The Stolen Crown

by Eva Howard

  “Let me do more,” he said. “Let me play my part. Please?”

  Ellie hesitated. The last person she’d taught to hunt had been Alice, and she hadn’t been an easy student—she had a tendency to lose her temper when she felt she wasn’t catching on fast enough. But Tom had a calmness to him, a watchful alertness that might make him a good student.

  “Okay,” she found herself saying. “I’ll show you a few things.”

  For the rest of the morning they wandered all over Sherwood. She took Tom to a stream, where they saw ducks paddling and tracks in the soft earth. She pointed out the places a deer might like to feed, and a raggedy tree trunk where a buck had rubbed the velvet from his antlers. They ran hollering through the undergrowth, flushing a flock of pheasants into the sky. She brought down one, then another, enjoying Tom’s look of awe.

  “Here, you want to try? Hold the bow here and here, and always shoot just ahead of your target. See?”

  She knelt behind Tom to sight over his shoulder, and knew his third arrow would hit just before it did.

  “I got it! I got it!” He looked properly happy for the first time since she’d met him. “I’ve never shot at anything but a target before!”

  “You said you were a quick study. You were right.”

  They gathered the arrows and the fallen pheasants and trekked on. Tom wanted to try for a rabbit, but the undergrowth was quiet, and Ellie still held out hope for a deer—pheasants and rabbits weren’t going to feed everyone waiting for them back at camp. They ate blackberries off the bush, so late in the season they were at the edge of rot, with a high, syrupy sweetness that made Ellie’s teeth sing. The shadows grew long, then the sun disappeared behind the treetops.

  “Still no deer,” said Tom morosely.

  “There’s one last place we can try.”

  An hour after the sun had dropped out of sight, they were crouched in the shadows beyond a crumbling stone hut. In the clearing that surrounded it, a doe and a stag dropped their elegant heads toward the ground, pulling up mouthfuls of grass.

  “That’s the gamekeeper’s lodge,” Ellie whispered.

  “The baron’s gamekeeper?”

  “Shhh. Yes. He seeds the ground with clover to draw the deer. See?”

  Tom nodded, but he looked unsure.

  “Now watch what I do. This is different from shooting pheasants. Feel how the breeze is blowing toward your face?”

  “I . . . suppose.”

  “We’re standing on this side of the wind because you can’t let the deer smell you. If they do . . .”

  But the stag must have smelled something: It raised its long neck and froze, its body tight with concentrated motion. Any moment it would bound into the trees and take the doe along with it. Ellie knew she had to be fast. She nocked an arrow, raised the bow to her shoulder, and trained it on the stag.

  “Thieves!”

  The harsh shout made her jump and her arrow fly wild.

  The gamekeeper. Lying in wait, in the shadows of the house. Tom sucked in a gasp. Ellie shoved him behind her and brought another arrow to her bow.

  The man strode out of his hiding place. He wore a tattered cape of brown leather over a woolen tunic and mud-encrusted boots. His hair was lank and greasy. “You stole my venison! Come out of there, you, let me see your face!”

  “It wasn’t us!” Ellie called.

  “Was,” the man growled. “You nicked it right out of my storeroom!”

  Who would do something so stupid? Ellie cursed the thief inwardly. Now the gamekeeper would be watching his deer like a hawk hunting for mice.

  Except, right now, his gaze didn’t look that steady. He stumbled toward Ellie and Tom, his footsteps shambling. He’s drunk!

  “Let’s run for it,” she told Tom.

  They turned to flee—and the gamekeeper whistled. “After them, Hotspur!” he yelled. And with a ferocious howl a dog launched itself out of the darkness.

  It was black furred, with a dripping muzzle and powerful shoulders. Ellie and Tom sprinted back into the trees, but the dog caught their scent in a moment. Ellie turned to fire at it, but her arrow sped uselessly into the dark.

  “Good boy, Hotspur!” came the gamekeeper’s gleeful yell. “Bring them down!”

  The animal tore through the ground cover and leaped up, its heavy paws slamming into Ellie’s back. She crashed to the earth. The dog growled and snapped, its breath like rotten meat. One of Ellie’s arms was pinned under her, and with the other she hit at the dog’s head, trying to push its snarling jaws and yellow teeth away from her throat.

