“She’s fencing,” Will said.
That explanation was as useful as a knife without a hilt.
“Don’t watch her,” David explained, casually enough for a passerby to not think it a secret, “watch who she sells to.”
So Arthur did.
Another ten minutes passed before she had a customer, just another young boy. In that time, two more gords walked by and yelled at a disruptive onlooker for a bit. One even made eye contact with Arthur, and it was everything he could do to suppress his instinct to vanish.
“I don’t see anything,” Arthur said at last, eager to move along.
“Watch who she sells to,” Will said, as if it were obvious.
“She’s sold two bread rolls to two little boys.”
“Wrong.”
David schooled Arthur with the joy of an older sibling. “She’s sold two bread rolls to one little boy.”
But Will’s smile said otherwise. “Almost.”
Arthur looked back at the baker wench, but could not figure out the puzzle.
“Do you see it, Stutely?” Will asked.
Stutely laughed, coughed a bit, then finished his laugh. “Of course! How could you not see it?” He twisted his beard with both hands and turned away.
At least Arthur wasn’t the only one who was confused.
“Where does the boy get the money?” Will asked with distinction, clearly knowing the answer already.
Frustrated, Arthur turned to watch again. And it slowly revealed itself. The bread boy, a mop of charcoal hair and tanned skin, ran around the square playing with a few other children. But eventually, a different boy with a deep nose like a hawk’s beak put his palm deliberately in the bread boy’s hand as they played. Then the bread boy went back to the old wench and bought a third roll.
Bread boy ran off with his prize into a side alley.
And was back again all too soon.
Arthur started peeling the layers backward, shifting his attention to the hawk boy who handed the bread boy the coin. This one was skinnier and faster, and when he ran with the other children, it was not reckless at all. They chased at each other and slammed into the leg of a grown man browsing a fishmonger’s catch. Arthur would have thought it an accident if not for Will’s warning. But if they’d pinched anything off the customer, Arthur couldn’t see how it was possible. They’d barely made contact for a second, and nowhere near the man’s coinpurse.
“I’ll be damned,” David whispered, and nudged his head.
Arthur looked again. Not the boys. A young girl with erratic dark hair and a tattered olive-green surcoat walked coolly away from the commotion, as the hawk boy was still making his last—and unreasonably loud—apologies.
They’d been the distraction. She’d done the deed.
The girl in the olive surcoat spent a few minutes sitting by a gutter at the edge of the plaza before depositing her loot in a crack between two stones and disappearing. A few minutes later the hawk boy found a reason to lie down by that crack, eventually picked out her prize, and ran around a bit more before handing the coin to the bread boy. Who purchased another bread roll.
When Arthur finally spotted the little girl again, she had a roll in her hand, which she gave to the squat old baker wench, who added it to her basket of wares.
“She sold one bread roll to one little boy,” Will grinned. “Over and over again.”
“So what?”
“Simple tricks, really,” Will explained. “Distraction, an easy lift, a quick drop. A couple exchanges. They fence their pick by purchasing the same stale bread roll over and over again. Old woman probably keeps half at the end of the day, selfish cooz.”
“And then they eat the bread,” Stutely said, nodding his head importantly.
David smacked him. “No, the girl brings them back.”
“Well, the ones she doesn’t eat.”
“She doesn’t eat any of them!”
Arthur nudged Will. “Why so many moves, wouldn’t that make it more complicated?”
“Meh, they’re just practicing here. Getting it into their bones.”
If these were the fabled Red Lions, then Arthur would just as soon surrender himself to the nearest gords than continue. These were children. The oldest might have been eight years old. “These are the friends you brought us to recruit?”
“No,” Will chuckled. “But they’re a gang. Young, yes, but this is their territory. Red Lion Square used to be an important ground to control. Might not be as important anymore, but I’ll bet the Red Lions still say who’s allowed to work it. So we can go through these children to get an introduction.”
