“Stop thinking about it,” Arthur said.
Fuck by foot he pushed forward.
“Nobody would ever make fun of The Blood behind his back,” Stutely grumbled to himself, behind. “Nobody will ever tell The Blood to watch the door.”
Arthur slogged on, making his pace around again.
Fuck. This.
Fuck. This.
It had been a long time, a damned long time, since Arthur wondered what it was that he actually wanted. For most of his life, that question was suffocated by the base need to survive from day to day, and the last few months had been no different. But at least all the hungry mouths in Marion’s group—useless though they may be—had something they were trying to stay alive for. Arthur assumed his mother was from Yorkshire, since that’s where his earliest memories were, but he didn’t even know if she died or abandoned him. If there was ever a time he hadn’t been begging for scraps and stealing his sleeps in the backs of stables and churches, he couldn’t remember it. And frankly, until he met David of Doncaster he hadn’t had anything to even call a friend in his wretched life. If anything, he’d actively avoided the burden of knowing people. He’d work odd jobs until the moment he became valuable, the moment someone needed him. That was his bane, and he’d move on to another job, another town, stealing when he needed to, surviving another day just to claim he’d done so.
After meeting David, there’d been joy in the wretchedness, and there was something infectious about David’s optimism. It had been the two of them against the world, but sometimes with the world, too. And then Locksley Castle, and Marion’s Men, and Robin Hooding. He’d bought into Elena’s belief that they were building toward something, something none of them could quite define, but they knew it was a better life.
This.
This did not feel like that anymore.
Two nights ago, for instance, he and Stutely had accompanied Fawkes and a few others to a tavern near Hollows Lane, ordered to break all the drinking horns within. Zinn told them nothing as to why they were doing the thing, and it was likely that she didn’t know herself. But breaking things actually felt good, compared to watching a boring man live his boring life.
He wondered if that’s how good men turned bad.
If the simple thrill of breaking something was all it took to turn that particular corner in life. Stealing for survival was one thing, but breaking those horns had been nothing but someone else’s business. At some point, the next command would be to break more than horns. Bones, maybe? Skulls?
How soon until he was just following orders? How long until he was a fucking gord?
When he made the next turn back to the Spotted Leopard, Stutely and Will Scarlet were waiting for him half a block closer. Arthur twisted his nose away from the stink of the street, brought up by a cold wind that hushed through the alley and stung his eyes.
“He just left,” Scarlet said, meaning the man with the velvet cap. “Did you see anything?”
Arthur just shook his head, too irritated to even give a scornful response.
“Twenty-seven men walked by, seven women,” Stutely reported. “But most of them were walking east, so I think that—”
“What?” Scarlet cut him off. “I don’t care.”
“You told me to watch the door.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to know about every last person who walks by it.” He wrinkled his nose and shook his hands into little fists. “God’s nails, this is fucking stupid.” He was angry today, and ugly bitter. Scarlet took one step into the street and landed in a cake of shit, cursed, and scraped it off against a rock. He kicked at a puddle in fury, obliterating it amongst the cobbles. In a rare moment of camaraderie, Arthur found himself exchanging a look of unease with Stutely.
“Are we following him?” Stutely asked, inclining his head in the direction the man with the velvet cap had taken.
“Fuck no,” Scarlet grumbled. “We already have everything we’re going to get on him. He pays shillings for cunny, always asks for the same girl, Saddle Maege. That’s it. I thought maybe I’d try to get some information from her, but the madame of the house laughed me off. Said that Saddle Maege wouldn’t like me, so fuck her.”
“I’ll try,” Stutely offered.
Arthur laughed, which seemed to offend Stutely. But the funny thing was that Stutely would probably do a better job. If Stutely went in there to impress the madame, at least he’d do so in a way that wouldn’t involve cutting off his fucking ear.
