Nottingham

  “Good luck, Robin. And thanks. We’ll reconvene here in the morning.”

  They parted with precision, with drive. Robin paused to turn back and offer his hand. “Lady Arable?”

  Whatever her trepidations about these people, she could not fault their desire to do what was asked of them. Even broken and scattered, weary from the battle that just happened, not a single one of them complained as Will Scarlet called out his orders, organizing them into groups, laying out the plans of what had to happen in the hours between now and dawn. Arable followed the horseman, along with John Little and Robin Hood, back into the woods to find their way to Bernesdale, and back—one last time—to Nottingham.

  It was the last place she wanted to go, but they needed her.

  It had been a profoundly long time since Arable de Burel had been on that side of need.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  MARION FITZWALTER

  NOTTINGHAM CASTLE

  MARION OPENED HER EYES, not alarmed but instantly awake. There had been a faraway clamor, such that she thought it a creation of her dreams. Even her conscious thoughts strayed too often of late to disturbing fantasies, and when she slept her head swam with the positively bizarre. Regardless, she maneuvered from the bed to have a peek out the clapboard window. It was dark, perhaps a few hours still until dawn. The sky mottled itself with heavy clouds, scattering the moonlight irregularly over the baileys of Nottingham Castle below.

  For nearly three weeks she had been here, and the last few days in particular saw the castle churning in preparation. The yards had filled with multi-colored tents and camps, the ever-increasing complement of prestigious guests to tomorrow’s funeral. The castle was not continent enough to hold them all, so only the most influential were now housed in its stony keeps. Prince John’s detail had claimed all the grounds about the highest keep, leaving other lords’ entourages to fend for themselves in the sprawling lower bailey. From her window, Marion had seen their colors go up, banners that sprouted like flowers in spring. A small green tent for Rutland next to the larger red-crossed canopy of Lincolnshire, while the yellows of the Yorkshire host sprawled wall-to-wall across half the yard. It was practically a miniature model of the whole of England, all contained within the castle’s footprint.

  Each day she strained to search for the white swords of Essex, never certain whether she hoped to find them or not. Her grandfather was earl there, though she doubted his health was reliable enough to travel. She had spied the horn of Huntingdonshire the day before, which filled her with dread. The Earl Robert of Huntingdon had been one of her most lucrative secret supporters. She feared what the present nobility would say if they knew they were sitting beside the man who had purchased all the precious gemstones and necklaces they had lost in the Sherwood Forest.

  More prominent than anything else, Marion’s room offered a prize view of the gallows that had been erected. Raked seating wrapped the middle bailey’s perimeter the way it might for a tournament. The constant clamor of its construction had finally abated, and only silence now surrounded the haunting wood sentinel that promised the next day’s “entertainment.”

  The violence of the hangings would be the reason the commoners came. They were always drawn to the smell of blood. The visiting aristocracy, however, only used the event as an excuse. Most of them had neither met nor dealt with the late Roger de Lacy in life. Their feigned grief was an act, disguising their hope to fill the holes he left behind in death. They, too, then, had come for the blood.

  Seeing it all from within, seeing the entire castle from her new perspective, she shuddered to think of Robin’s original plans to come tomorrow. It took staggering naiveté to think they would have been successful, but such was her life only a few short weeks ago. If nothing else, she could take solace in the knowledge that she had saved their lives. Sir Amon had carried her message to stay away. All their old futile tactics of pounding their heads against unforgiving stone walls were, appropriately, left behind now.

  “Robin.”

  She said his name aloud, better than to keep all the regret and grief within.

  Again, noise from far off, of brief hushed voices and movement, riding the wind. Even if it was only her imagination, there would be no returning to sleep for her. No matter how many hours away daylight waited, she wouldn’t spend them staring at the arched stone ceiling again. She settled on the hairbrush, as she often did. At least it was something, anything, to do. William had promised to fetch some of her personal belongings from her residence in Sheffield, but had yet to do so.

  William de Wendenal, the man to whom she would be married. That was not yet something to which she had acclimated.

  These were not the circumstances by which she hoped to marry, to say the least. But there were things that could be controlled, and others that could not. Her grandfather once told her to never worry herself with the latter. Her father, however, had said the exact opposite. That was something of a habit of men, their need to give advice in succinct little sentences that sound like great worldwide truths. Marion preferred her mother’s counsel, which was to treat advice as you would a stranger’s soup—taken in small, cautious sips.

  She wondered what her family would think of her if they knew everything. About Marion’s Men. About her upcoming marriage. About every consequence of the things she had done with—and for—power. Her grandfather warned that power is a poison, while her father claimed it is an illusion. She imagined she could say that power is quite like anything at all, and it would sound equally witty. Power is a sunrise. Power is an old horse. Power is a borrowed hairbrush.

  She had learned the real truth. In a world full of unforgiving stone walls, power was a doorway.

  Her quiet was broken by the sudden opening of her room’s door, and Marion gasped at the dull face in a leather coif that pushed itself in to stare at her. She scrambled to close her gown as the face apologized and disappeared, only to return a moment later. “Sorry. I didn’t know if you were awake.”

