Nottingham

  Between the inevitability of those two moments, there was just him and William.

  “Hello, Robin,” William said.

  And the squire.

  “Sheriff Wendenal!” Gisbourne’s squire burst into the room as well. He pinched his little weasel face into a little weasel scowl, and held his bent braquemar up as if he knew which end was the dangerous one. “The outlaws are inside the castle walls, they are—”

  “Here, yes, they’re right here!” William interrupted. “Look, he’s in this very room! Watch out for the outlaw!”

  Despite the ridiculous dimension of their room, Robin found a position to triangulate between them, his bastard sword held at a readiness that might take him toward either one. William appeared unarmed, but he also appeared too dressed for the late hour, and Robin did not intend on being caught by surprise again.

  Robin had failed to anticipate that any of Gisbourne’s crew might follow them to Nottingham so swiftly—the squire had been quick to rally the castle’s host to action only minutes after Arable snuck them through the postern gate. Robin had been separated from John Little after a brawl in a dining hall, and could not reliably account for much of what had passed since then.

  “Robin, will you sit down, please?” William gestured to one of two chairs in the room. “You look exhausted. Let me get you something to drink.”

  Robin flinched toward him, staying him from whatever weapon he meant to find. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “That’s true,” William said with minor annoyance. “You are both in my way. Very well. Ferrers, could you get us some drinks please?”

  Ferrers. Robin swiveled to scrutinize the squire’s face. A son, no doubt, of the earl who died in Acre. Stabbed by the young foreign boy—Stabhappy—that Robin had shown mercy. The world was entirely too small.

  Ferrers postured nervously. “Get you what?”

  “Some drinks!” William repeated, almost celebratory. “For Christ’s sake, why must everything be so difficult? Is anyone capable of simply talking to each other anymore?”

  Though his muscles seized, Robin returned his sword in line with William’s chest. “The time for talking is over.”

  William puffed out his cheeks. “Well, that was dramatic, thank you.” A lone fingertip slowly moved the tip of Robin’s blade with curiosity. William noticed the wound on the back of Robin’s hand. “You’re bleeding.”

  “He’ll do more than that.” Ferrers made a sound exactly as threatening as a weasel choking. If he had any sort of competence with a sword Robin might worry, as the half reach of his braquemar was far better suited for the small room than Robin’s own full-length—

  “Get out of here!” William admonished the squire. “Get us some drinks—and some gauze—and tell everyone else to settle down.”

  His mouth fluttered about, searching for a response. “They snuck in through the servants’ gate,” Ferrers explained. “There’s another one—”

  “Ferrers!” William shouted again, using it as both the name and the insult. He pointed out the door, as if it were not obvious that Ferrers was unwelcome. Robin did not mind the pause. He took the opportunity to catch his breath, to steady his nerves, to prepare for what had to follow. Ferrers eventually left, the door floating shut of its own accord, the broken plank keeping it slightly ajar.

  “I’m sorry about that,” William chuckled, as if they had nothing to deal with other than idle banter. “You could have told me you were coming, you know? Would you put that away? This room is tiny, what do you suppose you’re going to do with it?”

  William batted at Robin’s sword again, but Robin did not let his casual swagger sway him. Of course he would try to downplay everything. He knew he was in the wrong, so he was appealing toward Robin’s sympathies.

  The words rose from a place of fury in Robin’s gut. “You’re a traitor to the King, William.”

  “What? Who have you been talking to?” William sat on his side of the table, kicking beneath it at the other chair. “Have a seat.”

  The chair slid across the cobbled floor, caught a stone, and tumbled over, which was perfectly fine. Robin had neither the time nor the desire to sit.

  “I’ve been talking to your dog, Lord Gisbourne. He brought me this.” Robin withdrew the edict, stamped equally now in both wax and blood. He threw it onto the table for William to deny. “Are you going to tell me that’s not your signature?”

