trust me with your response as well.”

  Robin scrutinized the woman. Her jaw was taut, her teeth clenched. Her hands lay at a comfortable position on her lap but her fingers gripped each other with intensity.

  “Are you alright?”

  “I don’t do this sort of thing often and I’m hoping not to vomit on you.”

  That put Robin remarkably at ease. “Alright. What’s the message?”

  “Two words. Back down.”

  Of all the words in the world, Robin had none of them.

  “William says that, as usual, you’re too good at what you do. He says there are ramifications to your actions you can’t possibly know about, and he needs you to ease off on everything. He says your half is done, but he can’t finish his half until you stop it.”

  “This was his idea!” Robin gaped. “William was the one who wanted me to stay and teach them all a little discretion.”

  “And now he’s asking you, as a friend, to stop it.” She curled half her face into an uncomfortable fist. A quick glance out the window revealed Tuck chasing after John Little, putting on a show of trying to reclaim his arm from a giggling Much. “And if you don’t mind my saying so, is this really your definition of discretion?”

  There was simply no way of watching the display outside and answering, Yes.

  “You must have stolen enough by now,” she continued, “to let you lay low. The Sheriff needs a symbolic victory over your Robin Hood, or else he faces an all-out revolt. William asked me to remind you that you came to fix things peacefully, not this. He says it’s his turn to be in the crown now.”

  That was all Robin needed to know. William had the advantage of seeing the entire battlefield, so Robin trusted him to make the right call.

  “You may have started with the right intentions, but the jewelry, the ladies, the … showmanship of it all?”

  Robin laughed. There was something distinctly humbling about a pretty woman detailing exactly how unimpressive he was.

  “That isn’t part of William’s message, by the way, this is me saying that.”

  “I know.”

  She threw a dismissive smile and then brushed the hair from one side of her face, an instinct she immediately tried to stop. Robin caught sight of a puffy pink line that slanted down across her cheek. He had stared at the hole in his own calf every day for months. He knew the difference between a rash and a wound.

  “Are you alright?” he asked, craning his head for a better look.

  She ignored him and tipped the edge of the wine cask for him to grapple. “We should be off. Unless you normally spend longer than this in a carriage, as I don’t want your cohorts to become suspicious.”

  There was something offensive about the word cohorts, but Robin let it pass. He took the weight of the cask into his arms, and made to open the carriage door again.

  “Arable, was it?” She nodded. “Thank you for not vomiting on me.”

  She made a bashful smile and readjusted her hair. “Thank you for listening. William has a lot of faith in you, and I have a lot of faith in him. Do you have anything you’d like me to say to him, from you?”

  “I have so many things,” Robin admitted, “so very many things I’d like you to tell him, but they would all be quite vulgar and I would feel bad if I made you repeat them.”

  “I understand.” She bobbed her head. “I’ll just make up some of my own vulgarities then, and tell him they’re from you.”

  “Brilliant.” He laughed. “Tell him I’ll see him soon.”

  A few minutes later it was over, the carriage made an awkward circle to return from whence it came, and the lot of them was left complaining about the single coinpurse and the wine cask.

  “Hardly worth it,” Arthur grumbled, popping the wine open to smell at its mouth. “This is supposed to be rare?” He dipped a finger and tasted it, his face explaining exactly what he thought of it. David found a cup to pour into, which they all passed around to lend their expertise in wine tasting.

  Robin found the opportunity to draw Marion away, trying to calculate how he could convince her of what needed to happen. “I think it would be best if we back off a bit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’ve made our mark. We’ve collected more coin than we know what to do with … what say we put a pin in it for now, before we get too greedy?”

  “We’re helping a lot of people, Robin,” she chewed on the idea, “and we can help a lot more. I don’t see any reason to stop while it’s still going so well.”

  “It only takes one mistake, you know.” He tried to sound worried. “And besides, maybe it’s time they tend to themselves. Rather than give all this coin out. Prepare the Oak Camp for winter. There’s a lot of work still to be done in that regard.”

  “That’s true.” Marion turned to the rest of the group, who were debating whether Much should be allowed a swig of the wine. “But there’s still plenty of time.”

  “Do what you want.” Robin put his hands out, trying to play it off as innocently as possible. He didn’t like manipulating her, but he was also fairly certain he knew how to do so. “But you asked me to stay so I could advise them. This is my advice. I know it’s har
d to stop while things are going well, but the alternative is to wait until things are bad and then regret it.”

