Guy’s private regiment had been decimated. The ongoing mystery of Jon Bassett’s disappearance had been terrible on its own, but it was nothing compared to this. Eric and Morg were all that was left, and Guy met them in his private quarters to share a flagon of ale. Eric was distant and distracted, which was entirely out of character. The man had served dutiful years as a crown ranger before Guy recruited him, and his patience was the makings of legends. Now he scratched at the table, crossed and uncrossed his arms just to cross them again, tapped the ground with his feet, and pried at splinters.
“Eric.” Guy had to calm him. “Do you need a minute?”
The ranger laughed hollow, exposing the purple hole in his gums and the teeth he’d lost in the skirmish at Thieves Den. “Sorry, Captain,” he mumbled, his tongue lisping. “Having trouble thinking straight.”
“I need you clear, Eric,” Guy said kindly. “You two are all that’s left of this regiment.” Morg’s small eyes were wet, his heart of gold had cracked open beneath his massive bulk.
“We are no regiment,” Eric grumbled. “We’re pathetic.”
“No,” Guy said firmly. “It has been my deepest honor to stand by you, each of you.” He eyed Eric long enough to solidify it. “Not one of you can be made pathetic by someone else. You can only do that to yourselves.”
“Well then that’s just one more thing you can blame on me—”
“Stop it.” Guy punched the table, just once—it shivered through the candles that stuck at its center. “We cannot let this break us, or they win. We have a rare opportunity here, a chance to use this tragedy as a force for good.” A feverish intensity pushed through him, the need to make things better. It was the only way for him to channel his grief. “There is tremendous goodwill coming our way, and it is our responsibility to the dead to take advantage of it. Anything less is injustice. Anything.”
The goodwill he referred to came in the form of men-at-arms, from all the neighboring counties. Yorkshire to the north, Lincolnshire to the east, Leicestershire to the south, and Derbyshire to the west. All had sent men in a display of sympathy and alliance. Squads of varying sizes and banners, they came to fortify the castle and the roads for the Sheriff’s funeral. The middle bailey already overflowed with loyal swordarms, eager to help, eager for work. Guy intended to forge a new company out of this talent pool.
The Black Guard.
A new group with a singular purpose—to eliminate the Sherwood outlaws. For five weeks, his private regiment had been crippled by policing Nottingham, managing the wharf gangs, leashed by de Lacy’s refusal to let him hunt down anything other than taxes. But a fresh crew, unhindered by any responsibilities to the city, could ferret the outlaws out of the trees in no time. Rather than scrape the gaols for a handful of gerolds, he suddenly had a bounty of dedicated men to choose from.
“But only if it happens now,” Guy calculated. “Every noble coming to de Lacy’s funeral has one desire—to see these traitors at the end of a rope. Which is, I’m sure, exactly what William de Wendenal is counting on.”
He had not yet taken to calling him Sheriff de Wendenal. That promotion had almost been more shocking than de Lacy’s murder. Guy may have disagreed with Roger de Lacy’s policies, but there was always a combative joy in their arguments. De Lacy’s opinions on nearly everything were maddeningly wrong, but he was no monster. He had respect for conversation, and there was dignity in being outmatched by him. Wendenal had none of that. His appointment proved that being friends with the King overruled all manner of logic. A week had already passed with him in charge, and every day it felt increasingly wrong.
“It does not take a brilliant man to see the strings at play here,” Guy continued. “Wendenal and Locksley, both agents of King Richard. Wendenal imbeds himself with de Lacy, while Locksley trains a bunch of common thieves into a gang of assassins. Locksley killed de Lacy on the same night he signs an edict to appoint Wendenal as sheriff.”
“That seems a little suspect, no?” Morg asked, always a little too slow to grasp the profanely obvious.
“It’s the very signature of foul play. A brick could be more clever. Wendenal alone stayed in the castle while the entire Guard left for the tax raids, and we’re supposed to think this is coincidence? Wendenal’s claim to the seat is as flimsy as the paper it’s written on. But he won’t need that paper if he wins the support of every nobleman within twenty leagues. Which he’ll do by bringing in Robin’s gang.”