An introduction. Will had bragged he was a big fish in this city, and now they were begging children to make a simple introduction.
Anybody who follows him is going to drown.
Even Stutely seemed worried. “We’re going to ask a bunch of pups for help?”
“I was younger than they were when I worked the streets,” Will replied, calm and sure of himself. “We were the Ten Bell Boys, out of Ten Bell Alley. We would’ve killed for a territory like this. They may be young, but they’ll know what’s what.”
Arthur tried in vain to think of any subtle way to approach these children, and fell shy of short. Fortunately, the opportunity came to them. The hawk boy and his companions were chasing at each other again and came within armsreach, and Arthur happened to be very good at snatching little whelps and shaking answers out of them.
“Hey boy!”
“Arthur, wait—” Will reached to stop him, but Arthur had already palmed the back of the hawk boy’s neck and spun him around, which startled the bread boy and sent him bowling straight into David. David snatched at Stutely, Stutely grabbed the hawk boy, and damn it if the ground didn’t go right out from under Arthur, too. Bodies and limbs and hair bumbled together as they dogpiled down to the ground.
The hawk boy was first to get out, his hands in the air, begging for forgiveness. “So sorry! So sorry!”
“Ho there!” Arthur struggled to get his feet back beneath him. David and Stutely were still down, too—only Will Scarlet had stepped aside to watch in amusement. “Stay where you are, boy, I’ll have words with you.”
“Sorry m’lords!” he gasped, panicked, and bolted away with his companions.
“Wait!” Arthur heaved toward them but only got two paces before a hand at his elbow spun him wildly around. Will tugged his arm and pointed in the opposite direction.
“Wrong way.” He smiled.
Arthur twisted, confused. The boys were fleeing across the plaza, and David was already giving chase. In the direction Will was pointing was nothing but an empty alley … and the back of a young girl with erratic dark hair and a tattered pale-olive surcoat.
“Son of a whore.”
Arthur’s hands moved to his belt. He’d seen it with his own eyes, and still had been too dumb to know it was happening. The tip of his coinpurse, which normally hung inside his breeches with its lip over his belt, was gone. Stutely laughed hard at him, then pawed at his own belt in a panic.
“That little bitch,” Stutely spat when he realized he’d been taken, too.
The little bitch turned back, saw Arthur staring at her, and ran.
TEN
ARABLE DE BUREL
LEYFIELD FOREST, RUTLANDSHIRE
TUESDAY, 14TH DAY OF JANUARY
“GOOD NEWS,” JOHN LITTLE countered. “They don’t know who we are.”
That much was true. The Sheriff’s men here were strangers, because they were in a new Sheriff’s jurisdiction entirely. These Guardsmen even looked different. Each of them—eight now, by Arable’s count—wore a red sash with a stretched golden lion across it, baring blue claws and a blue tongue. But the rest of their uniform was well shy of uniform, and seemed poorly suited for action. By the inconsistent craftsmanship, it seemed likely that each Guardsman was even encouraged to sew his own sash. Some of the handiwork looked less like a lion and more like a rabbit, hilarious
ly terrified of its own existence.
This was the small but proud company of the Rutland Guard.
“Bad news,” Arable muttered. “I don’t think they like us.”
They had been detained for over an hour. With the promise of a new life in Huntingdon, their group had made good time fleeing from Nottinghamshire. When they ran out of forest, their speed increased over the wide, flat lands, and even the slowest of their sprawling crowd had been encouraged by their progress. Open space made them an easy target, but they crossed overland and avoided roads, and miraculously remained unmolested.
But two relatively easy days had been deceitful. On the morning of the third, they were awoken by a small group of bandits, who were only barely chased off by the Delaney brothers after stealing some invaluable rations. Their group was too large and exhausted to properly protect themselves. John Little suggested they return to forest hopping to hide their numbers, which brought them to the poorly named Leyfield Forest.
