Nottingham

  “Hullo, boys! You’ll never believe who I found!”

  The voice was Alan-a-Dale’s, returning from deep within the woods. Stomping loudly. He was not alone.

  When he was close enough to the fire to be seen, he dropped his pack to the ground and winked. Behind him were a handful of those who had left in the last few days, led by none other than Robin of Locksley.

  Marion’s stomach leapt, though she couldn’t tell if it was furious or excited. Thankfully she refrained from any outward reaction. Robin didn’t deserve that.

  His face was simple, earnest. Humility was not a face she’d seen on him before. “I heard about Bernesdale,” he said.

  A grim silence met him. “You’d be headstrong turning around then,” Little grumbled, head still down. “Along with everyone else. Those that are still here, we’re out of options.”

  “You’re probably right. But with your permission, I’d like to stay and help.”

  “There’s nothing to help, did you hear me?” Little pulled himself to his feet with his staff and breathed deeply. “You’ve an opportunity to see yourself right with the King. No man or woman here would pass on that. Nobody judges you for it. Not one of us would stay, not one, if we could walk away and put on a crown. You’d be first fool to give that up.”

  Robin had this way about him, this disarming charm that couldn’t be taught. If Marion had smiled the way Robin smiled and spoken as confidently, she still wouldn’t have half of it. It was how Robin had earned their trust in only a month’s time. It was probably how the son of a forgotten lord in Nottingham had come to be the right hand of the King. When Robin smiled it was as if he was letting you in on a personal secret, and it made anyone feel special and wanted, and important. Robin made people feel they could be something more than they were. Not by telling them as much, but by making them feel they had earned it.

  “I know, John,” he said through that smile. “But given the company, I’d rather be an outlaw than a king.”

  John melted. He’d wanted to, he just needed an excuse. “There it is, then. Welcome back.”

  They grabbed at each other, pounded their fists on each other’s backs, but held a little longer in quiet recognition of what had passed. Others stepped up individually to welcome Robin as well. David of Doncaster smacked Robin’s face and swore he knew he’d return. Arthur complained he’d lost a bet, but admitted to be glad of it. All the while Robin eyed Marion, but she did not rise. She folded her hands over her chest and watched, to let him know that it would not be so easy this time.

  “Catch me up,” Robin sat, and suddenly there was order. The firepit was a council, and they spoke in turns and with purpose. Marion marveled at the change. They skipped what happened at Bernesdale, being still too tender, but John described in detail their flight back to the camp and the days that followed.

  “What Will and Elena did was dangerous.” Robin paced around the fire. “Not just for themselves, but for everyone here. The problem with being invisible is that we’ll all be held accountable for each other’s actions. Every one of us could be hanged for the death of the Sheriff, no matter how uninvolved we were. But don’t forget, that door swings both ways. Every act of kindness, every victory, is distributed to all of us as well. So. We need a plan.”

  “A plan?” Tuck’s voice was incredulous, and mirrored Marion’s own silent reaction. “The plan is we hide, and hope for the best.”

  “With all respect, Friar, that’s simply not an option now.”

  “It’s the only option,” Arthur protested. “There’s barely any of us left.”

  Robin flashed a whimsical smile. “You haven’t left the camp for days then, I’m guessing?” All around, he was greeted with blank stares. “You couldn’t be more wrong, Arthur. There’s more of you than ever now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Word traveled fast about the Sheriff. He wasn’t exactly a popular man. Every village I’ve been to, there’s a crowd ready to rise up. Ready to join. What Will and Elena did was rash … but it tipped the scales. The people of Nottingham are ready to fight.”

  While a rush of excitement breathed into the crowd, Marion cursed herself. This encouraging news was most welcome, but it was the sort of information she should have already known. Once again, the time she spent in the Oak Camp had cost her. She should have known about this swelling of support in the villages, but she’d spent all her time licking her wounds. She vowed not to be blindsided again.

  “How do you think Robin found me?” Alan was saying, with a rare glow of confidence. “I was some sort of hero out there, everyone I met wanted to know more!”