  Her mouth closed, a silent admission that she had no rebuttal.

  It probably wouldn’t matter. If Robin could divert their energy for even another week, it would give William whatever victory he needed to finish his work in the city. Once he left, he had no doubt Will Scarlet and John Little would get straight back to making poor choices, and the consequences would be entirely on them.

  There was no reason in the world Robin ought to feel guilty about that.

  Not a single one.

  Apparently against his will, Much took a sip of the wine.

  THIRTY-TWO

  WILLIAM DE WENDENAL

  NOTTINGHAM CASTLE

  ROGER DE LACY GRUMBLED without purpose, his fingers clasped over his eyes. “Let them in,” he ordered, and Hamon Glover wobbled off to see it done.

  Today they were at the long table rather than de Lacy’s tiny office in the high keep, his bony frame dwarfed by the tall narrow walls. In his office he could be a giant, and perhaps it made decisions easier when the world seemed small. From where he stood by a glazed window, William could see the gathering of lords and their retinue in the training yard outside. Five of them, though they represented dozens now, all protesting their monthly assessments. From this distance, the only one identifiable was the elephant Oughtibridge. Soon enough Hamon would join them and invite them up, so that de Lacy could answer their demands in person.

  William could tell how much the Sheriff wished to be elsewhere, his fingers parted just wide enough for the light of his eyes to shine through and beg for mercy.

  “I don’t suppose,” his words coughed out, “you have enough of your father in you to know what he would do, would you?” He smiled sadly, his white knuckles rapped absently onto the table. “I always thought it was greedy men that made the world so unlivable. I thought it was the temptation of power, the addiction of wealth, that turns our leaders into animals. After all, what are uprisings and rebellions if not the products of injustice? I thought a bit of understanding could fix this. I thought I could avoid the escalation of events by allowing that which was forgivable. Why can’t people accept that which they have, rather than take that which they do not?”

  William wished he could succinctly explain this perpetual problem of humanity. “My father would say the key to true justice is to think as your adversary,” he said. “To see yourself as their enemy. In their position, how have they been wronged, and what would they want in return?”

  “Lord Beneger is a wise man, but I disagree. I should think the world only grows worse by considering yourself an enemy to others.”

  It was a noble thought, and rare in a leader. William hoped he had played this correctly. Not quite a week had passed since he’d sent secret word to Robin to stop his escapades, hopefully enough time to make the difference he needed.

  There was noise down the hall and below, of people approaching. De Lacy looked down into his hands as the footsteps amplified. “You see, it isn’t greedy men at all who make the world so unlivable. It’s men like me. I thought I could give people a longer leash, and that they’d stop pulling at it so. I erroneously convinced myself that nothing was an acceptable reaction to something.”

  The door creaked open and the room was suddenly full. Oughtibridge led them, followed by the lords of Papplewick, Norwell, the barons of Maunsfeld and Lowdham. Each carried their smug righteousness in the air with them, suffocating the room. The sheriff’s assortment of counsellors was also invited, including those that regularly disagreed with him. William was familiar with most of them by now—the easily startled old coinmaster Arnold de Nottoir, the conservative trademaster Gerome Artaud—a dozen or so in total. Hamon Glover and Guy of Gisbourne were paired with a few others, trusted voices such as William who held no authority in Nottingham but whose opinion was valued. The Lady Margery d’Oily was one of them, though she was no doubt only a substitute for her absent husband the Earl of Warwick. A handful of Guardsmen filled in the gaps of the room, along with servant girls to wine them. William craned his head to search if Arable was amongst them, but could not find her.

  Their “guest of honor,” Lord Geoffrey of Oughtibridge, subtly tried to find an armless chair to accommodate his girth, and instead hovered at the head of the table as awkwardly as possible.

  Introductions went around. As the unpleasant pleasantries concluded, de Lacy turned flamboyantly to William to start. “Well. Let’s talk about our friends in the woods.”

  A dry voice interrupted, “Have they killed someone?”

  William was shocked to see this had come from the Ferrers whelp, standing behind Gisbourne. His presence in Nottingham annoyed William, only partially because of what his existence meant to Arable. William tried not to blame the son for his father’s mistakes, but that was a difficult bias to shake. Gisbourne instantly reprimanded his page for speaking and nearly sent him out of the room, but de Lacy stopped it.

