Nottingham

  Or worse, he had overlooked something. Someone else knew … and Gisbourne was marching to take his throne. Whatever it was, Roger was suddenly thankful for the two guards he had with him, no matter how small or untrained they were.

  They pulled their hoods back from their faces. The first was so young, and he looked downright terrified.

  The second was a girl.

  “Baron Roger de Lacy,” the first could barely speak.

  “The Sheriff of Nottingham,” the girl finished.

  “What is it?” Roger asked again.

  “That was an interesting thing you said earlier,” the girl’s voice wavered, “about being to blame for everything that has happened lately.”

  “What is going on outside?” Roger insisted, but it was the wrong question. There’s nothing going on outside. “Who are you?”

  The boy’s face turned to steel. “You wouldn’t know if we told you.”

  “You’re from the prisons, aren’t you?” Roger looked them over, but neither responded. “I don’t know what you think you know, but at this moment I am—”

  “What we know,” the boy said, as his face was fighting tears, “is that a child was murdered by your actions today.”

  “What?”

  “And I promised that the man responsible,” the girl took a step closer, “would pay with his life.”

  With one hand she brushed a long braid from her face, and with the other she pulled a short knife from her belt.

  “Slow down,” Roger barked. “Who was killed? I don’t have the first clue what you’re talking about.”

  “You can lie to us all you want,” came the boy, “you’re going to pay all the same.”

  He had a knife, too. Roger had rounded to the back of the table. The room was too small.

  “Wait. Just wait.” He cleared his throat. “Listen to me. I need you to tell me what you’re talking about. What you’re thinking of doing here, it would accomplish nothing. I understand you want to blame someone, but killing me, really? Think this through. If you were to kill me, there’s simply going to be another sheriff, and he—”

  “Then we’ll kill him, too.”

  The boy moved, quickly, he was too close, and then Roger’s vision went white. He smashed the palm of his hand at the boy, who reeled backward.

  What the hell is wrong with them? Roger wanted to scream, but his throat was tight and his clothes were drenched with sweat. The boy took a step back, and the knife in his hand was dark. He had been too close, did he hurt himself?

  But no, Roger’s clothes were sopping, and he looked down and saw the blood soaking his robes by his own stomach, dripping on the floor between his feet. No, he thought, he needed this week. A wound like this, he could be bedridden for a month. He didn’t have that time, he had too many things to do.

  The girl must have been behind him. He felt her blade slip between his ribs.

  His arms went numb, they were cold, my God they were so cold, and he was on the table, his limbs smashed its contents across the room. Except for a letter under his face that read Lord Guy of Gisbourne.

  Lord Guy of Gisbourne.

  He hadn’t had a chance to burn it.

  He had to burn it now. No. He had to leave, he had to get over the table and to the door. No, he had to talk to them. They had to understand. This wasn’t an option, it simply wasn’t. His fingers weren’t working, he was staring at them, but they wouldn’t move. With his elbow he shoved himself upright, stumbling back into the wall. He couldn’t believe how cold he was, it came from within him, like nothing he had ever felt before.

  The boy was breathing heavily, the girl had to hold her knife with both hands. These two weren’t killers. They were only playing at it.

  “You’re children,” he said, only realizing how much that meant as he said it.

  Every color burned brighter than it had ever been. The boy was there again, the girl, too, and Roger told his arms to stop them, but they just hung at his sides as the knives bit into his chest again, once, twice, three times each, and the wall behind him disappeared.

  He had so much to do, he would be late to talk to Lord Oughtibridge. For some reason he remembered Arable telling him he was a good man, and her poor face. Someone had hurt her and he’d never asked more, he had neglected to take care of her. Something slipped out of him, and then he drifted into dark.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  WILLIAM DE WENDENAL

  LOCKSLEY CASTLE

  WILLIAM HAD ONLY BEEN here once, and briefly at that. Though the sun was yet to set, the full moon hovered over Locksley Castle, waiting. “Peace or no peace,” William had told Robin as they parted, “by then we’ll have done what we can.” Simple words then, that carried so much weight now.