  “We’ve got the momentum, and we have to seize it,” Robin said. “Now more than ever. There’s a new sheriff, William de Wendenal, and he’s coming for us.”

  Arthur snorted. “That’s nothing new.”

  “You may remember him. He’s a friend of mine. Or was, that is.” He looked to the side, rolled his tongue in his lower lip. Marion knew the tic, he was pushing his emotions down. “I know him, I know how he thinks. De Lacy was nothing compared to what Wendenal could become. He’s sharp, he’s ambitious. He’s damned good, is what he is, good at everything. Better than you all, better than me, too. Our only advantage is that he’s new to the seat, he won’t know how things work. It will take him some time to get on his feet, but if we let him … then that’s it.” Robin seemed short with his words. “So we have to strike quickly.”

  Marion finally chose to speak. “I thought you were in favor of doing nothing, Robin. You were the one that wanted us keeping to ourselves.”

  His eyes accepted the blame. “Things have changed. We’re at war now. And that’s my specialty.”

  “War?” He had treated the word as casually as a friend’s name, rather than a line Marion had never wanted to cross.

  “First thing’s first,” Robin continued. “We’re getting Scarlet and Elena back.”

  Marion’s eyebrow cocked itself, while John gave a low whistle. “Back, now? You say they’re locked up in Nottingham Castle.”

  “Castle Rock is impenetrable,” Arthur said.

  “They did it,” Robin shot back. “They got inside to kill the Sheriff, didn’t they? Two of them, without a plan. I’m willing to bet we can do better.”

  But John disagreed. “The castle was empty that night, Robin. All the guards were out on raids. They must have taken advantage of that. But now, after what they’ve done, I’d bet it’s locked down tighter than ever. Don’t mistake me now, I love them both, I’d do anything to have them back here, if for no other reason than to smash their heads together. But we can’t save them. We lost.”

  “That may be how it feels,” Robin laughed, “but it’s not how it looks from the outside. People are flocking to you. They want to join Marion’s Men. And why?” he asked, his voice alive and surging. “It’s certainly not for the stew. It’s not for safety. It’s because of what we represent, and what they represent. The Sheriff, the Captain, the Guard, they’re the men who come into your home and take what’s yours. They’re the men who kill children in the streets. And who are we? We’re the ones who said no to that injustice. We’re the ones who rob from the rich and give to the poor. We’re the ones who killed the Sheriff when he became too greedy. We’re the ones who are winning.”

  Something swam in Marion’s mind as he continued. He made it sound so easy, a world in which every man and woman controlled her own destiny, rather than simply found ways of surviving each new woe. She had practically abandoned that idea barely ten minutes ago, and now he made it sound like a tangible thing, which they simply had to reach out and take. The forest blurred away behind him.

  “The people see us as the champions, and they’re coming to help. Something big has started here. But you know what happens if Wendenal hangs Will and Elena? He takes it all back. He re-establishes himself as the power, and nobody wants to join us anymore for fear of swinging on a rope. But think, just think, about how far the stor
y will spread, how much good we’ll be able to accomplish, if we get away with it. The people would think we’re invincible. And with them on our side, we very well may be.”

  “There’s so much we don’t know,” Tuck spoke. “None of us know that castle.”

  “I know the castle,” Marion said instantly, surprising even herself. “Well enough, that is.”

  “But we have no idea where Will and Elena will be.”

  “That’s not true, Friar.” Another of Robin’s winning smiles. “We know precisely where they’ll be during the funeral.” A murmur swelled, a secret rally, and it grew. “Any of you interested in paying the late Sheriff de Lacy some final respects?”

  They cheered.

  Out of the most solemn and dour days Marion had seen, there was suddenly a purpose, and a drive, a bond had bridged these men who an hour ago had been gathering their things to dissolve and disappear. Robin had done more for their sense of hope in the last ten minutes than Marion had ever done.

  And for it, she was thankful.

