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No Good Deed

Page 17

by Kara Connolly


  Some color came back into the kid’s face, and he looked like a castaway sighting dry land. “The deer was foraging in the new-sown field. I never did go into the forest, my lord.”

  In a terribly logical voice, the sheriff said, “But all deer come from the forest, and every deer in the forest—even the ones that wander out—can be said to belong to the king.”

  Unhappy murmurs started up, and the local lord snapped, “It could be said, if one wants to be unnecessarily harsh.”

  The sheriff narrowed his eyes. “I would love to be lenient, Lord Barnsdale. I don’t enjoy punishing the young.” His volume rose to make sure the villagers got his point. “But, there has been a rash of disrespect for the king’s justice lately and everyone needs to know that stealing from the crown is the same as treason!”

  “Treason?” The word erupted from the front left of the crowd, and I climbed a step higher on the cross to get a look. There was Little John, roaring like a bear, with Will and about three other men holding him back. “I’ll tell you what’s treason, you baby-robbing, sheep-stealing twit!”

  “Pa!” cried Jack from the platform.

  The soldiers in front of the platform lowered their pikes and raised their swords. Will was saying something to John that was impossible to make out through the crowd’s noise, but I bet it was “Don’t be stupid.”

  The sheriff nodded to one of the soldiers, and then two more carried up a big wooden block with ominous-looking stains. The villagers shut up, and a surreal horror floated up inside me and tightened my throat. No way was the sheriff going to chop off a twelve-year-old’s head for treason. But then a huge, heavy ax came out next, followed by the dead silence of a collectively held breath.

  From my angle, I could just see the smug curl of the sheriff’s lip as he spun out the drama. “Jack the smith’s son will only lose a hand today, but let that be a warning—”

  The rest dissolved under a burst of inarticulate curses from John, and from somewhere came a woman’s keening sob, the kind of wail that can only come from a mother. Like someone had cut a cord holding back their voices, everyone on the green started talking—to each other, to themselves, to God….

  And where the hell was James?

  I stepped behind the marker cross and pressed my back to its cold stone, taking as deep of a breath as dread would allow. Someone was going to have to stop this, and underneath the top layer of wheel-spinning adrenaline, I calculated how it was going to be me.

  The cry for mercy went up, picked up from the sobs of Jack’s mother and carried through the crowd. It receded like a wave and I slipped back around the monument to see the sheriff raising one hand for silence. “Jack the smith’s son will lose his left hand, not his right.”

  “No!” Little John threw off the restraining hands like a buffalo shaking off flies. “It was me! I shot the deer. Let the boy go.”

  “Fine,” said the sheriff, as if it made absolutely no difference to him. “Release the boy. Hang the bandit.”

  Well, crap.

  The crowd erupted like a pot boiling over onto a stove. I was pushed back behind the stone cross by people trying to get a better view. I had to judge by the shouts and cries, and the guards ordering everyone back, what was happening.

  After all that talking, no one wasted time getting to the hanging. While the soldiers cleared people from beneath the big oak tree, I got my bearings. They’d released Jack, and Will was holding him back as the boy kicked and yelled. Much was at the edge of the green, gripping the leads of both his pony and Will’s horse with a white-knuckled fist, ready for a getaway. Lord Barnsdale seemed to be trying to wear down the sheriff with words, since reason and compassion were lost causes.

  “Thank God,” said someone right beside me. I jumped and looked down to see James standing at ground level. “There you are.”

  “I could say the same for you.” Including the “thank God” part.

  There was a new commotion as the soldiers managed to get Little John on the back of one of the horses, hands tied in front of him and a noose around his neck. The soldiers wound the end of the noose around the stoutest tree limb—it took about four loops and two half-hitch knots to hold it in place. It was a thick rope, which was going to make it easier to hit but harder to cut cleanly.

  “What do you need?” asked James, not even considering that we couldn’t or wouldn’t do something.

