Nottingham

  “We have dealt with situations like this before. Sheriff Murdac had no problem—”

  “A fight is the last thing they’ll give you.” De Lacy shook his head in exasperation, his temper high. “They’ll hide, they’ll wait for you to pass, and you’ll never find them. Even if you did, what would we do with them? It would take more money to search them out than they’re even stealing! Hell, I should give them bloody subsidies!”

  William cleared his throat, seeing the opportunity he needed. “If I may, I think this meeting is entirely unnecessary. The robberies have all but stopped in the last week.”

  “Only because merchants won’t travel the roads anymore,” the Lord of Papplewick announced with a nasal sneer. “I wish the same were true for my wife.”

  The other lords groaned in agreement, but William put his hand up to silence them.

  “Have any of them been stopped in the last week?” A few raised eyebrows, but none answered. “As I say, these thieves had already been routed, thanks in particular to the leadership of Sheriff de Lacy. He and Captain Gisbourne focused their attention on the gangs here in Nottingham, which were supporting the thieves in the Sherwood. It took a few weeks, but those efforts have paid off. I think you’ve seen the last of them. But this business about not paying your taxes, frankly it’s exactly what they wanted. Rebellion, uncertainty. You’ve let them play you, even after they’re no longer a threat. The baron has played this properly, and I think we owe him our thanks.”

  There was a quiet in the room, and more than a few raised eyebrows. De Lacy’s eyes pierced him, demanding answers for the unlikely compliments. William dared to hope it would work.

  “Even if this were true,” Gisbourne said, “it wouldn’t matter to the people. These songs going around, the stories of Robin Hood, those will continue. Until we make an arrest, until we can put a public end to this, the people are going to live in fear.”

  “Besides, laying low for a week doesn’t mean they’re gone,” Lord Oughtibridge thundered as he shifted his weight from one unfortunate position to another. “They have the money to turn every town and village in the county against us.”

  William glanced at de Lacy for help, but the man shook his head. It was a good try, his eyes said. But it’s beyond that now. He felt the threads slip out of his hand, like the tether to a boat taken by the current without him.

  “Yes, but who is buying?” Hamon Glover was asking. “Diamond necklaces and earrings don’t do them any good.”

  “Perchance they have more friends than we think,” came the trademaster, rising. “Perchance there are some lords in Nottinghamshire who are financing this terrorism, for their own reasons.” Blame, William realized. He had offered solutions, but they wanted punishments. It wasn’t that he’d missed his mark, it was simply that nobody cared.

  “We know who to talk to.” Gisbourne drew close to de Lacy now, though he could hardly hide his voice from the rest of the table. “We know she’s helping them. She could be the public ending we’re looking for.”

  De Lacy’s face twitched as he measured the suggestion, then responded with all gravity. “I trust I don’t have to remind you who her family is.”

  Gisbourne snorted. “Her family.”

  Marion. She’d made a strong impression upon William at Locksley Castle, before all hell broke loose. But as highly as Robin spoke of her, she was treading in dangerous waters. If she was indeed responsible for turning Robin’s stolen jewelry into actual coin, then she might be the key to stopping it all. William cursed himself for not pursuing that thought earlier.

  “If she were here, I would speak with her,” de Lacy admitted. “But nobody has heard from her for weeks. She keeps a room in Sheffield, which we are watching. But we cannot idle ourselves until she resurfaces. We have the more pressing task of getting our own house in order. We’ve failed so far. I’ve failed so far. I want options on how to proceed.”

  “You don’t know how it is out there,” Papplewick whined. “Half of my people are gone. I already lost half to the war. How am I supposed to live on what’s left? How are any of us? If the Sheriff of Nottingham cannot take care of a problem like this, I don’t know why I came here to ask for help.”

  “Let’s be honest, at least,” Roger replied. “You did not come here to ask for help. You came to ransom it.”

  “Why should we pay,” Oughtibridge huffed, “if we get nothing in return? You’re the High Sheriff. We’ll pay your taxes when you prove you can protect us from this sort of treason!”

