Nottingham

  WILLIAM DE WENDENAL

  NOTTINGHAM CASTLE

  THE TWO MEN STARED at each other, both knowing their words had long failed them. If there was any solution left, it lay in the sword by Robin’s side. He would have to use it or give up, there was no middle ground. One of them would have to break, and there was too much at stake for it to be William. Of course it was tempting, to walk away from all this madness. He longed to travel with his old friend Robin again at the king’s side, where right and wrong were neatly delineated by the war’s front line.

  But that was the very reason he was needed here, because he could think in terms of grey, surrounded by people who had never heard of it. Robin couldn’t see his proverbial forest from his trees. He had to back down.

  They breathed each other’s air, one inhaling as the other exhaled, two halves of a pump that kept the room alive. Their eyes were locked and William searched desperately for any sign of understanding. The moment lasted a few seconds, then longer, ten, twenty. It was a comically long time for nobody to speak, but it told William what he needed to know.

  Eventually, instead of a flash of violence, William ended the silence with a long slow sigh. He dropped his head and brushed his hair from his face. It was objectively ridiculous, the two of them, squared off in de Lacy’s office, the whole world rallied around their shoulders. He slid into his chair, which creaked stubbornly to take him. Robin’s grim demeanor now seemed forced and out of place, and William couldn’t keep himself from smiling.

  “Well, this is stupid.”

  Robin’s face relaxed. He slumped back against the wall, he looked too weak to keep standing. Then his face turned quizzical, he raised one hand limply and pointed at the wall behind William’s back.

  “Hm?” William twisted around. Robin had noticed the metal wreath William had salvaged from Locksley Castle. It had been cleaned now of its ash, its red and bronze colors brilliantly capturing the room’s candlelight.

  “Sorry, Robin, I didn’t think you’d ever see that. I hope you don’t mind.” He reached up and plucked it from the nail where it hung, careful of its crooked pointed leaves pricking out at odd angles. “You left without it. I didn’t want it to get destroyed.”

  “It’s fine,” Robin replied softly. “I don’t think I would have gone back for it.”

  “I liked what you said about it.” William held it up with two fingers, slowly rotating its frame, watching the light worm around its edges. “Something about the mistakes that we make, and that we keep making.”

  Again they caught each other’s eyes, and finally Robin smiled, albeit sadly. It had been some time since he had seen Robin’s smile, which was a lot to say.

  William returned the wreath to the wall, watching the warped reflection of the room behind him. He suddenly realized his back was exposed to a man who was carrying a sword, and he burst out laughing.

  “What?” Robin asked.

  “You pointed behind me, and I looked!” William was nearly hysterical. “Master tactician here!”

  Robin eased as he understood, and chuckled at the absurdity.

  “Didn’t think it could be that easy, did you?” William could barely speak through his laughter. “What’s that over there? Stab.”

  “I honestly didn’t think about it,” Robin answered, but his smile broke wide.

  “Neither did I,” William sighed. That there, that was everything about them.

  It was a thousand shared memories of unflinching trust, a comfort in one another that spanned years and years, in any language, in any war. And God, how William had missed it. “I would have been so shocked. I would have made the same face you made when you were shot with that arrow.”

  “Ah.” Robin chuckled as well. “Did I make a face?”

  “You made a face.”

  “Well, in my defense, I had just been shot with an arrow.”

  “Oh no,” William put his hands up, “you were amazing. You didn’t scream at all. The arrow went right through your leg and into the horse, and you still had every wit about you, calling out, ‘Hold, hold!’ to the men. It was a sight, let me tell you. An army enraged, all halted in midstep.” He shook his head. “I doubt I could have done that.”

  Robin’s chest shook up and down silently, then he rolled from a private little laugh to a full one. “I wasn’t calling out ‘Hold!’ to the men. I was talking to my horse!”

  William couldn’t believe it. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

  “No, I didn’t want him to run away, we were pinned together!”

  “You—” William slapped the table in shock, replaying the event in his mind. Robin, his sword held high, commanding his men to hold … “I thought you were the bravest man I’d ever seen that day.”