Eric squinted. “So if we go after the outlaws, we’re only helping him out.”
“Not if we keep our eyes open. Their plan seems simple—Locksley starts a rebellion to create turmoil, which Wendenal smothers to solidify his power. But to smother it, he has to capture Locksley and his men. I have no doubt he means for Locksley to mysteriously escape justice—so that’s our leverage. If we capture Locksley ourselves, we can use him. Get him to divulge this whole corrupt plan to us, then he and Wendenal hang side by side.”
“Do you mean…” Morg huffed. “Do you mean work against the Sheriff? Won’t we get in trouble?”
Guy’s breath stuttered. He honestly didn’t know the answer. “That’s a bridge for later. For now, at least, we all want the same thing. Publicly, at least.”
“Alright, well just tell me what to do,” Morg said, his thick beard quivering along with his lip. “I can’t follow all of this. Just give me something to do.”
Guy leaned back and breathed in proudly. “You’re already doing it. Welcome to the Black Guard.”
Eric and Morg exchanged a look of anticipation, hungry for whatever their new titles meant.
“We need to bolster our forces,” Guy said. “Not with Common Guardsmen. We have the best swordarms in five counties visiting right now, but we need to be careful. We need to only recruit men who are of common mind with us, who have no loyalty to Wendenal.”
“I could help,” the voice came from behind Guy, and he realized he had completely forgotten Ferrers was even in the room. He sat against the wall, as was his station, and did not drink with them. He had learned his lesson about speaking unprompted, but Guy gave him a mild acknowledgement.
“If you approach anyone from Derbyshire, consult me first,” Ferrers said. “My father is earl there, but some may consider themselves friends to Wendenal’s father, Lord Beneger. I could help determine a Derbyman’s loyalty.”
Guy bowed his head. “Thank you.”
“Have you interrogated the murderers yet?” Eric asked, sucking the spit between his empty teeth. “They know how to find Locksley.”
“I have,” Guy answered. That had been his first hope as well. “They weren’t helpful.”
“Let me try, then? Put me in a room with that girl. Maybe she gets feisty and tries something…” Eric’s sentence petered out into heavy implications.
“You can’t.” Guy stood. “You can’t, Eric. I know how you feel. But it wouldn’t serve anyone.”
“It’d serve me,” Eric growled.
“And no one else. They need to hang, publicly, so that the people know they’re safe. There’s more at stake than revenge, Eric. It wouldn’t be right.”
“She took my teeth!” he snapped. “And she killed Devon! Wouldn’t be right?”
“She’ll get what she’s earned. At de Lacy’s funeral.”
“That’s a month from now.” His fingers returned to the table, scratching. “Wouldn’t be right is waiting. Who knows what could happen in a month, Captain, and you know it.”
Guy met his eyes, but said nothing. The rancid truth was that Eric was probably correct. Elena Gamwell and Will Scarlet sat in separate cells beneath the castle, waiting to die. If the Guard had taken care of her when she first put a blade to Guy’s throat at Thieves Den, it would have served Jon and Devon and Brian and Reginold and Bolt and George and Roger. The list might still keep growing. So who else might they lose, by letting her live a little longer? Who else was even left to lose?
“We have to be better than that,” Gu
y said at last. “I understand the desire to take matters into our own hands, to do what feels right. But that’s the easy path, and the easy path is easy for a reason. There’s no lasting victory there. What would make us different than them, Eric?”
But the words rang hollow. By the word of the law, Guy was duty-bound to obey the usurper Wendenal, regardless of how he claimed the sheriffcy. But Guy was already contemplating a path to undo that injustice—which required him to bend from his duty.
“Help me find men, understood?” He pounded the table to dismiss them. “Good men, who are able to step away from their responsibilities for a bit to hunt down these traitors. Bring them to me, the sooner the better.”