  “You could very well have knocked.”

  “Well, I didn’t know if you were awake,” the Guardsman repeated, as if that explained his rudeness. “It’s just, well, there may be something going on. We thought we’d check in on you.”

  “If there’s something going on,” Marion rolled her eyes at his vagueness, “you ought to investigate. It’s certainly not going on in here.” Two guards were always posted on the other side of her door. It must have been a coveted position for its sheer eventlessness.

  This one took the suggestion as an insult, as well he should have. “We’re here for your protection, my lady.” Marion knew quite well what they were there for, and it was difficult to pretend otherwise. Her protector nodded his head bluntly toward the window shutter. “We should probably keep that closed.”

  “Are we afraid I’ll jump out of it?”

  “Just please close the window,” he repeated, turning to leave. “There may be something going on.”

  If he thought that explained anything, he had failed twice. Marion wasn’t actually interested in looking out the window again, but she did so anyway just to enjoy the act of willful disobedience. The day promised very little else she could enjoy.

  The gallows made a bleak outline, like some great skulking beast looking down into the bailey for something to hunt. She was distinctly aware of how easily she might find herself standing on that platform. Ironically, if it were not for her sudden engagement to William de Wendenal, she would likely be forced to hide in the Sherwood with John Little and the others. There were many who might choose to label her as co-conspirator, and it took little creativity to imagine she was involved in de Lacy’s assassination. If the right person were to make the accusation, she might easily share tomorrow’s stage with Will Scarlet.

  Scarlet. His very name agitated her.

  Tomorrow’s grim spectacle would at least turn the page on him.

  That maddening boy had always found too much enjoyment in their more criminal exploits.
She’d been foolish to think a motherless runt from the wharf-scraping gangs would find anything in common with families struggling to feed themselves. But John Little had fought for them, and Marion had allowed it. There was a morbid silver lining that Scarlet and Elena would not be able to hurt anyone else after this. Marion had agreed to Robin’s plans to rescue them because of the victory it represented for the people, but not for their sakes. She would have had to punish them once they were back, a conflict she had not looked forward to. This outcome, at the very least, would deter others from following their reckless lead.

  Their decision to kill Roger de Lacy had marked the end of Lord Walter’s dream.

  Mercy on their misguided souls, she realized they were probably dead already. Gisbourne meant to parade their corpses at the funeral, rather than give them the dignity of execution. Marion closed her eyes, willing away the image of Will Scarlet’s smug face, thinking himself smarter than the world. He had earned his fate.

  She wanted to blame him for all of this, but he was not the only one at fault. Marion carried her share, as well as Robin. Even de Lacy, even Lord Walter. Perhaps they all should hang tomorrow, everyone who had ever braved an opinion and the strength to act on it. England would be a safer—if less interesting—place for the few survivors.

  A clatter broke again outside, and the door opened abruptly a second time. Marion reeled at the guard. “What have I asked you about knocking?”

  “Sorry, mum,” the voice replied, but it was not the same Guardsman. This one was much larger and wore no tabard. He slammed the door behind him, barricading it with a rather familiar heavy quarterstaff.

  “Oh my God!” Marion screamed.

  “Oh my God!” John Little screamed back, and nearly fell over in shock.

  “John! What on earth?”

  “Lady Marion! Well that works out—” He caught himself and hushed his voice, sheepishly avoiding the door. “Well that works out nicely!”

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, because it was the only thing she could possibly say, second only to “How did you get here?” which she asked as well, not waiting for an answer to the first. She was at once thrilled and horrified at his presence. He was red-faced and sweaty, with one eye fully bloodshot.

  “No worrying about that now, it wasn’t anything difficult.” He grabbed at her hand, missing once and then slipping off a second time, breathing heavily. A dried patch of blood covered his arm at the shoulder. He waved clumsily for her to join him, which hardly counted as good counsel.

  “Come on then, we’ll be off.” From the corridor outside, muffled voices and a commotion of bodies rampaged closer. John pushed his weight against the door and braced the staff with both hands. “Best we stay here for a bit, actually, if it’s all the same.”

  Against reason, Marion planted her hands against the rough wood of the door as well, barely able to reach it around John’s body. The door had a keylock but his chest blocked her from using it. Fortunately, the Guardsmen rumbled past her door without stopping, and Marion relaxed her grip as their clamor receded.

  “You are going to get yourself killed, John!”

  “Me? No, no.” He shook his head again, wiping the sweat from around his eyes. “I’m safe, see? Robin might, though.”

  His name struck her cold. “Robin might what?”

  “Get himself killed.”

  “He’s here, too?” She flung herself from the door to dress, but stopped just as suddenly. “What’s going on?”

  “Well it was going fine for a while, it’s not as though we botched the whole thing,” John burst out, defensive, barely remembering to keep his voice down. “We got through the city and the castle, too, and nobody saw us. And then somebody saw us. I don’t remember how many. And then there was a lot of running. I don’t like running. Robin…” he whistled, “… he’s fast. And he knows what he’s doing with a sword, he ever proved that. But I couldn’t necessarily tell you where he is just now. We got separated.”

