The Stolen Crown

by Eva Howard

  “Tax records,” Stephen muttered. “That’s Roger Bruton, my father’s scribe. A thief, just like my father, but mostly from the kitchen.”

  The baron wore a cloak of green velvet, his pointed black beard neatly trimmed. From a silver pitcher he poured himself a goblet of wine, the gaudy rings on his fingers clanking on the metal. The contrast he made with the ragged, hungry people winding through the great hall filled Ellie with the kind of feelings Sister Joan would advise her to pray away.

  The baron’s blue eyes, so much like his son’s, scoured a sheet of parchment. “Hugo Ingram,” he read. “Come forward.”

  A man with thin white hair shuffled deferentially to the table. A soldier prodded him with the hilt of his sword, and he stumbled the rest of the way. Roger Bruton, the scribe, whispered in the baron’s ear. The baron grinned nastily.

  “You, Hugo Ingram,” said Lord de Lays, “owe me a groat.”

  The old man gaped, showing missing teeth. “A . . . a groat?” he said. “If you please, sire, it was but two pennies on the last tax day.” He scrounged in the pocket of his cloak and pulled out two grubby coins. “I have them here.”

  The baron’s face darkened. “Can you not understand me, old man?” he said. “Have you been so long in the company of your pigs that you’ve lost the capacity for human speech? You owe me a groat. Pay quickly, or pay the price.”

  “Please, sire.” The man was very close to tears; his voice clawed at Ellie. “I have nothing left to give. I had to go hungry to get these.” He held out the pennies. “Please take them. Please show mercy.”

  The baron took a lazy sip of his wine. “Lock him up.”

  Two soldiers grabbed the man by the elbows and dragged him from the room. Ellie caught sight of the old man’s face, twisted with shock. A few gasps and murmurs went up from the crowd, but nobody tried to help him. It took everything Ellie had to hold back from interfering, because to do so would be to give themselves away. Save the king first, she told herself. Then we can help these people.

  The scribe dipped a quill into an inkpot and scribbled on the tax records. The baron was looking down at his parchment to see who would be called forward next. Ellie felt Stephen’s eyes on her. She turned to him and he raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  She nodded. Yes, now.

  The baron opened his mouth to summon the next villager—and froze. Stephen was marching toward him, hood thrown back.

  “Good day to you, Father,” he said.

  The words dropped like stones in water. The baron pushed himself up from the table, scattering sheets of parchment and knocking over his goblet of wine. The scribe frantically moved his tax records away from the spreading red puddle.

  The baron came to stand face-to-face with his son. His expression was shocked, all the conniving and arrogance having dropped away. He looked like a different man in their absence.

  “Stephen,” he said softly. “You’re back.”

  Murmurs rippled through the great hall. “Is that Stephen de Lays?” an old man near Ellie whispered. “I heard he’d run off to be an outlaw!”

  The baron raised his hand, touched Stephen’s cheek briefly, then pulled away. “Where have you been?” he asked. His voice was hard again.

  “I’ve just escaped, Father.” He sounded as coldly composed as the baron. “From the League of Archers.”

  His father’s face twisted with disgust. “You were with the League of Archers?” His voice rose—he clearly didn’t care if the whole of the castle heard him. “It was the girl who took you, wasn’t it? The outlaw Elinor Dray?”

  “Yes. The girl, they say, who killed Robin Hood. The same girl who freed Maid Marian from your dungeons.”

  Gasps sounded around the room. Ellie held her breath—baiting the baron by reminding him of his failures wasn’t part of the plan, and she hoped Stephen wouldn’t push his father too far.

  “She led me from Nottingham at knifepoint,” Stephen went on. “The League wanted to hold me for ransom, but I fought my way free instead. I told them you’d never pay it. That you’d never negotiate with outlaw scum.”

  The baron smiled, but not kindly. “Kidnapped, indeed? Are you sure you didn’t just run away? After all, you have a history of doing that.”

  Stephen’s fists clenched. For a horrible moment Ellie thought he might turn on his father and ruin everything. She caught Ralf’s eye, his expression tense.

