Nottingham

  “Bind them,” he ordered. “We need them alive.”

  “All of them?”

  “Most of them,” Guy snorted, daring them to try another escape.

  “Aye, Captain.” Eric was drenched in sweat, but did not hesitate in getting to work. Morg lurched to join him, wincing at his arm that was clearly shaking now.

  The calm barely lasted a second. Eric ordered them to lie on their stomachs, and most of them did. But they were screaming, yelling. One of them pushed off the ground and Guy’s men swarmed him. Guy would not have so much as blinked if they’d cut him to pieces, but instead the thief backed down, retreating, back to the ground with the others.

  He heard a panicked breath and realized it wasn’t his own. Devon stood over the thieves, his whole body trembling, he was pointing his sword’s tip out over them loosely. His eyes wide, his muscles shaking, he looked utterly lost but certain he was supposed to do something.

  “Hold!” Guy yelled. Devon was too spooked to know how to control his reactions, he did not have enough training for this. He held his weapon as if it were a snake, and he was more likely to hurt himself than anyone else. “Hold, Devon!”

  He turned and relaxed, his eyes softened and focused on Guy, just as an arrow pierced him square in the heart.

  Guy had to look twice to be sure it was real. Devon’s mouth opened wide in confusion, but no noise came, then his shoulders keeled inward and he fell backward. Guy closed his eyes against the rest of it.

  There was a scream, primal, a noise beyond what any animal could make. Guy opened his eyes to see his men in a panic, bolting for the relative safety of the nearby supply houses. Guy spun around in search of the archer, momentarily blinded by the sun above the supply house behind him. A figure stood there—silhouetted, only a few feet away—bow in hand, drawn taut, aimed directly at Guy’s chest.

  “Robin Hood,” his men gasped.

  “Let them go,” belted a voice, but it was not Robin of Locksley’s. “Or you’ll be dead before you speak.”

  It was the girl, the wild forest girl, Elena. She knelt on the slanted thatched roof, arrow nocked, trained on Guy. At this distance, she would be sure to hit.

  Guy’s hands moved out to his side, wide, hoping to stay her shot. When last she had held his life in her hands, visions of his past had flooded him. Nothing came to him now, no fear or regret, just a cold calm. He made a slow signal down, away, for his men to lower their weapons to the earth. With his right hand he found the tie on his belt, letting his baldric slip off his waist. He didn’t care if she loosed the arrow, he would welcome the relief. But he would not lose another man. Not another Jon Bassett. Not another Devon of York.

  Reginold and Bolt, he prayed. They were still out there. At any moment Elena could be plucked from the roof by Bolt’s crossbow, by Reginold’s arrow. They needed time.

  “We’re leaving,” the girl cried, her voice born of fury. “And you are not going to follow us. John, get Much.” Slowly, just as slowly as Guy himself had moved, the thieves rose. John Little lumbered over to the body of the boy. Much was his name. Little knelt and peeled the boy from the ground, sticky with blood, and carried him like a baby.

  Time passed. Reginold and Bolt did not attack.

  The thieves claimed their wagons, Reginold and Bolt did not attack.

  They stole additional horses, they prepared to leave. Reginold and Bolt did not attack.

  The girl didn’t move, the tip of her arrow trained on Guy’s chest. Her arm should have given out by now.

  “You’ll hang for this, you know,” Guy said softly to her, as it seemed increasingly likely they would actually escape. “I’ll see to it myself. That’s a promise.”

  “You want a promise?” she cried back. “We promise you this. Anyone. Anyone responsible for hurting one of our own will pay with his life. That’s a promise we’ll take to our graves.”

  She vanished, replaced by blistering sunlight, which Guy stared into. Even as she ran backward along the roof, even as she slid down to join the others and the awaiting horses. Guy’s men hurried to Devon’s body, but the man was long dead. They asked if they should pursue, they asked for a plan, they needed leadership, they needed justice. Guy couldn’t give it. He was imagining telling Devon’s wife, Hannah, about what had happened. He was thinking of Devon’s baby daughter, now fatherless.

