Nottingham

  “I don’t think I’ll be safe here,” Arable’s words came with a wash of relief she had not expected. “I came here two years ago because I knew Baron de Lacy was a good man, who would take care of me, but I don’t think he’ll be here much longer.”

  “You’re referring to rumors, which I have heard, and already discounted.”

  “Not rumors,” Arable returned. “Roger is prepared to leave.”

  “Why do you say that? Speak now.”

  “He told me so.” She shrugged. “He said something about his grandmother’s lands, and that he ‘wouldn’t miss Nottingham one bit.’”

  “This happened recently?”

  “This happened ten minutes ago.”

  The lady’s eyes widened again. A shrill whistle escaped her cracked lips. Then she stood straighter, which appeared to take some effort, to scrutinize Arable.

  “You’re not without some cunning. Your desire to attach yourself to me and my family is wise. My father is the Earl of Hereford. He married me to the Earl of Warwickshire, he married my sister Maud to the Earl of Oxfordshire, he married my sister Magdalena to the Earl of Huntingdonshire. My family is strong, and you would certainly be safe with us. But you’re only asking for my help because your current protector has found himself in a momentary decline. Firstly, I would never bet against Roger. And secondly, you’ve shown me your loyalty only lasts so long as it suits you, which is not loyalty at all.”

  Arable didn’t know what to say. This had been anything but easy for her.

  “But Roger needs friends, and it sounds like you’re one of them. So if he is forced to leave, then yes, you may join me.”

  Arable hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until it burst forth from her in a tearful fit. “Thank you, my lady,” she squeaked.

  “You can call me Margery.” She softened. “But only in private, of course. I think you’ll learn a thing or two from me. Roger made an unfortunate decision this evening—these raids—because he thought he had no other options.”

  “I thought—” Arable sputtered, unsure if she had interrupted the lady’s thought. “Weren’t you the one to suggest these raids?”

  “They were the only solution that would let him save face,” she said with some gravity, “but I wish there had been another. Roger put himself in a box, I just pointed the way out. Men are difficult things, you know. A decade of marriage to Waleran has taught me how to challenge a man without insulting him, how to lure out his desire to explain himself without making him think his words are wasted upon a woman. This world is tenfold more difficult for us women than for men, but neither are we prone to absolutism the way they are.”

  “Absolutism?”

  “They prefer to find enemies,” she explained. “They blame their troubles on wicked men and cruel gods rather than their own shortcomings. They’d sooner believe that some arcane black magic has been aimed against them than to realize they have their own faults. They think their successes are proof that God smiles upon them, or that they have magic of their own. But there’s no magic in the real world, Arable. Magic is cheating. Reality demands that we defeat our enemies by being craftier than them, to battle our dragons with policy and prose. Roger has been trying to do this alone, for too long.”

  “What can we do?”

  “We can remind him he’s not alone. We can push him when he needs to be pushed. And look for the opportunities he doesn’t see. These raids are no kindness, but they are worth it to keep Roger in power for a bit longer. As you are very well aware, barons and earls can be contemptuous, selfish things. Nottinghamshire has no idea how lucky it is to have Roger de Lacy at its head. His grandmother’s lands will simply have to wait.”

  Her cheeks hurt when she smiled, but Arable couldn’t stop herself.

  “Both you and Roger, Arable, have been losing for years. Not because the world is set against you or because your enemies have divine power, but simply because you have not been crafty enough to outwit them.”

  Margery tapped the table with the quill.

  “We’re going to change that.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  MARION FITZWALTER

  THE OAK CAMP

  THE QUALITY OF DINNER had vastly improved. What once was meager rabbit stew for every meal had been upgraded to fresh venison, salted potatoes with garlic, and flasks of wine that could compare favorably to any nobleman’s cellar. There were stores to spare, though not yet enough to make the winter seem less daunting. For the moment, however, Marion let herself enjoy their accomplishments. Life was not so comfortable as it was when Locksley Castle thrived, but only because they now had a bounty on their head. Otherwise, the company was joyful. For a week they had focused on themselves, building up their campsite, raising real structures that could survive the winter. They ate a well-tended meal around a healthy fire, and enjoyed conversation and frivolity again. It was a luxury, Marion recognized, for life to be comfortable enough that laughter was an option.

