Morg flexed his muscles. “But no harm in finding out for ourselves.”
“There is, actually,” countered the bald knight, finally rattled. “Could be that the Red Lions are the only things keeping Robin Hood’s gang at bay. We take out the Red Lions, we’ve just given Robin Hood control of the city.”
“We’re not giving him anything,” Beneger snapped. “We’re taking. We’re taking everything from him. We know where to find him, he cannot be hard to find now.”
“But he has proven to be,” countered the captain, cautious to contradict Lord Beneger. “FitzOdo has been searching for him for months and found nothing. I would not underestimate Robin Hood’s ability to evade detection.”
“That was Gisbourne’s downfall,” Simon mumbled. “Thought it would be easy.”
“We won’t make that mistake.” Beneger’s jaw tightened. “All eyes on this whorehouse, and he cannot slip by.”
“No.”
This new voice came from behind, small but certain—as if he shouldn’t have to even raise it at all.
Every face turned to see the thin frame of William de Ferrers in the doorway, covered in a blustering black fur that he had undoubtedly selected to make him appear more suited to his sheriffcy. But some men were born to lead, and others were whelps made for whipping. It was a sucker punch of a reminder as to why Quill lingered in Nottingham, to see this spindly runt replaced by a worthy successor.
“I have a lead,” Lord Beneger explained, barely hiding his disdain for the man, “and I’m following it.”
“You’re not.” Ferrers walked carefully into the room, as if half the stones in the floor were traps. He held their silence until it was uncomfortable, daring anyone to speak against him. “It does us no good to catch another Robin Hood in the dark. The people will simply think we’re lying again.”
He spoke smooth as silk, concerned mostly with the fingertips of his arrogant gloves. To anyone educated in the art of politicking, these were basic tricks. But some of the men in the room were of simpler minds, and mistook the caricature of strength for the real thing.
“We could hang a Robin Hood every day of the week and it would only make him more dangerous,” the Sheriff continued. “The people need to see him captured, they need the proof that it’s really him—that’s what we failed to do at his hanging. More importantly, they need to see him fail. His story needs a definitive—and public—end.”
He paused, but nobody bothered to ask him to continue. It was too obvious that he wanted it. At last he placed his fingertips on the table and looked up at Lord Beneger.
“I’m arranging for a great archery tournament, to be held here in the castle. It shall coincide with the commemoration of the martyr St. Valentine in two weeks. Participation is open to the commonfolk, and the prizes will be formidable. Coin, of course, but land, too, throughout Nottinghamshire—and a building here in the city. The sort of prizes that no man could chance ignoring. It will be too tempting a target for the hubris of our dear Robin Hood. We keep a strict eye on its participants, and we ensure his victory. Up to a point. Then not only will we best him in archery, but we’ll capture him before a crowd of people and denounce him for his crimes immediately. The legend of Robin Hood ends there.”
The silence that met him was not the awe that Ferrers probably interpreted it as. It was more the stunned silence of watching an invalid fire a crossbow bolt into his own eye. The idea was as flawed as it was misguided, with too many obvious things that could go wrong, too many things for them to possibly track. It was exactly the sort of idea that a young man would dream up, a fool’s plot to lure an enemy in and then prove himself the hero. A lord’s fantasy, based on nothing but fancy.
But Ferrers was Sheriff now, and Quill was just a Common Guardsman on the midnight shift. He should have summoned his father a month ago. He should have done what he had come here for, and used his family’s influence to put someone worthwhile in the sheriff’s seat. Instead he’d grown content to wait it out, not realizing what damage this child might do at the head of the table. He would write his father this very night. He had to.
With the absolute smallest possible bow of his head, teeth set hard in place, Lord Beneger complied. “As you say, Sheriff.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
MARION FITZWALTER
HUNTINGDON CASTLE
SATURDAY, 8TH DAY OF FEBRUARY
MARION BOWED AGAIN, OFFERED her glove for the next kiss, and welcomed yet another visitor to this castle that was not hers to present.
The Countess of Huntingdon had been far too reckless, in Marion’s estimation, with her list of invitees to this council. It was no secret that lords and earls across England objected to Chancellor Longchamp’s rule generally—and the payment of King Richard’s ransom specifically—but those protestations were rightfully private. Lady Magdalena assumed that gathering like-minded people in one room might lead to something profound, but Marion knew better.
Filling a room with murderers would not coerce any single one of them to admitting a crime.
But Lady Magdalena’s family sprawled wide, and some would say they’d been preparing for this moment for years. The great Henry de Bohun, Earl of Hereford, had spent his lifetime spreading his influence across the country. In want of sons, Henry de Bohun had married his daughters strategically, investing in a network of silent dissenters to royal corruption. Magdalena was his youngest, married to the Earl of Huntingdon. Another daughter had wed the Earl Robert de Vere of Oxfordshire. The eldest, Lady Margery d’Oily, was with Waleran de Beaumont, the Earl of Warwick. The entirety of that family was now gathered in Huntingdon’s walls.
