Lionhearts

by Nathan Makaryk

  “Also,” coughed Rob o’the Fire from the dice table, “I saw you in the street.”

  Scarlet turned his body sideways and drawled out the side of his mouth, “Raaaaaaahb.”

  “Wiiiiiiill,” Rob returned, turning to match him, and they both laughed at something only they found funny. Caitlin hated that familiarity, but she knew some here had been friends with Scarlet from his life before. Stomping that out would only make her look petty, so she had to allow it. So she smiled—permitting it—as if the choice were hers.

  If she actually had a choice, she’d shove her fist down Scarlet’s throat until he finally revealed what he was doing here.

  Rob sauntered closer to Scarlet. He was the friendly sort of fellow who liked everyone, and was impossible to hate—which was generally why Cait hated him. “Scarlet, still? You kept your red name out there in the forest?”

  “Of course, wouldn’t want you taking it. Still Rob o’the Fire then?”

  “Of course!” His face lit up. “I never left, so why should I give it up?”

  “Red Fox!” Scarlet snapped his fingers, returning to Alfie. “I get it! That’s cute.” He explained to his seconds, “I knew Fre—Alf … Red Fawkes here, when he was in a gang in Severn’s Yard, just behind Ten Bell Alley. Our gangs would scrap now and then, but Alfred and I … we sort of, I don’t know, we made a game out of it.”

  Caitlin twisted a finger into Alfred’s hair. “That’s not quite how you described it.”

  “Darling, we’ve already established that my descriptions are impeccable,” he replied, reaching up to take her hand with his. “You only hurt yourself in saying such a thing.”

  She pinched his hand in retribution. It was a fine bit of repartee in private, but she didn’t need him talking down to her in front of outsiders. Whether he even realized how tight a line they were walking, she couldn’t tell. She dug a nail into his palm, which he accepted. He’d apologize later.

  “And this,” Alfred put his hand at his breast, “is my better, Caitlin FitzSimon.”

  She greeted the guests with an icy stare, daring any of them to give her so much as a hullo. No red name for her. These strangers didn’t know what FitzSimon meant, didn’t know how it had saved the Red Lions from destruction, didn’t know the double life she lived. The only thing her father had ever given her of any worth—his name, beast of a thing that it was.

  Scarlet inclined his head. “So, Alfred Fawkes! Red Fox! Which are you, brave or ignorant?”

  “Must I choose between only those?” he mocked offense, leaving Cait to meander toward the dice table. “Pray let me add handsome as an option.”

  “You said one must be brave or ignorant to call himself Robin Hood,” Scarlet explained. “And isn’t that the other name you claim to have right now?”

  “Claim.” Alfred seized the word, breathing it into a tankard he found.

  “That’s a perfect word for it,” Caitlin followed. “We did indeed lay claim to it. The title of Robin Hood fell out of Robin of Locksley’s body along with his breakfast when he dropped from the gallows. We were there, in the very front where it landed, and we picked it up for our own.”

  Alfred wiped his lips. “I don’t recall seeing you there…?”

  Scarlet didn’t react. “You’re right, I wasn’t there. Nor would I have considered it entertainment. You see, I was busy in the Sherwood, fighting off fire brigades.”

  Cait nearly laughed. “Ah, yes. Must have missed a few, then?” A permanent black cloud had lingered over the northeast for most of winter. “If you think that counts as a victory, you must be using your diddle as a measuring stick.”

  “Come now.” Alfred placed his tankard down, failing to contain a chortle. “Let’s not scrap, Will. The name of Robin Hood garners us respect, and fear, and we’re not like to quit using it on account of your jealousy. Tell me this is not the drum that drove you here tonight.”

  What he meant was get to the point.

  “No.” Scarlet shook his head. “But that name, it wasn’t for you to take.”

  “Robin Hood is a thief, isn’t he?” There was a seriousness now to Alfred’s voice, his theatricality discarded. “I took it. Ergo, I’m Robin Hood.”

  “But you didn’t know him. You don’t know what it is you’re stealing.”