  “Nope,” Robin could barely contain himself, “I was talking to my horse.”

  He was talking to his horse.

  It was so damned easy to misread a situation, even amongst the closest of friends. William slapped the table again, overwhelmed with the ridiculousness of it all. When their laughter subsided, William reached out carefully and tapped the table by Robin’s untouched glass. He still had not taken any drink, parched as he must be, despite William’s assurances. What seeds of mistrust had been sown in him during his time away, it was abhorrent. Robin’s smile faded, but still he couldn’t trust in something as simple as a glass of wine. William stood and picked up the glass, stretching his arm out until Robin was forced to accept it.

  “Thank you,” he said, sipping from its top, and all the tension between them was gone. William offered the gauze as well, but Robin waved his hand, ignoring the minor wound. “If I remember correctly,” he grinned whimsically, “I wasn’t even supposed to be in the crown that day.”

  “That’s right!” William snapped his fingers. “It was my day. But you…” He thought on it, but couldn’t quite recall what had happened. “You had lost a bet the night before?”

  “No, I didn’t lose a bet.” Robin picked up the wooden chair. “You tricked me.”

  “That sounds like the sort of thing I would do,” he joked, though he couldn’t remember the details. “Well, you shouldn’t have made the bet if you knew I was up to something.”

  “That’s true.” Robin smiled. “That’s true. But I didn’t care.”

  “You were talking to your fucking horse,” William repeated it, bringing tears to his eyes. He moved from behind the desk and picked up Locksley’s sword, placing it on the desk as if it were not a weapon at all. Just some thing he didn’t want his friend to forget about. Robin didn’t even react that the sword had changed hands. “You know, the face you made notwithstanding, my first instinct was to laugh when you got hit with that arrow.”

  “Oh.” Robin bobbed his head. “How nice of you!”

  “But you didn’t scream. You can say you were talking to your horse, Robin, but that doesn’t change the fact that you didn’t scream.” He moved to his chair, sipping from his own glass. “What went through your head?”

  Robin leaned back, trying to recall the moment, and his answer was slow and tender. “I remember that. I remember feeling it, and I looked down, and I thought, The King shouldn’t scream. So I didn’t.”

  He looked sideways now, and William knew what he was thinking. Richard would have respected him, to take an arrow like a king, to still stand as a beacon even with his life in danger.

  “Then I remember being proud that it worked. I was actually proud they attacked me, and Richard was safe. Until then, we never really knew if we were any real use, if posing as the king was a good strategy or not. Richard said it gave him time to think, but there had never been any attempts on his life. At times, it even seemed cowardly. But when the arrow hit … I knew we were doing the right thing.”

  He would do anything, absolutely anything, for what he believed was right.

  William let the moment linger. “Do you know what I was thinking?”

  “What’s that?”

  He grinned wide. “I re
member being glad it wasn’t me.”

  “Hm.” Robin sighed.

  William reached over and held his glass out. “Cheers, old friend.”

  With a hollow tink, Robin touched the two together. “Cheers.”

  William took his drink in one large gulp, wincing at its bitter taste, and set it down on the table. Robin only looked into the liquid for a moment, his thoughts somewhere else entirely. When he drank it was slow, measured, but he continued to the last drop, tipping his head all the way back to finish.

  As simply as snuffing a candle, William speared the small knife from his boot through the meat of his friend’s neck, and instantly wept.

  “I’m sorry, Robin,” he cried, words so painful his throat squeezed at them to keep them in. He grabbed Robin’s forehead with one hand and tore the knife downward with the other, opening the front half of Robin’s throat in a torrent of blood and wine. To end it sooner, to put him from misery.

  “I’m sorry,” he cried, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Robin flailed, trying to claw at his own neck, but William forced his head back, letting the blood pour sickeningly forth. Robin’s legs spasmed, his hands lunged for the sword on the table but William kicked it away, scattering the table’s contents to the floor. Both their bodies crashed to the ground, William on top, his hands over Robin’s face. “I’m sorry, Robin, please, I’m sorry, just let it go, don’t fight it, let it go, let it go, I’m sorry, God, I’m sorry.” Robin’s body convulsed and thrashed a few more times, but eventually flickered down to mere twitches until slowly relaxing into a lump of nothing.

