The Stolen Crown

by Eva Howard

  The villagers slept on the ground, in tents, under awnings made of woven branches, or simply spread out under the stars, whole families huddled under blankets and furs. There was no camp for them to go back to and nothing left to salvage. The League had gone to see what was left of their abandoned farm the morning after they’d run from the soldiers. The soldiers had returned, just as Marian had warned that they would, and the sight of what they’d done had filled Ellie with horror. The huts they’d lived in were reduced to splinters and mud. Bread and a rabbit carcass lay uneaten in the dirt. The garden plot was trampled, the pigpen torn down, and the chickens slaughtered and left to go rank in the sun. She knew things would have been infinitely worse if any villagers had been there during the raid.

  And yet, although she was glad to have kept them safe, sharing the Greenwood Tree was harder than she’d expected. The feeling that it belonged only to the League of Archers, a secret place of safety where they could follow in the footsteps of the Merry Men, had been lost. Now the clearing thronged with people, day and night. Ellie often found herself touching the bark of the Greenwood Tree, hoping it could keep them all safe.

  That night, a week after the camp had been destroyed, Ellie woke in darkness to a sound that sent her stumbling blearily down the trunk, bow already hooked over her shoulder. It was the whistle of one of the lookouts stationed around the forest. As Ellie leaped to the ground and seized a torch that rested by the fire, the lookout broke into the clearing. She was a woman named Catherine, a farmer’s daughter who’d turned out to be an able fighter and builder. She was tall and lean, and had cropped her hair as close as a man’s after a few days of living in the woods. Ellie picked her way toward her, past the half-waking villagers strewn about the grass.

  “What is it? Is the baron back?”

  Catherine shook her head. “It’s the sisters. The sisters of Kirklees Abbey.”

  At first Ellie couldn’t make sense of what she’d heard. “Nuns? In the woods?”

  Catherine nodded. “On foot. They’re carrying with them a wounded man.”

  Tom Woodville’s uncle!

  It had to be. Ellie realized that in all the upheaval she’d forgotten to question Tom further about his story, and whether Lord Woodville really was his father. Was the wounded man even his uncle?

  Quickly she woke the rest of the League. Torches flickering in the darkness, they followed Catherine through the woods, into a small clearing dense with ivy. Four shrouded shapes seemed to hover, ghostlike, at the end of the clearing, then resolved themselves into four nuns—Sister Joan, Sister Mary Louise, a novice named Grace, and Sister Bethan. Ellie ran to throw her arms around the elderly woman’s neck.

  “By the saints, girl, do you mean to throttle me?” grumbled Sister Bethan. But she hugged Ellie back just as fiercely.

  Tom’s uncle lay on a stretcher on the ground. His face was pale as milk and unhealthily damp. Ellie had a sudden, stark vision of Robin Hood’s face as it had appeared just before he died. She crossed herself quickly. “Will he live?”

  Another figure darted through the trees. Ellie’s heart leaped into her mouth. Jacob whirled around, bow taut. “Who goes there?”

  It was Tom.

  The boy rushed to kneel beside the stretcher and grabbed his uncle’s hand. “It’s burning hot,” he said fearfully.

  He must have heard Ellie and Catherine talking, Ellie realized, and followed them. “This is Tom, the patient’s nephew,” she explained. Right now it didn’t matter if this was true or not—it was clear how much the man meant to Tom. She wondered briefly if he could even be his father, but could see no likeness between the sick man’s rugged face and Tom’s sharp one.

  “Is he dying?” Tom asked starkly.

  Ellie glanced toward Sister Joan. The nun clasped her hands together. “I’m very sorry, child. I don’t know how to save him.”

  Tom’s eyes filled with tears.

  “We’ll . . . we’ll do all we can to help his wound heal,” Ellie said quickly. “Won’t we?”

  Sister Joan knelt down and adjusted the sheet draped over the man. Her hands shook and Ellie saw darkness in her eyes. “It’s not his injury that troubles him,” she said. “Someone gave him a dose of poison.”

  “What?” gasped Ellie. Flickering torchlight showed the shocked faces of the League.