“No.” Scarlet pointed deliberately away from the brothel. “It doesn’t matter. This mark of ours, we got nothing on him. He doesn’t gamble, he doesn’t drink, he doesn’t have any family. There’s no leverage. He’s the opposite of a mark. I don’t know what the fuck…” he emphasized this by kicking at another puddle, “… Freddy wants us to find, but it’s not here. This is a waste of time. This is not what I wanted.”
After a pregnant pause, Stutely huffed in defense. “Well it’s not what I wanted, either! I’d rather be in Thorney pushin’ the barrow, but nobody gave me any say in whether they torched it all to the ground. You hear me complaining about that? No point in wasting good breath, if it won’t improve your lot none. Only way to make life better is to be good at it, and that’s all I ever tried.”
“He wasn’t saying you weren’t trying.” Arthur hoped to calm him. He wished David were there. “What are we doing, Will? Are we really trying to prove ourselves by starting from the bottom? How long do we do this until Fox gives us some men? At this rate, feels like it’ll be years.”
“No. I’m done with this shit. Tell them we’re done.” Scarlet scratched at the dark mess that used to be his ear. “Tell them to put us on something worth our time.”
It was the first good idea Arthur had heard all week.
Stutely crossed his arms. “That’s Zinn’s call.”
“Zinn’s a little shit,” he spat back, “I’m making it my call. Go back and tell the Lions, tell them we’re fucking done.”
TWENTY-FOUR
ARABLE DE BUREL
GRAFHAM, HUNTINGDONSHIRE
THE GUARDSMEN REPOSITIONED TO defend their lord, while the earl Robert leapt down a side passage that led to the manor’s central courtyard. Marion was dragged along, leaving Arable standing by the reinforced door with Peetey, John Little, and the appropriately scrutinizing face of Lord Simon de Senlis.
“Was that … the earl Robert?” he asked, using the condescending tone a parent uses with a lying child.
“Hard to say,” John improvised. “Given the hat, and all. Could be.”
Lord Simon directed his attention upon Arable, and she found that she could not lie. She offered a silent frown, and nodded in concession.
“You want us to stop them?” a heavy Guardsman at his side asked.
“I couldn’t possibly say,” mused the lord. Again he turned to Arable for confirmation, but she could give nothing other than a half shrug. Simon copied it for his Guardsmen. “Sure.”
Off shuffled his men with little urgency, past the delicate decorations of the Senlis manor, following the inner path and mumbling orders to each other. The ruse was obviously over, but there might still be some diplomatic way of salvaging the situation. The Lord de Senlis did not seem a man taken to overreaction.
Arable opened her mouth. “So—”
“No.” He spared her no look this time, just a raised finger. “I don’t … no, I don’t have any interest in a single word of what you were about to say.”
“But—” John Little tried.
“Just…” The man was a father, more disappointed than angry. “Just no.”
There passed a terrible amount of inactivity so awkward the hallway itself seemed likely to slink off for mercy. The only sounds were the echoes of the chase going on throughout the manor, floating back to them through the hallways but impossible to hear distinctly.
“Is he dangerous?” Lord Simon asked at last.
“No, no,” Arable answered instantly.
“There’s that, at least.”
He clicked his tongue.
The earl Robert took this moment to burst from a doorway halfway down the hall, whipping his needlelike blade in front of him and aiming it theatrically at Lord Simon. “A ha!” he exclaimed again, clearly short of breath. Then he vanished into another side room.
“I didn’t see Nick,” Peetey Delaney muttered.
Lord Simon sighed. “Should I ask who Nick is?”
“His brother,” Arable answered. “Hopefully he’s still watching, outside.”
“Hm.” De Senlis cocked his head toward her. “How many of you are there?”
“Just six, that’s everyone.”
Another long silence stretched, in which Simon de Senlis seemed to digest every bit of what was happening.
“Maybe I ought to go look for him?” Peetey offered.
Arable exchanged an apologetic look with de Senlis. “Would you mind?”
“Of course, how could I…” He blew out his lips, then took in a sharp inhalation. “I mean, what’s really the point in trying to…” He ran out of words again.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll send some men after you, of course.”