  They found Bolt at the north road, unconscious, but alive. Reginold was not as lucky. His body was off the side of the path, his pants were down, he was sitting in a pile of his own shit, his forehead was caved in. His legs twitched still. Guy pushed his sword through Reginold’s heart and wept.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  ROGER DE LACY

  NOTTINGHAM CASTLE

  LORD GUY OF GISBOURNE.

  The words hadn’t changed, despite refolding and unfolding the message again twice. So predictable of the parchment, to display the same words every time simply because they were written there. How much more interesting the message would be if it offered a different name each time Roger opened it. How much he would have enjoyed the surprise! What a delight, he could cycle through every name he knew, searching for one even more insulting than Gisbourne’s. It would be quite the promotion for Morg.

  Roger had guessed his replacement would be someone dangerous or reckless, and he was insufferably bored of being right. There was no joy there anymore, just a disappointment in the world for having long lost its creativity. Unquestionable loyalty, no political experience, and a complete madman. Words he had used to describe the new sheriff in York, and increasingly fitting to Guy of Gisbourne. In the last month the captain had abandoned his post to search the forest for hunches, and crippled the city’s trade by shutting down the dockside markets. His ineptitude had forced Roger to authorize the barbaric act of disfiguring every suspected criminal, and his diplomatic skills inspired a lord to publicly defecate into a charity meal. These were the rabid actions of a man in decline. But the captain had always been ambitious, and it seemed he had set other machinations at play behind Roger’s back.

  “It’s my own fault, I’ve been worshipping the wrong gods.” Roger peered over the lip of his wine glass, letting it obscure most of Margery’s face excepting her eyes. He hoped the gesture was as mysterious as it felt. “I’ve prayed at the altar of reason. As it turns out, that’s rather like betting on chickens in a dog fight.”

  “Perhaps you should have tried Catholicism,” Margery offered, pouring herself another glass. “It is a somewhat more standard selection.”

  Roger had asked for the oldest bottle in the cellar, which had proven undrinkable, but settled on another rare vintage that was appropriately inappropriate for the occasion.

  “It’s blood, that’s the real power,” Roger lamented. “Logic is nothing to blood. You know I don’t like praise, but I’ll tell you with little regard to humility that everything I’ve done here as sheriff has been nothing short of brilliant. I’ve restructured everything about the office, changed countless policies in favor of new ones that merit results. But all in ways nobody notices, and certainly doesn’t talk about. No one comments on my clever redistribution of textile trades last year because it’s boring, even to me. But a few thieves rattle some branches, and suddenly I’m seen as incompetent.”

  The worst part was that he had foolishly fought against it. He thought if he could wrangle Lord Oughtibridge and his allies back into obedience, that it might be victory enough to keep his title. He’d retreated into a corner rather than hold his ground. Gisbourne was still out “reclaiming” taxes from innocent people now, and Roger had authorized it. It was wrong, and it made him sick. And for what? For one last futile grasp to stay in power.

  While the damned document in his hands had already been signed.

  Somewhere in the world, an old woman named Marie de Clere was growing even older. She’d made Roger two promises the day he asked for her hand in marriage. “I’ll be as true to you as you are to me,” was the first, which Roger had mistaken
for a pledge rather than a threat. The second, “I’ll never leave France for you,” he mistook for a joke. Two mistaken promises that defined their life since. She had been attractive then, therefore he was attracted to her. He had mistaken that for love. And once upon a time he was unimportant enough that he could marry someone on such irrational grounds as love.

  What he had endured in the many years since was a real love, the kind no poet would ever write about. There were no pretty whispers or flowery words that could describe the love that is forged over a lifetime. Real love is all crag and crevice. It looks different from every angle, each mood casting a different shadow.

