The Stolen Crown

by Eva Howard

  Ellie met Stephen’s eyes across the clearing. “We’re not leaving the Greenwood Tree.”

  He smirked at her. “You can keep your little tree house. I know a place on my father’s grounds where we’ll be safe.”

  If Jacob and Alice registered any dismay at being taken to the baron’s land, Ellie couldn’t see it. Stephen led his followers to the trees, pointing them toward a path through the forest. He himself mounted the horse that had belonged to the constable. He shook his jeweled cloak back, looking down at Ellie.

  “You can keep your name, too,” he said. “We’re not the League of Archers anymore. Just call us”—he grinned widely—“the Merry Men.”

  14

  THE CLEARING AROUND THE GREENWOOD Tree held a new kind of quiet. Before, back when the League first discovered it, the clearing had been filled with the peace of birds and trees, and running water just out of sight. Now it rang emptily with the quiet of having been left behind. Tuck was sharpening the cooking knives on a whetstone; Marian was dealing with a horse’s cracked hoof. On one of the platforms high in the tree Margery was hammering repairs. But all Ellie could hear was Alice’s and Jacob’s absent voices.

  It was even worse for Ralf. He’d barely spoken a word since Alice left. At every crackle of the fire or rustle in the trees, his head shot up, as if he was expecting to see his sister stepping into camp. And every time she didn’t, his eyes went a little duller. Ellie’s heart ached whenever she looked at him. She couldn’t have borne losing Ralf, her best friend and the closest thing she had to a brother. But to see how lost he was without his sister was hard to stomach.

  Their hunt today was long and almost fruitless. Ellie tried to talk to Ralf about growing their own clover patch closer to the Greenwood Tree, to draw deer without the help of the gamekeeper. He just shrugged, then shot early and wide of their target, a brace of pheasants that had burst from their hiding place by the stream. In the end they straggled back to camp near dusk, each carrying a pair of scrawny rabbits. The clean scent of gathering frost clung to the air. A few of the villagers who’d stayed with Ellie were gathered on logs around the fire, huddled against the chill. Out of habit Ellie glanced around for Jacob and Alice, before remembering—for what felt like the thousandth time, each equally painful—that they weren’t there.

  Margery dropped down from the tree, dusting her palms together and looking skeptically at their bounty.

  “Well . . . we can add a couple of potatoes to the pot to make it stretch,” she said. Her voice was bright, but Ellie could tell she was only trying to be cheerful. “Tom dug some up this morning. Took him an age with just one good arm. He’ll be pleased we’re using them.”

  “It’s not quite venison, is it?” said Donald, the man who’d stayed behind with his elderly parents. Ellie tried to like him, but he reminded her too much of Sister Jeanne, a Kirklees nun who could find fault with a cloudless sky. “I wonder how the others are eating,” Donald continued dreamily. “The Merry Men. Maybe the baron’s sharing with them from his table—they are with his son, after all. . . .”

  “I wouldn’t take a mouthful Lord de Lays offered me,” Ellie said through gritted teeth. “And his son is near as much an outlaw as I am. I doubt the baron would give him a crumb.”

  Donald’s mother sucked her teeth, pinching one of the rabbit’s skinny legs. “Perhaps the new king will bring easier times for us,” she said, as if to herself. “Things certainly couldn’t be worse.”

  “If there even is a new king,” Donald said morosely. “We haven’t heard a word about it, have we?”

  He was right. They had heard plenty about the landlord of the Stag and Stoat’s new young mistress, Ellie reflected, but not a word about the new king of England.

  “How would we hear about it, out here in the woods?” Ralf said irritably. He’d had little patience for anyone since Alice left. “And what do you care? Are you expecting to be invited to the coronation?”

  Donald shrugged. “Things like that have a way of being known. Of course, I never got word of King John’s death, either. The one who told me about it was her.” He looked at Ellie with narrowed eyes, folding his arms over his chest. “And she’s the same one who told us we’d be well fed.”

  A vision of the king’s purpling face flashed before Ellie’s eyes—she could hear again the terrible sounds he’d made before slumping over the banqueting table. . . .