  “Some cover, first.” James stepped onto the base of the marker cross like he was just trying to get a better view, hiding me while I strung my bow. The rote action steadied my hands as I pictured the shot I would have to make. My timing would have to be perfect for the rope to snap and not John’s neck. “Okay. Now I need a countdown,” I said.

  James followed my gaze, looked at my bow, then nodded. “You’ll have it. Be ready.”

  Jumping from the marker, he pressed forward through the crowd calling, “Your Honor!” The villagers quieted as he passed between them, so he didn’t have to raise his voice. “Allow me to pray for the condemned before you execute him.”

  I ducked around the stone to where I could see. Lord Barnsdale looked surprised, then seemed as if he was going to greet James by name, but stopped himself. If the sheriff recognized James from my trial, he didn’t show it. He just waved his permission to get on with it.

  Elbowing to the corner of the marker’s top step, I reached under my cloak to get an arrow. If I needed more than one, John would be dead.

  The soldiers made room for James next to the horse on which Little John, pallid above his red beard, was mounted. James put a reassuring hand on the man’s leg, then raised his right hand to cross himself. There was my countdown.

  Forehead.

  I nocked the arrow and caught the bowstring in the same motion. Everyone around me vanished, and I focused on the slack rope of the noose.

  Chest.

  I lifted the bow and drew, pushing against the resistance of the yew, pulling against the spring of the heartwood.

  Left shoulder.

  From far away came a commotion, but it existed in another universe from me, James, and the rope around Little John’s neck.

  Right—

  James slapped the horse on its flank and I loosed the arrow.

  The horse took off with Little John clinging to its back, the cut end of the noose trailing behind. A half gasp, half cheer went up from the villagers, and I thought my head was going to float off my shoulders because that was a freaking gold-medal shot.

  And then I realized the horse was running away with Little John, whose hands were tied and whose look of terror said he didn’t know how to steer the horse even if he weren’t flopping around on its back like a hog-tied calf.

  “Will!” I shouted over the noise of all hell breaking loose. About twenty Wills looked around, so I shouted, “Will Scarlet!” I pointed at Little John, and Will waved his understanding and sprinted for his horse. He leapt onto Much’s pony cart, then onto the back of the horse, like some kind of matinee idol.

  “Elli—Robin, look out!” shouted Much, and pointed behind me and up.

  Oh hell. I’d wondered where Guilbert and his rangers might be. Pouring out of the village chapel on foot and from the churchyard on horseback, they headed for my very conspicuous position.

  I dove off my perch and into the crowd, managing not to land on anyone. I ran toward the big oak tree, because that was the last place I’d seen James, but I couldn’t find him in the chaos. The sheriff was screaming, the rangers were yelling, the villagers were trying to figure out what had happened, and my racing heart was going to be spitted by some soldier’s pike any second, I just knew it.

  “Boy!” said the accented voice I’d heard in the tavern. “In here.”

  The person that went with the voice grabbed my cloak before I figured out where “in here” was. I was pushed into a hollow in the ginormous oak, a space I hadn’t seen before, though I’d been staring at that tree harder than anyone.

  “What do you—”
I poked my head out, getting a look at his dark hair and beard and his golden-brown skin. He was definitely the guy in the tavern who’d asked about Robin Hood, and logic said I should be suspicious. But he was obviously not from around here, which gave us something in common.

  With a hand on my forehead, he shoved me back into the niche in the tree.

  “I think you may be out of miracles today, my friend, so stay hidden. I’ll tell the monk where you are.”

  I glimpsed a swish of a colorful cloak, but once I edged back, I couldn’t see out at all. The tree was so big and old that it had grown around an old injury, curtaining the hollow so it wasn’t visible from straight on, and no one much bigger than me would be able to fit.

  My breath filled the space, the air thickening with my panic. I braced my free hand on the side of the trunk to keep it from closing in on me. I was hidden, but I was also blind. I could turn, but I couldn’t draw my bow. I was a mouse in a cage and all I could picture was a hand reaching in to grab me and feed me to a snake.

  Stop that. Focus. You’re okay.