  “I’m sorry,” William kept saying, his hands and arms soaked in blood, his face pressed against his friend’s. He could feel Robin’s warmth fading already. “We swore an oath to the King, an oath of fidelity, an oath to protect our country from all dangers. All dangers, even from within itself, even from ourselves, even from those we love. You broke that oath, not I. All you’ve done is endanger the people. I couldn’t let you stop this peace, you have to see that! Why wouldn’t you back down? All you had to do is let this go, but you wouldn’t back down!”

  He then stood, ferociously, wheeling upon Ferrers, who had borne witness to all of it and stood uselessly, an exacting symbol of the people William was trying to protect. He screamed, because he had to. “There will be peace in Nottingham!”

  His legs were weak and he had to lean against the wall, but still he directed all his fury and grief at Ferrers. “There will be peace, and I will be its architect. I will do it, even if I have to drag everyone along like a child, even if I have to kill every man who would stand in my way, I will see it done. And there isn’t a friend, or a father, or a lover that is worth more than that! And if I am the only one willing to sacrifice for it, then—”

  He coughed, his throat too tight to continue, he tried to speak again, but there was bile now. He hacked violently and nearly vomited. He choked and spat into his own hands, bracing himself to recover. He opened his eyes and forced himself to focus on a single spot, to pull himself back. It was the wreath he stared at, but it would not stay still, it rotated around its center, slowly, its leaves sharpening, growing.

  William looked down into his hands, covered in blood, changing shape. He smeared them on his shirt and coughed again, fresh blood spattering his palm.

  Not Robin’s blood, not bile. His own blood.

  His attention was sliding away, but his eyes made the long dangerous journey from his hands, to the wine glass on the floor, and finally, rightfully, to Ferrers.

  “The Bishop of Hereford gave me the poison,” Ferrers said, unmoving, leaning against the door frame that curved unnaturally taller. “Gisbourne wanted it for the assassins. He wanted a poison that would take days to work, which I did not agree with. I asked the bishop for one with more immediate results. It made our journey into the forest more interesting, for certain.”

  William’s legs slid away from him, or he was already on the ground, he could not track which happened first. He was on his back now, though he was standing upright. The wall had become the floor and his feet only found air.

  “I’ll always wonder,” Ferrers’s voice said, “if you would have killed him without being poisoned. It’s supposed to amplify your emotions, so the bishop said. Something like being drunk, I understand. I’m sad I’ll never know.”

  The world shrank and constricted, only to balloon outward again with no warning, William rolled onto his belly to crawl. He had to get to Ferrers, he could not let this go unpunished. He could fight this, he could survive it.

  “What would I do if I were Sheriff?” Ferrers continued, walking closer, but William could not convince his hands to work together. Ferrers swept his hand down to peel a slip of paper from the floor. William lunged for his legs but fell tragically short. Robin’s sword was nearby, melting into the cobbles. William heaved his body to claim it but it vanished, floating into the sky, replaced by a weightless piece of fabric, the gauze that Ferrers had brought. “Here you are,” Ferrers said, dropping the gauze into the blood, soaking up the surrounding gore. “My father isn’t actually the Earl of Derbyshire anymore. He was killed in the Crusade, in Acre, you know. I don’t say that casually. You knew my father was killed, and you never told me. I was only just informed a little over a week ago. That makes me the new Earl of Derbyshire, and Chancellor Longchamp assures me I have his support in leading Nottingham as well.”

  No, William couldn’t allow it, but his body was no longer his to command. The world ceased its new fluid form and changed now into daggers. His arms and legs seized, he twisted onto his back as his muscles fought back—a thousand pains coursed through his body as his bones quivered. He could do nothing, he could say nothing. All his effort was worthless, all his life was worthless.