  Locksley Castle looked beaten. If stones could look soft, this castle was a wet rag flung against a craggy hill. A month ago he had only seen it after darkfall, but this time there was light enough for him to take it in. This barren stone corpse. It must have been a terrible homecoming, and his heart hurt for Robin. As much as his old friend claimed to have left his father behind, William could tell there was a softer truth there, one too tender to probe.

  William clicked his tongue and pulled the horses back, sliding from the saddle to the road. He memorized a clump of trees and the crook of the path, leading the horses into the thick to the west. He’d brought one for Robin, too. William rewarded each horse with one of the apples Arable had packed.

  “Peace or no peace.” It almost made him laugh, that they had thought peace was an option. We wanted to send a peace offer, and they sent assassins. He’d been as blind as Roger to believe that, given the option, all people wanted peace. That was a dream that had died with de Lacy.

  * * *

  IT COULDN’T HAVE BEEN more than ten minutes after he and Arable left the baron in his office when Nottingham Castle tore itself apart. Shouts are different than screams, and these were screams that ripped through its halls. They had just broken into Gisbourne’s private quarters, desperately searching for a letter that wasn’t there, and they thought they had been caught. In the helpless depth of one minute, they made promises to each other, wistful wishes in what they feared were their final moments together.

  But even as they whispered those hopes, Roger was already dead. Their fears simply had to catch up with reality. He lay gutted in his own blood, two stories above, murdered by two petty thieves whose vision extended as far as I want this, so give it to me.

  The castle had been nearly deserted for the supply runs. Still, there were a dozen or so leftover Guardsmen swarming the dining hall, incensed in bloodlust—in the middle of their mob were the two murderers. But William didn’t know who they were or what had happened, and he called on the men to stop, of all awful things. If he’d known then whose blood soaked their shirts, he might have killed them both on the spot himself. He might have let the crowd take them and rip their limbs from their bodies and throw their heads from the battlements.

  But he hadn’t. He’d raised his blade and demanded explanation, and the men obeyed. He recognized the thieves. The boy was the same arrogant cutpurse who came upon him and Robin in the Sherwood a month ago, and the girl had started the skirmish at Locksley Castle. She’d been all iron then, but now she was crying, wailing, from the bottom of her soul. The Guardsmen were calling them murderers, and William defended them, by God, he defended them. Because he still believed in peace then, back when the world made sense.

  It was FitzSimon, the big furry quartermaster, who eased his way through the crowd and gently pushed William’s sword down.

  “It’s de Lacy,” the Scot whispered, his whiskers prickling William’s face. “They killed de Lacy.”

  * * *

  THERE WAS NOISE IN the woods to his left, stirring William from his heavy thoughts. He lowered to the ground. Two deer broke and skipped away, but William waited another minute to be certain he was the one that spooked them. Once he was convinced, he moved again, cautiously, low a
nd quickly, toward the rubble that once was Robin’s life.

  Thieves Den. The grisly possibilities of what awaited him clouded William’s mind. Either Robin was waiting for him here, or his body would be hanging over its entrance. The outlaws could be watching him even now, ready to shower William with arrows before remembering to threaten him first. Thanks to Lady Marion Fitzwalter, he knew that Robin had fortunately left the outlaws before the assassination. But they could have easily tracked him here, and there seemed to be no level of violence they were unwilling to cross.

  Lady Marion. She had arrived in Nottingham yesterday, seemingly oblivious to the capital shitstorm. Had Gisbourne learned of her arrival, he would have thrown her in a dungeon and interrogated her as an accomplice to de Lacy’s murder. But she had only come to Nottingham for Robin’s sake, to let them know he was no longer part of the outlaws, that Robin Hood was gone. It was their mutual fondness for Robin, and a curious instinct that she still had much to offer, that prompted William to protect her. William convinced her to leave—hopefully to the safety of Sheffield, for if she foolishly rejoined the outlaws she would share their fate.