“And what about this?” Eric asked as he stood. “The Black Guard? We allowed to do this?”
“There’s precedent.” Guy knew it was not much of an answer. Even years ago, when there was men and coin to spare, he would have to get approval directly from the Sheriff to build a team like this. But William de Wendenal didn’t know the first thing of Nottingham’s procedures, so he wouldn’t even think to question it.
It was foreign territory for Guy. The selfishness of doing the right thing over doing the lawful thing. The hypocrisy of telling Eric he could not do the same. The first step on a slope he had seen too many others slide down, and it led directly to a cell in the prisons, or a blade in the back.
* * *
THERE WAS NO SLEEP for Guy that night, the air was too hot, and his skin was on fire. Eric’s words had wormed within him. Guy had always been a champion of the law, but that law had failed him. There was no pride in pursuit of duty to a false leader. If Guy had seen through Wendenal’s lies earlier, his men would not be dead. But Wendenal was only as powerful as those who executed his commands, which meant he was only responsible for half of the funeral pyre—Guy’s adherence to discipline had built the other half. It was the law that gnawed at him, and he was the only damned person left in Nottingham who cared about it.
He couldn’t breathe, his heart was too fast, there was too much to do now. Guy’s leg was twitching and his knuckles hurt where he had punched the table earlier. He picked at the scabs on them and sucked on the blood. The swirling fitfulness of sleep pulled at his thoughts, down dark rivers. What might he be able to accomplish were he not so bound by the law? What might he accomplish were he as unscrupulous as a Robin Hood?
Guy opened his eyes to the darkness of his room, cold sweat on his chest, and no time had passed at all. It was too hot, and he could swear there was a taste of blood in his mouth.
He dressed and left the stone keep, up the walkway about the middle bailey, hoping the crisp night air would clear his head. The castle was disarmingly still. Even the scrape of his boots against the stone seemed unwelcome. A cat-eye half-moon gave its blanket over a clear night. The great ribbon in the sky was clear, and the constellation of the archer aimed upward. Eric had taught him those constellations.
He felt it in the air before he heard it. A ripple in silence he didn’t take to, a rhythm in the city that wasn’t right. He knew the castle too well. There was a pause, not audible at first, but eventually it rose—a cluster of hesitations that formed a warning. Then, an eruption of screaming, from below, and a burst of men vomited upward from the tunnel that led down into the prisons. Their words, “Make way! Hurry! Get him out of here! Oh God, oh God!”
It became piercing, an alarum that woke the castle itself. Guy threw himself to full pace, dashing down a set of stone steps to meet the crowd. They were Guardsmen mostly, though not all from Nottingham, fighting against one in their center. Closer, Guy realized they were carrying someone that was fighting back, kicking and contorting against the four men who handled him, one at each limb.
Not fighting back. Dying. A Guardsman who was covered in blood.
“Get him to the keep! Get the doctor!” one man yelled.
Screams in the middle of the night—it was a nightmare they’d awoken to last week as well.
“Guardsman injured—clear a table!” Guy ordered, bodies obeyed, pushing into the keep toward the dining hall. The wounded guard was brought to a table, thrashing, his hands desperate to be released. A mist of blood burst from his neck with each spasm.
“What happened?” Guy demanded of anyone. “What in God’s name happened?”
“What do you think happened?” growled a stranger who was struggling to cover the wounded guard’s neck. Girls were there now, bringing basins of water and bandage, one spilled a bowl in horror when she realized what she was looking at.
What do you think happened?
Prison break.
The bailey flew past Guy’s feet. He had never moved faster. If Scarlet and Elena were already out of the prisons, there was no telling where they might be, or who would die next. But if they were still down there—there were only two ways down into the prison, and the Rabbit Cage was always locked from the outside.
He took the stairs in three long strides and ducked into the tunnel. The deep inside was inky black, and the iron gate was ajar.
“Through me,” he breathed, “they’ll have to get through me.”