In a century, perhaps, it would be a beautiful lush woodland. But now it was nothing but saplings, and used as a training grounds for the Rutland Guard.
“Good news,” John twisted to watch their captors, “is Will Scarlet’s gone. Arthur and David, too. The rest of us don’t look much like outlaws, look at the state we’re in! Old men like me and pretty girls like you aren’t usually the thievin’ type. I think they’ll believe our story.”
“Bad news,” Arable’s turn, “is Lady Marion is doing the negotiating.”
John Little made a face at that, but he was welcome to make all the faces he wished—he would still be wrong about Marion. She’d been gone the entire hour, speaking alone with whichever member of the Rutland Guard was in charge. Marion had promised she could make a quick apology for their trespass using the considerable influence she was always claiming to have, but Arable knew better. Marion’s status put their group in greater danger, not less. To anyone informed, she was entangled with both the infamous Robin Hood and the murdered High Sheriff, which made her a valuable prisoner. To anyone uninformed, she might well be the Sheriff’s assassin herself. Even in their poverty, Marion couldn’t help but swing her infamy around in the hopes of bettering her own position, at the expense of anyone unlucky enough to rely on her.
“Good is, there’s only eight of them,” John tried.
“How is that a good?” Arable laughed. John was laying odds on their chances in a fight. “Look at us. They could take us all with half that number.”
The Rutland Guard was mounted, some circled their group like shepherd dogs around a flock of sheep. A few others gathered to the side, arguing about what they were supposed to do with this massive group of trespassers. Marion had used the wholly unorthodox approach of telling the truth—that they were merely passing through Rutlandshire to get to Huntingdonshire, where they were invited guests.
Since then, their whole group sat and waited—while Arable and John counted the good and the bad news. And if Arable had learned anything in her thirty-some years, it was that the bad news always outnumbered the good.
The truly bad news was that—as Arable had long feared—the world was closed off to those in need. For over a month she’d toyed with the idea of splintering off on her own, leaving this group that clearly did not want her, and heading south. There were still rumors—only rumors, but better than nothing—that she might find some of her surviving family somewhere in France. But she’d been too afraid of traveling the county on her own, and in some small way she was glad to see those fears validated by this day’s treatment. On her own, she could never have dissuaded the morning’s bandits from taking more than her valuables. On her own, she could not stop the first ambitious Guardsman from doing anything he wished.
Like it or not, she was safest among the sheep.
“Good is,” Little shifted his weight, “I don’t see enough of you. Iffing an armed garrison is needed to get you to talk to me, well, I’ll take what I can get.”
That was kind. A younger Arable might have blushed at the compliment. But a patronizing tone lay within it, as if she kept her distance for childish reasons.
“It’s not you, John,” she answered. “In fact, you’re my favorite person in this group.” She very likely owed John her life. He’d been the only one to defend her when she’d been accused of poisoning them. The two of them had ridden to Nottingham together with Robin that night. Robin had killed William de Wendenal—the man she’d once loved—and hanged for it the next day. Nothing would ever undo the mutual grief she and John Little shared on that return trip.
“Well I’m glad to hear it.” He looked at her. “I thought perhaps you didn’t like my jokes.”
“Your jokes are awful,” she responded. “So of course I like them.”
That seemed to delight him.
“It’s the company you keep.” She let herself go for the insult. “That’s the problem.”
A slow, understanding nod. “Say what you will, but we wouldn’t be where we are without Marion.”
Arable raised an eyebrow at him. That was hardly an endorsement, given their current situation. Huddled on the ground, hungry and tired, awaiting judgment for the crime of trying to survive.
He shrugged. “You know what I mean.”
“She ruined my life, John,” she said, “but don’t misunderstand me, that’s not my grudge. My grudge is that she didn’t notice. She never thought about who she hurt. She just wanted to get to the top, and she still does. You defend her because your boat is rising with hers. But make no mistake, John. That’s just a coincidence. Her leadership has one goal only, and it’s to help herself, not you. Keep your eyes open to it. Best you figure it out before she leaves you behind.”
