Nottingham

  Marshall grunted. “If they try anything, I intend on taking more than a few of them out. They’ve got their due coming, and I owe it to George to see that they pay.”

  Guy paused for a moment’s deduction, as he hadn’t realized the connection. “George Sutton?”

  “Cousin. Didn’t care for him much, little runt as he was, but he was still family. They killed him for his uniform, a fucking disgrace.” Marshall spat at the ground.

  Guy didn’t know what to say. “Your family must be proud. Two sons in the Guard.”

  “Like I said, wasn’t much about George to be proud of, but that don’t make it alright.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “No, it don’t.”

  They continued their descent in silence.

  At length, Stutely led them to a large muddy pool of still water at the foot of a wall of wet boulders. The terrain on either side of the rocks rose up again sharply.

  “They’ve been moving camp a lot lately,” Stutely explained, “and this here is one of their favorites. You’ll have to leave your horses behind, only way up is to climb.” He indicated a crooked vertical ascent of striated limestone, which rose to a lip beyond which they could not see. “We’ll need to wait a bit, though. My legs are screaming.”

  “This can’t wait, friend. You can rest here.” Guy was happy to be rid of the man. “Ferrers, take the horses.”

  “Actually,” his eyes widened ever so slightly, “I’d prefer to join you.”

  Guy could hardly blame him. “Stay,” he repeated, holding a forced stare. In case it went just as Marshall feared, in case he had miscalculated Locksley’s motives, then Ferrers could at least bring word to the others.

  A few obvious placements of broken shelves noted the path up the limestone slope. It looked even steeper up close, but was definitely navigable. Guy tried not to think about how sharply it might crack open his skull, were the outlaws to throw him back down from above.

  “Captain,” Marshall spoke softly as they tested out their first few footholds, “there’s something else I’ve been meaning to speak to you about.”

  “Can it wait?”

  “It can, but I’d think straighter if I didn’t.”

  Guy let him continue.

  “It’s about Morg, sitting down in my gaol cells. I thought this would blow over, thought the Sheriff would see straight and let him out again. Doesn’t seem to be going that way yet.”

  Guy’s hands were abominably tied in this situation. “What about him?”

  “The boys and I would sure be interested in getting Morg out of there in any other way.”

  He was talking about breaking Morg out of their own prisons. “If that were possible, he’d have to leave Nottinghamshire entirely. He couldn’t rejoin the Guard after that.”

  “I know it. But if he stays there, he’ll die, that’s a fact.”

  “The prisons aren’t under my control anymore,” Guy reminded him.

  Marshall wiped the sweat from his head and looked up at the climb. “Lud and I know how to get a man out of there. Can’t be done by one person, but I wouldn’t involve you in the details. All I’d need from you is to be sure nobody is stationed between the Rabbit Cage and the postern door. And your key to the Rabbit.”

  Guy nodded. Frankly, he didn’t know how he felt about the proposal. It was one more step away from doing things lawfully, and closer to doing what was right. It was not a thin line, as he had expected, but a long gentle ramp—certainly one easier to walk than his travel today. Still, at this moment he needed Marshall’s head clear above all else. He risked nothing by giving his promise now, when a thousand things could believably keep him from fulfilling it later. Trivial things, such as being dead.

  “The Guard is nothing if we don’t have each other’s backs,” he answered. “The Sheriff doesn’t understand that. We take care of our own.”

  Marshall seemed satisfied, and they started bouldering up the wall.

  The climb was tricky but not as perilous as it seemed, always offering enough rock to rest upon. Guy watched the lip up above grow closer, where waited the true danger. The ascent gave the foreboding sense of climbing up to some giant’s kingdom, up to another world. It was easy to see how the commonfolk had been seduced by the cult of this Robin Hood persona. But Robin of Locksley was just a man, a slave to the same desperations of survival as anyone.

  You’re not going to die here, Guy tried to convince himself.

  Not in the middle of the woods. Not forgotten in a hole.