  I had my bow; I had a few arrows. I wasn’t a mouse. I was a fox gone to ground, waiting for the pack of dogs to go by.

  The clamor of men and horses was wild enough for a hunt. Then there were the cries of children as the soldiers rousted the village. I heard the sheriff’s voice as though he stood right outside the tree.

  “Five coins of silver on the head of the outlaw they call Robin of Hood!” he called. “Three on his men Will Scarlet and John the Smith!”

  I let my head fall back against the rough wood of the hollow and banged it gently while I waited for the village green to clear. I couldn’t blame fate, or anyone but myself. I’d chosen my name, christened Will and Little John. No one made me rob goats from the rich and give them back to the poor. I’d written myself into the story.

  I had become a fictional character.

  “Scour the forest for this bandit Robin Hood!” shouted the sheriff of Nottingham. “I will see him hang from the gate of Nottingham Castle!”

  I should have stolen a horse.

  I hadn’t gotten very far out of Edwinstowe before I realized that. God, my feet hurt.

  My thought had been to avoid the thoroughfare—a horse would need the road—and get through the woods on foot. I’d tried, but I’d gotten lost, and then stuck in the brush so bad I had to cut myself loose. I figured I would be a lot more noticeable blundering like a wild boar through the underbrush than just keeping to the road and taking cover when anyone came by.

  I also didn’t really know where I was going. I’d headed out of Edwinstowe the way we’d come in, figuring that was my best chance of catching up with an ally. Mapperley was out, because that was the first place anyone would look for me. The second was the priory. Besides, I’d brought enough trouble on the sisters already. And James, well, I hoped he and Much were in the clear. No price on their heads, so maybe the Brother James ruse would continue to hold up with the sheriff—as long as Guilbert didn’t tip him off.

  Guilbert. Him and his stupid forest rangers. I could hear Nottingham’s soldiers coming in plenty of time to get off the road and take cover. But when a pair of rangers nearly rode right up on me, I had to dive into the bushes. My foot caught between two branches, and I wrenched it free to roll into the cold, damp space beneath a fallen log.

  Son of a bitch.

  The rangers went by, but I stayed where I was as the sharp twist of my ankle became a fiery throb up my leg.

  It was dim and cold already—the forest brought dusk on early. The smell of earth and mulch that seemed ripe and nurturing in the warmth of day turned graveyard dank as it chilled. I lay on my belly in the middle of it, shivering and tired and really worried that it would be full dark before I found shelter.

  Dammit, Ellie. Whatever Robin Hood is supposed to do here, I’m pretty sure dying of hypothermia while feeling sorry for yourself isn’t it.

  I’d rolled out from under the log and pushed myself into a crouch when I heard another horse and rider on the road. Like, right on the road, just on the other side of my hiding place. I waited for him to pass, but instead I heard him rein in his horse and two more rangers—the ones that had just passed, I figured—join him.

  I was crouched in five inches of dead leaves, and if I so much as shifted my weight, they’d hear it. If they were Nottingham’s soldiers, I’d risk rolling back into my hiding place. But not with the rangers. Why weren’t they off fighting forest fires or something?

  “Any sign?” said the new rider. Guilbert. Of freaking course.

  “None that we could see from the road,” said one of his men.

  “Do you think it’s likely he came this way?” asked the other. “Mapperley and Northgate are both to the south. What would bring Hood east?”

  “He’s not so foolish as to go straight south,” said the first ranger.

  Only, I was. I thought I had been going south.

  Guilbert gave what would have been a good answer, if I’d known about it. “Lady Isabel’s manor house is this way. Even if she only mentioned it to Hood, he might seek it as a refuge. Keep riding to Ravenswood, but don’t give any of the tenants any trouble. Just take a look around.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Thank God. I was getting a cramp in my twisted ankle that was about to kill me. Two sets of horse hooves went off to the east and one went…south-ish. Breathing through clenched teeth, I gave them enough time to get out of sight. I didn’t even risk flexing my ankle until I couldn’t hear the horses anymore. Only then did I grab my bow from the ground beside me and stand up.

