by Eva Howard
Ellie turned back to the wall, forcing her gaze not to climb skyward. Just one step at a time, she told herself. She’d climbed down from Nottingham Castle, and she could climb up the Castle de Lays. Her bow a familiar weight on her shoulder, she began her ascent.
She pulled herself up with the rope, hand over hand, her feet searching for footholds in the crooked stone wall. When she slipped, her knees and elbows scraped painfully against it. Ignoring the strain in her shoulders and the burn in her hands, she climbed steadily upward. She didn’t let herself look down, yet could sense the ground getting farther away, the sounds of the castle courtyard fading beneath her. She dared a look upward once or twice, spying Henry’s worried face peering down at her.
At last she was there, scrabbling for the windowsill, Henry doing his best to heave her over with his one good arm.
“You came!” he said, dazed. “You came to save me!”
Ellie spilled into the room and hugged him. “Of course we did,” she said—then remembered she was speaking to a king and let go. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “How did you . . .”
“Your uncle—well, William Marshall, your regent—he woke up.”
Henry grasped her hands in his. “How is he?”
“He’ll live, Your Majesty.”
He grinned and Ellie’s awkwardness melted away. He was still the same boy she’d pulled frightened from the carriage, whom she’d taught to hunt.
“I am so grateful to all of you,” Henry said. “I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me. For my kingdom.”
“The League is loyal to its members. Especially when they turn out to be royalty.”
Henry laughed, then became serious again. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth. I didn’t dare say anything that might get back to Lord de Lays.” He sighed. “But he found me anyway.”
Ellie wanted to tell him she was sorry, for not keeping her promise to keep him safe from the baron. She wanted to tell him she almost wished he were Tom, not the king, because then she could ask him to stay with them in Sherwood Forest. But there was no time for that now.
“Here,” she said, holding up the rope and surveying Henry. “I’m going to tie this to you and lower you down.”
He looked at her doubtfully. “Like a bucket?”
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but yes. Like a bucket.”
He grinned again and lifted his arms, letting her draw up the rope and knot it tightly over his chest. “Brace your feet against the wall and hold the rope with your good arm,” she said as she helped him over the sill. He looked down, fear flickering over his face for just a moment. Then his self-command returned and his sharp little features set with determination.
“I won’t let you fall,” Ellie said. She began slowly to lower him, every muscle straining.
Don’t drop the king of England. Don’t drop the king of England!
Down, down, down he went—exactly, as Henry had said, like a bucket going down a well. On the ground the League of Archers anxiously watched his descent. As soon as they could reach, Ralf and Jacob lifted Henry down to the ground. Margery hurriedly untied the rope. Exhausted, Ellie let the rope hang limply over the window frame, leaning against the sill to rest her quivering limbs.
“Come on!” Ralf’s cry drifted up to her. Alice waved her arms, beckoning Ellie down. She breathed deeply, spat on her hands for grip, and took hold of the rope once more. She swung onto the sill, hoping her arms wouldn’t simply give way.
There was a flurry of movement on the ground. Alice was waving at her again, more frantically this time; Ralf, too. Margery grabbed Ellie’s abandoned cloak from the ground, throwing it over Henry and pulling up the hood. Jacob had moved away, toward the door through which Stephen had led them.
Spilling from it were around twenty soldiers.
Ellie’s heart plummeted. They mustn’t see the rope, or they’ll know. . . .
There was no time to pull it up. Nearly without thought, she drew an arrow from her quiver and with its head sliced the rope clean through. It tumbled to the ground. She felt sick watching it fall, taking with it her chance of escape.
Drawing to the side of the window, so she couldn’t be spied from the ground, she watched with helpless horror the scene playing out below. Alice kicked the rope into a pile of brambles. Margery and Ralf stood in front of Henry. Jacob was saying something to the soldiers, clearly trying to buy time—something that annoyed one of them, as he raised a hand to swat him away. Jacob ducked the blow and rejoined the others.