  There was only a low, selfish sort of laughter from William, as he poked the paper with two fingers. “Do you think I’m insane? I’m not going to burn down a forest. This was just a ruse, it was Gisbourne’s idea, he insisted upon it. He thought it might lure you out into the open.” He chuckled a bit more, tapping the table in delight. “Apparently it worked!”

  “It bears your signature!”

  “If I thought you’d actually fall for it, I wouldn’t have signed it. Robin, this is a delicate position, I think you could appreciate that. Anything I could do to keep Gisbourne off my back was worth it. I’m barely keeping things from unraveling here.” He traced his fingers through the papers on his desk, as if his menial administrative tasks could in any way compare to what Robin’s men had experienced. “What about you, how are things going on your end?”

  “How are they going?” There was a pile of bodies in the forest outside Bernesdale that answered the question. Many of them were good men who had come to defend Robin in the middle of the night. One of them died by Robin’s own hand, his mind lost to the bloodlust. Once this was over he would deal with those ramifications, but for now he forced it to a corner of his mind. And William wanted to know how things were going. He answered. “You’re killing people!”

  “Robin, where are you?” William clapped his hands. “You’re not talking to an enemy, this is me, your friend, you remember that, don’t you? I know we had … heated words when last we saw each other, but that doesn’t change who we are. I know where your heart lies, I know you wanted to protect those people. But you’re not safe here. You come in here, waving a sword around … don’t you think you’ve taken this too far?”

  The casual razing of a forest, the destruction of thousands of people’s homes, and William thought that trying to save lives was taking it too far. Robin could barely recognize his old friend. “I’m not the one who declared myself Sheriff.”

  “I didn’t declare myself Sheriff.”

  “That’s not what Arable says.”

  “Arable—what?” William’s calm demeanor instantly gave way to a shocked panic. “What did she say to you?”

  “Well, that got your attention. She told me all about the letter from Prince John. Maybe you remember it? The one stating Roger de Lacy was to be replaced by Lord Gisbourne? The one you told her to burn, while you forged documents to claim the seat for your own?” She had explained every step of William’s coup.

  He responded without a hint of his previous levity. “There’s no proof.”

  At that, Robin could laugh. “Arable didn’t burn it, William. She gave it to me.”

  “She what? Arable, goddamn it, what have you done?” That affected him. William stood, hands out but with nothing to do. The trap was closing. He would have to give up, there was no other choice.

  Robin pushed harder. “You are acting in direct opposition to an order from the prince, and you have disregarded the commands of King Richard himself. You have practically staged a rebellion by illegally taking control of Nottingham Castle!”

  “Now wait just a moment. Robin—”

  “Then you order the murder of my men on no grounds, you abduct Lady Marion and force a marriage upon her…”

  “What?”

  “… all in the name of order? In the name of peace?” Robin’s words came out faster than he could think them. “You sign an edict to raze the forest, to scare hundreds of people from their homes, as a joke? Families are fleeing in the middle of the night, this is safety to you? This is why you deserted the war, to seize power and terrorize the
innocent?”

  “Robin, slow down. Let me explain myself.”

  But the door opened to his left and Robin startled, wielding his sword around. For a dreadful heartbeat he thought he had dallied too long, that the rest of the Nottingham Guard had found him. But it was just Ferrers. A silver platter of wine rested in his hands and a stretch of widow-lace gauze lay over his right forearm. His sword, at least, was left behind.

  “Ah, thank you.” William cleared a space on the desk for the wine glasses. “Right here, please. Would you do me the favor of dressing the wound on Robin’s hand?”

  “I gave that to him,” Ferrers stated, his face assuming something he would probably call pride.

  “All the more reason!” William snapped. But Ferrers seemed uninterested in debasing himself that far. He gently tossed the gauze, allowing it to float down onto the table, and proceeded to set the bottle and each glass down. One glass in front of William and the other by Robin, positioned as close as possible while staring at the blade in Robin’s hands. Robin was aware of the ache in his muscles. His sword’s tip drooped, he had been holding it aloft for too long.