  To Cait’s surprise, Alfred actually softened. “I understand if you think I’m disrespecting your friend, but under—”

  “He wasn’t my friend.” Scarlet looked down, he tapped his own forehead, over and over, absently. Unstable. “I hated him. But he was better than me. Whether I liked it or not, he taught me a thing or two … he didn’t steal something because it was valuable. He stole to put it to better use.”

  Caitlin was careful with her words. Not for Scarlet’s sake, but to make it clear for her cubs who was in charge. “We are putting it to better use. Your friend was no longer in a condition to use it at all. We’re Robin Hood now.”

  When Scarlet clenched his fist, the room coiled with tension. Every Lion focused, every hand that had been pretending at casual now fingered a weapon. The silence of mutually held breaths was deafening. And though it may have been a promise of violence, to Cait it was the first moment she could relax. The room had turned against Will, which meant the day was hers.

  Every goddamned day like this, constantly scratching to keep what they had.

  Watching their backs, knowing the day would come.

  Hell, she should let Scarlet have it all.

  “An ugly subject, this,” Alfred breathed. “It’s fouled up the room like a plate of spoilt meat. I’m afraid it’s distracted you from your purpose here, no?”

  “Yes, why are you here?” Cait finally braved the question, now that she felt safer. “Been a lovely chat, but we don’t have all the day to dally.”

  Will Scarlet didn’t answer, he just twisted and fidgeted. One of his seconds whispered in his ear, and he shook it off. When he turned again, his boyish smile had returned and his voice filled the room. Cait held her breath, and hated that she had to.

  “You know me, Alfred,” he boomed, strutting through the space before the throne. “We grew up in these alleys together. I see plenty of old faces here who did the same. Those of you who don’t know my face must know my name. Will Scarlet is half the reason why the Red Lions are what they are today. I snuck into Castle Rock and killed Sheriff de Lacy. Do you know anyone else who’s broken out of the prisons beneath Nottingham? Killed the Captain of the Guard?”

  A smirk was rippling ’round the room, and it ended in Alfred’s lap. “No one here denies your … accomplishments, Will.”

  “I just want to be clear you know what I am, and what I get done,” Scarlet puffed himself up, “so you know what I’m offering. Everything I’ve done of importance—of real importance, mind you—I did after I left the Red Lions. Squabbling over territory in the slums, slip picking in the Parlies, it doesn’t amount to anything. And for some of you, that’s fine! All you want is the next drink and a good fuck and I fully support that, so drink and fuck on.”

  This earned him a burst of approval he probably didn’t want.

  “But if any of you are looking to do something a bit more important, I could use you.” Scarlet shifted his attention back to Alfred and Caitlin. “If you want to call yourself Robin Hood because it’s impressive, feel free. If any of the rest of you would rather be the reason why it’s impressive, you can be. Robin Hood’s gang is my gang. I led them before Robin Hood was even a thing. We have campsites all throughout the Sherwood, we have people in influential positions, we’ve got the Sheriff’s Guard chasing themselves in circles halfway to York and back again.”

  She eyed Alfie. That was it? He’d come to borrow some men?

  A few grunts and laughter here, but he received nothing like what he must have hoped for.

  “And if you’re not interested in the glory, well … we gave away more coin last autumn than I saw in my entire life here in Nottingham.”

  Th
is, at least, was the correct language of the room. Scarlet had come to the wrong place if he had nothing to offer but a sense of importance—but coin knew no master. Whether it was true, though, Cait had her heavy doubts. If Scarlet had coin to boast of, he wouldn’t have dallied five nights in the slums. “Odd that he waited so long to mention that,” she chuckled to her boys at the dice table. “If someone has enough money to buy a horse, they don’t start off by explaining why the horse’s life will be better. They just ask the price.”

  One of her favorite thickskulls—the Dawn Dog—laughed, made a ruckus of rising to his feet, and cleared his throat. He did them all proud by asking, in sincerity, “What do you … what do you do?”

  It seemed to strike Will Scarlet off guard. “What do we do?”

  “That’s right.” Cait picked it up, giving Dawn Dog a smile. “What do you do that’s so important and impressive and what?”

