Lionhearts

by Nathan Makaryk

  De Grendon’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not against the conduct of the Guard to have your doublet unfastened.”

  “Point of fact,” Quill straightened himself, “it is. When my grandfather William Peveril was Sheriff, he penned the current conduct of the Nottingham Guard, which included a clause that all Guardsmen be well presented with ‘clean vestments free of stain or soil, fastened with tight discretion.’”

  The captain swallowed, unconsciously checking the buttons of his own doublet. “I’ve never heard of that.”

  “Regardless, it was unmannerly of me and I should be reprimanded.”

  “Immediately,” Lord Asshole demanded.

  “Immediately,” Quill agreed.

  De Grendon returned to his desk, sat down, and shrugged. “I hereby reprimand you. Fasten your doublet, Guardsman. What else would you have me do?”

  “My grandfather’s charter of conduct states that the reprimand should be publicly announced by the city’s heralds thrice daily for a period of two days, both in Nottingham and its neighboring counties.”

  This delighted Lord Asshole in the same way that most shiny things would. “So you’ll be denounced in York, then?”

  “To my utter shame, yes.”

  “That’s much better. Let his name be dragged through the fucking mud.”

  De Grendon shared a brief look with Quill before turning back to their noble defecator. “His name is actually very well respected, both here and in York, your lordship. The Peverils are a founding force in Nottingham.”

  Even that was an understatement. Though the last few generations had receded to their estate at the Peak in Derbyshire, the castle in Nottingham was practically the Peveril family signature.

  “Never heard of them,” Lord Asshole laughed. “Besides, this little shit-squeak is nothing but a Guardsman, so how the fuck important can his family be? Sounds like it’s time his name gets what it deserves.”

  With a final burst of bragglebouting, Lord Asshole convinced himself he’d won and turned sharply to leave.

  Quill let the man get as far as the door before he cleared his throat. “Oh, one thing in addition, Captain. The charter is quite specific about the phrasing of the reprimand.”

  Fulcher smiled. “Guardsman?”

  “It states the entirety of the offending act be included in the announcement.”

  Captain de Grendon closed his eyes, finally understanding. He drew a quill from his desk and uncorked an inkwell. “Very well. I shall have it known by every man and child in four counties that Quillen Peveril of Nottingham’s Black Guard did have his doublet quite unfastened whilst punching Lord Brayden of York in the face for shitting in the street.”

  Lord Asshole treated his pants as he had the street. “Wait, what?”

  Fulcher dismissed him. “Lord Brayden, your consent in this punishment has already been recognized. I thank you for bringing this matter to my attention.”

  “You can’t announce that!”

  “Guardsman,” Fulcher fake-scowled, “consider yourself reprimanded.”

  It was a punishment Quill would have to bear. “I am most embarrassed, Captain.”

  “You can’t … I’ll be … you both…”

  “No point in trying to string words together now,” Quill patted him on the back, “when you’ve gotten so far in life without them. Also, don’t shit in my fucking street again.”

  There was a bit more commotion to be had before the man was finally escorted out of the captain’s office, but Quill spent most of it being too utterly pleased with himself to note any of it.

  When at last they were alone, the captain laughed. “You’ve got more brat in you than I thought, Peveril.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  “When I first came on, you had one hell of a stick up your ass.” Fulcher stoppered the inkwell and put the quill away. “Turns out you’re damned good at sticking it up someone else’s, too. Not sure what you got out of all this, though.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t for me.” Quill didn’t care for compliments. “That was for all the people who saw him do it.”

  “You know we have more important things to do than shame nobles for doing their business in public.”

  “Do we?” He raised his eyebrows, thankful that this captain—unlike his predecessor—was open to criticism. “We’re preparing some of the Common Guard to build outposts in the Sherwood, to capture the rest of Robin Hood’s crew, yes? But that’s not where the fight is. The fight—the real fight, the one we lost—is the favor of the people.”

  De Grendon’s eyes shifted, but he did not contest it.

  “Robin Hood showed the people that they didn’t need their lords. Taught them those same lords didn’t care for them. When they see a visiting noble shit on their street, do you think that helps? And now we’re taking a quarter of everything they make to bring back a king they don’t think loves them.”

  The captain shrugged. “That’s life.”

  “No,” Quill matched him. “That’s how rebellions start.”

  Outside the window, some noise swelled and left again. De Grendon seemed to take it as a sign he was right. “What do you know about how rebellions start?”

  Because I know how to read, Quill almost answered, but thought better of insulting a good man. He had not brought the Peveril name back to Nottingham to play Guardsman, but to assess its stability. Quill could return home whenever the whim struck him; though his father would think unkindly if that whim struck prematurely. His father had no desire to coddle Nottinghamshire back to health, but Derby would suffer if Nottingham had an unstable leader. Reclaiming the sheriff’s title could be the Peverils’ prerogative. And as far as Quill could tell, the current sheriff—William de Ferrers—was a skulking little sapling who only made things worse.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard the stories that there’s a new Robin Hood,” Quill said. “And this one’s more teeth than smile.”

  “We’ll hang him. Like we hanged the last one.”