  As she struggled, she glimpsed Tom, mouth open in horror.

  “Run,” she told him in a strangled gasp. “Go!”

  He ran—but stopped after a few paces and bent to pick something up.

  What by all the saints is he doing? she thought, screwing her head down into the dirt as the dog snapped at her. There’s no point in us both getting killed.

  When she twisted around again, Tom was right beside her. He was holding her hunting bag of pheasants—she must have dropped it when she fell. “Here, dog!” Tom yelled. “Catch!”

  He flung the bag. It went arcing through the trees. The dog snorted, wetly snuffled the air—and leaped off Ellie. It bounded past Tom, crumpling him to the ground, then disappeared into the trees.

  Sweet relief flooded Ellie. She crawled over to where Tom lay. “That was brilliant,” she told him, taking his arm to pull him up. But he drew it back with a cry of pain, his features twisted. His arm looked oddly limp.

  “Hotspur?” came the gamekeeper’s shout. He was getting closer. “Did you catch them, boy?”

  “Sorry, Tom, but we’ve got to go.” Ellie heaved him up with his other arm, and he gave a yelp that made her wince. She took his good hand and pulled him away through the trees.

  It was harder to run holding hands, so Ellie kept their path as straight as she could. They passed the sounds of the dog tearing into its meal of pheasants. The yells of the gamekeeper faded away, yet Ellie didn’t dare stop yet. Tom’s breathing became more and more ragged as they ran, but he made no word of complaint. He let Ellie drag him through prickling underbrush and across a stream—she made sure they both got fully soaked, in case Hotspur remembered its duty and tried to catch their scent—until finally they reached a point about twenty minutes’ walk from the Greenwood Tree.

  “Let’s rest,” she panted, letting Tom go at last. Tom dropped to his knees. His face was taut, his fingers wrapped around his injured arm.

  “Let me see.”

  Ellie gingerly peeled the sleeve back to his shoulder. The skin was unbroken but starting to purple and swell.

  Tom sucked in air hard through his nose. “Sorry,” he said through whitening lips. “I was too slow, he almost caught us—”

  “Don’t say that,” Ellie said. “You saved me. I don’t know what I’d have done if you weren’t there. Made a nice meal for that dog, I suppose.”

  He laughed, then winced.

  “I think the bone is broken,” Ellie said. “Marian will be able to set it for you. You’ll be okay.”

  Tom nodded bravely. “The Greenwood Tree really will be a hospital then. Me and my—my uncle, side by side.”

  They trekked back to camp, Ellie keeping their journey slow and steady for Tom’s sake. They arrived to see a new tent raised, in the spot by the fire where Tom’s uncle had been. So there’s our new hospital, thought Ellie. She lifted the flap and ushered Tom inside.

  Marian was cooking a poultice over a low flame, the sleeves of her dress rolled up. She dropped the pan when she saw Tom’s arm, twice the size it should be and tinged the color of blackberries. Ellie hung back as Marian tested it with deft fingers.

  “It’s broken, dear—but it’s a clean break. You’ll soon be swinging swords and stringing arrows with the best of them.”

  Tom nodded, but his face was white now. The flight through the forest and the pain of his arm seemed to have caught up with him. He slumped
into a seat beside the bed where his uncle lay.

  “Hold out your arm,” Marian said gently, and began binding a splint of wood to the swollen skin.

  Ellie left them to it. She wondered what the rest of the League had been up to in her absence, and was drawn by a burst of raucous laughter on the other side of the Greenwood Tree. Following it, she found most of the camp gathered around Stephen, clearly well recovered from whatever malady had struck him earlier. He stood on a stump, a large bag slung over his shoulders. From it he pulled piece after piece of venison, handing out the purple chunks of meat to the villagers. He looked like a priest giving Communion to a devoted congregation.

  An old lady put her piece of venison into her apron pocket and grabbed his hand between both her own. “Such a good boy you are,” she said. “Not a thing like your father!”