He had not brought his weapon, nor would he find any down here. Still, he couldn’t wait. They could be anywhere, lurking in the dark, waiting to take him by surprise. But the sound of commotion burrowed its way up from below, and Guy chased into it. Down several passages, every turn it grew louder. Sprinting now, he came to a small hub of cells, lit by a swinging lantern throwing shadows around a huddle of men—all gathered around someone in the middle. Guy plunged himself into their throng.
His gut tightened and he stopped. In the middle of the group was Morg, sweating profusely, eyes red. His blue tabard was soaked in blood, as were his hands, with thin streaks of it across his face and beard, but he didn’t appear injured. And the only riot in the room was that which Guy had brought with him.
“Is he alive?” another Guardsman asked. This was Marshall Sutton, one of the prison watch, an ox in human form. Guy was too late. The thieves had killed and moved on.
He turned, to leave the caves, to fly, to break the castle in half. But he was staring at Will Scarlet.
Inside one of the cells.
Scarlet’s fingers clutched the bars. His cell door was closed and locked. His face, still swollen and purple from the night they’d arrested him, was watching with surprise. The world tightened around him and Guy stared, disbelieving.
“Is Hawkins alive?” Marshall asked again.
Guy blinked. He tried to clear his head and reassess what was happening. “Where’s the girl?”
“What?”
“The girl!” He pointed at Scarlet, names temporarily beyond his grasp.
“In her cell,” Marshall said, clearly confused.
The blood pumping in Guy’s ears was louder than his own thoughts, and his limbs dragged downward. A pool of blood was on the ground, fresh enough that the dirt had not yet drunk it. Morg and Marshall were waiting on his answer. The other two Guardsmen were strangers in rust tabards. Yorkshire colors, he recalled now. They were Guardsmen from York.
Guy tried to calm his hands. “What the hell is going on here?”
“You didn’t see him?” Morg asked.
“I saw him,” Guy said. “Who was he?”
“Dale Hawkins.”
“He’s a horse thief, and a murderer,” one of the Yorkies answered.
He was a gerold, Guy knew. He recognized the name.
“That little maggot got himself into The Simons’ Yard.” Marshall wiped his bald head but just smeared the blood that was there. “He’s been living with us for months, just waiting for a chance to kill us all.”
“I recognized him,” the Yorkie said calmly. “We had him in irons in York a couple years ago. Stole a horse from some baron and botched it, killed a stableboy trying to get away. He and a few others broke out round a year back. Caught most of them, but not Hawkins. When I saw him here, I couldn’t shake why I knew his face.”
“Silas, from Yorkshire Guard.”
“And this is Captain Gisbourne,” Marshall introduced him.
Silas bowed his head slightly. He had a deep beak of a nose that split his stoic face in two. “An honor. As I was saying, once I placed Dale Hawkins’s name, I had to be certain. I’d met this one the night before,” sticking his thumb at Morg, “so I asked him.”
Morg’s shoulders continued to shake. His face was redder than the blood that spattered it, and he twisted at his blue tabard as if the blood would slide off.
“And Morg asked me,” Marshall took up the story. “I remembered Hawkins, too, he was a prisoner here. But for tax evasion.” He met Guy’s eyes, saying everything that needed to be said. Guy shouldn’t have been surprised that Marshall would figure out what all those prisoner interrogations were about. And just as he had feared, they had recruited someone who had a more colorful history than they knew.
“Horse thief, and a murderer,” the Yorkie had said. And then a Guardsman.
Morg blubbered his way to a voice. “We’ve already had our share of murderers in Guard uniform this last week. I didn’t want anyone else getting killed.”
“So what happened, Morg?” Guy placed his hand on the giant’s shoulder. “You killed him?”
“Might be.” Morg’s puffy eyes blinked. “Wasn’t trying to. Just trying to shave his ear is all.”
Marshall explained to Silas, “We’ve taken to nippin’ the eartips off those that come in on violent account. So we can always recognize them.”
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