“Of course.”
Arable motioned for Peetey to leave, which he hesitantly did. Lord Simon threw a limp gesture to his last few remaining Guardsmen to accompany the man, though they did not seem certain if they were supposed to chase him or help him.
“I really am sorry about all this,” Arable said as the three of them stared blankly down the hallway.
From somewhere far off, the sounds of an entire kitchen being dumped upside down let them know that Lord Robert was still having fun.
Eventually Lord Simon resigned himself to the fact that he would have to get involved. “I suppose we ought to go find him. Did you have … was there an escape plan?”
Arable shook her head and started walking. “There was never any plan.”
They traveled at leisure back to the main reception hall. Along the way they were met with the echoes of shouts and vague insults, doors belched open here and there and eventually a bell rang out its dull dirge. This seemed to awaken everyone in the entire manor who had not already been roused by the clamor. It was hard to tell if Lord Robert and Marion were being chased, or if his reckless warscreams meant he was now on the offensive. There were a few moments when Arable was almost tempted to smile, to enjoy the sheer audacity of it, but instinct kicked away that urge. Life had recently conditioned her to recognize there were always consequences to frivolous misadventure.
Along the way, John Little tore savagely at the balloons of fabric on his shoulders. “Didn’t like the color,” he explained.
The main hallway followed the great square shape of the building, and eventually spat them back onto one of the three balconies overlooking the original reception hall. To their right was the entrance foyer, where Peetey had already found his brother, Nick, and apparently a few more of Lord Simon’s men. The doors behind them were, impossibly, wide open and unguarded.
“He’s insane,” one of the brothers was telling the other. “We have to get out!”
To the left, an eruption of noise announced Lord Robert and Marion, popping onto the adjacent balcony. Robert spun and slammed the double doors behind him, then whipped out a long purple sash with which he bound the handles together. Seconds later the doors swelled but could not open, and he took a moment to catch his breath.
His efforts were in vain. Across the room—from the fourth and final doorway—a host of Guardsmen and servants alike all poured into the sunken gallery, armed with swords and knives and improvised weapons. At least thirty or forty bodies flooded down into that receiving hall at the foot of the staircases. The arrivals quickly assessed the situation and arranged themselves in obvious defense of Lord Robert’s only path to the front exit.
Arable had no idea what to do, so she waved a greeting to Nick Delaney, who waved back.
Lord Robert may have been trapped on his balcony, but he made it clear he was not interested in company. He drew his rapier in front of Marion and sliced the air at the top of the staircase in dancing little sweeps, then perched one foot on the railing and called across to Arable’s balcony. “Lord Simon! Stand down, your men are surrounded!”
Lord Simon took the bait and walked forward to his own rail, openly laughing. “Oh, Lord Robert, what a gift you’ve given me by coming here today. Lay your weapon down, and perhaps I’ll treat your people with kindness.”
“I’ve come to take that which is owed,” the earl flourished. “And I’ll keep you in fetters one day for every shilling short!”
“There are but six of you, and you’re the only one that seems armed. Whereas I have twenty trained fighters, and fifty more who could stop you with a dishcloth. One is something smaller than seventy, Lord Robert. If this is your proficiency with numbers, I’d rather not rely on you to do any more of my accounting.”
“Your seventy is meaningless,” the earl laughed. “You can come one by one up this staircase and I’ll dispatch every man. Which of you below chooses to throw away your life first for your rebellious lord? And Lord Simon, will you stand there on your balcony and watch your vassals die for you before turning over the first coin you rightfully owe your king?”
Lord Simon’s body tensed at that, and he lowered his voice to a man standing near him. “Clarence, do we have bowmen?”
“We do…” the moustached man answered. “Do you mean to let loose upon the earl within the manor?”
Simon’s face contorted, as if he were struggling to find the downside of this choice.