  “Hold your tongue,” Tom told Donald. He’d come around from the other side of the clearing, his good hand drawn into a fist. “Ellie is no liar. King John is dead, and soon a new king will take his place. You can be sure of it!”

  “And what would you know about such things?” sneered Donald.

  Tom went red. Ellie put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “Let them complain. An argument with supper is as good as salt.” It was something her mother used to say when her father wouldn’t stop ranting about the barons, the taxes, the cruel truth that the villagers always paid the highest price for the king’s decisions. She was right, too—he had always seemed to sleep easier after he’d had his say.

  She turned to her friends. “It’s true, though. Four measly rabbits isn’t enough to fill everyone’s bellies. We should go back out.”

  Margery nodded. “I’ll come with you.” She piled the rabbits in Donald’s arms. “Here,” she said tartly. “You start skinning. Friar Tuck will get you a knife.”

  Ellie tried not to think of Jacob as she, Ralf, and Margery went to the tent where they stocked the arrows he’d made, neatly topped with feathers, their shafts as true as any made by Master Galpin at his fletcher’s shop.

  Ellie pulled back the flap. The boxes of arrows were empty.

  What was I expecting? As if the new “Merry Men” would have left them behind. She felt embarrassed to have thought otherwise—then angry. Jacob might have made those arrows, but Ralf and Margery had cut down the branches he’d used for the shafts. Ellie had shot the birds that had once worn those feathers. She kicked at the nearest tent peg, then kicked it again and again, until it jogged loose of the ground and sent the tent half toppling.

  “Ellie, stop,” said Ralf, cutting through her rage. “We’ll make more. We’ll manage.”

  Ellie turned to snap at him, but the words died in her throat. He was hurting as badly as she was. Worse. She wanted to believe this was all Stephen’s doing, but she kept remembering the way Jacob had looked as he ran to join his new leader: proud and excited, like he was setting off on an adventure. The way he used to look when the League went hunting, back when they didn’t have anyone to feed but their own families and the abbey. Alice had looked stern, a little sad, but certain of what she was doing. That was almost worse—she had so lost faith in Ellie, she didn’t even think twice about leaving the League of Archers behind. About leaving her brother behind.

  While Ralf and Margery set about gathering supplies to make new arrows, Ellie went to find Marian in the hospital tent. She was hovering over Tom’s uncle, lifting his head to spoon broth into his mouth.

  “He hasn’t woken,” she said. “But his color is better—see?” She looked around at Ellie, her eyes gentle. “You’re tired.”

  Ellie nodded, suddenly too sad to speak. She could feel the corners of her mouth turning down and had to put all her focus into not letting herself cry. If just one tear gets out, she thought, they all will.

  Marian led Ellie to the edge of the clearing, away from the circle around the campfire. “After everything that happened, you should be tired,” she said, taking Ellie’s hands in hers. Her voice was low and soothing. “You should be angry and sad. You can mourn your friends leaving you, Ellie. You mustn’t be ashamed of that.”

  “I . . . I never should’ve let Stephen stay!” The words came out on a rush of tears. And Ellie let herself cry.

  She hadn’t truly cried when Robin died, or when the baron took Maid Marian away. She hadn’t cried when she believed they had no hope of saving Marian from the baron’s
dungeons, or when she learned about the horrible crimes of Will Scarlet. But now, with her friends far away and Ralf walking around like a bird with a broken wing, she sobbed as if she’d never stop. It made her feel eight years old again, lying in her novice’s bedchamber, longing for her mother. Her shoulders shook as she hunched over, hugging her rib cage. She felt Marian’s arms go around her and relaxed against her chest.

  At last the hurt lightened, still there but bearable. “Oh, Marian, how could they have left like that? To follow him . . . And the Merry Men? Who is he kidding? It’s an insult. To Robin, to Tuck, to you . . .”

  “I’ve had worse said about me.” Marian tucked back a piece of Ellie’s hair.