  Sister Joan rose to her feet. “I’ve done what I can to stop it from killing him, but I fear it’s not enough.”

  “We can’t protect him, Ellie,” said Sister Mary Louise. She looked like she might cry. “We’ve been taking turns to keep watch, but what if it isn’t enough?”

  “If he stays in the abbey any longer, he won’t survive,” said Sister Bethan bluntly. “Someone will make sure of it.”

  “But who?” wondered Alice.

  “Mary Ursula,” said Ellie immediately. “Who else?”

  It seemed that wherever there was trouble, Mary Ursula was involved. Hot anger filled Ellie, and something else, too—guilt. She’d sworn to Tom the abbey would keep his uncle safe. She should have known that with Mary Ursula in charge, it was a promise she couldn’t keep.

  “But it doesn’t make sense,” said Ralf. “Why would Mary Ursula want to hurt someone she’s never even met?”

  Ellie turned to Tom, who was still clutching the man’s hand. “Do you know why?”

  He shook his head, mouth clamped shut.

  I’m going to have to ask him for the truth after all. . . .

  “Tom,” she said as gently as she could, “who is this man to you?”

  “I’ve already told you. He’s my uncle.”

  Ellie went to crouch down beside him. “Look, Lord Woodville isn’t your father, is he?”

  Tom said nothing, but Ellie noticed him flinch. So Marian was right on that score.

  “I don’t care why you lied, Tom. We need to know the truth so we can help. Is this man truly your uncle? Is he your father, maybe? We just want to know why Mary Ursula would try to hurt him.”

  The blood rushed to Tom’s cheeks. Gently he laid down the wounded man’s hand and got to his feet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said stiffly. He waved a hand at the stretcher. “Now move my uncle to the Greenwood Tree. Immediately.”

  Ellie and the League stared at him. Sister Bethan tutted in disapproval.

  Tom seemed to recollect himself. “Forgive me,” he said, sounding suddenly exhausted. “I’m worried he’ll only get worse lying here.”

  Ellie, Alice, Margery, and Jacob each took a corner of the stretcher, and Tom and Ralf went ahead to push branches out of their path. The nuns filed behind them as they carried the man through the forest.

  “What about the other patients?” Ellie asked. “Are they in danger too?”

  “There are no other patients,” said Sister Joan.

  “They’ve been sent away,” little Grace added.

  “The hospital’s been closed down,” growled Sister Bethan. “On that woman’s orders.”

  Ellie was stunned. “But how could she justify that?”

  Sister Bethan looked like she could strangle a stag with her bare hands. “Because the abbey has no money, or so she says. It’s truer than it’s ever been, I suppose, with her in charge. She dines well every night while the village starves.”

  “I’ve seen her chambers,” Ellie said, remembering. “They looked like they belonged in a castle.”

  “In truth,” said Sister Bethan, “she’s just another baron, wearing a sister’s habit.”

  On they walked. The League did their best to hold the stretcher steady, but whenever one of them stumbled, the wounded man groaned. “The king, the king,” he muttered over and over. “God save him.”

  Ellie heard the catching of breath and looked around to see Sister Joan dabbing at her eyes. Ellie had spent hours working with Joan in her hospital, learning how to brew simple tinctures, set a sprain, clean and dress a wound, stanch bleeding, watch for infection setting in. She’d not been a very good nu
rse herself, but Sister Joan was a true healer. The hospital was where she belonged.

  “Sister Joan, I’m so sorry—”

  The nun shook her head briskly. “There’s nothing for it, dear. Just do the best you can for this man. I hope a lesson or two stuck.”

  “I remember rhubarb helps with beestings,” Ellie said meekly, and Sister Joan gave her a watery smile.

  When they reached the Greenwood Tree, dawn was starting to break. Marian, alerted by Ralf and Tom, came running toward them, her cheeks flushed and her skirts in her hands. “My sisters!” she cried. She and Bethan met in a hard embrace. Marian pulled away and hugged the other three nuns in turn, each lit up with happiness at seeing their former mother abbess once more. Sister Mary Louise burst into happy sobs.

