The Ghosts of Sherwood

by Carrie Vaughn

  Father came around the corner then, dusting off his hands, appearing nothing like the nobleman he was, in a faded tunic, the sleeves rolled up, mended leggings and sweat-stained cap. He’d been looking over the livestock. He paused a moment to watch John and Will. But his smile fell when his gaze came to the women. Mother pointedly did not look back at him at all.

  Then he called, “Mary, will you walk with me? Perhaps we can put a few arrows in a target. I fear I’m a bit out of practice.”

  This was flatly untrue, and this was odd. She glanced at her mother, who murmured, “Go on. He has something to tell you.”

  Even Eleanor looked up then, and Mary’s stomach turned over.

  She knotted the stitch she’d just made, broke the thread, put the tunic back in the basket, and went to meet her father.

  He was pensive. She had watched for his glad smile or wicked smile and hadn’t seen either one. Now he hardly looked at her as they took the path from the back of the manor, across the grassy stretch to the archery stand. Bales of straw stood at varying distances, with painted cloth pinned to them for targets. There was often someone out here practicing, either the children of the manor or Locksley’s guards and foresters. Robin valued his archers. Today, the field was empty.

  Robin squinted and looked across the quiet field. “I seem to have forgot my bow.”

  “Because you had no intention of shooting.”

  “And how has your practice been getting on? You’ve been practicing while we were gone, yes? I know many folk think a girl should not use a bow, but you’re as good a shot as any man in the kingdom—”

  Mary said, impatiently, “Mother said you have something to tell me.”

  He crossed his arms and finally looked at her. “While we were in Surrey, I met a young man. William de Ros. He’s the son of the Baron of Helmsley, a good friend and ally. He will inherit.”

  The last bit of the description remained unspoken: he’s looking for a wife. And perhaps Mary was no longer too young and this offer was not too grasping.

  “Is it all arranged, then?” she asked. “I’m to marry him?”

  “You don’t miss a thing, do you? To think I was afraid I would have to explain it all, and that there would be tears. But no, it’s not entirely arranged. We’ve got some time yet to think it over.” He watched her, likely looking for some reaction, and she tried to think of what reaction to give him. She felt strangely distant from it all.

  Finally, she asked, “Why is this offer better than the one you refused last year?”

  He started. “You weren’t supposed to know about that.”

  “Yes, but have you tried keeping secrets around here?”

  He laughed, shook his head. “That man was twice your age and he’s already put two young wives in their graves. He has six children, and yours would not inherit his land and titles. You’d have been an ornament to him, something to brag about. You would not have been safe.”

  “And I will be, with William de Ros?”

  “I hope so.”

  Would any of them ever be safe? She had listened to the talk running through the manor: the charter Robin had won from the king would not be observed, war among the barons would come again, probably soon.

  “If you need me to marry him, I will.” There seemed to be precious little else she could do.

  “Oh, no, need is a strong word. If you absolutely refuse, I will not press. Your mother would never speak to me again if I forced you to marry where you did not wish to.”

  “This is why she’s angry with you?”

  “She’s furious with me for not asking you first. But . . . the offer came, and there wasn’t time. You know, I never noticed this before but you’re as tall as she is. When did that happen?”

  “While you were gone, I suppose.”

  “Let’s get back, shall we? We can talk more after you’ve had a chance to think about things.”

  They walked back together, and the world continued to tilt off-balance. She expected him to kiss her cheek before he went back to his chores, as he’d always done when she was little. Instead, he gave an awkward dip of his head, something like a bow, and went off without a word. It made her sad.

  This left her facing her mother, Eleanor, the women, and Mary found she didn’t want to say anything at all.

  “Well?” Marian asked. “You seem very calm.”

  “It’s only that I don’t know how else I should be right now. Did you meet this William de Ros?”

  “Yes,” her mother said, her voice carefully even.

  “Is he tall?” What an odd thing to ask, but it was the first thing to come to mind.