  “The League’s my whole life,” Ellie said. “It’s everything to me, just like the Merry Men were for Robin. It’s all I know how to do—and I really think it’s what I’m meant to do. I’ve always wanted to be like Robin, I try to live up to his memory. And I know the Merry Men left him in the end. But he was an old man when that happened. How have I lost the League so soon?” She wiped her eyes. “I must be nothing like him at all.”

  Marian gave her a shake. “But you are like him. I should know, shouldn’t I? I knew him best in all the world. You have his passion for justice, his inability to back away from a fight. His blind faith in the ones you love.” Marian smiled ruefully. “But you have strengths Robin never had. You’re not cocky, like he was. You don’t fight just the biggest battles, you fight the small ones too. Robin could steal the throne right out from under a king but forget to shoot enough meat for breakfast.”

  Ellie smiled at this. She remembered how she’d met Robin, both of them trying to shoot the same duck—how competitive he’d been, how eager to show off his archery skills.

  “You have the heart and mind of a leader, Ellie,” Marian continued. “You are Robin’s true heir. Not Stephen. You. Your friends will come back to you. They will. And you just have to open your heart enough to forgive them when they do.”

  By the time she stopped speaking, tears were running down her cheeks too. For a moment Ellie just held on to her hands. Wanting so much to believe Marian’s words, but fearing the hope they gave her.

  “I hope you’re right,” she said finally. “I pray that you’re right.”

  Ellie yawned widely. She’d been up half the night with Friar Tuck, who’d taught her, Ralf, and Margery to make arrows by firelight. She’d spent the other half of the night planning. Hunting was scarce, and anything they planted now would freeze in the ground. If they were to feed themselves and their small band of villagers, they would have to do something bold.

  They were following Marian through the woods; Ralf and Margery were as bleary eyed as Ellie. Only Marian looked alert, her eyes bright. In the early green gloom between trees, leaf shadows on her face, Ellie could see how she must’ve looked years ago, when she walked with Robin by her side.

  The air had the held-breath quiet of early morning, the sun filtering weakly through the treetops. Their footsteps made ghostly shapes in the cold grass. The trees thinned, and Marian stopped by a wooden post. It was covered in lichen, but Ellie could make out a florid letter C carved into it. Two crossed swords were carved underneath.

  “This marks the start of Lord Clerebold’s lands,” Marian said. “Good luck and good hunting!”

  They thanked Marian and, as she turned back toward the Greenwood Tree, pressed on through the forest. Around the campfire in the early hours of that morning they’d at last struck upon a plan to feed everyone. They wouldn’t wait any longer to buy what they needed to start their farm—they would steal it. Cows for milk to get them through the cold months, then to slaughter when the forest no longer had the grass to feed them. Chickens for eggs, a pig if they were lucky.

  Probably even Stephen would approve, Ellie thought.

  The trees became more scarce. Soon they were looking out over a big stone house with shuttered windows. Between them and the house rolled green fields dotted with cows, each looking far better fed than anyone living at the Greenwood Tree. Lord Clerebold was clearly rich with plenty to spare—and, as Ellie had told everyone last night, he was a friend of Lord de Lays’s. Lord Clerebold was the man the baron had been plotting with at the banquet. Ellie had no compunctions whatsoever about stealing from him.

  “Well? What are we waiting for?” Ralf said. He launched himself over the wooden fence that circled the property. Ellie and Margery followed. They kept their heads low and followed the edge of the field to where the largest group of cows was gathered. A couple raised their heads to eye the arrivals, but most carried on calmly cropping the grass.

  “Me and Ralf will round up the cows,” said Ellie. “Margery, you try to find a gate out to the forest. And if you can’t find one, make one.”

  Margery patted the ax that hung from her belt. Nobody wanted to spend time learning whether you could coax a cow to climb over a fence.

  “Should we split up?” Ralf asked Ellie. “I can go look for—”

  An arrow thudded into the ground at his feet. He gave a yelp of alarm. Quick as a hawk, Ellie drew an arrow from her quiver, slotted it to her bow, and trained it over the fields. Margery did the same.

  Ralf bent down and pulled up the arrow. “Look.”

  From its head to its fletching Ellie would know it anywhere: It was an arrow made in the style of Master Galpin.

  Jacob.