  Some way or another, tonight’s dinner turned into a competition of macabre theatrics, as they shared dark stories about Gilbert with the White Hand.

  “I see him talking to himself at night sometimes.” Arthur layered his voice thick with dread, ripping the meat off a bone with his hands and sucking on his fingers. “Talking to his dead family. You haven’t heard his story? He was a tanner in Nottingham, spent all his money on whores. When the tax collectors came, he just barely had enough to pay for himself. But not for his sister, or his wife, or his son, or his daughter, and especially not for his horse.”

  With every name Arthur grew quieter, and the crowd leaned in to enjoy the tale. It certainly wasn’t Marion’s preferred subject, but there was no point in spoiling their fun. Elena tried to put her hands over Much’s ears, but he wiggled free.

  Arthur continued. “So rather than let himself be arrested, he killed every one of them. He strangled his children each with one hand as his wife watched, then he tied his wife and sister to a table and set his shop on fire.”

  “Arthur!” Marion scolded him. “In front of Much?”

  “It’s just a story,” the boy scolded her back.

  “His shop burned down,” Arthur continued, “which meant he didn’t have to pay his piece of ten on it, so the tax collectors let him keep his horse. He rode out of Nottingham … but the souls of his family wouldn’t let him go. They grabbed his hand and tried to pull him into death, and their touch withered it down to naught but bone. That’s why he keeps the glove on, so nobody knows that he’s half-dead already.”

  Some of the crowd laughed, others pretended not to be disturbed. Marion simply rolled her eyes. Gilbert was a haunted man, no doubt, but by no supernatural means. His nature probably hid little more than unlucky choices and a lonely soul. But as much as she hated to admit it, there was value in turning him into a ghost story. The caricature of a spectral assassin might scare off their enemies, just as the myth of a benevolent Robin Hood had brought them allies.

  Marion eyed Robin, who seemed to sense her thoughts and winked back. What Lord Walter might think, if he heard his son had become the very figure of charity. Yet there was an undeniable change in Robin of late. He had eased out of his recalcitrance and enjoyed himself, at times behaving much like his new namesake. The thing that Lord Walter had started, whatever it was, was still alive here. It was taking a shape Marion had not expected.

  Part of it unfolded before her. They could only delight in scary stories now because their days were no longer defined by fear. Life was still difficult, and they had ample concerns to worry about, but there was safety behind it all. It was the same at Locksley Castle. They did not live in fear of their lord, and Walter did not use fear to keep them in line. Their relationships were described in degrees of gratitude.

  It was a better way to live, Marion knew it. Robin’s tactics had simply found another path to it.

  He winked at her again, larger and more obvious, and she had to laugh.

  “We all have our
reasons for coming here,” John Little said with some weight, still talking about Gilbert. “And they’re not all pretty.”

  “He’s not like that,” Much said matter-of-factly, plunging a small potato in his mouth.

  Marion grabbed his chin and made him look up at her. “Have you been talking with Gilbert again, Much?” He hesitated and shook his head no, then opened his mouth for her to see the mush of his potato.

  “So he does talk, then?” Robin asked, half-joking. “I think Gilbert’s only stared at me so far.”

  “John,” asked David, “I thought you said Gilbert never had no family?”

  “I did say that,” John nodded, “but that’s just instinct. He has the look of a man who never had none. I don’t believe Arthur’s story for a moment. Even still, Lord Walter told me once that Gilbert had a notch or two on his belt, so to say. Didn’t incline who they were, or how many.”