  All she said was his name, and Robin left his place without hesitation to wrap his arms around her. It would have been a precious moment if the boys hadn’t hooted and whistled at them, leading her to swat her cloak at their childishness. They were all little brothers for her reproach.

  “Come on, boys!” John rallied them. “There’s an awful lot for us to do … just over there. Any number of important … you know. Things.”

  He winked at Marion and the stream of men flowed past. Alan pounded something importantly onto Robin’s chest, something dark. Marion recognized it as the archer’s cowl Robin had torn from his head when he’d left them. The two men exchanged a quiet moment, then Alan joined the others.

  Once the rumble of men passed, Marion spoke quietly through her smile. “I knew you’d come back.”

  He scrutinized her face, and shook his head. “No you didn’t.”

  She had to laugh. “You’re right. I thought you were gone forever this time. I’m glad to be wrong. Turns out you may be more like your father than you think.”

  Their heads flirted closer to each other. She enjoyed the familiarity of his arms, of his face. More importantly, the drive behind his eyes, and how he seemed to flourish with purpose. It was like seeing the man he’d always meant to be, before he’d run away from the world.

  “Everything that happened,” Robin was saying, “it was my fault. I shouldn’t have left before, and I didn’t mean the things I said.”

  “Yes you did,” she laughed again, “but you figured out you were wrong. That’s better than most can say.”

  “Too late.”

  “It’s never too late to do what’s right.”

  His cheeks dropped, his features gave way to reveal something rare and real beneath. “I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome back.”

  Frankly, she agreed. There were plenty of grudges she could hold over him, but they all seemed so childish compared to the day’s need for basic humanity. Nothing was more important than the invisible something beneath it all, that nameless connection they had always felt.

  “Tragedy has a way of washing the past clean,” she said softly, and Robin agreed.

  “I really am sorry for leaving.”

  “As you said.”

  “Not just now, but all those years ago.”

  He had never apologized for that before. After Vivian’s death, after Edmond disappeared, after their families had been shattered by violence, Robin had vanished. Marion had been left to deal with the grief of it all. She had become the daughter that Walter of Locksley needed to keep his sanity. She never complained about it, but it should never have been her burden to bear. The gravity of those years felt remarkably lighter with that one simple admission, that Robin knew he should have stayed.

  “What you’ve done here,” he continued, “how you’ve helped these people, what you and my father accomplished, it’s really quite remarkable.”

  “Remarkable?” she joked. She wouldn’t let him get away with that understatement. “It’s ‘able to be remarked upon’? Oh, thank you.”

  “It’s amazing,” Robin corrected himself, and drew in close to her. Her hands found their way around his waist. “I want to help in any way I can.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re back,” she whispered as he leaned into her.

  “I’m not going anywhere this time.”

  And the fiercest woman alive would have gone teary as they kissed. It wasn’t their first kiss, they had played this game for decades. But in the past, it had always been in regret, in frustration, in a futile what-could-have-been that they knew couldn’t last. This was the first time they seemed to be on the same page, where they were headed in the same direction. Two arrows with the same target, if she could allow herself the ham-handed symbolism. Robin held her head with both hands, they pushed their foreheads together and laughed.

  Eventually she tugged at his doublet. “Do you really think William’s such a threat?”

  “I know he is,” Robin’s voice dropped. “He means to hunt us down, every one of us, straight to the gallows.”

  “You know him better than I do,” she admitted, “but he was kind to me. He kept me safe, got me out of the city.”

  “Well he’s not cruel.” Robin bit his lip and looked to the side again. “But once he’s made his mind, that’s it. I don’t know what he’s been through in the last month, but he’s obviously been blinded by the power. He was always more strategic than me, so I would guess he has his own reasons for keeping you away. Much more likely for his own safety than yours.”

  Marion considered it. If it were true, then the world outside the Sherwood may not be as dangerous to her as she feared. If her contacts in the city were still loyal, there was a lot she could still accomplish. The sorts of things she had been neglecting for the past month.

  “I want to hear all your ideas,” she said firmly. “In the morning, I’ll leave.”

  “Leave?” he startled. “Where are you going?”