  It had been two years since Roger had seen his Marie, since his unusual appointment to this abominable sheriffcy. Marie had been many things, and half of them were infuriating, but the better parts of her had fit well with his own shortcomings. When he struggled with the pettiness and selfishness of mankind, she had a way of bringing him back. Over the last two years without her, those grudges had dragged him down. Had she been here, perhaps he could have found a way to placate his rebellious lords other than by giving in to their demands. Perhaps her absence was the reason he had failed, and so completely at that.

  “You were speaking of blood,” Lady Margery whispered, looking over the lip of her own glass.

  “I was speaking of blood,” he rose, to peer out the sliver window. It was an early evening outside, the sun setting, the Trent sparkling below. In spring there would have been a field of purple crocuses sprawling away to the west, but not now. Still he preferred the view from this room for its singular remarkable quality—that it contained not a single stone or citizen of Nottingham. “It doesn’t matter what I’ve done, all that matters is what is in my veins. Or, more applicably, that which is not. I am the third son of the third daughter in an unnotable family made no richer by its marriages. You’ll notice that none of the words I just said sounded anything like Richard.”

  “Except for richer,” Margery said, and all of Roger’s thoughts scattered and hid in tiny black cracks. He chose to blink. She clarified, “Richer sounds like Richard.”

  “Why would you stop me when I was being clever?”

  “You weren’t being clever.” She shrugged. “If you’d been clever, I wouldn’t have found such an obvious flaw in your cleverness.”

  “My point,” he grumbled, “is that there is nobody important in my family.”

  “I know what your point is,” she spoke over him. “You presume that if you had a deep cousin who married one of Richard’s deep cousins, you wouldn’t have been deposed today. You think that would have protected you from the Chancellor?”

  There was a question behind her question. He hadn’t let her actually read the message. She was prying, trying to find out who was pulling this particular string. He grunted a half affirmation, letting her think the Chancellor had issued the order. It didn’t matter. He had expected this exact letter from the Chancellor, but Prince John had sent one first. They both had the authority. He collapsed the paper again onto the table and placed the wine bottle on top of it.

  “Look at you, Roger, whining about your lot. It’s true, your family is unimportant, but that was the hand you were dealt. You’ve had sixty years to come to terms with it. Sixty years to overcome it, and you failed. The blame is on you.”

  Somewhere, there was a perfect combination of words to counter Margery’s insult. It was there in his mind but the pieces wouldn’t fit together.

  “You and my husband, you’re two sides of the same coin, as they say. He shakes his fist at the world, believing blood and family should dictate who has power, hating any man who finds another way to achieve it. Here you are, a man who rose to be sheriff through talent alone, hating a world that prefers blood and family. Do you play chess?”

  Roger assented with a grumble.

  “Do you ever curse the gods of chess that your bishops only move diagonally? No? You and Waleran both, whenever you lose at politics, you blame the rules of the game.” She stood, lazily, but there was a sharpness to her teeth. “Perhaps you should simply play it better.”

  She meant to exit, and dramatically, but he wouldn’t let her. He locked his eyes upon her as she retreated, and she couldn’t break the gaze.

  “If I were a younger man,” he ground his throat, “I would clear this table and do the most wonderful things to you.”

  “Oh, Roger.” She rolled her eyes. “You forget that I knew you when you were a younger man. And you never did.”

  A breeze whispered in, cooling the sweat on the back of Roger’s neck. “I suppose the rules were unfair then as well.” He thought of Marie, but she was so far away, and there was no point in being good anymore. “But my body still works.”

  Whatever Margery d’Oily’s reaction was, she didn’t leave. “I suppose this is the part where I remind you that we’re both married.”

  “Have you seen a mirror lately? You’re anything but a young girl. Don’t be boring by speaking like one.”

  “My, don’t you know how to make a woman feel beautiful.”