  “Not so much. But he is quite handsome. Earnest. Mary, you do not have to accept him if you do not wish it.”

  “But you think I should?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. Clearly.” She muttered this last, studying the work in her hands with a scowl.

  How much easier if they would simply tell her she must do this thing. Then she would know what she must prepare for. Or she could stay at Locksley forever and . . . what? She saw nothing clearly. She was an arrow in need of a bow, to send her off in one direction or another.

  “If you’ll excuse me, please.” She needed to think. She needed to be alone, and so she fled. Her mother didn’t call her back, and Eleanor watched her go.

  In her room, she stared at her hands and wondered what they were good for. She had a callus from a needle and another from a bowstring. She didn’t fit into her own skin, mostly because she wasn’t sure what that skin was meant to do. It was all very confusing. She stripped out of her gown, put on her leggings and tunic and leather shoes, and left the house by the back way. If she marched with confidence, like she had a job to do, no one would stop her or question her. She looked like a stableboy, not the lord’s daughter. She didn’t know how much longer she’d be able to get away with the disguise.

  Footsteps ran up the path behind her. “Where are you going?” John asked, coming alongside. And how had he found her?

  “I’m just taking a walk,” Mary said.

  “May I come with you?” John asked, his manner so calm and polite, she couldn’t refuse.

  “I can’t stop you,” she said, sounding surly and childish to her own ears.

  Before they’d even left the manor grounds, they passed Eleanor sitting on the fence of the paddock outside the stables, arms crossed. She seemed to study them both, her face pursed up with concentration.

  “I suppose you want to go too?” Mary said.

  Her sister hopped off the fence and walked up between them, and on. Mary and John exchanged a glance. He shrugged, as if to say he didn’t understand her either.

  So much for getting away from everyone and not having to talk.

  The path went through a pasture, then through a barley field, and then it faded away. If they cut off in one direction they would come to the main road. But Mary went ahead, to the trees of Sherwood. The afternoon light shone golden, and the shadows among the oaks seemed not so dark. Mary wanted to climb into some branches and sit for a while. She didn’t know if her siblings would understand. For now, she kept walking.

  “What do you think really happened, when Father spoke to the king?” John said.

  “Who’s to say? Everything about Father is stories.”

  Eleanor ranged ahead, finding a stick and using it to turn over rocks and little hummocks of rotted leaves, looking for mushrooms. Mary almost told her not to eat anything she found, but she knew Eleanor knew better than that.

  “Do you not think the stories are true, then? The old ones, I mean. About Mother and Father and Uncle Will and Much and the rest?”

  Mary didn’t answer. She wanted to believe them, but she didn’t want to admit she did, which meant, really, she likely didn’t believe them at all. Except . . . except she had met the ghost. Even now, she glanced up, searching the shadows between boughs and branches for a tall man wearing a hood.

  Up ahead, Eleanor had s
traightened and now stood rigid, looking at something hidden among the trees. Mary saw it immediately and grabbed John’s arm. She reached for her sister just as Eleanor backed into her grip.

  Three, no four of them—men lurking within a dense copse. They might have been walking along just as innocently as the children, just as surprised by the appearance of anyone else in this corner of the forest. But they had bows and quivers on their shoulders, and swords at their belts.

  “We should be getting home,” Mary said calmly, to no one in particular, and guided her siblings back the way they’d come. “We’ll be missed soon.”

  If the men had been there for some innocent reason, they would have let the children go. Mary, John, and Eleanor should have been able to simply walk away. But the men had a purpose, and without a word they rushed forward.

  “Go, run,” Mary said, pushing John and Eleanor behind her, putting herself between them and the attackers.

  Three more men came out of the trees on either side of them, swords drawn. John tried to dodge, but one of them scooped him up and turned him upside down over his shoulder. John kicked and shouted but it did no good. Mary kept Eleanor behind her; her sister clung to her tunic. No matter which way she turned, there seemed to be more of them.