  There was a low greystone wall enclosing the courtyard that had once been the manor’s main entrance, now just an open black wound in the crumbling façade. The remaining light was at his back, and still no sign of life. William moved closer, finding patterns in the dirt, but he could not tell how old they were. Then the slightest tink of metal on stone came from above, and he pressed himself against the wall.

  After a few pregnant seconds the noise repeated, and at the edge of sound there was movement. William crept low and away until he could spy at the openings of the manor’s second story, and was immediately rewarded with a flicker of light. Faint, perhaps a lantern or candle, and another tink that came from a window on the west side. Could be a scavenger, could be Robin. Or could be a trap.

  He discreetly slipped the knife from his boot out and buried the blade into the dirt. An old habit, in case they disarmed him within. Its handle mingled with the long strands of grass, and he alone would know it was there if he needed it. He pursed his lips and let out a low warbling whistle, a bird call they used in Richard’s private guard as identification.

  No answer came.

  A massive hole yawned above the entranceway, a second-story room exposed from floor to ceiling, and the collapsed stonework offered an easy climb up. He shifted his baldric to keep his sword from tapping stone as he scaled the wall, tested out his footholds, and clutched at charred holes barren of their timber. Within a few seconds, William hoisted his legs up into a bedroom, recognizable only by the rotten remnants of a bed askew in its middle, crushed under the slag and debris of the ceiling.

  He waited, staring into the darkest corner, letting his eyes adjust. He half expected to hear enemies inside trying to compensate for his unexpected climb. Instead there was the noise again, lazy and brief, a scraping sound, closer. He pulled his sword with one hand and side-stepped out of the bedroom into a black hall. A lone pool of light revealed a door down and to the left.

  For some reason, as he crept closer, he wondered if this is what Will Scarlet had felt, sneaking down the hallway toward Roger de Lacy’s office.

  Step by step the sounds grew. More shuffling, the creak of wood, a brushing noise. When they came to an abrupt end, William froze, one foot in midstep, hovering over his next footfall. He opened his mouth to breathe out, and cursed the imperceptible stretching sound of his leather belt.

  Then, low and warbling, a whistle came from the room.

  William answered with the same call.

  “William?”

  The door opened drastically, shattering the pause, and Robin was there with a small metal lantern and that smile.

  “Robin. Thank God you’re here.” William grabbed him, pounding his back with his fists, laughing. Just like that, and suddenly the large dark castle was safety. “Are you alone?”

  “What? Yes,” Robin answered. “I’ve been here a few days. I was starting to think you wouldn’t show. Last night’s moon looked full to me.”

  “A few days? How many? Two days? Three?”

  “Last night was my fourth night here. I…” he raised his finger, moving back inside, “… am ready to leave. Glad I didn’t have to go and rescue you.”

  William laughed, having just climbed the outside of the castle to perform a rescue of his own.

  “Come here, take a look at this.”

  There were more candles lit inside the room, which seemed unremarkable. More rubble, burnt leftovers of furniture, an open and scorched chest on the floor, all the makings of the rather ordinary.

  “This was all mine,” Robin said, tapping his fingers on various bits. “Obviously I kept it in better condition, but this was my room.”

  “It’s a good thing you weren’t here when this happened,” William offered, not sure what else to say.

  “No, that’s not what I mean. This was my room, from the day I left. It hasn’t changed. He kept my room the same as when I left it.” He dragged his fingers through the ash in the chest and let it trail off. Then he turned and grabbed something from the corner. “Look at this.”

  At first William couldn’t tell what it was, a twisted mess of corners. It was a wreath, made entirely of metal, with delicate craftsmanship. A circlet of metal leaves that wove around each other, and underneath the age and soot were golds and reds and browns.