  William pointed to the glass. “Here, Robin, drink.”

  “Why,” Robin sneered, “so you can poison me as well?”

  William paused, he seemed genuinely hurt. With a slow gesture, he reached across the table to pluck up Robin’s glass, brought it to his lips and pulled. He rolled the wine in his mouth, swallowed as loudly as he could, wiped his face with his forearm and smacked his lips with condescending spectacle. After not dying, he returned the glass to the edge of the table for Robin.

  For the first time since entering the castle, Robin’s conviction wavered.

  “I’m not trying to kill you, Robin. If that was my design, I could have done it by now. I’m not staging a rebellion. I’m not deserting a war. I’m not chasing people out of their homes. And I’m certainly not forcing anyone into a marriage. You, on the other hand,” he angled forward forcefully, leaning his elbows on the table, “have taken control of a band of mercenaries. You’re calling the people to revolt during wartime. Your men have been responsible for the assassination of a High Sheriff … what else? The least of your offenses, stealing from the King’s resources, is—if I may remind you—what we came back to England in the first place to stop! So you tell me, which one of us is more likely a traitor to the King?”

  A mote of dust floated down and up again, carried by the heat of the room’s candles. Robin squinted, softly shaking his head. “You were never appointed Sheriff. You’re sitting on a throne you stole, and you call me a traitor?”

  It took a moment of decision, but William ground his jaw and accepted the answer. “Saying I stole it is a bit theatrical,” he said. “I’m finishing de Lacy’s legacy. Would you honestly prefer Lord Gisbourne as Sheriff? A man who would rather kill all those who oppose him, who steals from the poor and gives to the rich? Ask this man, his assistant. Tell me honestly,” he asked Ferrers, “how would your captain fare as Sheriff?”

  “Deplorably,” Ferrers answered without hesitation.

  “That’s what I’m up against.”

  William brushed his hair from his face, shifting his feet in rapid little circles. “Do you think the people would be safer under his command? I’m trying to protect them, same as you. Damn it, Robin, you would have done the same thing. If we had changed places, if our roles had been reversed. When we were attacked in the woods, if your leg hadn’t been injured, if you had run and I stayed instead. You would have done this the same as I. Every step along the way.”

  “I say deplorably,” Ferrers continued, “largely because he is dead. Robin cut his throat out in the Sherwood.”

  The image was burned in Robin’s mind, bathed in red. He had always thought it was a metaphor, but the world had lost all definition, turned the color of blood. His reactions had been instinctive, but he could not pretend they were not his.

  William’s jaw dropped to his chest. “You can’t … this…” He slumped back down into the chair. “You can’t just go around killing public officials whenever it suits you!”

  “And you can’t just slap on a warcrown every time you think you know better!” Robin returned, regaining his composure. It startled William, as if he thought Robin might forget his history in seizing power. “Step down. If you took the Sheriff’s office to prevent Gisbourne from doing so, as you claim, then prove it. He’s no longer a threat, not to you, not to anyone. Step down, and release Marion.”

  “Marion,” William snatched the name, plucking it from the air with his hand. “Is that why you’re here? Is that all it comes down to?”

  It was not a subject for him to broach. Robin repeated his question, “Will you step down?”

  “Why, because you fancy her? Because you’re jealous? You can’t see beyond that?”

  Don’t let him twist this. “You know you won’t, because you like the power.” Robin raised his sword again, perfectly horizontal over the table, his muscles fighting back. “You don’t care about peace, or about protecting the people, those are just your excuses. All you really care about is yourself. King William!”