  A cry came from above, a wolf-like howl that chilled her spine.

  The ghost fell from a high oak, straight down on the first group of outlaws. His staff came down on one head, then another, then swept across the legs of the third. Shouting and panic followed. Mary took Eleanor’s hand and ran, pausing only long enough to kick at the knee of the one who held John. The man howled and swung out a fist; Mary didn’t duck fast enough and was sent sprawling. John cursed and raged; both he and his captor fell.

  And then, the thunk of an arrow striking a target.

  In terror, Mary looked for the sound, and saw the ghost fall to his knees, an arrow sticking in his right shoulder. His staff dropped; his arms hung loose. He looked at the wound as if he could not believe it, and chuckled.

  She got her first real look at the Ghost of Sherwood. He was a tall, large man, incongruously large for the nimble way he climbed in and out of trees, for how silently he moved. He had shaggy hair, a grizzled beard, and his clothes were worn and patched.

  Across the way, he met her gaze, and Mary saw such sadness there, her breath caught. His shoulders slumped, as if he resigned himself to his fate. The men he’d attacked got to their feet; one of them kicked the ghost in the gut. His back arched in pain, and he cried out.

  Another of the outlaws, a broad man with a ruddy beard, stalked to the ghost and grabbed his hair. “Who are you?”

  “No one,” he murmured.

  Eleanor was kneeling by Mary, her eyes wide and filling with tears, her teeth gritted like she wanted very much to scream but couldn’t.

  Mary told her, “Run, run and get help!”

  Her sister shook her head, quick and scared like a bird, and kept her grip on Mary’s tunic. Before Mary could think of what else to do, one of the other men put an arm around Eleanor’s middle and hauled her back. Another did the same to Mary, and she screamed, all fury now.

  “Let go of her, keep your bloody hands off her, if you hurt her, I’ll murder you, I’ll murder you all!” She kicked and flailed—John was still doing likewise—until her captor put an arm across her throat and locked her head back until she could hardly breathe. Pinned now, she couldn’t move.

  The ruddy-bearded man turned to her. “And who are you? Some farmer’s brats? Or something else?”

  “She looks like Locksley’s bitch,” one of the others said.

  John yelled, “How dare you! She doesn’t kill you first, I will, we’ll rip all your heads off—” Then he was cut off with a hand over his mouth, and they were all firmly caught.

  “Do you belong to Locksley, then?” the broad man said, sounding pleased. He studied them and seemed to make some calculation. “What are the baron’s children doing wandering off alone, hm? Outlawry runs in the blood, I think.”

  “We were supposed to take the woman,” one of the others said. “The baron’s lady.”

  “This is better.”

  “Locksley will murder us if we take his kids.”

  “On the contrary. We hold a knife to their throats, he’ll do whatever we want. Our master can hold them hostage for years. Keep Locksley tame.”

  Their master—she thought of all the people who had a grudge against Father, all the names that came up when talk turned to politics. It could have been anyone. A name wasn’t going to help her.

  “Wait. Edmund, where’d the bloke go?”

  “What bloke?” said the ruddy man.

  “The man I shot, where is he?”

  Mary craned her head and saw that the Ghost of Sherwood had disappeared, leaving behind only a mark of blood on the road.

  “Christ, Morton. You two, go find him and slit his throat.”

  “I had my eyes right on him! He just disappeared!”

  “No, he crawled away when you weren’t looking—”

  “They say Sherwood Forest is haunted. Maybe he wasn’t—”

  “Bollocks! Go find him, now!”

  Someone else yanked her arms behind her and tied her wrists tight, then shoved a cloth in her mouth and tied it in place and slung her over a shoulder. She couldn’t have done anything, she kept telling herself. There were too many of them and they were too strong.

  And now the Ghost of Sherwood was likely dead, trying to save them. Mary choked back a scream.