The soldiers filled up the tiny yard, bristling with armor. “I said, what are you doing here?” the angry soldier demanded.
Alice’s giggle sounded high and silvery—not like Alice at all. “Oh, well, we’re paying our taxes, of course! But we got a bit lost after.”
“Thank you for finding us,” said Ralf with forced cheerfulness. “We’d have been stuck here all day.”
A silence followed. None of the soldiers looked up at the tower window, and Ellie wondered if they even knew where the king was being kept. The baron was certainly clever enough to keep his royal hostage’s whereabouts secret.
“Come back tomorrow,” one of the soldiers said finally. “And next time get off the baron’s property when you’re told to.”
“Yes, sir,” said Alice. They trooped off into the passageway, Henry in their midst, shrouded in the cloak. Ralf threw a last, worried look at the window before disappearing. The soldiers tramped out after them.
Ellie turned away and pressed her back against the cell’s cool stone. Her friends had a good chance of escaping, she knew. Most likely they would be back at the Greenwood Tree before dark. King Henry would be safe—but Ellie had just taken his place as the baron’s prisoner.
21
AT FIRST ELLIE COULDN’T SEE straight. The cell was just a blur of heavy furnishings and firelight, filled with the underwater sound of her own racing heart. She rubbed her eyes and forced herself to focus.
“What would Robin do?” she whispered.
Find a way out, that’s what.
And if there was no way out, he’d make a plan.
The cell was circular, with two windows: the one she’d climbed into and another overlooking the courtyard on the other side. Set in the wall was a heavy wooden door secured with a lock larger than her fist. She resisted throwing herself against it—any guards stationed outside would be sure to hear the rattle.
The room was as opulent as anything she’d seen in the sheriff’s chambers at Nottingham Castle. If it weren’t for the lock, she would have believed Henry to be the baron’s honored guest, not his hostage. Tapestries showing lords and ladies at a feast hung bright on the walls, and there was a great bed surrounded by curtains of purple silk. On a table before the fire lay parchment and a quill, a Bible, a plate with a half-eaten slice of cherry tart, and an empty goblet. Ellie’s eyes ticked toward the door. Someone would be here soon, she was certain—to check on Henry, to take the plate away, to bring more food.
And what would the baron do when he discovered her in his hostage’s place? The thought—of the moment of discovery, and the baron’s rage—filled her with satisfaction. But thinking of what would come after—a proper dungeon cell, dark and dank and overrun with rats, and a trip to the gallows and the hangman—made her slump to the floor. When Robin Hood was murdered, the baron used Ellie as a pawn, pinning the crime on her. And here she was again, delivered to him as a convenient explanation for the king’s disappearance. When the people were told she’d killed Robin, they’d hated her. If they thought she’d harmed the new boy king, they’d probably hang her themselves.
A creak came from the other side of the door. Her breath caught in her throat. She got up, crept over to it, and pressed her ear to the wood. The unmistakable clank of armor seeped through. Then the low rumble of a voice, and another one in response. So two guards at least.
Their presence stirred her to action. She hurried to pi
ck up the silver arrow, which lay by the window, and slotted it into her quiver. She fixed an ordinary one to her bow. If there were just one guard, she could shoot him the moment he opened the door. With two . . . she’d have to hope the element of surprise would afford her enough time to dispatch them both. And after that I’ll just have to try fighting my way out of the castle. . . .
A cold feeling went through her. If children years from now played at being the outlaw Elinor Dray, just as she’d once played at being Robin Hood, this might be the last tale told about her. She couldn’t see a happy ending to this story.
A yell from outside the tower made her startle.
I know that voice!
She ran first to the window she’d climbed through, but the grass below was empty. She ran to the other window, the one that overlooked the courtyard. There she saw him—Ralf, a sword in his hand. Jacob, Alice, and Margery were there too, all armed. With relief she realized she couldn’t see Henry. Had they managed to hide him somewhere safe?