  That strategy was exactly what Quillen Peveril was worried about.

  “Which do you think the Sheriff will run out of first, then?” He paused at the captain’s door. “Robin Hoods, or rope?”

  THREE

  ARTHUR A BLAND

  SHERWOOD FOREST

  IT WASN’T THE FIRST time Arthur thought about it, not by a fucking spit-shot. But it was the first time he said it out loud.

  “I should leave.”

  He let the words slip out and they were suddenly real, though broken into meaningless grunts as he hustled through the Sherwood’s understory. Arthur was tired, he was hungry, and he did not goddamned have to be.

  I should fucking leave. But David would hate him.

  Even now, even as they sprinted back to camp after being spotted at the gord outpost, David was smiling. Fucking smiling. He was, impossibly, always like that. Despite every fool adventure and brush with death they’d been through together, David still smiled at sunsets and sang to himself and told jokes. And if David could stomach more of this, then Arthur had no right complaining none neither. They’d been through Locksley together, watched it burn together, survived everything since together. They’d been tied up and gagged together, watched their friends die together, and they’d keep on pushing together until they got killed together, probably doing something fucking stupid together like not leaving when they should, together.

  But the world was better when there was someone watching your miserable back, and David had his.

  “We probably don’t need to run,” Arthur huffed out, without slowing. “Whoever saw us at the build site … I don’t think they’re following.”

  “They’re not following,” David answered, bouncing beside him, “because we’re running. Why change what’s working? Sides, running’s good for you.”

  “A twisted ankle ain’t.” Arthur pivoted to glance behind. “And Arable’s struggling. We can slow down for her.”

  With a shrug, David the stallion slowed from
a gallop to a canter.

  “You ought to put on some muscle,” Arthur complained, “so you can be slow like me.”

  They continued on for a while, weaving through barren trees across uneven ground, following the distant line of the ravine that would lead them back to the camp. Once Arable caught up with them, she was the first to brave the question. “Any thoughts on what happens next?”

  “That’s for Will to decide,” Arthur answered.

  “I say this is a good thing,” David said, his face calculating. “Well, not a good thing, it’s clearly not good, you know, but it’s a kick in the shin, innit?”

  Arthur eyed his friend in silence until he was certain those were the actual words he’d spoken. “First you say running’s good for us, and so is getting kicked in the shin? Someone raised you wrong.”

  “Well, we’ve been in a slump of late,” David explained. “We knew things’d be harder as winter moved on, but right now all we’re doing is surviving. Will might actually be thrilled about your little tower.”

  “I never said it was a—”

  “Because we’ve got to do something about it, right? And now. Organize a group to watch it, disrupt supplies, maybe look for others like it, you know? This … this is what we’re good at.”

  As always, David had a point. If the Nottingham Gord could be ready to go on the offensive again, then damn it, so could Robin Hood. Will Scarlet promised them, come spring, that he’d build a network of companies spread all across the Sherwood. Said he knew how to do it, they just had to get through winter first. But snow or not, the gords had just declared the end of winter. Which meant it was time for them to come out of hibernation.

  Arthur picked up his pace.

  Arable excused herself when they finally neared the camp. She kept her privacy away from the main group, and was likely only the better for it. More than a few times Arthur had thought upon living at the edges himself, maybe even spending time with Arable. She’d proven herself useful, and sharp, and able to take a fucking joke. The rest of the group thought she was the source of their foul luck, but the rest of the group were limp-wrist skivers who’d thought Robin of Locksley could magically make their troubles go away. Arable was more realistic, like Arthur. Though he’d learned long ago that women were not wont to enjoy his company unlessing they’d asked for it first. And he was ever too busy anyhow, given that he and David bore the brunt of keeping the others alive.

  They came upon the first of the group in the ravine, half-naked and bathing in knee-deep water that was more like to kill than clean them. Nobody liked being dirty but neither had anyone ever died from it. The near bank was steep to the water, so he and David had to carefully pick their way down.

  John Little, bare chested and tying his breeches as he walked, bellowed a greeting up as he heard their commotion. Despite their rationing, John was large as ever, his big wet belly slogged side to side. “Slap the wet off, ladies,” John called to the others. “The boys are back early.”

  “We’ll be down in a minute!” David yelled, one of his boots slipping a bit.

  “You two should be glad you missed this!” Will Stutely shouted. He was nearly unrecognizable wet, the wild plume of his hair and beard matted down into some sort of bog beast.

  “Indeed,” John added. “Worst idea anyone’s ever had!”

  “Was your idea,” hooted Charley. Skinny little Charley Dancer clearly took to the cold as much as one would expect from his nickname—the frogman. He grinned against the frigid air and splashed out to dry land.

  “That’s right, it was my idea!” John slapped both sides of his face. “A rare exception to a lifelong streak of brilliance. Not to be used against me.”

  “Come now, John,” Charley was grinning, “you can’t be cold if I’m not cold!”

  John grabbed the frogman’s little waist and shook him like a twig. “Of course you’re not cold, there’s nothing to you. Look at how much more body I have to keep warm! There are parts of my body, important parts, that I can’t even feel right now.”