  “You aren’t beautiful. You have had many years to come to terms with that. Would you respect me if I pretended otherwise?”

  “Respect? A deposed sheriff, a victim of his own inaction, whining away his last few hours in office? Respect was never exactly on the table.”

  But still she didn’t leave, nor had either looked away. Roger’s heart was pounding. Beneath the chill, he was on fire.

  “What would you propose?”

  “If you need me to tell you, then don’t bother.” Margery tilted her head. “But for now, I’m the only person who knows about this letter, yes? How long do you think that will last?”

  “Only until tomorrow, no doubt.”

  “Tomorrow.” She relished the word, she held it in her mouth the same way she had held the wine. “I may only be an ignorant woman, but I’m fairly certain there are still a few hours between now and then. Do you know that tonight is All Saints’ Eve? Tomorrow is for saints. Tonight…” she let it linger, and cracked the door to leave.

  He glanced at the window, darkness devouring the sky.

  “Someone once told me that Sheriff Roger de Lacy was nothing short of brilliant. I wonder how much he could accomplish if he didn’t have to worry about keeping his office?” She closed the door behind her, pausing just a breath. “That would be a man I could … respect.”

  Damn it all.

  Roger looked up at the pompous painting of himself, of the man he had been when he came to this office. A man who believed in reason, and its ability to promote peace. Some sort of damned idealist, who would slowly watch his standards slip away like a rider in the fog. Soon the same flamboyant painter who had made this atrocity would be creating the portrait of Sheriff Guy of Gisbourne. He would be effective, certainly, with his lies and alliances. His passion for justice was a fanaticism, and he would exercise it at the expense of every common man that Gisbourne didn’t find personally useful. He held no care for the people, nor the rules that kept them safe.

  Ironically, that care was why Roger had failed. He had spent the last two years slowly trying to change the rules for the better. But Margery was right. There were still a few hours left to outright break them instead.

  * * *

  ARNOLD DE NOTTOIR WAS asleep at his table, which gave Roger a few moments to consider the weight of what he was about to do. The senior tax collector had inherited the maintenance of the records in this room, and was likely the only person who knew how to navigate their numbers. Roger selected a pile of papers that would look most dramatic when scattered off the table, and set them on their way.

  “What is it?” The old man drew out of slumber, wiping a chain of saliva from the corner of his mouth to his shirt. The muscles about his eyes strained to focus on Roger, but he worried at the papers in the air. “What is it?”

  “A most curious thing happened to me,” Roger said, purposefully selecting papers at random from the ta
ble and replacing them elsewhere, “as the reports came in today from Lord Gisbourne’s raids. Perhaps you remember them? Surely you caught a word or two in between naps at our council meeting the other day?”

  “I don’t, I never! I was not asleep! What is the problem? What day did you say it was?”

  “You gave Gisbourne a list of parties with significant tax debts, did you not?”

  The tax collector’s face exploded with recognition. “I did! Yes, I did. I have it here.”

  To Roger’s surprise, Arnold’s fingers darted into a mound of papers on the table and promptly removed a leather tome, which he placed open amongst the rabble and rifled through with unusual dexterity. Roger was reminded that there were many versions of talent, and found in the unlikeliest of places.

  “Let me see it,” Roger said, rounding behind Arnold and dragging his fingers across the ledger.

  “It’s quite extensive,” Arnold said proudly.

  “Quite extensive, is it? Do tell how that differs from normally extensive.” Roger mumbled through a few names which were legible enough, then took the offensive again. “You idiot. This list is an exact duplicate of another. One that I gave your predecessor last year. A list of men who are away at the Crusade and are thus exempt from paying taxes.”

  Arnold’s mouth dropped, and he pored himself over the document. “It cannot be, I’ve been over these names, we went over them twice. It cannot be!”

  “Not only can it be, but far worse, it is. I don’t know what blind picnicking you substitute for work down here, but you have evidently been copying from the wrong list for months.”