  “I can’t linger too long here. If I hadn’t spent so much time away from Nottingham, I may have been able to stop what happened … I can’t risk that again.”

  “You won’t be safe,” he postured. “William will find you.”

  “I won’t go to Nottingham—I know that’s not safe yet. I’ll stay in Sheffield for now. I have plenty of friends, Robin, who owe my family many favors. They’ll be my eyes and ears in the castle. I can still make a difference. Here, I’m just another mouth to feed.” She laughed at his frown. “Don’t worry, I’ll make regular visits.”

  Even though they would be splitting up, it didn’t feel like a separation this time. They would be working together, from opposite sides of the problem.

  Robin fidgeted, but he wouldn’t disagree with her. “You should take someone with you for protection. A bodyguard,” he chirped. “I’ll do it myself.”

  “Stop it. You’re needed here. Amon’s always taken care of me.” Robin made another face, and she squeezed him a little tighter. “Don’t worry, I don’t think he … likes … women. So much.” Robin was relieved and confused, but took it gladly. “You can guard me while I’m still here, if you like.”

  “Gladly, m’lady,” and he kissed her again, a long kiss. He slowly rotated her in his arms before calling out grandly, “Is that better, John? Can you see us better from this angle?”

  “Much better!” came John Little’s bellow, and Marion twisted to see John, Alan, and Tuck all stumble to the ground from their hiding spot behind the Great Oak, laughing like little children caught misbehaving.

  That night, for the first time in four or five days, there was joy in the camp. The wind was cold, but they huddled together, sharing stories of long-lost loves and childhood romances. John Little told a touching story about how he’d first met his late wife Marley. Instead of mourning Much they shared memories about him, of the trouble he’d get into and the curious things he’d say. Tuck made a few simple changes to his song’s notes
and tempo, turning it into an inspiring march. When Marion finally rubbed her legs and hoisted herself off to catch some sleep, she could hear the group singing together.

  “Take thy bow in hand,” said Robin,

  “For Much will ride with thee,

  And all can be together,

  If no man die for me.”

  FORTY-TWO

  GUY OF GISBOURNE

  NOTTINGHAM CASTLE

  FOUR GUARDSMEN LAY ON the funeral pyre. Its flames lit the highest bailey in a surreal orange bath, giving his castle’s sandstone a raw, naked character Guy had never seen before, and prayed he never would again. A generation had passed since a group funeral like this. Then, it had been the brave Guardsmen who died in the Kings’ War, valiant deaths of the city’s first defenders. Now it was four men murdered by Locksley’s outlaws, not one of them even given the chance to fight.

  Reginold of Dunmow, ambushed outside Bernesdale and left for dead. Poor Devon of York, shot in the heart by people who had once called him friend. Brian Fellows and George Sutton, two young recruits to the Common Guard. Guy had not been close with either of them, but knew them well enough. Brian Fellows had a fondness for bitter ale and songs about bear-baiting. George Sutton was a skinny young man who took pride in his fletching, and scrubbed the dirt from his doublet daily—the doublet he had died for. The uniforms the assassins wore while they stabbed de Lacy a dozen times in his own office.

  Roger de Lacy’s funeral would not be until the first day of December—nearly a month away, which afforded the neighboring nobility enough time to arrange their visits. But the humble Guardsmen, who had no notable visitors to mourn them, burned on their pyre as soon as possible. The battlements around the high bailey were filled shoulder-to-shoulder, nearly every Guardsman in the city come to watch. Guy took a haunting record of their faces. They did not mourn the dead, but simply watched in a stupor, in fear that this was but a sign of what was to come. Reginold’s sister and daughter had been invited, but refused to attend. The Simons said some kind words and lifted a tankard for each of his fallen boys, though he walked away when it was Guy’s turn to speak. Bolt was there, but only in body. He spent the funeral picking at his fingernails and whispering things to the wind. He left the castle immediately afterward, and Guy knew better than to let anyone follow him. Bolt had seen Reginold as a brother. He was, effectively, a fifth casualty.