  He sloshed his wine about and cursed it when it spilled, along with a few other things about the room he found worthy of his expletives.

  William tried to salvage something from it all. “We need to encourage merchants to use the Sherwood Road again. Gisbourne, couldn’t you assign men as escorts through the forest?”

  Gisbourne scoffed. “Escort duty? We’re the Sheriff’s Guard, not mercenaries for hire.”

  “Your dignity aside,” William licked his lips, “could it be done?”

  “I worry that would do more harm than good,” de Lacy countered. “It gives the outlaws legitimacy. We’re practically telling everyone else we know they’re in there and we can’t find them.”

  “Then let them stay hidden,” William suggested, desperate to find some leverage. “As I said, the robberies are decreasing…”

  “If we can’t find them,” dry and low, Ferrers spoke again, his arms clasped behind his back, “why not draw them out?”

  “Ferrers!” Gisbourne barked, but de Lacy put his hand up.

  “Go on.”

  Ferrers. William focused everything on the young man, his pock-marked weasel face. He rolled his eyes from one person to another at the table, touched his lips with his tongue, and then spoke smooth as silk.

  “The stories they tell about this Robin Hood are quite detailed. They describe him as an expert bowman, and prideful of his skill. This, then, is his weakness. We shall announce a public archery contest, open for any to compete. His pride alone will draw him out. To be certain, we shall offer a large prize he should think to win, and hand out as he does. We won’t let him win, of course. We’ll have our own best archers there as a guaranteed victory. We know what he looks like. When he steps up to compete, we simply capture him—publicly, as you say—along with any of his men foolish enough to come along.”

  Each occupant of the room, perhaps even the room itself, let the idea sink in. As each did, they locked eyes on Roger de Lacy to gauge his reaction, letting him respond first. He drew a long steady breath in through his nose and smiled, clasping his hands. Then he leaned back to Ferrers.

  “I’m sorry. The adults are speaking. Surely you’re missed, at your mother’s teat.”

  William bit his lip to keep from laughing. Ferrers did not so much as bat an eye, even when Gisbourne turned gravely to him and whispered, “You’re an embarrassment, Ferrers. Wait outside.”

  While the doorway was only ten paces away, it was the longest and slowest walk that William had ever witnessed. His footsteps descended into the same forgettable elsewhere the coin had fallen earlier.

  “What an ingenious plan,” Lady d’Oily mocked. “An archery contest.”

  “He is an idiot,” Gisbourne apologized.

  That explained what an earl’s son was doing as a glorified squire. He had no ambition in him like his father, no political machinations. He had not gone to war, he was not even serving in Derby. He’d been shipped as a ward to Nottingham to serve in a position that, even in its simplicity, was too much for him. There was no mystery or conspiracy to his presence, William had overlooked the easy answer. Namely that he was incompetent.

  This was what William was truly combating. This was the quality of character left to rule in the England that the war left behind. This is what Arable had meant when she begged him to stay. Intelligence had become a commodity rarer than coin.

  “Forgive me,” Lady d’Oily spoke again. “I feel I may have become distracted earl
ier, and missed part of the conversation. When you gave that babe his lesson in politics, you spoke of the farmer and the duke. You said the farmer used to trade his food for security. He no longer has security. That is something only a duke can give.” She looked importantly over at the Lord Oughtibridge, who seemed to like it very much. “Might that not be something of which you could … remind them?”

  The same pregnant pause hovered over the room. But with Ferrers’s idiocy preceding her, it had been a perfect opportunity for her to speak. William noted the calculated manner of her speech, how she had put forth her own idea without implying she knew better than the men in the room. That had been quite a gamble, but it seemed to work.

  “It’s a fine point,” said the Baron of Maunsfeld. “These miscreants give out one coin for every two they steal. If we can’t stop the thief, we can certainly stop those that profit from him.”

  “And that ought to be a public enough demonstration,” Oughtibridge belched. “That says to fuck off.”

