Nottingham

  “Don’t worry, we’ll count everything you took,” Gisbourne said as Elena was shoved to the ground. “It’s important that we know exactly how much you stole from us, as the punishment may depend on it.”

  “You stole it first.” Will spat out dirt. “Maybe we’ll share a cell.”

  “This is property of the Sheriff, boy.” Gisbourne scowled. He could be riled. Elena wondered if that could be useful. “What you see around you, these are taxes, nothing more. Paid a little late, but finally paid. Ah, here’s another one.”

  From the adjacent building, poor Friar Tuck was being led to join the rest of them. There was more red in his beard now, and it wasn’t wine.

  Gisbourne scrutinized the six of them. “Is that it?” he asked, and a smattering of men affirmed. “What about Robin of Locksley? Where’s he?”

  For once, Elena wished that arrogant piece of shit hadn’t left them, simply so he could suffer as well. “He’s not one of us,” she said.

  The captain raised an eyebrow. “Not one of you? Hm.” He walked a few paces around them in a wide circle. “You can keep your secrets if you’d like. He’ll be here soon, I imagine. I have men searching the treeline as we speak.” It was everything Elena could do to keep herself from looking at the tree where Much was hidden. If she did, they’d rout him out in a minute.

  John spoke up. “It’s true, he left us. Seems he didn’t have the stomaching for this life. This is all of us, there’d be no point in us lying about it.”

  He’s trying too hard, Elena thought, but John’s heart was in the right place. Every moment they delayed gave Much time to run. What would I do, in Much’s place? If she’d held watch instead, she wouldn’t run. Something terrible told her that Much might try to do something, thinking to prove himself. But he wouldn’t be foolish enough to attack on his own … something in town, maybe. Or the town itself. Over the fields, there were still people living in the rest of Bernesdale, people who wouldn’t care for the captain’s occupation of their village. People who could be provoked to riot by a young boy screaming for help.

  She could only dare to hope that Much would think the same thing.

  “Well if Robin isn’t with you, then he may actually be smarter than I thought. But there is one person still missing, which you cannot deny.” Gisbourne looked them each in the eye. “His name is Jon Bassett.”

  “Bassett?” Elena was confused. “The gord? We let him go weeks ago.”

  “You let him go.” His scrutiny focused on her. “So you did have him.”

  “We nursed him to health, aye,” John Little said. “Which was something we did not have to do. What did he tell you?”

  The captain stared, and gave a pitiful single laugh. “That’s your story? That you helped him, and that you set him free.”

  “It’s no story,” Arthur tried.

  “Let me try this, then. If Bassett is dead, all of you will hang. Except for whomsoever admits the truth to me, right now.”

  A gaping shock rolled through them, but no one spoke. Gilbert had returned Jon Bassett to Nottingham, he said it went smoothly. Elena stared at the captain, unsure what play he was making. She had never had a real look at the man. Older than she had thought, there was white in his beard and at the edges of his brow, and the crow’s lines around his eyes were deep. His blue doublet was frayed and worn threadbare at its seams, and hung on his frame loosely. It breathed with him. He was not wearing mail beneath it.

  Of course not, she realized, they had dressed light to set this trap. If Much was able to rally even a small group in time … Elena played it out in her head. The guards turning, unsure what was happening, Will and the others swarming, the six of them taking three or four men on one side of the circle, enough to make an opening and run. Steal one blade and sink it in Gisbourne’s gut.

  It was possible. Meanwhile, the captain shifted his jaw about, a hard jaw. “Alright, let’s try it another way. Morg, break one of their arms.”

  There was no time, they needed more time. A guard moved in, a mountain more meat than man, and snatched Friar Tuck from them.

  “No, take me,” John protested, but the huge gord just smiled and swung Tuck like a doll, twisting his arm harshly and awaiting Gisbourne’s command.

  “Let’s try again, now. I wouldn’t recommend you lie more than … twice.” Gisbourne counted Tuck’s arms obviously with his fingers. “Where are the rest of your men, and where is Jon Bassett? Easy questions. It is in your best interest to help us, brother. I’m looking out for my people. You can look out for yours. So tell me truly, where are they?”