Posturing. Preening. Neither man would back down, until one was forced into something foolish. Then this light-hearted romp would end in someone’s tragedy. Arable took a brief moment to consider how incredibly easier her life would be if not for men and their need to be men. Every damned second of the day.
Across the expanse, behind Lord Robert, a single sword thrust through the thin opening between the bound doors and started to saw at the sash.
“Marion!” Arable exclaimed in warning, surprising herself.
Once the two saw the sword, Robert gave it a sharp kick that successfully snapped the blade clean off. But its owner realized that the jagged broken edge was actually more effective at cutting. Lord Robert spun around, his head looking in every direction at once for an exit. Then he whispered his rapier away and jumped onto the thick railing where it joined with the stone wall, his hands finding an iron ring lashed with ropes.
Arable’s eyes followed those ropes across the ceiling of the gallery, where they pulleyed down to hold the great chandelier that hung over the crowd below.
Good God, nobody could be so idiotic …
With both feet planted against the wall, Lord Robert heaved away, and the iron ring wrenched off the hook moored to the stone, and the chandelier’s weight sent it screaming down. An epic crash split the air accompanied by horror on all sides, and Arable flung her attention over the balcony’s lip to see the damage. But Lord Robert was not finished—he had kept ahold of the ring during its crash down, dragging him to the very edge of his balcony but no farther. There he slipped his foot into the iron circle, wrapped his arm around Marion’s waist, and—Arable gasped aloud—he pushed off from the balcony’s ledge, swinging over the trapped throng of guards below, his arc ending exactly on the opposite ledge where the Delaneys could receive him. He released the rope at the peak of its arc, landing in a deft roll, he turned and—
* * *
—“COMPLETE BULLSHIT,” THE Countess Magdalena interrupted. “I won’t hear another word.”
“It’s all true, dear.” Lord Robert smiled, tracing his hand down his wife’s back, but received nothing in return. “At least, the parts of it that were true were true.”
Admittedly, they had all exaggerated their bits of the story. But the really shameful thing was they had not elaborated by much. Their participation in the ta
le was another favor Lord Robert had requested of them during their long defeated trek back to Huntingdon Castle from Grafham. They had spent the night in the city, too proud to take Lord Simon’s extremely charitable offer of housing them in the manor they had meant to burgle. By midday they were back in Huntingdon, explaining their absence to the countess.
“How much of that was a lie?” the lady asked, then shook her head in a fit and flurry. “No, I don’t even care. I don’t want to know.”
John Little bowed his head, the rolls of his neck bulging out. “Apologies.”
Lady Magdalena buried her face in her fingers.
“It was always a longshot,” Lord Robert crooned, stroking his wife’s hair. She flinched, but let him. “I can hardly make Simon de Senlis hate me any more than he already does. And perhaps my other bannermen will hear of it. If they think I’m a little wild, a little unpredictable, then maybe they think twice of following de Senlis in this embargo.”
Lady Magdalena met his eyes coolly, but sighed. “It doesn’t matter.”
That much, at least, was true. Their escapade had gained them no surfeit, no advantage.
“It matters for my people.” Marion’s tone was soft. “Countess, we upheld our end. We did everything we could to help—”
“Oh stop it,” the countess cut her off. “Consider, for once, that there is a world beyond the petty things that only you care about.” A tiny gulp escaped Marion’s mouth, which Arable could not identify as relief or shock. Lady Magdalena continued, “I say it doesn’t matter, because it simply doesn’t. It wouldn’t matter if you brought back every penny that Simon de Senlis owes us. It wouldn’t be enough, not even close. While you were out galivanting, dear husband…” she somehow said with only a slight tint of bitterness, “… I took a closer look at the ledgers.”
Robert sighed. “We have been over this, my dear.”
“No, we haven’t. You regurgitated to me what your coinmaster told you, but I wanted to see the numbers for myself. Our new friar has a head for mathematics, I don’t know if you knew that. There’s no way we can raise enough coin to pay what is being asked of us, it’s not possible. The king’s ransom would bankrupt us twice over. It simply isn’t there.”
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