  “I heard it was many,” Will Scarlet said in a dramatically raspy voice. “I heard he only takes his glove off when he kills someone. You ever notice how he don’t use it when he eats? He saves that hand for death. It’s stained deep with the blood of his victims, and he never washes it. Killin’ is sacred to him, and he won’t let his hand do anything else, to keep his act pure. Nobody’s ever seen him take the glove off…” Will snarled, “… except for those that are about to die!”

  He jumped out and grabbed Elena, who shrieked and slapped him on the chest. The story upset Much, who stood and ran from the fire in a pout, forcing Will and Elena to chase after him with apologies.

  “It’s just a story,” Arthur complained, as if Much had no reason to leave.

  Marion eyed the fire. “Stories have power.” She was counting on it. There was more at play than survival now, a goal greater than simply weathering the storm. She had seen hope become as infectious as fear. They had started a ripple that was building in strength, though she knew not what they were destined to crash into. “Haven’t you heard the story about the Robin Hood?”

  Robin laughed. “I’m willing to bet that one will come back to bite me.”

  “How so?” asked the friar. “Robin Hood’s become something for the people to believe in. Good for the people, good for the heart. Those are the best types of stories.”

  “Even if they’re false?” Robin asked glibly.

  “Especially if they’re false,” Tuck hit back, a smug charm in his eye. “I know that better than most people.”

  “Ah,” Robin rolled the sound around his mouth. “That’s been something I’ve meant to ask you. What exactly does the Church think of what you’re doing here?”

  “The Church?” Friar Tuck threw his hands up in disgust. “Honestly, I haven’t the faintest. I’m sure they’d say any number of things about it, and some would be true, and some wouldn’t, and all of it would mean we hadn’t given them enough tithe last week. If I cared what the Church said about the things we do, I wouldn’t be out here doing them.” He chuckled, massaging the snags of his beard. “I suppose the Church would have us stay true to the laws of the land, but the Lord would have us stay true to our hearts. In better times, aye, those would be the same. Our job is to do our best to keep the two in harmony.”

  “Try to find a middle ground?” Marion suggested.

  “Not quite. A harmony is two voices, both singing their own part. They support each other, dance around each other, and neither sounds good without the other. So we use our heart to weigh how we follow the law, and hopefully we make the laws to weigh how we follow our heart. That’s harmony.”

  Again, Marion marveled at the optimism that had become their group. The fact that nobody laughed at Tuck’s notion that they could “make the laws” spoke to it. This is what was possible when people were no longer afraid for their lives all the time—instead of looking behind their backs, they could look to the future.

  “What if you’re completely breaking the law?” Robin asked. “I only ask because it happens to be that you are completely breaking the law.”

  “Well, as every choir boy knows,” the friar smiled, “if you cannot harmonize, then just hope nobody hears you singing.”

  Marion sipped from the hot cider Tuck had made for them. Again, Robin caught her eye. She’d be a liar to say she had not enjoyed his company, though she could certainly do without the antics the others used to give her and Robin privacy together. Men always seemed to think every relationship with a woman, even a friendship, was defined entirely in terms of sexual congress. Nothing of the sort would be taking place between her and Robin. He would be gone in a few more days, and Marion intended on keeping him productive for every second of it.

  It was an easy and obvious reaction to grow fond for someone under these circumstances. They had a common goal, shared a romantic past, and for the most part they were isolated from the rest of the world. Only twice in the last month had she left the Oak Camp to sell their contraband in Huntingdon. The rest of the time was filled with moonlit skies and the camaraderie that came with simple adventures. Finding herself drawn to Robin again wasn’t a magical intimacy so much as an obvious prediction. She refused to succumb to such uncreative prophecy.

  When he gave an exaggerated wink for the third time, she had to actively grapple all her excuses back into place.

  “So you’re worried you’ll get in trouble?” Arthur asked after a bit.

  Robin shrugged. “No. William would vouch for me if it comes down to it.”

  “You mean,” Arthur wavered, “if it came down to … us all being arrested?”