  Elena tried to peek out of the corner of her eyes for any sign of commotion from the village.

  The friar looked up, as well as he could, his cheeks hanging low. But his eyes were wet and bright. “As God is my witness, this is everyone. And we sent your man home. If you won’t believe me, then do what you will.”

  He closed his eyes.

  The captain turned to the skinny man in the light cloak. “What do you think?”

  This man was tall and gaunt, and when he spoke it was without inflection, slow and bored. “I can’t think of a single reason why we should believe a word any of them say.”

  “You’re learning quickly,” Gisbourne said lightly. And then, to the brute, “Go on then, break it.”

  “No!” Will shouted, along with Alan.

  “If you won’t believe us anyways then what’s the point?” Arthur roared, but midsentence Tuck’s arm snapped back, impossibly too far, the sickening crack drowned by his gasping scream.

  Rage.

  “He still has another arm!” Gisbourne bit at them instantly, “So who would like to tell me another lie?”

  Elena couldn’t think, she was watching Tuck, dangling from the arm still held by the guard. He had passed out from the pain.

  Gisbourne pulled a long thin knife from his boot, “What should we take after his arms?”

  Elena was yelling something, but she wasn’t sure what, and she couldn’t even hear herself over the noise the others were making, all anger and regret.

  “Where’s Jon Bassett? Where’s Robin of Locksley?” Gisbourne shouted over them as the guard grabbed Tuck’s other arm.

  “There’s one more! There’s only one!” John bellowed.

  No, not Much.

  Gisbourne smiled. “You see how easy the truth is? You could have said as much ten seconds ago and the good friar would be much happier. That’s on you, not me. Very well, where is he?”

  John swallowed, and stood up. Some guards took a step forward, others one back.

  “It’s Robin Hood,” he announced, and the name whispered through the air as the guards repeated it. “He’s watching us from the trees right now.” John threw a fist high in the air. “This is the signal. When I drop my arm, he’ll rain arrows down upon you all.”

  Gisbourne wasn’t impressed. “Put your arm down.”

  “No, don’t!” one guard shouted, twisting around to look at the trees, but the trees were everywhere.

  “He could put an arrow through two of your necks in the blink of an eye,” Alan said.

  “Could be any of you,” Arthur joined.

  “Call him off!” one guard yelled, backing up beneath the overhanging roof of the storehouse. The guards all squirmed, craning their heads. Panicking.

  “They’re lying, you fools!” Gisbourne yelled, even as he retreated to the relative cover of the alley between two buildings. “They’re just trying to catch you off your guard!”

  Now, this is the moment. This is the distraction. Go!

  But Elena hesitated.

  “Death to the Sheriff!” the shout came from behind Gisbourne, from the alley.

  The captain heard it and sprang sideways, wheeling around to meet the attack. His dagger thrust out where an assailant’s stomach would have been, but there was no mob of villagers there, no surprise rescue. There was just the tip of Gisbourne’s knife as it pierced the apple of Much’s neck.

 
; The world stopped.

  The force of the blow lifted Much’s feet off the ground, his legs kicking limply forward, his body suspended on the blade. His eyes were so wide and blue in the half moment before his blond hair flung forward, obscuring his face. A small sword fell from his hands, twirling as his fingers lost their grip. There was nothing else to be seen. Everything else was white, and there was no noise. Much and Gisbourne moved to the ground, one over the other. When Gisbourne pulled the knife out, with it came a thick dark ribbon, just flowing out, just like that. The white moved in on them, fuzzy and numbing, until all Elena could see was the pinpoint of Much’s face, and then nothing, just the white, but it was fading grey.

  She was pummeling a guard’s face with her fist, over and over, her knuckles broken and bloody. Then there was a shoulder in her gut and the ground slipped away. She was airborne and tumbling backward. Something struck her face hard and she was down, but her legs scrambled beneath her, then someone else’s hands wrapped around her head and grabbed her hair, throwing her down. A knee crushed into her jaw. There was copper in her mouth and her face couldn’t feel.