  Scarlet scoffed. “We’re living life on our terms. Not beholden to the Sheriff’s Guard and certainly not to the Sheriff himself. They’re the real criminals, you know. We’re the ones fighting back.”

  That was as empty a breath as ever Cait had heard.

  “Lofty,” Alfred mused, “but not much of an answer. I second the question. What—specifically—is it that you actually do?”

  For a moment, it seemed he had no answer at all, which would have ended it there. But then Will laughed and rubbed his temples. “Well we don’t spend our time hiding in caves getting drunk, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Hey now.” Dawn Dog stiffened.

  “Where are you going to be tomorrow, big fella?” Will bit into it. “Under the horns at that table again playing blind man’s hazard? Me and mine’ll be sacking a gord outpost, eating their food, breathing fresh air, and actually using our knives rather’n just sharpening them all the time.”

  Sitting amongst the whores, Ricard the Ruby—who had been audibly sharpening his knife the entire conversation—went still.

  “You’d be better off asking if there’s anything we don’t do,” Scarlet continued. “God’s knuckles, did you miss the part where we killed a couple of Sheriffs?”

  Cait exhaled. He may have gained some ground for a bit, but he’d just made the worst mistake he could.

  “We did not miss that,” Alfred noted delicately, “but would you remind me why you’re proud of it?”

  This seemed to stun all four of the strangers. They really had no goddamned clue.

  Alfred clicked his tongue. “I was in such a good mood, I don’t want to spoil it by being cruel. Darling, would you be cruel for me?”

  “Gladly.” She took three heavy steps forward. “You hang quite a bit of expectation on that deed, don’t you? On killing the Sheriff. Are we to thank you? Is that our response? We are, then, most grateful, that is. Grateful for the increased number of gords in the streets. Grateful for their stricter punishments and lack of tolerance, grateful for the men we’ve lost to the prisons for petty crimes that were once ignored. We’re grateful to be forbidden from eating at the Commons. For the fear the people have of working with us.”

  Her cubs echoed her at each point, riling their disapproval.

  “Particularly grateful we were run out of Red Lion Square and into these tunnels, we did ever so hate seeing the sky.” The Lions Den still stank of the desiccated piss and shit of tanner’s pits. They’d never used it as anything more than a hideaway before October. It was a cave, and they did not live there, they hid there. Because of the squinty blond cockstain who stood before them.

  “And these,” Alfred added, brushing his hair back on the left side of his face, “are we to thank you for these as well?”

  One by one around the room, each Lion tilted their head to the side, swept back their hair, took off their cap. All to reveal Will Scarlet’s legacy.

  “Oh you don’t know, do you?” Alfred simmered. “You raised the stakes last year. Sheriff’s Guard swept through the city, arresting anyone who was even barely associated with a gang. And they branded us all thusly.” He traced his fingertips across the side of his face, down the scar that twisted his ear into red meat.

  “And how exactly is this our fault?” Scarlet asked.

  Alfred chortled. “They punish us for the things you did. You bore all the cause and none of its effects. And what was once an emergency measure has now become policy.”

  “Anyone caught for anything, anything,” Ricard mimed a knife through his own ear, “gets clipped.”

  “If they’re lucky,” added Dawn Dog.

  Rob snorted. “Right. Sometimes they won’t wait to pull you in, they’ll simply do it on the street. They’re not exactly careful.”

  “Supposed to just be the tip,” growled Caitlin, “to mark us. But what if their knife ain’t sharp enough, or they’ve had a shit bad day? Well then it’s a bit more. And if you fight back, then it’s accidentally your neck, ain’t it?”

  Her own ears were intact, on account of her father being who he was. As the daughter of the great Simon FitzSimon, armsmaster of Nottingham, she was effectively invisible to the Nottingham Guard. A few others in the room too were lucky enough to be clean, and careful enough to stay that way, so they could be used for certain conspicuous jobs. But for the rest, that nub of their ear had become a sign of pride.