  Captain Henry Freaking Guilbert stood, horseless, facing me, arms folded, feet apart.

  Shit.

  “Don’t move,” he said.

  I made the fastest shot I’d ever made in my life—nock, draw, loose—sending an arrow fffting by Guilbert’s ear. He turned away from it instinctively, and while he was facing one direction, I took off running in the other.

  I went for the road, where I could stretch out my stride. I’d outrun him before—in sneakers and without a twisted ankle. Still, I might have done it again, if he hadn’t launched himself and taken me down with an old-fashioned football tackle around the knees. I smacked the ground hard, my bow flying out of my hand as everything went numb and gray fuzz crawled across my vision.

  Guilbert didn’t jump right up, either, but he made it to his feet before I’d gotten my wind back. “Get up,” he wheezed.

  I ignored him and crawled for my bow, making it about a millimeter before I heard the sound of a sword being drawn. Rolling over to face Guilbert, I found the point of his blade about two feet from my chest.

  Pushing myself up slowly, I got to my feet and raised my hands. “I’m unarmed.”

  “I don’t care,” he said.

  “That’s not fair!”

  His icy demeanor cracked enough for him to snap, “This isn’t a tournament. This is an arrest.” A great big fist of fear squeezed my chest. I would never get as far as the dungeons before my head would be the sheriff’s new lawn ornament. “It’s time for this nonsense to end.”

  “What nonsense?” I demanded. “Hungry families? Empty livestock pens and grain…thingies? Cutting off a twelve-year-old’s hand? You set a trap for me with a kid’s hand as bait, you asshole!”

  A flush of anger rose up his neck but he stayed in control. “You can take that up with His Honor the sheriff once you’re standing in front of him.”

  He whistled sharply, and I heard the clop of horse hooves. Porsche came around the bend. I was too sick of Guilbert to admit that was cool.

  “Get over to the horse,” said Guilbert.

  I edged my weight so that I could make a break for my bow. I was placing a really big bet that he had orders to bring me in alive, and I was desperate. “I don’t think I will.”

  “Devil take it,” he spat under his breath, and started toward me. I kept my eyes on his face, not letting his size or his armor or even t
he sword get into my head. I saw the twitch that said he was taking the sword to my left, and I slid right, coming inside the reach of his blade and up under his arm to brace my forearm under his sword wrist, the way I had with James. As he rolled his arm over to break the lock, I spun in like we were jitterbugging, only instead of dancing back out I punched him in the ribs, throwing all my weight into the jab. I felt at least one crack under my knuckles as I spun out with the follow-through, and Guilbert doubled over.

  That I hadn’t learned from James. That was all my brother Rob.

  Guilbert gasped with the shock of it and I hobbled to my bow, snatching it up. There was a thin strip of cold numbness on my left side, but I couldn’t be bothered. Guilbert was after me again. I held on to the bow and kept running, fumbling over my shoulder for an arrow, trying to gain enough distance to fire a shot. I nocked before I stopped, spun as I drew, and ordered, “Stop there, Guilbert.”

  He didn’t stop, and I loosed the arrow, putting the shaft into his thigh.

  That brought him to his knees, jarring a roar of pain from him. All the color went out of his face—shock, warned Iron Ellie. He clapped his hand to where the arrow jutted out from the muscle, and blood welled up between his gloved fingers.

  I was going to be sick. I needed to run. But I took an involuntary step toward him.

  “You actually shot me,” he said, when he could gasp anything but curses.

  The arrow had missed the bone and pierced the fleshy part of his thigh. When he pressed his hand around the shaft, the arrow shifted. “Don’t pull it out!” I cried.

  “I know not to pull it out, you madwoman!” he snarled.

  “You should have stopped when I told you to.” My side had gone from icy numbness to a fiery sting, as if matching my emotions. I put one hand over my ribs and saw blood trickling down my side from a shallow slice as long as my hand. “Oh my God, you could have killed me.”

  The color came back to his face. “You shouldn’t have turned into my sword.”

 

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