  “There, there,” said Marian, wiping Mary Louise’s cheeks. “I didn’t believe I’d see any of you again. Oh, how I’ve missed you.”

  The camp was starting to stir. Ellie led the nuns to the fireside, while Friar Tuck picked up the wounded man in his brawny arms and laid him down on a pile of blankets hastily gathered by Ralf and Tom. Margery drew up a screen made of branches, from which she usually hung drying rabbit pelts, to shelter him. Tuck and Marian listened intently as the nuns repeated their story.

  Marian shook her head sadly. “Mary Ursula’s capacity for treachery exceeds my worst fears. Has she driven you out? Do you need to stay here with us?”

  “Thank you, but no,” said Bethan. “Tempting as it is, we can’t leave the novices alone with that woman.”

  The others were in agreement. “Though I dread going back,” sighed Joan. “I joined the sisterhood to do good works, not to watch an arrogant woman grow her store of finery day by day.”

  Marian looked thoughtfully around the clearing. Ellie could see an idea coming into shape behind her eyes. “If the abbess has closed your hospital,” Marian said, “we’ll just have to open a new one. Right here.”

  Ellie smiled at her kindness. Marian was everything an abbess should be.

  “Perhaps you could come back someday and bring us your unused supplies, Sister Joan?” Marian asked. As she and the nuns began to make plans for how the hospital would work, Stephen, who’d been watching curiously, sidled up.

  “What is it?” Ellie asked coldly.

  “A hospital? Is she serious?” He gave a scornful laugh.

  Who does he think he is?

  “Why not? It’s the safest place in the forest.”

  Stephen waved a hand at the villagers, who were lighting fires, shaking out blankets, and starting their day. “Look around you, Ellie. This place is crowded enough already. Now you want to add a hospital, too?” He looked at a woman chasing after two grubby children, his lip curling in distaste. “I thought the League was about adventures and battles and doing brave deeds. Not a village full of peasants, hiding out in the woods.”

  A village full of peasants? Ellie gaped at him, hardly able to believe what she’d heard. She pulled him away from the fire. She didn’t want the others to hear this.

  “I didn’t ask you to join the League,” she said, her face growing hot. “You chose it, remember? And no, the League isn’t about us having adventures.” She drew the word out ridiculously. “It’s for them. The people. It’s whatever they need it to be.”

  “Fine words,” said Stephen, “but be honest. Is this really what you want? To live crammed in a clearing with the sick and the dying?”

  Ellie seized his arm again and yanked him so he could see the wounded man behind the screen. He’d twisted around, so his blankets were cast aside, showing the weeping bandage around his belly. It was stained dark red. The man’s face was gray as ash, and he groaned terribly. “Look at him!” she said furiously.

  Stephen looked. His mouth twisted.

  “I suppose you would cast him out into the woods,” she said. “Do you know who you remind me of? Your father.”

  Stephen had turned a deathly white. At first Ellie thought he was angered by her words. Then she realized how shallow his breathing had become.

  “You’d better sit down,” she said, and drew him to a tree stump. Stephen sat down heavily, worrying at the black scarf he wore knotted about his throat. His red hair was stuck to his forehead. “I’ll fetch you something to drink,” Ellie said.

  She headed toward a nearby water barrel, trying to untangle her thoughts. She’d seen nuns faint plenty of times at the hospital when faced with a particularly gruesome wound. She’d nearly done so herself. Most of the novices at Kirklees Abbey had gone to great lengths to get out of hospital duty with Sister Joan. Maybe Stephen couldn’t handle blood either? She hoped that was the case—she’d certainly rather he object to the hospital out of squeamishness instead of cruelty. So how on earth did he manage at the Crusades? she wondered. He must have seen worse injuries there.

  Ralf came over to join her as she filled a tankard. He nodded toward Stephen. “I saw what happened,” he said. “He’s a baron’s son, don’t forget. There’s probably a lot he’s not used to.”

  “Well, there’s one thing he’s going to have to get used to, and fast—helping other people.”

  “I want to get used to it too.”

  The voice was Tom’s. Ellie turned to see him standing behind her and Ralf.