  “We’ve taken to do it ourselves of late.” Alfred walked over to a young wicker named Ginger Twain, whose ear was cut clean at the bottom but was otherwise healthy. “Rather than wait for a gord to do it to us. Better we do it here, and burn the wound shut. Lest we come back one day with full less an ear. Or a blackrot that kills as sure as the blade.”

  Some solemn hums made their rounds in honor of the victims. Caitlin poured the blame for this on Scarlet’s head. “So you were correct, Will Scarlet. You are half the reason we are what we are now. Or perhaps better said that you are all the reason we are half what we once were.”

  And that was that. Scarlet had no answer. His body slumped. His failures were obvious. There were no recruits to be found here, not for one such as he. Even his men averted their eyes, rightfully ashamed they’d come here in the first place.

  “I didn’t know,” Scarlet nearly whispered. If he left the city, he might recover and try again. But cowed as he was, he might have his uses. After all, he had exactly two things going for him. He was short, and he was expendable. Cait would eventually have a job that called for exactly that, if everything went right with the greenbeard.

  “So no, you don’t get to call yourself Robin Hood,” Alfred finished. “That name lies with us now. Whatever damage you choose to do to yourselves out in the Sherwood is of little concern to us. Here in the city, here in the heart of Nottingham,” his words had a ferocity to them now, “this is where Robin Hood lives. This is where he is known and feared and loved, this is where he makes a difference. We get to keep his name, because we also bear the consequences of his choices. That you think you can affect any sort of change from the middle of the forest, safe from the repercussions of your own actions … that is a specific and new insanity.”

  “Get it?” Caitlin asked, throwing an arm around her lover’s shoulders, pulling the hair back from his scar. “No man or woman in Nottingham is like to follow a Robin Hood that still has both his ears.”

  EIGHTEEN

  ARTHUR A BLAND

  BENEATH NOTTINGHAM

  DESPITE THE CRUSHING DISAPPOINTMENT they’d been served, there was dinner to be had and Arthur was grateful for it. There was no way of telling the hour, as no church bell could reach them down here beneath the city. Red Fox proved himself the better man by inviting them to share in the meal before they left. There was some sort of stew that smelled of fish but had little meat to it, but plenty of hardbread and heavy wine.

  Arthur spent the earlier part of dinner exchanging uneasy glances with David. Every part of Will’s plan had failed. Unless Will miraculously knew of another city where they could recruit men less hostile than these, then this was
all an epic mistake. As soon as their meal was over—hell, maybe earlier than that—they needed to get out of Nottingham. Whether that meant they were going to try to tackle the gord outposts all on their own, or if they were going to limp all the way to join Marion in Huntingdon, Arthur didn’t know.

  “Is it strange that I sort of liked them?” David muttered, when Will disappeared to find some more drink. “They seem like a good outfit, no wonder they don’t want to join us.”

  Arthur eyed him over the lip of his ale horn. “Then again, you’re known for liking terrible things.”

  David seemed to take offense to that. “Like what?”

  “You like to mix wine and ale.”

  “I do.” David grinned. “But not because it tastes better.”

  “This,” Arthur put his finger in the air, “is why we shouldn’t trust your opinion.”

  “Well maybe you’re right. Maybe these people are terrible things. But there’s a lot to like about terrible things. I trust bitter before I trust happy. A terrible thing is at least a thing that knows itself. You were a terrible thing once, and I chose to like you.”

  “No one chooses to like me.” Arthur smiled back. “People like me because I’m so fucking likable.”

  David always found something to like in everything. Even when they first met years ago in Sheffield, when Arthur had been trying to smash David’s face into a flatter version of itself—and for good reason—David chose just to smile and introduce himself.

  Arthur sometimes wished he were like that. Wished his first instinct was to trust. Admittedly, some of the Lions who came to mingle with them during dinner practically proved David’s point. A great hulking barbarian named the Dawn Dog brought them a horn of a darker beer, and took delight in their reactions to its harsh bite. Two of the ladies lingered to tease them, and gave as much barb as Arthur could dish back. Arthur honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d had any cunny he hadn’t paid for. But his drinking and laughing was half-hearted at best, his mind was set on how soon he could be anywhere else.