  But the image was still there, of Much frozen in midair, Gisbourne’s knife through his neck like a potato.

  Maybe Much would be fine. Maybe the friar could bandage him. If they got to him quickly, they could bandage it tight enough, but not so tight as to choke him. It would heal except for an impressive scar stretching from his clavicle to his chin, and later the girls would all ask him about it. Much would tell them how he’d been lanced through, and played dead, only to rise and strike down the man who’d tried to murder him, and all the girls would want to kiss his neck.

  Elena’s hands clasped into a single fist and swung through a guard’s face, then her leg swung hard and snapped across the man’s chin when he tried to roll up. She tried to bring her boot down into the man’s teeth, but she was yanked backward and around. By a fool’s roll, she watched a fist miss her by an inch and she flung her own elbow in, finding the soft of the guard’s neck. Then there was steel, the screech of swords, even though there was no noise.

  Time rolled backward. A minute ago, Much was hiding in the alley between the buildings. He must have swiped the sword from another storehouse, and was building up his bravery to make an attack. He made it softly and carefully, and the captain had his back to him, with no one between them. Much ran forward, screaming, and he plunged his sword into the captain’s back. Gisbourne fell, and the guards dropped everything and scattered for the trees, where a hundred hidden archers dropped them one by one, and Elena and John hoisted Much above their shoulders and shouted his name.

  Elena was ducking under the reach of a long sword, and as she came up her knee found the belly of its wielder. There was a rock in her hand, and it smashed the man’s temple. Nearby, Will had found a sword, but was being beaten backward. Elena threw herself on his assailant’s arm, only to find herself leaping to the side as the thrusts came her way now. Something smashed against her face hard, too hard. Her vision blanked out, and it was only the pain that let her know she had not died. She was sliding back in the dirt and dust, her feet giving way, but when she could see again it was Will in front of her, standing over her, wielding John’s massive quarterstaff. Gisbourne was there, still over Much’s body, pointing at Will and yelling. Then the two of them flew at each other.

  She was on the ground again, in the ring, and the guards were worrying about Robin Hood. She had seen the chance, the same opportunity Much had taken, but she had hesitated. This time she didn’t. She rose and took the legs out from under a guard, and that was all it took to make a distraction. Much cut the captain in two and retreated. The rest of them rose, while a mob of villagers took to the courtyard, flooding it. Will vaulted off a quarterstaff and bludgeoned Gisbourne’s teeth in …

  Gisbourne swung slowly, and Will easily met him with the center of the staff, again and again, driving forward or was he being driven back? until he snapped the staff around to the side of the captain’s head, then hooked the murderer around the neck, pulling him forward. Elena tried to rise, to help him, but her body would not obey. If Will had his twins he could have ended his fight, but another guard came at him and he had to abandon Gisbourne. He threw the staff at the new guard with both hands. The man caught it in front of him and Will smashed his nose in with a fist. Grabbing the staff again, Will spun and whipped the man to the ground where he punched his face a second and third time until the man went limp and released his hold.

  Much popped out of the barrel on the cart, a few hours ago, smiling and laughing, and John took him in his giant arms and held him, and John was so big and Much was so small that you couldn’t even see him in there, and John could protect him from anything. Much asked, “What do you want me to do?” and John told him, “I want you to go home,” and this time he did.

  There were four guards around Will, and one slashed in high and found only splinters in the staff, but another came from the side, and Will blocked it too late. The sword slapped against his forearm, and he couldn’t avoid another. Then a boot was in Will’s back and he went down, the staff rolling away from him. Elena screamed for him, only to find she was already screaming.

  It was hours ago now, when she told Much they were leaving, when she mentioned the name of Bernesdale, when he drifted off into his own thoughts. “You should come,” she said, “hide in a barrel until it’s too late to turn back.” She had hoped he would confront his past, she had hoped to give him a victory.