  “No it’s fine. It’s fine.” He stood, meeting the young man’s eyes. “Here’s your first lesson in real politics, boy.”

  De Lacy popped open the lid to an ornate gold keepsafe and pawed out a handful of coins, then climbed onto his chair and, rather surprisingly, onto the table itself.

  “The world beyond these walls is made of dukes and farmers. Duke…” he singled out Lord Oughtibridge from afar, and nimbly danced over the tabletop of plates and glasses to pour gold into the man’s hands. He then turned back at Gisbourne, halfway down the table.

  “… and farmer,” he finished, flicking one last coin through the air to his captain, who barely flinched to catch it.

  “The farmer farms, which is useful, and the duke … dukes. Which is not.” De Lacy’s hand flapped about, equating precisely what he thought of the daily activities of dukes. “However, the duke pays taxes, which is quite useful, and he pays quite a bit.”

  De Lacy swung around again, picking up the keepsafe and opening it for Oughtibridge to deposit a portion of his coins back into.

  William was surprised by the performance. Roger de Lacy was a man of extremes—there were times he preferred to cut savagely to the point with no frills, and there were others such as now when he relished in the storytelling of it all. He was literally dancing on the tabletop as if their worries were trivial, even though his career hung in the balance. His every reaction, William marveled, was a calculated part of his balancing act.

  “The farmer is weak, but he makes food. The farmer gives the duke food, and the duke gives the farmer safety. This has worked for centuries. Are we all caught up?”

  His advisors gave their compulsory agreement, though few seemed to enjoy it as much as William. De Lacy clapped his hands once and continued.

  “Enter Richard’s taxes, the Saladin tithe. Taxes on everyone, and everything, except for those who march off to war. But meanwhile, here at home, the duke pays more taxes, and he hates it.”

  De Lacy again presented Oughtibridge with the keepsafe, into which he deposited another portion of his coins, along with a forced garrumph that drew laughter from the room.

  “The farmer, on the other hand,” de Lacy trip-stepped his way back across the table, “is still making food, and he pays more as well, and he hates it.”

  Gisbourne, without performance, placed his single coin into de Lacy’s hand.

  “Or he doesn’t pay it, and he still hates it. Or he goes to prison, and he hates it. Or he hides in the forest, and he hates it. It doesn’t really matter, because look at how much he can pay.” De Lacy showcased the one coin about. “I couldn’t care less if he pays or he doesn’t, because caring about it would cost more than what he’s paying.”

  He flicked a finger and the coin lobbed high through the air, a smooth arc that ended at the staircase where its pathetic tiny tink tumbled down to a lower level where it was already forgotten.

  “The farmers still farm, the dukes still duke, and everything is th
e same except that everyone generally hates it a little bit more.”

  More chuckles for this.

  “Until,” he raised his voice and a finger, and let it hang while he stepped slowly back to the center of the table. He set the keepsafe down gingerly, and made a silent and steady show of removing two handfuls of coin from its stomach. The coins dripped from his fingers and he drew his words out painfully slow.

  “Until a band of supposed heroes comes by and steals from the duke, and just gives it to the farmer.” Ever so softly, he stepped and leaned out to Gisbourne, dropping the coins in front of him.

  “Now the farmer has it all. He has money and food. And he realizes that he’s been hungry, and that he’d rather eat his vegetables than give them to the duke. Meanwhile, the duke has neither money nor vegetables, so what does he do? He stops paying his taxes. And now, now my friends, now I suddenly care again. Because without the duke’s taxes, there’s no money at all coming in, so there’s no money going out, not to the King and not to the Chancellor and not to anyone at all, and I hate it as much as everyone else.”

  He snapped his foot through the keepsafe to an explosion of coin and noise, and though it rained money nobody dared to move. When the last of the clatter had clicked and rolled and tinkled to a stop, de Lacy descended from the table and sank into his chair to conclude viciously, “It doesn’t matter who the sheriff is, Nottingham is crumbling. So we’re here to discuss practical solutions. I think you’ll find it’s more difficult than digging your feet in the ground.”

  Gisbourne took the reins quickly. “So let us resolve the situation. Eliminate the outlaws.”

  “How, Gisbourne?” De Lacy snapped his teeth. “You and fifty men go marching randomly into the Sherwood hoping to get lucky? You tried that already.”