  William was mortified. It was the opposite of a good idea. They weren’t interested in actual results, they only wanted the illusion of action. He had just discovered he was trying to play chess in a game of checkers, and had no idea how to reorient himself.

  “Indeed,” Roger de Lacy cleared his throat. “Let’s be pragmatic then. Lord Gisbourne, put together your men. Break into groups. Visit the smaller villages, the communes, the forest dwellers. Make them pay. Supplies, foodstuffs, anything of value.”

  William couldn’t believe what he heard. “You’re going to take food directly from the people?”

  “They’ve already been paid for it, William. Your boy Robin has given them the money. Our money. And if the thieves are indeed gone, as you say, this will keep them from coming back again.”

  William stammered to respond. This was not what he intended at all. This wasn’t justice, this wasn’t logical. De Lacy was simply placating his feuding lords. Because he knew how to play the game.

  “This is wrong,” was all he got out, feeling like a child. And they had already kicked one from the room.

  “Just take payment. Keep it civil. Lady d’Oily is right,” de Lacy said, almost proudly. “Robin Hood can’t provide them security. That’s something only we can provide. Let them see what sort of security comes with Robin’s brand of justice, and I’m willing to bet they’ll return to their old ways. Winter is close. They won’t bargain their lives over it.”

  “That’ll be a lot of supplies,” Gisbourne noted. “We’ll need a place to store it all.”

  “Pick someplace friendly, somewhere a bit outside the Sherwood of course, and gather it all there. Then transport it all to the city when you’re done.”

  “I’ll need a lot of men.”

  “Take them all.” De Lacy’s words were perfectly clear, but Gisbourne still seemed uncertain. “You can do this in one day. One strike, that’s what you wanted, yes? All your men on this tomorrow, and the day after you can go back to the fisherman gangs.”

  Gisbourne nodded absently. He was already calculating how to put the plan in motion.

  Arable’s plea rang in William’s ears, to do something, to stop this. But he had nothing. The room had consented, they thought this would make everything even. William had done everything he could to influence them toward reason, and they had chosen the alternative.

  De Lacy clapped his hands once. “No bother waiting then. Lord Oughtibridge?”

  The heavy man bowed his head in agreement, and in as many words the meeting was over. William thought to linger long enough that he might speak with de Lacy once the others had left. But the Sheriff was a statue, grim and unmoving, his eyes burning into a spot on the table where nothing lay. William repositioned obviously within the edge of his vision but still he stared, and William knew his would be an unwelcome company now. The decision had been made, and William could do nothing but wonder what he could have done differently.

  THIRTY-THREE

  ARABLE DE BUREL

  NOTTINGHAM CASTLE

  “NOTTINGHAM IS CRUMBLING,” ROGER had said.

  And later, “Someone else will have to clean it up.”

  The castle was a frenzy, there were a hundred tasks to accomplish to prepare for the morrow’s raids. William’s plans for peace had failed, and it seemed likely that within a week both he and Roger de Lacy would be gone. Arable couldn’t care about packing meals for Guardsmen now, her only thoughts were in the dark abyss of what her life might be a week from now.

  Amongst the other pressing matters, a request came in from Lady d’Oily’s room, which Arable quickly claimed. She climbed the stairs, passing the ghosts of its faceless builders, to the master solar where Lady d’Oily now resided alone. There was nothing else she could think of. William had promised he’d find a way to secure her safety after he was gone, but had yet to define what that meant. And he had not so much as noticed her during the Sheriff’s council. Sadly, she had gotten used to being ignored—but usually not by him.

  She shifted her hold of the quill and inkwell—a gift to the Sheriff from a Spanish dignitary—and knocked on Lady d’Oily’s door. It cracked open with no invitation, and Arable moved into the room as quietly as she could. Lady d’Oily, draped in a dark sleeping gown, gave only her back and a vague gesture toward a small writing desk at the side of the room.

  Say something.