  His whole life had been a whetstone, sharpening him for a moment like this.

  When Guy made his final scrambles up the slope, his stomach turned.

  There was a small flat glade, well-protected by natural walls, an absolutely perfect spot for Robin’s men to hide. But it was empty, and the few signs of any campsite were well grown-over with tussock.

  Guy turned in panic to look back down below. The tiny shape of Ferrers was on his back, clutching his head with both hands, and beyond him was the last glimpse of Stutely riding off on Merciful, leading the other two horses by their reins.

  * * *

  BETWEEN THEN AND NOW, an eternity of humiliation passed. The world was black and burnt, and those who suffered deserved it. It was past midnight and Guy’s body could barely move, but his soul couldn’t bear to sit still. He was done with civility, he was done with the cat-and-mouse bullshit that was Robin of Locksley.

  There was too much at stake, and not enough time.

  Rising from the earth in front of him, the Rabbit Cage was a gravestone. Cold bars for a cold night. Guy dismissed the unfamiliar Derbyman, who retreated back down into the stairs within the cage, leaving only the limp prisoner he had dragged up.

  “Sorry to disturb your sleep.” Guy ground his teeth. “I could come back at a more convenient time.”

  Will Scarlet coughed out dirt and slowly roused himself to a seated position, back to Guy, against the bars, but gave no answer.

  “You’re supposed to be hanged on Sunday morning, you know.”

  Scarlet’s voice was small and dry. “Go to hell.”

  “There will be an execution for you, yes, an extravagant affair. Too much pomp if you ask me. Sadly, you won’t be attending. We’ll kill you in the morning instead, just a quick knife to the throat. This is the last time you’ll be out of your cell. We probably won’t bother feeding you anymore.”

  Scarlet breathed in, the air rattled from his lungs. “I could eat your heart.”

  “You could!” Guy laughed. “You could pull those bars apart, rip my body open and eat my heart, right here. By all means, be my guest. It is ever so close.” Guy tapped his chest, only a few feet away from the young outlaw, who still refused to face him.

  Bitterly, “If you have a heart at all.”

  “That would be a risk you’d have to take.” Guy stared at the back of Scarlet’s head. “It’s also possible you wouldn’t recognize one. Perhaps I’m mistaken, but you’re the one in prison for murder.”

  That did it. With more strength than he’d pretended to have, Scarlet twisted his body around with precision, his head low, eyes locked on Guy.

  “You’re really going to look me in the eye,” his face was half-bruised, “and tell me you’re not a murderer?”

  Murderer. The word struck too hard. A murderer plans his kill, he intends to do violence upon another. The blood that Guy had spilled was not intentional. But if it made Will Scarlet angry, then Guy would talk about it.

  He needed him angry.

  “The child.”

  “His name was Much.”

  “I know.” How many times had Guy replayed that moment, wondering if he could have stopped himself? “I don’t suppose you would believe how I regret that.”

  Will’s face quivered. “It didn’t look like you had a problem with it at the time.”

  He swallowed, preparing for what he had to say.

  “Let me ask you,” he started, shaking his head to sta
y focused. “Do you blame yourself for what happened? For bringing that boy?”

  Will snorted. “No.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because we were trying to do the right thing. We were—”

  “I know,” Guy raised his hand gently, to quiet him. “Let me say something?”

  Will’s eyes flickered.

  “I had a son, about that boy’s age,” Guy said, and his eyes instantly watered. “I had two sons. Every man should have children. They make you a better person. My sons … they both caught sick around the same time. John was always the stronger one, he could … he came through it alright.” Guy couldn’t feel his fingers or his feet now. There was nothing but a muted world and the patch of ground he was staring at, and the memories. “But Henry was smaller. He was only a little thing. You can’t do anything to help, you know, when they’re sick. When they cough, they don’t know what’s wrong. Henry fought, but … the sickness won.”

  Henry had been a kind boy with an adventurous spirit, quick to giggle. Watching that joy leak away from him was the most wretched thing Guy had ever lived through. His throat was clenched, he couldn’t keep thinking about it.