  “Don’t go!” she screamed this time, but the memory wouldn’t change.

  It was over. John Little was on his back with his hands in the air, Alan and Arthur on their knees with their heads down, Tuck was curled in a ball clutching his arm. Much’s lifeless pile was still where it had fallen. A dozen guards surrounded them. Four, then five stood over Will, their swords leveled low, and Will had nothing. There was a hole in their circle. She could run now if she wanted to, but she’d be leaving Will to the mercy of what came next.

  Elena closed her eyes and tried to think of the first time she’d seen him but the memory was black.

  She ran.

  THIRTY-SIX

  GUY OF GISBOURNE

  BERNESDALE

  IT WAS WRONG THAT the sun could rise. It was wrong that light should shine on this. It should be kept in the dark, the world should swallow it up rather than let anyone see what happened here. Guy’s forearm was just a muscle, a chunk of meat stretched over his skeleton, and he despised it. It quivered, and every twitch reminded him of his grip on the knife, how easily it held the blade and the entirety of the boy’s body. He did not need to look to know exactly where the boy lay. He could feel it in his soul. It was a tiny hole that had opened up and broken everything.

  God damn you, Guy breathed, because they were the only true words left. God damn all of you.

  He heard his own voice say the words. There was blood on his lips, still warm, but he would not wipe it away. He didn’t know if the blood was his or the boy’s. A chill rippled through his spine that he hoped would never end. He never wanted to be over this. He never wanted to be better.

  What do we do, Captain? someone asked, and Guy’s mouth answered on its own. He did not know what he said. He did not know how he was still standing, he did not know how a man could be expected to do anything now. They had brought a child. The horror was too much to bear. They had trained a child to kill.

  “You brought this on yourselves.” Those words were his, his eyes were focused on the group of thieves in front of him. “There’s not hell enough for you.”

  Their sudden attack had accomplished nothing. Guy’s men had routed them back, recaptured them precisely where they were before, gathered in the dirt. Nothing had changed save for the body of the boy. No reason for blood, no reason for death. Guy tried to count his own men, praying that none had been seriously injured. Reginold and Bolt were both still absent, though they had been positioned at the north road. Morg clutched the
biceps of his right arm, blood seeping through his fingers and dripping down to his elbow. Some of the Common boys had split lips and bloody noses. For no reason. For these outlaws to kick at the world one last time. That was all they wanted, and it sickened him. Their only goal was to hurt.

  Devon of York stood, pale as a statue, eyes locked on the child. Whatever innocence had once defined his features was gone now, replaced with this new gruesome reality. Guy wondered if Devon had known the boy, back before he had escaped their company. It was too terrible to think upon.

  His mind raced to wonder if he could have done anything differently. It had happened before he even knew it. He never even saw the child. He only felt his weight on the blade, and had felt nothing since.

  The years crawled up from his gut, old tracks in his heart he had long closed off. His first wife Loren, the one he’d loved. Their children. Henry, his wide toothy grin, his smile that burst from nowhere and lit up the world. His sickness. His body. The empty weight of it in Guy’s hands.

  He heaved and vomited—his throat burned as fiercely as his eyes. It tore him back to the present, to the sounds of shouting, of curses.

  What do we do, Guy? Eric of Felley’s face, bringing him back. His beard was matted with blood, his missing teeth bled fresh.

  “The girl got away,” he was saying. “She might be going for reinforcements. We’d best handle this group now.”

  The ground bobbed, which meant Guy was nodding.

  “How do you want them, Captain?”

  They’d trained a child to kill. They’d used him as a distraction. A quick death wasn’t good enough. But it wasn’t always about what they deserved, Guy managed to remember. There was a fairer world once, where these things didn’t happen, where Murdac was still sheriff. He had to find his way back there. There was more at stake now than dealing justice to a handful of criminals. If he killed them here without any witnesses, there was no telling how their sympathizers would twist the story. There would have to be a trial, and a public display, or the truth would never get out.