  But Stephen knelt before the baron, his head bowed. “I would never run away, Father. Not again. Punish me if you must, but I speak the truth.”

  Ellie let out a breath. In that moment she knew they could trust him. Maybe not before, and perhaps never again after, but right now, in their plot to save Henry from his father, he was their ally.

  Lord de Lays looked mollified. He gestured to Stephen to get up. “We will resume tax collection tomorrow,” he announced to the great hall. “Whoever hasn’t paid his debts shall return in the morning. Come, Stephen. We have much to discuss.”

  The great hall erupted in a babble of amazed chatter. The scribe started gathering up the parchments as the baron swept from the room, Stephen hurrying in his wake. He glanced at Ellie as he passed, his lips quirking in a small but triumphant smile.

  Please let him be careful, Ellie thought. We’re lost if he isn’t.

  The League gathered together, shifting their piles of firewood. “Well,” said Margery, “at least the baron’s pleased to have him back.”

  Alice snorted. “He’d have been just as happy if someone had brought him an extra candlestick.”

  “Poor Stephen,” said Ralf. “I almost feel sorry for him. Our plan’s got off to a good start, though.”

  They joined the rest of the crowd, making their way back out to the courtyard. It thronged with villagers and the usual business of the castle—servants and soldiers hurrying to and fro, bearing loads of laundry or bossing the crowd. The League dispersed among them, as they’d agreed, like deer scattering at the cries of a hunt; they’d be less noticeable by themselves than if they stayed in a group. Ellie found a place next to a cart filled with hay. She ducked behind it, dropping her load of firewood and sliding out her bow and arrows. She concealed them under her cloak. All around the courtyard, she knew, the rest of the League would be doing the same.

  She stepped out and scanned her surroundings. The first time they infiltrated the baron’s dungeons, to rescue Marian, they’d found an inner entrance. Stephen had told them about another way they should use this time, and Ellie saw it now—just before the portcullis, the huge metal grille that separated the courtyard from the bridge, which extended over the moat of water encircling the castle.

  “It’ll be guarded,” Stephen had told them briefly that morning, “but by no more than two men. They change shifts three times a day, and that’s when we should strike. Wait for me and I’ll show you into the dungeons.”

  “Wait where exactly?” Alice had demanded. “Where are we supposed to hide?”

  He’d shrugged. “In plain sight, of course. All you need to do is blend in.”

  And so far, so good, Ellie thought. She could see the rest of the League, dotted around the courtyard, no one taking any notice of them. She left the cart and passed close, but not too close, to the portcullis. The door beside it was made of heavy wood reinforced with bars of iron. Two soldiers stood by it, just as Stephen had said. One was leaning against the wall, looking half-asleep. The other was grinning at a pretty serving girl.

  Not exactly crack troops, Ellie thought. Hope bloomed inside her. She tramped past the dungeon door and found a discarded sack of seed. She fed them to a gaggle of hens pecking around in the dust, keeping an eye on the soldiers and watching for Stephen. Margery was in the opposite corner of the courtyard, pulling up weeds, while Alice and Jacob had found buckets from somewhere and were carrying them back and forth. After a while the chickens lost interest in the seed. Ellie started to wonder what was taking Stephen so long.

  Ralf strolled over, a broom slu
ng over his shoulder. “Still no sign of him?” he asked Ellie out of the side of his mouth.

  “Not yet.”

  “He said he’d find us as soon as he could. What could be keeping him?”

  Ellie ran through the possibilities in her head. The baron had figured out the truth and had thrown Stephen in the dungeons. The baron had believed him, but Stephen couldn’t safely get away. The baron hadn’t believed him and was now torturing him into telling the truth.

  “I don’t know,” she told Ralf. “But I’m telling you, I trust him. He’ll be here.”

  Ralf looked like he wanted to say something to that, but shook his head instead.

  Two guards came marching across the yard, spears in one hand, swords hanging from the belts that circled their chain mail tunics. Ralf dropped his broom and seized Ellie’s bag of seed, throwing handfuls at the chickens.

  “Eat up, chickens,” he said loudly.