  “It’s nothing really,” said Stephen, though he visibly seemed to swell. “I just wish I could do more.” His bag empty, he tossed it to Jacob, who stood on the ground beside him. Jacob whirled it over his head, and both he and Stephen burst out laughing at some private joke.

  Ellie had seen enough. “Hey!” she yelled, pushing through the crowd toward the boys.

  Stephen looked around, surprised. He gave her his widest—and, he clearly thought, most charming—grin. He was infuriating. But the worst thing was she had once thought him charming, hadn’t she? She could admit that to herself now. From the moment she met Stephen, she’d been dazzled by his handsome blue eyes, fine clothes, and haughty attitude. He was nothing like the village boys she knew. Now she saw him for what he was—an arrogant idiot. She felt thoroughly ashamed of herself for being taken in.

  She snatched the empty bag. “You stole that venison, Stephen!”

  “Who, me?” He gaped his mouth open in a mockery of shock, getting a snicker from Jacob.

  “Yes, you! Right out from under the gamekeeper’s nose, and I paid the price for it! Thanks to you, we’ll never catch another of his deer again. He’ll be guarding them like that horrible dog of his guards a bone!”

  Stephen tilted his head back and looked down at her. He’d never seemed more like his father. “Look around you, archer girl.” He held out an arm to indicate the entire Greenwood Tree. “Everything here is stolen. We’re living well, we have everything we need, but don’t forget that every bit of it was taken from someone else.”

  “That’s not the point! By stealing that venison, you’ve cut off our supply. And winter will—”

  “If everyone here played their part,” Stephen said loudly, speaking over Ellie like she hadn’t said anything at all, “we would have plenty.” The watching villagers murmured in agreement. Ellie looked to Jacob, but he didn’t say anything.

  Stephen stepped closer to Ellie, speaking so softly only she could hear. “If we didn’t waste our resources on people who can’t help themselves, we’d never even have to hunt. We could just take what we want. We could have a life of adventure, not one of drudgery. Isn’t that what the League of Archers should be about?”

  Ellie’s jaw dropped. She was so appalled that her tongue seemed to stick in her mouth.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” murmured Stephen. He gave her another of his infuriating smiles.

  “You know nothing about why we started the League,” she told him coldly. “It was to carry on the work of the Merry Men—to steal from the rich, yes, but so we could give to the poor. That’s what the League of Archers is about.”

  Stephen just gave her a pitying look.

  Despairing of ever getting through to him, Ellie appealed to Jacob. “He’s made things worse for us today. Can’t you see that?”

  Jacob glanced from Ellie to Stephen. The villagers who still lingered did the same. “Honestly, I can’t see what he’s done wrong. My parents will eat well tonight because of him. Everyone here will.” He gave a shrug. “What’s so bad about that?”

  Stephen was watching him like a proud tutor. “After all,” he said sleekly to Ellie, “it’s not as if you’ve brought anything back, is it?” He turned on his heel, Jacob trailing after him.

  Ellie felt like she’d been run through with a dagger of ice.

  I wish I’d never met him, she thought bitterly. I should never have accepted his help, or made that stupid promise. It would have been better for the League if I’d been captured.

  Even though she was surrounded by people, Ellie felt utterly alone.

  12

  JACOB’S SIDING WITH STEPHEN STUNG Ellie badly. There had been disagreements among the League of Archers before, but nothing like this—and for the sake of the villagers, the League needed to pull together more than ever. Everyone was safe at the Greenwood Tree for now, but tempers in the clearing were running high. Families grappled for space by the campfires and in the shelter of the tree’s roots. They fought over handfuls of berries. The ground was hardening with cold, making the task of building shelters difficult. Ellie knew that they needed to do something drastic if they were to keep everyone warm and fed—and that meant reviving the dream of the farm.

  So they needed money, and she thought she knew how to get it. When she’d assembled the League to tell them her plan, Stephen had looked infuriatingly pleased with himself. “I knew you’d see sense in the end,” he’d told her. “We can steal whatever we want. What do you want us to do?”

  But even his support made her annoyed now, and she’d been avoiding him as much as she could.