  Robin hissed in some air and held it. “Well, if I fail and get you all arrested, you’re not exactly going to want me around. Besides, you’re all much better outlaws than I am. When we see the Sheriff’s Guard, you all instinctively hide. Whereas I think, Oh good, they’re here to help. You all have legitimate reasons to hate them. I can only pretend. It won’t be the first time I’ve pretended to be something I wasn’t.”

  “That’s true for everyone, I imagine,” Tuck mused.

  “Well, I made a career out of it.”

  Another pause passed, but Tuck cleared his throat. “I’m been thinking of asking you about that. You say that you would dress up as the king, and give orders as the king, so that if an enemy were to attack they would kill the wrong man, yes?”

  Robin nodded.

  “You know what I find interesting about that?” Tuck asked. “It’s a clever ruse, designed to trick your enemy. But I’m willing to bet it worked on your friends as well. Well, not friends, I suppose, but the men he commanded.”

  Robin bobbed his head. “It did. In the armor, there was no way to tell I wasn’t the king.”

  “Ah, but weren’t you? What’s the difference between being dressed as the king, if you are the king in the ways that matter? People don’t know the face, they simply know what he represents. You tell someone, Look there, do you see that crown? That’s the King, and they’ll believe you. It’s not the man who’s important, it’s the crown, and the illusion of power. The armor and bodyguards, they help tell a story, you see? The story that the man is important.”

  Robin took his time to think on that. “King Robin.”

  “Robin Hood,” Marion added importantly, but he didn’t respond. The fire lit his face softly, his features transformed into the young, hopeful man he’d once been.

  * * *

  THEY WERE NOT QUITE finished with dinner when a bell rang at the edge of camp, and a collective pause followed as they listened for a response. When the second bell came, indicating an outsider, they flew into commotion. Some shoveled the last bits of food into their mouths, while others scrambled to arm themselves. Marion watched Elena pounce down to look Much in the face.

  “What do we do when there are strangers?” she whispered, prompting Much to run with determination.

  As Marion moved away from the fire, reaching out to grab Robin’s arm, she realized how cold the night air had become.

  It was Alan-a-Dale’s voice that called out t
o them. Once he was visible, approaching the camp’s glow, Marion could see he was accompanied by a stout figure lumbering at his side. Their momentary panic subsided as Alan called for them to gather, aiming straight for the campfire. The stranger boasted a giant beard and an ugly patch of fur thrown over his shoulders. Marion noticed he carried no weapons, and thought she recognized him though she could not say from where.

  “He was wandering through the forest all on his own,” Alan explained, reaching out for the fire’s warmth. “Screaming for Robin Hood.”

  “Robin Hood, thank you!” came the stranger, his voice thick but desperate. “Thank you! I’ve been looking for hours.”

  “And you brought him here?” Will Scarlet gasped. His hands remained at his back, fingering the handles of the two idiotic knives he always kept strapped there. The twins, as he called them, never left his belt even when there was absolutely no call to be armed. The others simply amassed around the visitor in a normal display of curiosity.

  “He insisted on talking to us,” Alan continued, finding Robin. “I couldn’t turn him back, who knows who may have found him yelling like that?”

  “We shouldn’t let just anyone know where our camp is,” Robin said.

  “I know. But just listen to him. He’s got something you should all hear.”

  “Do you remember me?” the visitor asked eagerly, though John Little’s massive arm kept the man from getting too close to Robin. “It’s me, it’s Stutely.”

  Marion at last recognized the man, more by his smell than name, from one of their visits to the villages.

  “Will Stutely from Thorney, we talked about—”

  “Just tell him what you told me.” Alan guided the man to a stump to sit, and he obeyed.

  “It’s the Sheriff,” Will Stutely said to his hands. “He raided our village. A dozen guards, maybe twenty, they rode into town and just started taking everything. Stealing right out of our homes, everything you gave us and then some.”