John Little’s lips pursed, but he did not argue it.
“Good is,” he offered, “you’re not shy to talk of it. I thought I’d have to squeeze it out of you.”
“Bad is,” she smiled, “we’re probably all about to be thrown into gaol cells. It’s easier to open up when it’s your last confession.”
There was an optimism in John’s face that said maybe, maybe not. It said he’d gotten out of tighter scrapes than this. But some day, Marion would lead them through a scrape just wide enough for her and no one else.
“You’re heading to Huntingdonshire, then?” came a thick voice. Its owner was an equally thick Guardsman with one of the more bunnylike lion sashes, and his face was smashed into a small area beneath an endless expanse of forehead. Arable recognized him as the man Marion had been negotiating with, rejoining them.
John hopped to his feet, as quickly as his girth allowed. “We are.”
“Best get moving, then.” The man looked over their group, smiling widely. “No point in sitting around here all day, is there?”
Arable glanced at John in surprise. “So we’re free to go?”
“We’ll escort you to Stamford and see you across the Welland,” the Guardsman said, clicking his tongue. His mount twisted underneath him, and he struggled to keep her still. “But we’ll be setting the pace, and expect you not to fall behind, understand?”
John seemed relieved. “That’s very kind of you.”
“No, it’s not,” Arable said, with an intentional sharpness. It was better than a prison, but it was not mercy that guided their host’s decision. “They’re not looking after us, they just want to make sure we don’t stay in Rutlandshire.”
The forehead man continued to smile, unaffected. “If you’ve been telling us the truth, then what matter is it to you? You’re right, we don’t want you here, and we don’t have room for you none neither. We could’ve turned you back where you came from. But we didn’t, so that’s a kindness, innit?”
“Very kind,” John huffed.
“See that you remember that.” The Guardsman seemed quite proud of himself. “Sheriff d’Albini is a kind man, and he’s shown you kindness this day. Be sure to repay that kindness by staying where you’re going, once you get there.”
Arab
le scoffed. “I didn’t see Sheriff d’Albini here. Did you run off to Belvoir Castle while we were waiting?”
That wiped the man’s smile into a scowl. Rutland was a tiny and rural county, so William d’Albini ruled over the smallest lot of land of any Sheriff in England. Belvoir Castle was a day’s walk north, where d’Albini resided in comfort and practically never left. Arable only knew these things because of her time in Nottingham Castle, but she didn’t like being spoken down to by some self-satisfied Guardsman with an inadvisable amount of forehead.
“Sheriff’s a busy man,” he answered, more coldly. “I speak in his name.”
John Little gave Arable a stern glare. Back down. And he was right. The man had given no cause for Arable to snap at him, but she’d been quick to anger lately. The hunger, the fatigue, her body’s perpetual ache—she’d noticed her emotions were ever on edge. She tried to soothe whatever offense she’d given. “Thank you, then. It is your kindness we shall remember, not his.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” he said frankly, “lest you see fit to assign a similar blame upon me for the price of our escort.”
She stalled. “The price of your escort?”
“Your lady and I came to an agreement,” he explained, though Arable had yet to see Marion return.
John shifted uneasily. “What’s the agreement?”
“One in four,” he announced, with enough finality to be clear it was not up for debate. “If you’re traveling through Rutlandshire, we’ll have our king’s ransom for it.”
“One in four!” Arable balked, but John put a hand on her shoulder. “We already have practically nothing left to call our own, what is a quarter of nothing to you?”
“’Tis the price of our roads, and our mercy,” the forehead man answered. “If you do not wish to pay, you’re welcome to take the long road around, or to sit in a debtor’s cell.”
“We’d be fed better,” she grumbled.
“We’ll pay it,” John answered heavily. “Though I hope that when you see how little it amounts to, that you might take pause at it.”
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