  They carried her and her siblings away, into the forest.

  iv

  DUSK CAME, AND MARIAN wasn’t quite worried about the children yet. Eleanor had disappeared, but so had the other two, which meant they were likely together. Robin and Will were off visiting Much at the mill and smithy. When he returned, she’d ask if he’d seen them. They might have found each other on the way. She put away the mending and spinning, lit candles in the hall for supper, and added fuel to the hearth.

  When an hostler rushed in from the yard, shouting, then she worried.

  “My lady, there is a man at the gate. He’s crazed, badly hurt—I would not let him in but he said . . . he asked for his lordship by name. He said the lord would see him. What should I do?”

  “Show me,” she said. They ran to the yard, to the gate, which stood open. A crowd had gathered and parted for Marian.

  There, in the middle of the dirt path, Pol the stable master and one of his boys supported a man who had an arrow in his shoulder and was covered in blood.

  “Take me to Robin. I must see him, please!” the man cried.

  She was both shocked and not, to see this man before her after so many years. His beard grew to his chest, his hair stuck out wild, all of it gone to a kind of hoary gray, like frost on slate. The blood from the arrow wound was sticky, near dried. How far had he come seeking help, and who had done this?

  He saw her at last, in the open space the crowd had made for her.

  “Marian,” he breathed. He lurched, and Pol and the boy stumbled to catch his weight.

  Marian rushed up and displaced the boy to take his good arm over her shoulder, but he was too tall, too large, still all muscle and strength. She almost couldn’t hold him. “Bring him into the hall. Send for Robin!” Pol helped her, and the boy ran off.

  “I have news, I must tell you—”

  “Tell us after we’ve got that arrow out and you’ve had a drink. God, John, what have you been doing?”

  “The children, Marian. They are taken. I could not stop it.”

  She had been angry many times, she had been frightened many times, for herself and her friends and especially for Robin. But never like this, so that her breath choked in her throat and her blood ran to ice and she wanted to break something. No, she wanted a bow and arrow in her hand, and to kill something.

  “Who? Who took them?”

  They got him settled near the hearth, but the chill remained. Joan appeared with wate
r and linen and a knife to cut off his shirt. John seemed dazed and hardly noticed.

  “In the forest. Not outlaws. They had swords.”

  “And at least one of them was pretty good with a bow.”

  “No, I think he aimed for my head.” He laughed, but softly. Not the old booming laugh. “I think . . . I think they were some lord’s men. They followed orders.”

  “They could be outlaws, holding the children for ransom—”

  He shook his head. “To threaten Robin. Where is Robin?”

  “He’ll be here soon.”

  “He won’t want to see me . . .”

  “But you came anyway.” Someone handed Marian a cup of wine, which she offered to John. “Drink lots. We’ve got to get that arrow out.”

  “You must be out of practice, getting arrows out of stupid men.”

  “Not so much. Drink, John.” Between her and Joan, they worked the arrow out, and John only groaned a little, keeping a tight grip on the edge of the chair. She had not seen Little John in sixteen years. Right after they learned of the death of Richard Lionheart. Right before Mary was born. He was right: she’d lost the knack of getting arrows out of stupid reckless men. This one had gone nearly all the way through, but it missed heart and lungs. If they could get the wound staunched and sewn up, it would heal.

  When the arrow was out, she studied the bloody tip of it by the fire. It was slim, tapered to a graceful point.

  “That’s a bodkin point, my lady,” Joan said softly.

  Which meant the men who’d attacked John and her children were not hunters or outlaws taken unawares; they were armed for war. A lord’s men, as he’d said.

  He seemed to fall unconscious, then started awake again. “Robin, I must speak to Robin!”

  “He’s coming,” she reassured him. He nodded, resting back against the chair.

  There was a commotion, and now Robin stood at the front of the hall, staring as if he saw a ghost. “John. My God.” Will and Much both came in behind him, wearing similar poleaxed expressions.

  “Well met, m’lord,” John said tiredly.