  “There was a moment,” he continued, “when Much fell into my arms, that he felt exactly like Henry.”

  The dark all blended together and in it was the boy’s face, Much’s face—just as it was the first and only time he had seen it, held aloft by the knife in his own hand. He felt the boy’s weight, suspended.

  He blinked, freeing the tears to roll down his cheeks, so that he could look Will Scarlet in the eyes. “Do you honestly think I would intentionally kill a child?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You’ve been in enough fights before, you know how they work. You saw it happen, it was over before I even realized it was happening. I understand why you hate me, because we have to blame someone. But I didn’t mean to kill him. And you know it.”

  He didn’t look away.

  “I was the same when Henry died, I had to hate someone. Someone had to be responsible. I hated—” a lump in his throat choked him, he bit his lip against all of it, “I hated my wife. She didn’t deserve it, I didn’t want to hate her, but I did. She did everything right, too. I should have hated the sickness, but I blamed the wrong thing.”

  Will’s eyes were wetter.

  “You know I’m not to blame. And you know you’re not to blame. And you’ve probably figured out by now that the Sheriff wasn’t to blame, either. Everyone, every damned one of us was trying our best. But who wasn’t there, Will? Who caused this thing to happen? Who was the sickness?”

  During the endless, disgraceful trek after their horses had been stolen, Marshall had cursed about how their entire day was wasted. At first Guy had agreed with him, hot and furious, but the tiresome walk had given him a moment of clarity as well. It had not been entirely wasted, for they had learned two new things. First, they learned they could not simply rely on chancing upon Robin’s camp in their remaining few days.

  And second, they learned that Will Scarlet hated Robin of Locksley.

  “You’re blinded by your rage, Will Scarlet. That boy’s not on you. But your girl, Elena? You should never have brought her here, here of all places. You’ll both be dead soon, because you blamed the wrong person. I suggest you start thinking about your actions rather than just … doing them.”

  Scarlet shook his head, the muscles around his eyes contracted. “What do you mean?” Finally, he was actually listening, rather than just waiting for his next opportunity to piss and shit.

  “You’ll get them all killed, Will. In the name of revenge, you’ve killed all your friends. Was de Lacy really worth it?”

  “The people will know I stood up for them.”

  “That you stood up for them?” Guy sighed. “Don’t fool yourself. The people think the Sheriff was killed by Robin Hood.”

  Scarlet kicked and stammered over his words. “Robin—? He’s gone! He left! He walked out on us—”

  “Well, he’s back,” Guy sighed, “and he took responsibility for what you did. The people, they think Robin Hood will save them from their troubles. They love him, they flock to him in droves. He’s making a peace impossible. He’s going to lead an army of innocent people into a bloodbath.”

  Guy searched Will’s face for any recognition of what he needed to do. The boy’s eyes darted back and forth, his lips whispered things he didn’t voice, until finally he figured it out.

  “If he were gone,” Will pieced it together slowly, “things could return to normal.”

  It was a painful way to play chess, but a checkmate is a checkmate.

  “I can arrange for you and Elena Gamwell to both escape from here,” Guy whispered, now only inches from Will’s face. “No one will be stationed between here and the postern door, you can get out of the castle, safely. Out of the city, well that’ll be on you. All you have to do is find your way back to the Sherwood. In exchange for your lives, I want Robin’s.”

  Scarlet glanced around the courtyard. Perhaps he remembered there was a world of possibilities open to him beyond the confines of these bars. Perhaps he was only pretending to consider it. But Guy had offered enough men a new chance at life now to recognize the flash of hope.

  “If I kill Robin, they’d kill me.”

  “I can give you a poison.” Ferrers was meeting with the visiting Bishop of Hereford even as they spoke, procuring the rare vial. “You mix it into a drink, it only takes a small amount. It takes a few hours, so no one will know it was you.”

