The Ghosts of Sherwood

by Carrie Vaughn

  “If you go to kneel before him, he will find an excuse to hang you,” John insisted.

  “No, I think it will be the sword and block for me next time,” Robin said, grinning.

  “Robin, don’t joke,” Marian said, and his grin fell dead away. “If he harms Robin, he risks outright rebellion from the barons. Richard has nephews. There are other heirs if the lords and bishops of England back them. The new king knows this. He must placate his vassals. So, the Baron of Locksley has the power here, at least for now.”

  John chuckled bitterly. “I’ve never understood such power.”

  The power of reputation, of tit for tat, back-and-forth, and hope and fear? That was all the power women like her had ever had. But she lied. “Neither have I, but it’s there nonetheless.”

  “Marian, are you well?” Robin asked gently.

  “Stop asking me that, please.” She should not snipe at him, but he had asked that every single day for the last five months, and God, she was tired. The baby kicked so powerfully, like she wanted to break out through the skin, and Marian was so frightened and angry at her helplessness and she hadn’t told anyone that, not even Robin. He wouldn’t have understood, would have tried to make it better with a joke, and he needed to ride to Westminster—“I loved King Richard like a father, but if he wished to be King of England, he perhaps should have spent more time ruling it and less fighting wars abroad. This is partly his fault.”

  Robin begged John. He never begged. “Come with me. Be one of my men. Just to see the look on his face when we stand before him together—”

  “And then kneel? No. I cannot.” John stood, took up his cloak and hood. “You must do what you will, and so will I. My lady.” He made a quick awkward bow to Marian and turned to go.

  “Where are you going?” Robin demanded.

  “You take your fortune for granted, my friend,” John replied. “Fare you well.”

  Some of the others called after him, but he marched out of the chamber, then out of the manor, and that was the last time any of them had seen Little John.

  In the years since then, she often looked up in the trees, studied the shadows for a hooded figure who might linger there. Several times a year, she went to one of the springs and left a basket with new stockings, a wool blanket, some sausages and cheese and the like. Odds and ends that might be useful to someone living in the greenwood. Others of their folk did likewise, she knew. The baskets always came back empty, hanging from a branch at the edge of the woods near the manor. She wished for a way to ask him to come home. Robin rarely spoke of him, but she caught him searching the shadows, too. Now and then, a forester would come and tell of snares he’d found, someone poaching rabbits in Sherwood—and Robin would say to let it go, never mind. It was only a few rabbits.

  And now John Little was back. No—he had always been here. Sherwood had always been haunted.

  vii

  NIGHT FELL, AND THEY had not left the forest or reached any kind of destination. Their captors made a camp some ways into Sherwood, near a spring that they probably thought no one else knew about. They started a small fire burning, though some of them grumbled about it.

  “No one will find us here, and it’s too cold to go without,” Edmund said. So the fire stayed lit.

  They set her and John and Eleanor up against the trunk of an oak, all in a row. At least they were together. Eleanor leaned against Mary; she was shivering. Mary wished she could put an arm around her, but she could only lean her head against Eleanor’s and give her a quick kiss.

  “Father will come looking for us,” John said decisively.

  “Will he?” Mary whispered. “They may not even know we’re taken, and these men will meet with horses on the road and carry us away. How will Father find us then?”

  “But he will. He must.”

  “We must find a way to escape.”

  “How?”

  One of the men spoke. “I don’t like this, Edmund. Nothing’s gone right, and it’s dangerous, staying the night here.”

  “There’s nothing here can harm us.”

  “There’s Robin Hood.”

  There it was, an icy stillness, a stab of fear. The men glanced into the darkness among the trees, and fists squeezed on the grips of swords.

  “Robin Hood is a myth,” Edmund said, scowling. “There were only ever thieves and cowards here. Robin of Locksley is an old man who can’t stop us.” But Robin of Locksley was Robin Hood; he all but admitted it, speaking both names together. Edmund’s men were not set at ease.

  “That man who fell out of the trees—who was he, then?”

  “Just some outlaw—”

  “What if it was one of Robin Hood’s men? What if he’s gone to get others—”

  “And if you’d bloody found him and cut his throat like you were supposed to, we’d know he hadn’t! He’s bled out in a ditch by now. He’s nobody.”

  Mary looked at John out of the corner of her eye, and he was looking back at her, jaw set and eyes blazing. And on her other side, Eleanor—Eleanor was undoing the knots in the rope around her hands. Slipping right out of the bindings by some magical process. Maybe they hadn’t bothered binding her very tightly; after all, she was only a little girl. But no, she was simply escaping. As Mother had said, Eleanor didn’t get distracted.

  Mary spoke very softly. “Get help. Follow the stream back to the mill and find Uncle Much, get help.”

  Eleanor shook her head, glanced at the ruffians for a moment, and smiled a familiar, wicked smile.

  Mary held her breath. Eleanor had always done exactly as she wished in the end. “Be careful.”

  Eleanor dropped the ropes and crept behind the oak, into the dark.

  “What’s she doing?” John whispered.