  Arable placed the writing instruments down gingerly, as if she were afraid the desk itself might collapse under their weight. She did not want to leave, but nor did she know how to begin a conversation. She realized she was trembling when Lady d’Oily dismissed her without a glance. Foolish girl, Arable cursed herself, and moved to exit as quickly as her feet could carry her.

  You’re running again.

  Whatever morsel of bravery stopped Arable at the doorway was not hers. She turned to realize Lady d’Oily was staring at her, open mouthed at her insubordination. But she had made up her mind.

  “Excuse me, Lady d’Oily,” Arable barely said, “I was wondering if I may have a word with you.”

  “You’ve stolen quite a few words from me already, girl. Should I let your headmistress know she has a thief, or shall you be on your way?”

  Arable’s lungs seized, but she did not move. Still, she was humbled enough to bury her face downward. “I just wanted to say that I admired what you did earlier. The way you were able to … be heard.”

  Lady d’Oily moved to respond, and bitterly by the look on her face, but the insult seemed to catch in her throat. She bit it back and her demeanor softened, if only a shade. “Being heard is important, and uncommon. For women it is easiest to be heard when you choose not to yell.” She gave Arable a withering look. “You did not come here to compliment me. What is your name, girl?”

  All Arable’s plans unraveled and slipped away. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

  “Out with it.” Lady d’Oily moved to prevent her departure, the weathered lines of her face turned into chasms by the harsh light. “You’ve already called me by my name rather than m’lady, so there’s no point in hiding.”

  Arable dropped her eyes. “Arable, your ladyship.”

  “And you’re not actually a servant here, are you?”

  “I am.” It hurt to say. “But I was not born to … such a life.”

  “The details of which are, I have no doubt, fascinating,” Lady d’Oily said coldly, making it clear how boring she would find Arable’s pitiful history. But her eyes sharpened in curiosity. “I recognize you. You’ve been escapading with Lord Wendenal, haven’t you? It’s quite obvious, and a little embarrassing. My husband says he stumbled upon you two in a hallway.”

  “William is … we knew each other. Some time ago.” It wasn’t an apology.

  “Why then are you knocking on my door this evening rather than his? I cannot imagine this is nearly as exciting for you.”

  Arable summoned up her bravery. “I was wondering if you may have need of another servant in Warwick. I have
many useful skills.” She steeled herself against the well of tears that built behind those words.

  “You want to leave Nottingham?” Lady d’Oily studied her. “What about this William de Wendenal, you want to leave him as well?”

  “He’ll be leaving first. He’s only here for another few days, then he returns to the war. If you’ll have me, I promise I won’t disappoint you.” She felt like she was begging for her life, like she was nothing.

  Lady d’Oily made a sour face. “I suppose I could ask the Sheriff for this favor, but I don’t see—”

  “No need,” Arable interrupted her. “I am not sworn to him. I’m here … by choice.”

  That clearly pricked the lady’s attention. “Arable, you are a terrible servant. You speak and engage yourself with those you should not, and you have neither humility nor obedience. I don’t know what on earth I would do with you, aside from break you.”

  “Even still.” Arable swallowed. “I would go with you.”

  “Where is your family?”

  “I’m the only one.” It was her practiced answer. She didn’t even know if it was true.

  “What of this Wendenal? His father Lord Beneger is not insignificant. Couldn’t you go play servant in Derby and await your beau’s return?”

  Arable bit her lip. “I’m not welcome there.”

  The thin blue skin at the edges of Lady d’Oily’s eyes widened in shock. “Arable, what is your family name?”

  She should have known better. No longer able to hide her fear, “I have no family.”

  “Don’t answer questions I didn’t ask. You have no family, as you say … anymore. But you were a Burel once.”

  Arable felt an icy grip at her heart. She could see Lady d’Oily putting together the pieces. A Burel, a Wendenal, and a Ferrers, all in the same place.

  “You’re not following me, you’re running from something else. I will only consider your offer if you answer me fully and truthfully, starting with your next breath. Why are you running?”