  Scarlet’s eyes retracted into slits. “What if I didn’t go through with it? You would be setting both of us free, I could simply lie to you and walk out of here.”

  “You could, I suppose,” Guy bluffed, “but my instinct tells me you care about more than just your life. If all you cared about was yourself, you wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

  In reality, it didn’t matter at all if Will went through with it. If Scarlet and Elena escaped now, Wendenal would be humiliated—and Locksley’s men wouldn’t have any excuse to come on Sunday at all. Guy could spoil Wendenal’s scheming just by setting the captives free, and if they killed Robin in return then that was simply gravy.

  It was curious. Dying was literally the only thing Guy did not want Will Scarlet to do.

  “The escape,” Will asked. “How will it work?”

  * * *

  IT WASN’T THE LAWFUL path. Disguises and lies, deceptions. Guy had become that which he hated. But under the thumb of such corruption, at the mercy of unprecedented danger, what other tactics were there? What was the value of an honest life if it served no others? By doing nothing, Guy would have doomed those that had no other voice. Once this threat was over, he would live with the weight of his decisions, balanced by the lives that would be saved. That was his sacrifice to make.

  He wondered if this was how the outlaws justified their crimes.

  For there was one more deed Guy needed to do this night, and it was the darkest one yet. It grew a black pit in his stomach to even think upon. He had strategized with himself in circles, finally resigning on the necessity of this last action. It played to the worst of man’s nature, to prey on the vulnerable, and Guy trembled already at the prospect of going through with it. But it had to be done.

  Poor, poor Arable.

  FIFTY

  ARABLE DE BUREL

  NOTTINGHAM CASTLE

  ARABLE LEANED OVER THE edge of the ramparts, ignoring the wind that took her hair and slapped it against her face. She was at the southernmost bend of the lower bailey wall. Down below, the river Trent sparkled in the sun, pretending life was anything more than a slow compilation of disappointments. Out and away, specks of homesteads hugged the water as it slept away from the city, full of people who were living their lives. Arable could do the same. She had survived worse than this. She had forged forward as only barely a young woman, when the rest of her family was dead or exiled. Compared to that, this was no
thing.

  She was exhausted, she told herself. Nothing more. Though she had grown accustomed to wearing a handmaiden’s dress and countenance, she was iron within. William may have forgotten the quality of her character, but that loss was entirely his to bear.

  A gasp from her left caused her to turn sharply. A wide ox of a man was reaching for her, his face panicked. She bleated—yes, like a sheep—as his hand found her waist and pulled her weight from the edge. She hadn’t even realized how far over she had been leaning, and her head swam as she regained her balance.

  “Are you alright?” he asked, his arms forming a protective wall.

  “I’m fine,” she said, then again, and someway found reason to give it a third go.

  “I thought you, perhaps … meant yourself some harm.” He had the faded blue stitched doublet of the Sheriff’s Guard, but his face was only vaguely familiar. A bald head and a bulbous nose gave him a bubbly sort of attitude, though there were scars and scratches in his cheeks, and scabbing about his ears. “I’m Marshall Sutton,” he said, as softly as he could with gravel for a voice. “And you’re … you’re Arable de Burel?”

  She stared at him, her every nerve flaring at the sound of her own surname. His familiarity boded poorly. She leaned away but hit the crag of wall behind her, causing the Guardsman to move again.

  “Do you need anything?” he asked. “Water?”

  “No, no,” she said, but should have said yes. To be rid of him.

  “I am sorry to trouble you, but I think might be it was good I was here.”

  “I’m fine,” she said flatly. She glanced about, but found they were quite alone on the walkway. Even the wind seemed intent to isolate them from the world.

  “If you’re sure you’re alright.”

  “I am.”

  “Then, Miss Arable, I beg a word.” All of his attention was on her, and his eyes flicked at her every movement. “I would offer to come back at a more favorable time … but I’m out of options.”

  “Is this your post, Guardsman?” she asked harshly, hiding her uncertainty. “Should I report your absence, or can you see yourself back?”