But the League . . . Ralf’s sword flashed in the sun as it struck Jacob’s. Ellie’s stomach turned to stone. What had Stephen done to set them against each other? Then Margery took a swing at Alice, who staggered dramatically backward. Suddenly Ellie pressed her hands to her mouth, suppressing a laugh.
The day Alice took a hit and didn’t come back swinging was the day Ellie took up arms for the baron. They weren’t fighting, they were creating a diversion!
But the distance from the top of the tower to the courtyard might as well have been miles. How could a fight down there help her up here?
As she watched, Jacob scooped up a horse pat in one hand and lobbed it at Ralf’s head. Ralf ducked and the manure sailed on, hitting a guard square in the chest. The guard roared. Jacob dodged away from him, laughing. The guard accidentally sideswiped a boy carrying a grain sack, Alice took a wild swing that had her stepping on a villager’s toes, and Margery shoved a girl—Ellie recognized her as the maid who had been flirting with one of the soldiers—into a puddle. The fight spread, infecting the courtyard like a plague.
Maybe it’ll help me after all. . . .
She darted to the door, straining her ear toward what was happening on the other side. For a moment, nothing. Then, “Look, out in the yard!” one of the guards shouted. The clank and patter of them moving away from the door was followed by a low whistle.
“They’ve gone mad,” another guard said wonderingly. “Think it’s to do with tax day? The poor souls the baron threw in prison?”
“Shh!” the first guard said. “You better not call them that if you want to keep your position. They’re officially thieves and criminals, remember, even if we know different. Come on, we’d better go see what the trouble is.”
Ellie listened with rising hope as their footsteps moved away and out of earshot. She turned back to the room, looking around with wild eyes for the heaviest thing she could find. She almost laughed aloud when she spotted it: a stone bust of the baron himself, capturing every curve of his heavy face and each hair of his pointed beard. “It’s too perfect,” she said aloud.
Lifting it with both hands, she slammed the bust against the lock, again, again, bashing her fingers and biting her lip against the pain. The lock shuddered but it didn’t give. Ellie went for the wood around it instead, the bust growing slippery with sweat as she swung. Finally the door splintered and the lock snapped free. Sagging with relief, she dropped the bust and it smashed into fragments on the stone floor.
Ellie seized a red velvet cloak from where it lay draped across the bed, wrapped it close around her to hide her face, and stomped over the broken pieces of the baron and out of the cell.
The hall outside was tiny, with just a stone bench beneath the window the guards must have looked through. Opposite was a stone staircase that wound out of sight. Holding the cloak’s hood in one hand, and her bow in the other, Ellie ran down it. The staircase was dark, barely lit by the arrow slits cut into the walls; they were, she knew, designed for archers to fire through rather than scenic views. The castle flashed by in snatches as she wound down the spiral—sky, sky, sky, then stone as she reached the level of the rest of the castle. At last she spilled from the foot of the stairs into a gloomy room.
Before her stood a man holding two cups and a bottle of wine. He wore a dark jerkin and a cloak worked over with golden threads, and his beard was clipped into a neat point. Ellie felt all her blood rush to her head.
“Your Majesty?” said Lord de Lays. His voice was at once cordial and steely. “What are you doing out of your room? I was on my way to see you.” He raised the cups. “I thought we might have a little chat about your future.”
Beneath Henry’s red cloak, Ellie said nothing. Her hand, hidden in the half darkness, was on her bow.
Do I dare use it?
The baron squinted up at her. “Come now, back upstairs. The men I’ve charged with protecting you haven’t done so well, have they? How shall we punish them, my king?”
Still Ellie said nothing. Her fingers were reaching for an arrow.
The baron frowned. “What is this silence? You’ve found nothing but respect in my home, where you are an esteemed guest. Come, let’s take you back upstairs. I have friends arriving soon who are eager to meet you. They have come all the way from France for the honor. . . .”
“Henry’s gone.” Ellie’s voice echoed around the room.