  He stepped out from behind a hay bale on the other side of the field—then froze, his face turning from suspicious to shocked.

  “What are you doing here?” Ellie’s voice sounded funny in her own ears.

  Jacob shook his head. “I didn’t know it was you. I wouldn’t have—”

  The front door of the stone house opened. A man with a scarf over his face strolled out.

  Not a man—a boy . . .

  Stephen pulled down the scarf when he saw Ellie. He strode to join Jacob and grinned.

  “What did we do to deserve a visit from the League of Archers? Trying to steal Lord Clerebold’s livestock, are you?” He shook his head mockingly, then tossed a full purse into the air. It jangled when he caught it. “Unlucky for you, this house is under the Merry Men’s protection.”

  Ellie gaped at him. “Protection? Robin would weep! You’re nothing but a gang of rich men’s guard dogs.”

  “And you’re too high and mighty to take easy money.” Stephen hung the purse from his belt. “Go on back to your tree house, archer girl.”

  Ellie turned to Jacob in dismay. “And you’re okay with this, are you?”

  “Lord Clerebold’s paying us well.” Jacob kept his eyes to the ground, as if he couldn’t look any of them in the face.

  “You know this isn’t right, Jacob Galpin,” Ralf spat. “You know what you’ve turned into? You’re the people we fight against. You’re the people helping the rich stay rich and the poor get poorer!”

  “I’m feeding myself and my parents!” Jacob burst out. “That’s more than you can say. You’re here to steal from Lord Clerebold, and I’m here to protect him. What’s wrong with that? Besides, who cares what Robin would think? He’s dead, and I’m not even in the League of Archers anymore.”

  “No, you’re not,” Ellie said. “You’re on the side that shoots hungry people out poaching.”

  “We’re hungry too, Ellie!”

  “Jacob, you don’t have to listen to this,” Stephen said. He walked toward Ellie almost lazily and put an arrow to his bow. “By the order of Lord Clerebold, master of these lands, I order you to retreat. On pain of death.”

  Margery scoffed. “You wouldn’t kill us. You don’t have the guts. One day soon you’ll be just like your father, lazy and soft and hiding in your castle. I think you were just like him all along.”

  Stephen’s pale-blue eyes flashed and his fingers tightened on the bow. “Don’t push me,” he said, his voice tight.

  Ellie turned to go. “You ought to be ashamed,” she said to Jacob over her shoulder. “You’re a disgrace to
the memory of the Merry Men.”

  As they marched back toward Sherwood Forest, all the peace had gone out of the morning, all the hope had been squeezed from her heart.

  15

  “WELL, WORD IS FINALLY OUT,” said Friar Tuck. He sat heavily by the fire, his monk’s robe cascading in folds of brown fabric around him. “They’ve found themselves a new king.”

  That night they were almost eating well—rabbit much plumper than the usual scrawny ones they found, the last of the season’s blackberries, and loaves of bread Tuck had bought in Kirklees village. He’d clearly gone there in search of gossip as well as food.

  Tom paused, midbite on his rabbit leg. “A new king?” he echoed.

  Tuck took a swig of ale from his tankard—he’d been brewing beer in the Greenwood clearing—and swallowed a burp. “Aye, lad. Queen Isabella’s traveling to Gloucester to see her son crowned.”

  Isabella, Ellie knew, was John’s widow, and she vaguely remembered hearing that they’d had a son. He’d been born when her own mother was still alive; together they’d gone to listen to the church bells being rung to welcome the royal birth. She pictured what the young prince might look like now, a smaller version of his round, greedy father, stuffing himself with custard tarts while his country starved.

  “Already?” Tom was asking. “Already they’re crowning the king? Isn’t it . . . it’s too close to King John’s death, isn’t it?”

  “Not close enough, more like,” Tuck said knowledgeably. “You know what they say—‘The king is dead, long live the king.’ Might as well stick a crown on the prince’s head and make it official.”

  Donald noisily sucked rabbit grease from his fingers. Supper was so good it had even given them a respite from his complaining. “Never liked a king myself,” he said, “but it don’t do to be without one for long.”