  Tonight they were putting Ellie’s plan into action, and hiding outside the constable’s house. She’d met the man before, on the day he and the baron came to the abbey to arrest her and Maid Marian. The house was a smart building of stone, one of the few in the Kirklees area—the peasants lived in simple wooden dwellings. It was hung with lanterns and set like a jewel in a circle of ornamental flower beds. The League were crouched outside the garden’s elaborate metal gates.

  The exterior told of the riches they were certain to find within: money; jewels, no doubt; valuables the constable had bought or stolen from his prisoners. Ellie had never forgotten his expression of amused disdain as he watched her and Marian being dragged off by the baron’s men, or the way he’d held a knife to her throat. No, she wouldn’t feel guilty about robbing this man. The house was like an egg, ready to crack open so they could enjoy the treasure inside.

  “See that window on the second story, the one all covered over with ivy?” Stephen spoke in just over a whisper. “That leads to a corridor, not a bedchamber. If we climb in there at this time of night, there’ll be nobody to see us.”

  “How do you know that?” Ralf asked.

  “Because he’s visited the house with his father, of course,” Jacob interjected. “The constable never could’ve guessed he’d be back to rob it!”

  Ellie rolled her eyes. Since the argument over the venison, Jacob had followed Stephen around like a gosling trailing a goose, hanging on his every word.

  “Fine,” she grunted. The knowledge was useful, even if she wished it had come from a different source.

  They climbed over the gate and crept single file through the garden, Ellie at the lead. She ducked low, keeping to the hedge of neatly clipped box that framed the flower beds. The air was rich with end-of-season decay, the flowers shriveled into mulch. She made for the base of the ivy. In the lantern light she could see four or five thick trunks, each as wide as her arm, coiling together up the wall of the house. She pulled at the ivy to test it, and it took a few hard yanks to come off in her hand.

  “Use it for balance, but keep your feet on the stone,” she whispered.

  She reached for a ridge in the stonework and hoisted herself up, feeling for footholds and handholds, and grabbing the ivy only when she needed to. She heard the rustle of leaves as the League came up behind. When she reached the window, she took an arrow from her quiver to lever open its wooden shutters.

  Ellie slipped inside, stepping onto a polished wooden floor. Stephen was right—it was a corridor, and empty. A candle on a table
was spitting wax and was almost burned out. By its light she could make out the frames of a row of doorways.

  Stephen climbed in next, then tied his scarf around his face—should they be seen, he clearly didn’t want his identity revealed. The others followed. Once all six of them were inside, the hall felt suddenly too tight. How could they possibly pass through the house unnoticed?

  Think of the farm, Ellie told herself. It’ll be worth it.

  “This way,” breathed Stephen. He led them down the narrow passageway. Silver candlesticks winked at Ellie from a small table, and she slid them carefully into the bag tied at her waist. A tiny painting in a gilded frame hung between two torches. Ralf lifted Alice up so she could take it.

  Stephen jabbed his finger at a staircase that snaked down into darkness. “The constable’s office is that way,” he whispered. He’d told them about this earlier—the room he’d glimpsed during a visit with his father, which he’d described as being stuffed with treasures.

  He began tiptoeing down the stairs, the rest of the League following. Ellie lingered, intending to bring up the rear. Her bow and quiver hung heavy on her shoulder. She prayed she wouldn’t have cause to use them.

  A door swung open. Ellie’s heart leaped into her mouth.

  A tiny figure in a white nightgown stepped out into the corridor. It was a little girl of about six. She rubbed her eyes with one hand—then saw Ellie standing at the top of the stairs. Her eyes went wide.

  “Wait,” Ellie whispered frantically. “We won’t hurt you. Please don’t—”

  The girl screamed. In the silent house it was as loud as the great bell at Kirklees Abbey.

  Goose bumps broke out all over Ellie’s skin. She ran down the stairs, slamming into Ralf. He and the others were frozen with horror.

  “What do we do?” he asked, panic in his eyes.

  Ellie shoved him roughly forward. “Go, go, go!” she half whispered, half yelled. “Grab whatever you can on the way, but get out!”

  Silence no longer a priority, they tumbled down the stairs. Stephen was at the bottom. He stared at Ellie in disbelief. “Why are we running?” he demanded. “We’ve got knives and bows. They’ve got dressing gowns.”