“What?” The baron’s voice was a strangled whisper.
“The king is far away, and your plan has failed.”
His face twisted. “Who are you?” he growled.
“One you made an outlaw.” Ellie threw back the hood of her cloak. “I am Elinor Dray.”
22
THE BARON’S FACE WENT PURPLE with rage. “I’ll find the king!” he snarled. “There’s nowhere you can hide him from me. I’ll burn down every village and your precious Sherwood Forest before I let him get away. And you—I’ll make sure you hang for this.”
He moved closer, his hands working into fists as if he were imagining them around her throat. “But I won’t show you the mercy I gave to your mother—no quick drop and a broken neck for Elinor Dray. You I’ll hang on a short rope, so I can watch you die slow.”
Ellie’s bow was drawn and an arrow nocked before the words faded away.
“It’s over for you,” she said, her voice steady and certain. “Your cruelty and corruption have come to an end.”
The baron grew very still. “You really do fancy yourself the next Robin Hood, don’t you?” His voice was a mix of wonder and scorn. “But you see, Robin had a very bad habit of staying alive. I don’t think I’ll have the same problem with you.”
With surprising speed he drew a dagger from his belt and hurled it at her. Ellie jumped back, onto the lowest stair, and it clattered onto the stone floor. The backs of her legs struck a stair and she fell. The baron leaped at her, sword drawn. With a gasp Ellie rolled clear. His blade slammed into the steps with a shower of white sparks.
“Stupid girl!” he bellowed.
Ellie scrambled back desperately—to have any chance of making a shot, she needed some distance to take aim. But he was already swinging again. She lunged aside, his sword slicing off a strip of the red cloak. She could sense the power in his blow. The baron was strong, there was no doubt about it.
So was Stephen, she reminded herself. And I beat him.
The baron roared and swung again. The sword ran through the cloak this time, pinning Ellie to the wall. She tore at the collar, ripping it away, and jumped free. The baron was angry, and it was throwing him wide of his target. She knew it was all that was keeping her alive.
The baron’s sword swung close, so close she felt the burning slide of its blade across her neck. She fell back, slamming so hard into the stone steps she couldn’t breathe. The baron raised his sword over her, making ready to end the fight.
“You monstrous, unnatural girl,” he snarled. “I should have killed you the day I took you from the
abbey. I’m righting that wrong now—and don’t worry, your friends will be joining you soon.”
Ellie’s hands moved restlessly, looking for something—anything—to beat him back with. Her fingers found the hilt of a blade—the dagger the baron had thrown to disarm her. She swung it awkwardly, catching the meat of his leg. He swore, staggering sideways. Ellie scrambled backward, but his heavy boot, now spattered in blood, pinned her in place.
“Prepare to die,” the baron said, raising his sword over her once more.
A feeling like fever spread through Ellie’s limbs. She’d never see Ralf again, or Marian. The breeze would never touch her face, and she wouldn’t watch another sunrise.
“Our Father,” she murmured, “who art in heaven . . .”
“Prayers will not save you now.” The baron swung the sword down. Ellie stiffened all over, braced for the final blow.
But the baron drew up, shrieking with pain. He slumped against the wall, his sword dropping harmlessly to his side. Jutting from his shoulder was an arrow.
In the gloom of the doorway was a boy—too tall to be Ralf, too thickset to be Jacob.
Stephen!
He stepped forward. The light caught his hair, making it burn like fire. He held his bow ready, a second arrow already set to the string.
“You,” the baron said, his voice dripping with pain and poison. “You would betray me, boy?”
Stephen kept the arrow trained on his father. “Drop the sword,” he said coolly. “Step away from Ellie and put your hands in the air.”
The baron ignored his command. He put a hand to his shoulder, the fingers coming away bloody. “I should have known better than to believe you, you coward. You’re nothing but a disappointment!”
“So you’ve told me a hundred times already.” Stephen’s blue eyes were cold as glass.
“You’re choosing to help an outlaw over your own father?”