  Ellie elbowed him. “Look! They’re changing shifts!” she hissed.

  The men at the dungeon door stirred from their positions. “You’re late,” said the half-asleep one. “You think I’m standing here for a laugh?” The other gave the serving girl a regretful shrug.

  “It’s you who was late this morning,” his replacement replied. “Now move along. You’ve got drinking to do, don’t you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” retorted the first soldier, squaring up to him.

  Ellie glanced around—yes, the rest of the League had seen what was happening too. Jacob and Alice came closer with their buckets. Margery stood, brushing the earth from her knees.

  But where’s Stephen?

  The four guards were bickering irritably right beside the door. They seemed distracted enough for the League to fight past, but with no Stephen, how would they know where to find Henry? And we haven’t got a backup plan. . . .

  “Come on,” she muttered to Ralf. She pulled the hood closer around her face and crossed the courtyard, hoping a plan would materialize by the time she reached the other side.

  A hand grabbed her wrist, wrenching her back. She gasped, immediately reaching beneath her cloak for her bow.

  “Don’t,” her assailant whispered. “The whole courtyard will see.”

  Ellie breathed out. It was Stephen.

  “What took you so long?” she asked quietly.

  “The king’s not in the dungeons.”

  Ellie squeezed her eyes shut. “We’re too late?”

  “He’s not gone. He’s up there.”

  Ellie turned just enough to see him. He had the brown cloak on again, his red hair hidden. His eyes darted up—and up. . . . Ellie followed his gaze to the castle’s highest tower. It was a narrow black shape, outlined by sun, a row of battlements on the top like an ogre’s teeth. Ralf had followed Stephen’s gaze too and let out a groan.

  “Father didn’t think he should put a king in a prison cell,” Stephen murmured. “So he’s in a bedchamber up there. Still under lock and key, of course.”

  The tower was even taller than the Greenwood Tree. Arrow slits were cut into the walls, and at the top was a window—and on the other side of the glass, Ellie imagined, sat poor Henry.

  “So how,” she said slowly, “are we going to get all the way up there to save the king from your father’s hospitality?”

  Stephen gave a grin—one of his old, arrogant ones. “Lucky you’ve got me with you, isn’t it? Follow behind, but keep your distance. I can’t help you if you get caught.”

  Ellie and Ralf trailed Stephen through the courtyard. She gave a jerk of her head, indicating to the others to follow too. To her relief, they did. Stephen led them past a large puddle a few muddy children were splashing their feet in, and around two stamping horses being brushed by a pair of bored grooms. Ralf skidded in a pile of dung, which made a small boy shriek with laughter—but apart from that, nobody took any notice of the six hooded figures making their way toward the castle tower. Stephen swung open a door in the side of the keep, pausing briefly to make sure they were still behind him, then led them down a passageway running the length of the castle. It spat them out onto a small square of grass. Above them, looming up into the sky, was the tower.

  “There,” Stephen said, pointing up.

  Ellie looked at him, looked up. “What?”

  “Henry’s window. It’s open.” He smiled at her again. She saw flashes of the swaggering boy he’d been the day she met him. She wasn’t completely sorry for it. “Don’t you remember how we got out of Nottingham Castle?” he asked. “Now we just have to do the same thing . . . but in reverse.”

  “Coming down and out is one thing,” Ellie said. “Getting up and in is another thing entirely! How would we . . .”

  She trailed off as she saw the length of rope in Stephen’s hand.

  “I had to search for this—it’s what took me so long. Now we just need your arrow.” He held out the rope to her. Ellie looked from it to him to the anxious faces of the League.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she told Stephen. “Maybe I could get an arrow through the window, but with rope attached? That would change the balance of the shaft completely. Wouldn’t it?” she said, appealing to the League.

  Jacob pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Ellie. I think you’ve got a chance.” Margery nodded eagerly.

  “You won’t know until you try, will you?” said Alice.

  “You know you can do it,” said Stephen. “You’re the best shot here. Better than me.”

  “He’s right,” said Ralf. He waved them all back. “Come on, give Ellie room.”