Rebels.
Marion ought to love them. She was, theoretically, amongst friends. But there was a bit of a problem with the other invitees.
Yes, they had come in full splendor, in every banner and color—a population of prestige that swarmed to Huntingdon Castle from as far as Magdalena’s letters had carried two weeks earlier. It reminded Marion of the assembly in Nottingham for de Lacy’s funeral, a map of arms riddling the bailey like a carnivale. Most prominent were the neighboring counties: the gold-and-maroon crosses of Northamptonshire, the waving blues of Cambridgeshire, or Bedfordshire’s red-and-yellow motley. Farther counties were present, too. Marion could spot the ermine sash of Norfolk, the acorn-laden field of Rutland, even the loggerheads of Shropshire. It was a bouquet of colors and sigils, festive as a traveling performance troupe.
And twice as disingenuous.
“Thank you for accommodating us,” came the wan smile of a man who was not Richard de Montfichet. “The baron sends his unfortunate regrets that he could not attend personally.”
“I offer apologies,” was the husky greeting of a plump horseman who was not William de Fors, “as I am a poor substitute for the Count of Aumale, but I must needs suffice.”
“I humbly submit myself in the earl’s stead,” followed an elaborate bow from a moustached man who was not Roger Bigod, “and promise to report back to Norfolk the full details of our meeting here.”
Every banner was a lie, every crest was a costume. A collection of attendants and cousins, dressed up in the guise of their lords and earls, come to observe. Nearly every invitation that went out was returned by a nameless servant whose prominent characteristics comprised obedience and expendability.
“Nobody wants to risk attending this council in person,” Marion complained behind her smile, watching the man who was not Geoffrey de Say make small talk with the man who was not Geoffrey de Mandeville, oblivious to their masters’ mutual hatred of each other. “They’re afraid of being labeled traitors and collaborators, so they send these useless attendants instead.”
“Do you blame them?” asked Lord Robert, his face plastered with a well-practiced grin. He wore his olive half cape over one shoulder, his head cocked confidently backward as if the event had not already been an epic disappointment. They stood between the two squat buildings that held sentry to the Heart Tower’s b
ridge, welcoming their visitors after each was stabled and quartered. “These sort of talks are supposed to be held in secret, in wine cellars and closed stables. There ought to be a blood sacrifice, and a bone shrine to justify our sinister cabal. To receive a friendly invitation instead … would be understandably intimidating.”
“Not just intimidating,” Marion replied. “Suspicious. I’m imagining Sheriff de Ferrers, opening the gates of Nottingham Castle, unfurling a banner that reads Free Food for Thieves. This council must look like the least clever trap in history.”
Robert drew his breath in sharply. “Well, Maggie is few things if not bold. And if nothing else, this will be an adventure.”
“An adventure that ends in a prison cell,” Marion mumbled. It did not take a great leap of imagination to think that one of the letters might be intercepted by an ally of the Chancellor, or that a recipient might find profit in selling the others out. Even an ambitious page or unruly stableboy might undo them all, if sufficiently disgruntled. “There is a reason the word rebellion is traditionally whispered, not shouted.”
“This isn’t a rebellion,” Robert tisked her, abandoning his flippancy. “It’s a conversation.”
Marion smiled at him. “Oh, my dear, dear Robert. That’s how rebellions start.”
More servants came, introduced themselves, and apologized for not being their masters. Marion would have much preferred to hide in her room until the entire debacle was over, but her position as welcomer was yet another demand by the countess. Servitude in exchange for hospitality. The Lady Magdalena had a particularly dead stare she reserved for Marion each time she made a “request.” Marion had not talked about this uncomfortable relationship with anyone else, though John Little alone seemed to guess as to the sacrifices Marion was making for their survival.
At the moment, the countess herself was effectively hiding. Once her family members realized they would be the only attendees who actually arrived in the flesh, they secluded themselves at the top of the Heart Tower. If there was any justice in the world, the Earl of Hereford was currently giving Lady Magdalena a proper scolding for her political ineptitude. Marion doubted they would even show their faces at the council tomorrow, given the disappointing turnout.
“It’s you they’re afraid of,” Lord Robert said, in between guests. “You’re famous for your rapscallious exploits.”
“That’s not a word.” She elbowed him. “And none of them had any idea I would be here, so you certainly can’t use that as an excuse.”
“It only takes one person to notice you, and talk,” he mused. “I think rumor has traveled. I think you might be famous.”
Marion hated the idea. As she extended her hand to a fidgety man who was not William de Mowbray, she wished very much that she could send a facsimile of her own—a woman who was not Marion Fitzwalter—to play her part.