  Charley croaked. “John, you can’t see those parts anymore neither.”

  Arthur was surprised to see Charley’s bulgy eyes and squat face actually having fun. Ever the outsider, the man was skittish in a crowd and kept strictly to himself. Tuck was there, too, and the Delaney brothers, all shivering from their brisk morning dip. But Arthur had no intention of joining them in their latest fatal contest of idiocy. He and David made the final few jumps down the incline to flatter ground.

  “We need to muster everyone.” He was near out of breath. “We had a run-in with the Guard, and they’re up to something.”

  It was met with groans and protestation, a bit of stomping in a circle from the oaf Stutely, but nothing that resembled surprise. Lately, every day brought bad news—it was really only a question of what form it took. The group begrudgingly dressed and ambled back upriver, toward the main bulk of the camp.

  “How does it take to the cold?” Tuck motioned to Charley’s lame leg as they made their way.

  “Lovely.” Charley squinted back. “Can’t feel it at all. Your arm?”

  “Hm.” The friar touched his elbow that’d been broken last year and smugged himself into further superiority. Arthur sneered at him. It didn’t feel good to sneer, he knew it made him an asshole to do it. But Tuck was cradling his arm as if he’d suffered worse than any of them. He was alive, at least. There were some who’d lost nearly everything and were still working day and night. The only thing Tuck ever contributed to the group was empty stories about some fucking God who loved them despite the daily proof against. Thought this meant he was pulling his own weight, rather than dragging them down further.

  Tuck was the last of them that had right to complain.

  And who was the first, then?

  That was the real question.

  There was one poor bastard who had suffered the most, and he was still here. Still leading them.

  The camp was a camp in name only. An onlooker might have thought it the aftermath of a battle, and in a way they’d be right. Bodies were strewn slapdash across the broken terrain, easily mistaken as dead. There was nothing resembling organization or purpose. Those that bothered to build shelter used little more than a few branches and a stretch of tattered fabric.

  John Little called them to gather, though most simply propped a head on an elbow, or did not rise at all. Arthur doubted they’d see this news as the good thing David did, but any change from their current situation had to be a good one.

  Arthur summarized their encounter for those who were close. “They’re invading the Sherwood,” he finished. “So I’d say we’ve got to move quickly.”

  “There’s no point.”

  Arthur startled, unsure who had said it. All eyes turned to the back of the crowd, where Will Scarlet shook his head numbly and said it again. Though his words were “There’s no point,” they dripped with insult. He meant, “It’s hopeless.” He meant, “We’re going to die anyways.”

  He pushed through the crowd until he was inches from Arthur, ignoring the others. “You were right, then.” Not a question.

  Arthur nodded. “Nottingham Guard is building.”

  And Will Scarlet’s face sloughed, his body sat down on the ground.

  He was having one of his bad days.

  “You’re not ready for my brand of outlaw,” he’d promised back in December, when they thought the world was theirs to steal. And some days he lived up to that promise, driven with a crystal-clear certainty. But more and more lately, every day was a gamble. Some days he festered at the edges of civility, sniping comments with deadly accuracy. Some days he’d hunt with Arthur and David and garner their greatest spoils, but took little for himself. Some days he’d pay special attention to Arable’s well-being, other days he loathed her very name.

  But even on his good days, there was little of that invincible boyish brat Will had been before becoming Robin Hood. Before Much and Alan and Locksley. Before Elena
. That man had crumbled, and what walked in his place was debris. He was barely even recognizable, hidden beneath a ragged blond beard and a month of grief.

  The crowd waited to see if Will Scarlet had any more instructions. “We have to leave,” he said at last, to the ground. “If someone saw you—as you say—we have to pack up and move camps. Again. We move within the hour.” Then he burst up again and stormed away silently. People made room for him as though he were on fire. Some would argue he was.

  David gave a piteous frown. “What do you think?” he whispered.

  “He’s in a mood,” Arthur answered. “That’s where he wants to be.”

  So John Little gave the order again, ignoring Will’s lurk. “Get to it, then. Off we go.”

  With every knuckle of depression, the group dispersed, as if this were the final fall of the axe. They’d reacted the same way a week earlier, and before that, again and again. It would happen again a week from now—they’d gather whatever belongings they had, pack what they could into whichever sacks were still continent enough to carry weight. Existing only to break down whatever small amenities they’d built for themselves in the willowbank, to tie their shredded boots tighter about their ankles. To pick which items were no longer worth carrying and abandon them. To slog on.

  “To hide,” Arthur added, aloud. He’d thought this news would be a call to action, not the bell of a funeral dirge. They were in a loop of hell, an unrelenting repetition of misery.

  And I do not have to be here.

  * * *

  IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG for Arthur and David to pack. They’d become experts at impermanence. He’d long learned that if they waited for every last person to be “ready,” they’d be waiting a week. It was best to start their travel in a trickle, letting the strongest lead the way and force the others to hurry. This also gave those that harbored a desire to slink away the opportunity to vanish forever.

  If they all left without me, Arthur wondered, would I bother to follow?

  “We should build a castle next time,” David said cheerily.