  Marion’s imagination lurched, to wonder what danger they had put themselves in. This was the last place Robin should be. “John, catch your breath.” She poured him a glass of water from the decanter on her bedside. “Slow down and talk to me. Let me see your wounds.”

  “Get on.” He swatted her away.

  “Why are you here?”

  He reached for the glass but gave up, letting himself slide against the wall to an armless chair by her vanity. His face bulged red and he wheezed when he breathed, he managed to answer without even a trace of irony, “We’re here to rescue you.”

  Whatever sickness it was that made men confuse idiocy for chivalry, Marion was glad it was not contagious. “You’re here to rescue me. Who’s we?”

  “Robin and I?” He seemed to fear his answer was incorrect.

  “You came alone?”

  “No!” he protested. “There was a girl that came as well.”

  There were no words, so Marion simply stared at him.

  “Admittedly, it made more sense earlier.”

  “Here’s the tricky part, John.” She waited for his eyes to focus on her, blinking away his distractions. “What are you rescuing me from?”

  “From the Sheriff,” he answered proudly. “From his…” and he paused, looking about the room for the first time since he’d entered. She could imagine his surprise at the full-canopied bed, the ornate French wardrobe and writing desk, a platter of fruit, bottle of modest wine, the open window. She could read it on John’s face. This was no prison cell. “… from his clutches.”

  “His clutches.” Marion checked herself, but remained as thoroughly unclutched as ever. “It isn’t that I don’t appreciate the gesture, but when have you known me to be incapable of taking care of myself?”

  He snorted, still stubborn. “Well we’re not only here for you, don’t get a head about it. We’ve come to stop the Sheriff.”

  “Stop him from doing what?”

  “He’s going to burn down the Sherwood, Marion.” John said it as if he were serious. She laughed, but it only fueled him. “He signed an edict, and if we don’t stop him by morning then he’ll burn it down at first light.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous. He’s not going to burn down the forest.”

  “He is.”

  “He is not!” She could barely contain herself, every statement John made was more ludicrous than the last. “Do you have even the slightest idea of how much work that would take? It couldn’t be done in a month, much less a morning. Much less this morning. Besides, I wouldn’t let him.”

  “You wouldn’t let him?” John rubbed his eyebrows and calmed himself, finally taking in a slow steady mouth of air. “What’s going on here?”

  “You first, John. What do you think is going on here?”

  “We thought the Sheriff captured you, and was forcing you to marry him.”

  Marion blinked.

  “Is that not true?”

  “I am going to marry him.”

  “We have to stop that.”

  She knew it would break his heart. “No, you don’t.”

  There was noise outside from the window, more shouts, but neither of them paid it mind. It was Robin, she knew it, out there somewhere. But her world had grown so very far from his now. The clatter moved from one side of the yard to the other until finally it disappeared again beneath a riot of dogs barking. John’s lips trembled and his face winced. “You care to fill me in on the why?”

  If ever there was someone that should have understood, it had to be him. “What have we been doing, John? All this time, what have we been trying to do? The new taxes cut a division in Nottinghamshire that has become worse and worse. Lord Walter tried to take care of the people that were left behind. After him, we tried to find our own way in the woods. But it didn’t work, and ever since it’s been all we can do just to keep the pieces near each other.”

  She had genuinely believed they were building something, but the previous weeks had proven that her efforts
were more akin to applying bandages.

  “What did we think would happen, living in the woods and stealing from nobility?” It was a question as much for him as it was for a younger version of herself. “This wasn’t ever what we wanted. I know some of the boys think they’re accomplishing great things by pissing on the Sheriff’s boots, but we were wrong.”

  “Were we?” His face frowned. “Were we wrong to help people?”

  “We were doing it the wrong way, John. I wanted a place where people could make decisions for themselves, where they didn’t have to fear the head of a household. And we successfully took away the power and the fear the master had, but we gave every bit of it to the servant. What Will and Elena did, they did it because we convinced them they had a right to do it. We swung too far, don’t you see? There needs to be a balance. And for the balance to work, there need to be rules.”

  John shook his head, but out of confusion, not refusal.

  “We were trying to effect change from the bottom, pushing up, John. But by marrying William, I can do it from the top, pushing down. That’s where the power is.”

  His brow was full of questions.

  “Wendenal wants peace. He does.” William was a sharp man, and not so enamored with politics yet as to behave like a politician. “He has a better chance of putting Nottinghamshire back together than anyone else who would claim the title. But he has no backing. His father is notable, yes, but his influence ends at Derbyshire’s borders. Lord Gisbourne challenges William’s authority daily, and has the ear of powerful men who don’t care whether there is enough grain to feed the needy. We cannot suffer anyone but William to hold the Sheriff’s seat. I’ve promised him I would do everything in my ability to help him.”

  John’s bloodshot eye glistened. “By marrying him?”

  “By marrying into my family, yes. My father is the castellan of London, my grandfather a baron and the Earl of Essex. And of course my cousins John and Richard, but they’re only royalty.”

  John Little smiled at that. His will had at last softened.