  “I found it in a pile of ash, practically buried in the corner,” Robin said. “He had this made for me when I was young. He told me it was about making mistakes. Or something.”

  “Mistakes?” William asked, inspecting it. “Looks quite well-made to me.”

  “No, it was more about it being a circle. About each point being decisions we make, or mistakes we make, I forget. He said that we travel in a circle, endlessly, thinking it’s a straight line, but all we ever do is make the same choices again and again, in different places. I forget what the point of it was. I never really thought much about it.” He put it down again, but his fingers traced its tips. “But he kept it. He kept it up.”

  On the door, a faint light silhouette of the wreath was barely perceptible in the wood, the area its metal had protected from flame. All William could do was nod in agreement.

  “Sorry, William,” Robin said, “you caught me in mid-thought. It’s good to see you.”

  “It’s good to see you. Four nights, you say?”

  “Yes,” Robin dragged out the word, and left the room to start down the hall. “I received your message, wrapped in a pretty package. But they weren’t exactly interested in listening to me. So I left them a bit early, I thought that might slow them down.”

  William could only shake his head. “Do you want to tell me about Robin Hood?”

  “That wasn’t my idea,” Robin chuckled, “and it turned out they were really only interested in using me for my name. They practically worshipped my father, and they wanted another Locksley to rally behind.” He rapped his knuckles on another door. “They should find my brother.”

  William let a solemn moment pass. “You were supposed to be making things better, Robin.”

  “I tried. I taught them discretion. And you know I actually thought it was working, too. We were helping out the poorer communities, making a difference.” Robin continued forward, down a large set of stairs at the side of the dining hall. William had been here before, when Gisbourne was held hostage at the edge of a sword. He suddenly felt terrible for having left Robin with these people at all. “But some of them wanted more. They wanted blood. I don’t think I could have bred that out of them. I almost don’t want to know, but … when I left them, they seemed eager to go get themselves killed. Have you heard anything?”

  William eyed Robin for a moment. “So you didn’t know? Just promise me you had nothing to do with planning what happened.”

  “Excuse me?” Robin smiled.

  “With what happened three nights ago.”

 
“Three nights ago I was here, I told you. What … what happened three nights ago?”

  “Robin. They assassinated the Sheriff.”

  Robin’s jaw dropped, and he turned away. Eventually he lowered himself and sat on the stairs halfway down, and covered his face with his hands.

  “I wasn’t as successful as I would have wished, either,” William admitted. “But I was close. Roger de Lacy was finally willing to find a peace. That’s not exactly an option anymore.”

  Robin spoke through his fingers. “Are you sure? Do you know who did it?”

  “Will Scarlet. At least, that’s the name he gave. The same one that attacked us in the forest, fiery little thing with blond hair?”

  Robin nodded. “That’s him.”

  “And his girl, too.”

  “Elena? Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. We caught them trying to escape.”

  Robin’s voice caught in his throat. “They’re dead?”

  “No,” William said, and Robin seemed oddly relieved. “They’re in the prison. They killed two Guardsmen on watch and took their uniforms. The castle was nearly empty, the entire contingent was out collecting taxes. They must have walked right in. We made it damned easy for them, but that’s our fault.”

  That’s Gisbourne’s fault, really. Those would be the sort of tunnel-vision mistakes a Sheriff Gisbourne would make on a daily basis.

  “Those idiots,” Robin whispered to himself.

  “It’s best you’re not with them anymore. Your name is nearly synonymous with their movement at this point. I don’t think I could have protected you.” The best thing for Robin now was to get out of the country as quickly as possible, before he accidentally became an actual outlaw. “Do you remember how to get to their camp? It would save the Guard quite a bit of time, and probably a lot of lives.”

  “Yes, of course, I’ll draw it out on a map. They have markings all through the Sherwood, if you know what you’re looking for.” He stood up, then stopped. “How will you get this to them? Is there someone with you?”