  “Shh.” They couldn’t talk. They couldn’t draw attention. Eleanor had a plan, God knew what and how stupid it would be. The men would notice she was gone sooner rather than later, and she needed to be well away—

  Unless they didn’t notice. Bow and arrow had never been their father’s only weapon.

  Bracing her shoulder against the trunk, Mary got her feet under her and levered herself to standing. Took some doing, with her hands bound, but she managed to stand straight, as if she had some measure of control.

  “Hey there, what’re you doing?” one of the men called, and the rest looked.

  “You’re risking much, making your camp here,” she said. “These woods are haunted.”

  “Then why aren’t you afraid?” Edmund asked, chuckling.

  “Sherwood knows who we are. It knows our blood, and we have its sap in our bones. We’re safe.” She smiled. Her father’s wicked smile. “But you’re outsiders, and you know the stories.”

  A silent moment followed; the fire crackled, popped.

  Edmund laughed nervously. “Silly brat, thinking you can frighten us.”

  She went on; she couldn’t not. “You should be frightened.”

  Happily, wonderfully, a fox cried, a sound like a man being strangled. One of the men gasped; they all jumped, even Edmund. This drove him to a rage, and he marched across the camp and grabbed her by the throat to pin her against the tree. It happened so quickly, she hardly knew what to think, just that her vision swam and her breath suddenly stopped up.

  John shouted a defense, tried to throw himself bodily at their attacker, who simply kicked him away.

  Edmund’s smiling voice held a vicious edge. “You’re a pretty one under all that provincial dirt, aren’t you? Maybe we could sell you off. Marry you to some loyal baron’s son, keep you under our thumb that way, hm?”

  She would spit at him but her mouth was too dry and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath.

  “You will sit still,” he said, pressing harder, and she was choking. “You will be quiet and accept your fate. Your father cannot save you.”

  “What’s that!” one of the men called, and others rushed to the edge of the camp to peer into the darkness where, deep in the woods, a lig
ht was burning. A small flame, like witchlight. No telling what it was or what it meant. It might have been a torch, but it did not move, glaring like an eye. A small orange light, as if the forest itself had lit a candle.

  And then another appeared, some distance on. Then another—in about the time it would take for a young girl to move from one spot to the next, but the men didn’t think of that. Eleanor, silently and without fuss, had snuck close enough to steal a brand from the fire.

  It seemed as if the camp was being surrounded by witchlights.

  “I warned you,” Mary said, coughing. Her throat was bruised, and her breath came rough. It made her sound fierce, and she said, more boldly, “Sherwood protects its own. It always has. Those who’ve wronged Robin Hood never escape its shadows.”

  Edmund slapped two of his men on the shoulders. “You, go see what it is. It’s some trick. Peasants with lanterns. Take your swords and run them through!”

  “But it’s Robin Hood’s outlaws!”

  “It isn’t! Go kill them!”

  Mary closed her eyes a moment and made a prayer for Eleanor to stay quick, stay silent. Now she must run and get help, yes?

  Something, likely a small stone, struck the younger of the brutes on the head. Then another. The man fell moaning, hand clasped to his forehead, probably from surprise rather than pain. There wasn’t even any blood that Mary could see, but he acted as if he’d been sliced by an ax.

  “Oh God, what is it!”

  Another stone flew and struck the next man, who stumbled to his knees.

  All Robin’s children inherited his smile, and his aim.

  “Elfshot! The ghosts of Sherwood strike, these woods are haunted!”

  “Nonsense! It’s a trick. Get out and see who’s out there!”

  “I can’t see anything!”

  “Put the fire out, they can find us!”

  “They’ve already found us, you idiot!”

  Mary called, “The ghosts have come for you, and you cannot stop them.”

  The young one with the astonished expression screamed and ran from the camp, into the woods, his cries echoing. Edmund hollered after him but only inspired one of the others to drop his sword and run too.

  Mary watched, marveling. John had got to his feet. He had a big red bruise on the side of his face where Edmund had kicked him, but he was smiling.

  Then something small and soft touched Mary—her sister’s hand, holding hers. A pull and a push—and the knots binding her came loose. A shadow behind her moved, and Eleanor, wide-eyed and serious, looked back.

  Everyone in the camp was yelling at each other, drawing their swords, or aiming their bows and arrows at darkness.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” John said, stating the obvious but full of nerves, shaking ropes off his hands with an air of disgust after Eleanor untied him.

  “If we run, they’ll chase us,” Mary said. She glanced up.

  John looked where she did and grinned. “But if we disappear, they’ll fear us. Get me up first and I’ll pull up Eleanor.” Mary, he knew, could climb on her own. She made a step with her hands, John put his foot there, and she lifted as high as she could. He straddled the wide branch just above their heads and reached for Eleanor, who raised her arms to him. Mary climbed, and in just a few moments, they were all in the oak and climbing higher, to the uppermost branches and well out of sight. Which meant they got to watch the rest of it.

  It was the leader, Edmund, who noticed the children were gone. “You idiots! Go and look for them! They can’t have gone far.”

  “The ghosts have taken them!”

  Edmund was florid and screaming. “There are no ghosts! There is no—”

  And then an arrow split the air and struck Edmund’s neck.