  You could marry the King himself, and you’d still be worthless.

  She was right.

  His eyes alone still worked, and Ferrers leaned over him to speak.

  “As per this edict, the last official act of Sheriff de Wendenal before he was slain by Robin Hood, the Sherwood Forest will be razed to the ground. Commencing tomorrow morning. To end this rebellion once and for all.”

  William sputtered, red mist flying into the air. The ceiling cracked and rent, the walls stabbed down into him. He was dimly aware of Ferrers, tipping the portrait of Roger de Lacy off its mount to fall into the blood. He almost did the same with the metal wreath, but instead tucked it under his arm and turned to leave. His last act was to pour a glass of wine down onto William’s face. The world at last calmed, William could feel the wine splash and pool in his eye sockets. He could not blink, the world was red.

  EPILOGUE

  KYLE MORGAN

  SHERWOOD FOREST

  MONDAY, 2ND DAY OF DECEMBER 1191

  KYLE HATED THAT HE was awake.

  He didn’t so much mind the traveling, even though he had never been comfortable on a horse nor had a horse ever been comfortable having him. He also didn’t mind that they were entering the Sherwood so recently after what happened just two days earlier. Kyle tended not to mind most things. He liked that he was out of the prisons, but honestly the prisons had not been so bad. Aside from the fear they’d hang him, his cell had been a nice break from the madness of the job, which he definitely didn’t care for. When it came down to it, if Kyle had to be awake, he didn’t really care what it was he spent his time doing, since it was all equally miserable compared to being asleep.

  He had slept all yesterday and could have slept a week longer and not been half done with it. They’d released him from his cell in the morning, which was supposed to be a kindness in that he’d get to watch the funeral and the hanging. Instead, Kyle went to sleep. A few times he had stirred when the noises of the crowd outside swelled, but he wasn’t interested in whatever they made their moanings about. He was told the funeral was a sight not to be missed, but he had missed it just fine and was only the better for it. They said Robin Hood had been hanged, but some
said it wasn’t the real Robin Hood anyhow. They said fights broke out in the baileys, and Kyle didn’t care who was involved. They said Prince John spoke for a while and that seemed pretty neat, but still not worth waking up for.

  If it had been a funeral for Captain Gisbourne, Kyle might have felt the need to go. But he hadn’t really known Sheriff de Lacy well, nor did he understand who the new Sheriff was before Robin Hood killed that one, too. But Kyle was proud of Ferrers for becoming the newest Sheriff. He thought that must be interesting, but probably dangerous, too, on account of so many of them dying lately. If they had asked Kyle to be Sheriff, he probably would have said no. So good for Ferrers.

  “Morg! That’s far enough, isn’t it?” Quillen Peveril called from the horsecart. Kyle turned around slowly and grunted a response, the cask still in his arms. It wasn’t as far from the road as Kyle would have liked, but he didn’t care enough to argue. He set the little barrel down on the ground, though it hurt his back to bend over. The ground was a little soft from the rains the night before, and the weather was cold and seemed like to start snowing. One less reason to be awake at all.

  Not so far off, Jacelyn de Lacy was placing a cask of her own against the base of a tree. “What’s in these things, by the way?”

  “I don’t know,” Kyle answered, “but they’ll burn for a good long time.”

  “We’ll put one more a bit farther in, shall we,” Quill commanded from the horsecart, even though he’d just said they had placed them far enough. “Then we’ll light them from the road. Morg!” He called again, gesturing to a new cask.

  Kyle grunted and returned to the cart. Why Quill couldn’t carry one himself, Kyle didn’t know. Even Jacelyn could carry them, and she was a woman. But it wasn’t worth griping about. It didn’t matter to Kyle none as long as the work got done. He bent his knees to tilt another cask into his arms. Twenty more or so were on the cart bed, which they would plant at regular stops on the way back to Nottingham Castle. They’d traveled halfway to Tickhill before stopping to ready their first fire, and Kyle was eager to get it lit. Even though the trip back would take longer than the ride out, at least they’d be moving closer to home and closer to beds.