  “I’ve not really helped other people before,” he said. His cheeks reddened. “But I’m a quick study. Will you show me how?”

  He looked older than his years, his eyes weary and wide—and completely sincere. He’d lied about his family, but there were plenty of reasons people kept secrets—some of them very good ones. Her instincts told her she could trust him, as strongly as they told her to worry about Stephen.

  “Of course we will,” she said. “We could use your help.”

  After the nuns were breakfasted and rested, and had said their tearful good-byes to Marian, Ellie shouldered her bow and led them back through the forest, guiding them around the traps. Novice Grace and Sister Mary Louise looked fearful—and Sister Joan faintly disapproving—but Sister Bethan’s eyes shone. “And the Merry Men made all of these themselves?” she asked, gazing up at a net trap.

  “Mostly. Ralf and Alice did a lot of repairs.”

  “I used to dream of fighting back like Robin Hood,” Sister Bethan confided. “Oh, don’t look so scandalized, Mary Louise. We all fight back in our own way. His was just a bit more adventurous.”

  They reached the ivy-draped clearing where they’d met during the night. “We’ll find our way from here,” said Sister Bethan. Ellie hugged them all good-bye, squeezing Bethan extra hard.

  “If you ever need game,” Ellie told her, “if you ever need help . . .”

  Sister Bethan put her hands to Ellie’s face. “I know. But you have enough to worry about. For now you keep what you shoot for the villagers. We’ll get by on what we’ve got. Besides, Mother Mary Ursula could stand to eat a bit less.”

  Ellie smiled and watched the sisters’ backs until they disappeared into the leaves. The forest seemed to become completely still. No breeze stirred the air. Crisp morning light slanted through the trees, and the only sound was of birdsong.

  Perfect hunting weather!

  And why not? She had her bow and arrows with her. Lord knew they needed the meat—stores at the Greenwood Tree were growing low. Last night her breath had made puffs of smoke on the air, and this morning the thinnest layer of frost tipped the grass blades before the sun melted it away. Winter would be here before long. They’d need as much game as they could get, especially now that the possibility of having a farm of their own seemed as hazy as a half-remembered dream.

  She walked quietly through the trees, scanning the ground with practiced eye for signs of quarry. She had hunted since she was old enough to carry a bow, and even before that had helped her mother lay traps for rabbits. She knew how to spot a trail of crumpled leaves, how to tell if droppings were fresh, and that a snapped bough meant something larger—hopefully a deer—had passed by, and how to tell
from the color of the broken wood when it had done so. The thin sun warmed her face, and she found herself relishing the familiar feeling of being all by herself in the forest.

  Between two trees was a pressed-down bed of grass. Ellie touched her palm to it—still warm. The animal that’d sat there would still be close by. She unhooked her bow from her shoulder and took an arrow from her quiver. Moving even more carefully now, she followed the trail of minutely disturbed stones and blades of grass. It was a rabbit, she decided, and from the size of the trail, a large one—big enough to feed four.

  The stillness was broken by a snapping sound. Ellie started. It was a branch cracking, she knew, and came not from farther up the rabbit trail, but from some distance behind her.

  A deer! It has to be!

  She whirled around. Bow raised, she darted through the trees, hoping she was quick enough, caught a flurry of movement, let an arrow fly—and pulled up sharply when, spilling through the bushes, she saw her quarry.

  Tom stood frozen, both hands up, her arrow quivering in the trunk just over his head. For a moment they just stared at each other.

  Ellie exhaled hard. “First rule of hunting—you never surprise a hunter.”

  His face broke into a wary smile and his hands came down. “I understand. What’s the second rule?”

  She shook her head, pulling the arrow from the tree and returning it to her quiver. She felt shaken at what she’d almost done. “You’d better get back to camp, Tom. I’m trying to catch us some rabbit for dinner.”

  “I’m staying.” Again his voice had that vein of steel running under it—that suggestion that he was used to being obeyed. “I meant what I said. I can’t just sit around the Greenwood Tree, eating your food and using your supplies, and sleeping under your stars.”

  She startled at the turn of phrase. Whoever’s son he was, Tom was clearly well educated. “I don’t mind sharing the stars.”