  “Myself? What have I gained from this?” He slammed his fist on the table, rattling its contents. “I am surrounded by strangers and enemies, all of which seek my destruction! I still try to find a peace for people that hate me, while you call yourself noble for surrounding yourself with admirers. The great Robin Hood, the savior of the people! You accuse me for thinking too much of myself? You teach the people songs defiling me and calling me a villain, and they believe the tripe about you. A thousand people saying you’re right doesn’t make it true. Look beyond yourself!”

  “And yet when a thousand people say you’re wrong,” Robin rolled his head, “you take it as proof you’re right.”

  Out the window behind William, a slight blue warmth caught Robin’s attention, the first sign of the coming dawn in the sky beyond the city. A blur in his vision spoke to how many hours he had been awake, and active. He had to settle this soon.

  “I can make a difference, Robin.” William was stammering. “With Marion by my side, I can restore a peace here—”

  “I will denounce you,” Robin closed his eyes, refusing to let him speak of her. His sword wavered. “I will show everyone that letter from Prince John.”

  “Prince John supports me!” William threw his hands out wide. “He’s here! He’s … two floors down! Shall we go ask him together?”

  “Then I’ll take it to the Chancellor,” Robin answered. “I’ll send a message to Richard himself and detail every step of your treason. What, then, will be the point of marrying Marion? Step down, William!”

  “And then what?” William erupted, his face flush. “Who will take my place? If not Gisbourne, then who? You and I should know better than anyone. It doesn’t matter who wears the crown, the orders are the same. If you kill the king, there’s another one behind him. What did killing Roger de Lacy get you? Me. What would denouncing me get you? Hm? This man, perhaps.” He flung his hand at Ferrers. “William de Ferrers, why not? His father is the Earl of Derbyshire, so let’s make him Sheriff. So, what would you do if you were Sheriff, Ferrers?”

  Again, the lad’s answer was immediate. “I’d raze the forest.”

  “You see?” William snapped his teeth together, turning his back to Robin. “I can make this better! I can enforce peace over revenge! This isn’t a war. You don’t win by killing the most people! There are those who would sit here and do just that. We should be working together—I need your help Robin, but all you offer me are threats.”

  “You call it peace,” Robin sighed, “but you’re building it on lies. Peace needs to be built with trust, William. It will all come crumbling down when your corruption is exposed, and you’ll do far more damage in the long run. You’re not creating anything. All you’re doing is destroying.”

  William struggled for words, because they couldn’t support him. His voice was strained, h
e was begging, because it was all he could do. “I am Nottingham’s only hope.”

  “What you are,” Robin’s lips tightened, “is a tyrant.”

  They both gasped for air, eyes red, almost at tears. William opened his arms wide, every word slick with emotion. “How long have you known me?”

  He took a half step forward until his chest met the point of Robin’s sword. And he leaned. He pushed his weight onto its tip, forcing Robin to pull back a hair. William grabbed the sword with both hands and centered it on his chest. Once more he pushed forward, he winced briefly in pain but Robin instinctively pulled the sword away. He saw the blood, he saw the faces of the men he’d already killed this night, and suddenly his composure cracked to realize who he was threatening.

  His sword dropped to his side. Robin’s entire body sagged with exhaustion, and the two stared at each other, utterly barren.

  “I won’t kill you.” Robin had nothing of his own to call a voice. “But I won’t back down on this.”

  William nodded, as if he expected the answer. Quietly, “Can you even tell me why? What are you even fighting for?”

  “I’m fighting for the people.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re fighting because you think it’s the noble thing to do. It’s the thing Robin Hood would do. You’re just trying to live up to some fantasy, so you can spew out worthless phrases such as ‘I’m fighting for the people.’”

  The damned thing about William was that he was always right, he had perfected the art. “But that doesn’t make me wrong,” Robin said.

  Maybe earlier, but not now. Now he was fighting for his father, he was fighting for Alan-a-Dale, he was fighting for Much. For Stabhappy. For his brother Edmond. He fought for Marion, for her sister. For Robin Hood, whoever the hell that was.

  FIFTY-SIX