  * * *

  Quickly, silently, Marian, Robin, and Will moved through the forest, looking for some trail to follow, some sign that a group of armed men had passed. Weren’t too many places such a group could hide, and Little John had set them on the right track. Marian kept the lantern low and shuttered. The moon gave enough light to see by here.

  Giles had been all but a child when he’d run with Robin’s outlaws. Now he had a child of his own and worked for Locksley as a forester. He’d kept up his woodcraft, and Marian was pleased with Robin for recognizing that he’d gone a bit soft and would do better with a guide.

  Near midnight, Giles returned to report on their prey. “Seven of them, as John said. They’ve made a camp. They seem sure of themselves, which makes me think they might be meeting others come morning.”

  “No doubt. And the children?”

  “Alive,” Giles said with a firm nod. “But they’ve taken blows.”

  “I will kill them all,” Robin said.

  “Yes, my lord.” Giles’ eyes lit at the prospect. He pointed the way to go, then continued back to bring news to Much and his troop.

  And then the kidnappers came to them.

  It was an odd thing. A human scream of terror echoed, followed by the sound of crashing, of branches breaking and a body falling, picking itself up, falling again. Robin gestured, and Will and Marian spread out to wait.

  A young man plunged around shrubs and trees, screaming like a pig, and stumbled to his knees when confronted with the three figures, two of whom held arrows nocked.

  He drew back, his face in a rictus, as if demons of hell had appeared before him.

  “Who are you?” Will called.

  Then, strangely, the terrified man laughed. “You are mortal men! Oh, God be praised, you must help me!” Robin lifted his bow, and the look of horror returned. “You’re him! It’s true, you’ve come to kill us all! Oh, God have mercy, please have mercy, I didn’t know, I didn’t know!” He wept like a child.

  “What’s got into him?” Will asked.

  “I will shoot him just to silence him,” Robin muttered.

  Marian approached, lifting the lantern and opening its light just enough to show her face so that she would appear as a vision in the dark woods. Smiled sweetly. He would think an angel spoke to him.

  “Do you know where the children are?” she asked softly. “The children you took?”

  His attention caught, he gazed on her, and his look of wonder turned to anguish. “Oh, Holy Mary in Heaven forgive me, please forgive me, I didn’t know!” He clasped his hands in prayer, his whole body shaking.

  “Well, that’s something,” Robin said, baffled.

  The man went on. “Do not make me go back to the woods, do not make me go!”

  “Something has happened,” Marian murmured, looking ahead to the darkness, to the forest’s secret depths. The old instincts came back quickly and she ran, without need of light, ducking branches, taking quick and careful steps among roots and moss.

  “Marian!” Robin called after her, but there was no time.

  Soon enough, she could tell exactly where the kidnappers were, because of all the shouting.

  A spring formed a pool, a place where deer watered in the mornings. The men made camp around it, but now the lot of them were in chaos, shouting at each other, pointing out to the woods where faint torches burned. John had said there were seven, but Marian only counted four—five, with the young man who had run into them headlong. Robin and Will finally came up next to her.

  “We trussed the poor lad up,” Will said. “We’ll have to remember to go back for him. Or not.”

  “I don’t see the children,” Marian murmured.

  Robin held his bow, white-knuckled. “I know that man.” He nodded to the one with the ruddy beard who harangued the others to get their wits about them, there were no ghosts in Sherwood, it was all a trick—

  Robin drew his bow and let the arrow fly.

  In the next breath, the stout man with the ruddy beard was dead on the ground, and his remaining men lost their minds. Will’s arrow struck the next, and Robin’s second arrow the next after that. By then, the fourth man was running deep into the woods—the wrong way from the road. With any
luck, he would lose his way and die of thirst and hunger. Not many could make their livings in Sherwood, and none who could would help him. They let him go.

  In the now-silent camp, there was no sign of the children. The fire burned low, throwing a glowering orange light and making the shadows of the trees dance like living things. Some distance away, torches burned—no, they were tufts of grass and moss, lit quickly and burning out. Distractions, Marian realized. But to strangers in Sherwood, they must have seemed like curses.

  Robin kicked the body of the ruddy-bearded man. “He’s one of the younger William Marshal’s men.” The elder William Marshal had remained loyal to the king, but his son had been with the rebels—for a time. Now, he must have thought he could prove his loyalty by taking hostages. What better way to control Robin of Locksley than by holding blades to the throats of his children? Robin raged. “This is how the braggart seeks favor with the king? By stealing children?”

  “So, it wasn’t the king’s command that did this?” Marian asked.

  “No,” Robin admitted tiredly. “No, this time, the king has left us alone.”

  Will considered a moment. “We were perhaps a bit hasty killing them. If they’ve hidden the children somewhere—”

  “Where in God’s name are they?” Robin stormed around the camp, looking behind trees, turning over a cloak or two as if they might have been stashed there.

  Marian saw the bits of ropes on the ground at the base of a wide oak. She raised the lantern, looked up. Three pairs of shining eyes were tucked away high in the tree as if they had been born there, forest creatures well at home.