  She readied her bow, lifted an arrow from her quiver. The plan was a mad one, yet she could see it was their only chance. Her heart began to beat a little faster. She began tying the rope to the arrow, then changed her mind and returned it to her quiver. Instead she drew out another—a slender, shining thing that shone in the sun. She’d almost forgotten it was there.

  “Oh,” Margery breathed. “That’s Robin’s arrow, isn’t it? The one he won from the Sheriff of Nottingham.”

  Ellie shook her head. “I gave that one to Marian for safekeeping. This is its twin—it belongs to the sheriff himself. Or at least it did until I stole it from his chambers.”

  Alice laughed. “You didn’t!”

  “That’s perfect,” said Ralf, grinning. “The plot to kidnap Henry started in the sheriff’s castle, didn’t it? It’s right that his arrow should end it.”

  Ellie nodded. A shiver passed through her. In silence she knotted the rope to the arrow’s end, then hefted it in her hand a few times, trying to understand its new weight. She nocked it, squinting upward at the open window. “I hope Henry is standing well clear,” she murmured, between a wish and a prayer.

  Then she aimed high.

  And fired.

  20

  THE ARROW FLEW HIGH AND straight, carrying the rope behind it. Ellie watched, stomach churning, cursing herself every second for getting the shot wrong, for sending the silver arrow and their only length of rope into the wall below the window or into the air above it. . . .

  The arrow arced, the rope snapping behind it, dipped down—and soared cleanly through the cell window.

  “Yes!” whooped Ralf, grabbing Ellie in a hug. Alice punched the air, while Margery and Jacob cheered. Relief flooded through Ellie. She caught Stephen’s eye; he raised his eyebrows in a Told you so expression, and for once she didn’t even mind.

  A face appeared at the cell window.

  Henry!

  The young king had the silver arrow in his hand. He was very high up, yet Ellie could still make out his expression—confusion that slid into elation. He grinned down at them and they grinned back. Henry drew the rest of the rope up through the window, then mimed tying a knot. His head withdrew again.

  “Nice shot,” Stephen said, arms folded across his chest.

  “It was better than a nice shot,” Jacob said. “Best shot I’ve ever seen, Ellie!”

  Henry reappeared. He
tossed down one end of the rope, which tumbled in coils to the ground. The other end held fast, clearly tied to something by the window. He gave it a yank with his left arm, looked uncertainly toward the ground, and hoisted one leg over the sill.

  “Wait!” Ellie cried as loudly as she dared, waving her arms at Henry. He froze. “He can’t climb down with that broken arm,” she said to the others. To Henry, she called, “I’ll climb up and help you!” He nodded and climbed back into the cell once more.

  Ellie turned to Stephen, heart thumping. “Once I’ve got him down, do you have a plan to get us out of here?”

  Stephen gave another wide grin. “How could you ever doubt me?”

  Jacob snorted. “Yeah, I wonder why. . . .”

  “Well?” Ellie said impatiently.

  “I’ll pretend I’m going riding,” said Stephen, “and bring a horse around from the stable. Henry’s little enough to hide under my cloak, but the rest of you will have to sneak out on your own. You’ve gotten out of worse situations, I’m sure.” Then he winked and strode back toward the courtyard.

  Margery shook her head as she watched him go. “Every time I start to think he’s all right . . . ,” she muttered.

  “I’ve never thought he was all right,” Ralf retorted.

  Ellie shucked off her cloak and grabbed the rope. The window looked farther away than it had a moment before. “I’ll be up and down again as quick as I can. Keep watch.”

  The patch of grass they stood on was secluded and unkempt, with no entrance but the one they’d come by. Henry’s window faced away from the baron’s great courtyard, but she could still be spotted as she climbed—by one of the guards circling the perimeter of the moat, perhaps. A guard who might be carrying a bow and arrows, watching for outlaws scaling the castle walls. She pushed the thought away.

  “If you’re halfway up the wall and someone comes, we’ll do more than keep watch,” Alice said, gripping her bow. The wound on her cheek had clotted, and she’d pulled off the bandage. She looked like someone you wouldn’t want to argue with.