“My lord deeply appreciates your invitation, but he regrets that he could not escape his responsibilities in Rutland,” came the capitulating voice of a man who was not William d’Albini. Sheriff d’Albini of Rutland, Marion squinted at him. The man whose forces had waylaid them on their travels. “Responsibilities in Rutland” indeed. She knew fully well that he stayed at Belvoir Castle and probably never even saw the invitation. If word had spread that Marion was in Huntingdon, it was very likely the men of the Rutland Guard who had started it.
“All the same, we welcome you in his stead,” Robert was saying, treating the stranger with all pomp.
“My appreciation, Earl Robert, and Countess Magdalena…”
“Oh!” Marion interrupted. “My apologies, you mistake me. The countess is unavailable, but shall join us for dinner this evening.”
“Ah.” The servant apologized, and continued on.
It was not the first time today she’d been mistaken for Robert’s wife, given that Magdalena should obviously be the one at his side. Robert had begun to enjoy the misconception and stood intentionally and increasingly close to her, prodding at Marion’s embarrassment like a schoolboy.
“Just pretend you’re her,” he snickered. “None of them know the difference.”
“Perhaps you should play her yourself,” she pursed her lips to keep from scowling, “so everyone here can report back to their lords that Lady Magdalena is exactly as mad as her letters implied.”
“She’s not mad,” he balked, but cut himself off. “But yes, she might have handled this more delicately.”
“More accurately, she couldn’t have handled this less delicately.”
“I won’t speak ill of my own wife.” Robert’s tone sounded more like careful conditioning than actual wisdom. “Besides, you’ve been helping her prepare every detail for the last week. I thought she had your full support.”
“Hum,” was all she could say. She recalled Magdalena’s sneering features on the castle ramparts their first night. “Don’t bring your pervert inside the castle walls again.” By failing to stand up for Sir Amon, Marion had given Magdalena complete power over her.
Amon. Sworn to protect her, now forced to camp in the villages outside the walls and wait for her. To satisfy Lady Magdalena’s bigotry, her self-righteousness. If that was it at all. Marion’s instincts told her that Magdalena’s issue with Amon had nothing to do with Amon. It was simply control, a way of manipulating her.
But, she reminded herself, the sacrifice was worth it. The rest of her people were flourishing in their new home. There was ample work to be done in and around the castle grounds, and they were eager to earn their way. A season of fleeing from the Nottingham Guard had destroyed their spirits, but here the opportunity to contribute in meaningful ways brought life back to them. That was Marion’s reward, and it made the trade for her obedience equitable. Friar Tuck adopted this larger community of Huntingdon as his own. And the Delaney brothers, as always, were incomparable in their kindness, ever diligent toward making this home permanent.
“She means well,” Lord Robert said suddenly, in sober defense of his wife. “And merits results more oft than not. She’s just impulsive at times, which can be its own asset, you know.”
Marion nodded, though she could not agree. Impulsive, with no thought toward any consequences. That description was a familiar one. Will Scarlet was gone, and Marion could only hope she had not ended in debt to someone even more destructive.
Not that this council has been particularly impulsive, she reconsidered. Magdalena had planned it in secret for weeks behind her husband’s back, before sending her letters out when the opportunity arose. There was another word for Magdalena, something worse than impulsive.
“Surely I would have remembered giving my granddaughter away,” came an oddly familiar voice, “but I cannot fault her choice in husband.”
Marion turned to the next guests, several generations older than most of the other attendants. The elderly couple was struggling with the incline of the courtyard, aided by a few attendants on either side. Her heart leaped at the sight of their emblems—the three swords of Essex. Marion’s grandfather’s face bore every year with a grudge.
She had not been informed that they’d been sent an invitation. Their presence was an utter shock, as if the great hand of God had just yanked Marion from a dream of adulthood and thrown her back into a child’s body. She could suddenly smell her grandfather’s parlor, where she and her sister Vivian had learned to stitch. She remembered a particular flaky baked bread and some game with beans and pebbles. It had been years, perhaps, since she had seen them. The very idea that there was some very normal world where Marion could idly chat with her grandparents in comfort rather than spend her time assassinating Sheriffs was almost too much for her mind to grapple.
“The honor of your granddaughter’s hand is not mine to claim,” Lord Robert answered smoothly, giving a cordial bow to the Earl of Essex. “But the Lady Marion does me the service of welcoming our guests in my wife’s absence. I am ever grateful for her presence.”
“What a pity,” Marion’s grandmother cooed
, holding the crook of her husband’s arm, bundled to exhaustion in elaborate fabric. Her face was puckered plum, her lines deep enough to define the edges of her skull. “This one’s handsome. Marion never had an eye for that. Do you remember Jeremiah, the fishmonger’s son?”
Marion did. “I was eleven.”
“Eleven is a fine age to be unwed.” Her grandfather scowled. “And how old are you now?”
“Lord Robert,” Marion pivoted, “allow me to introduce my grandfather the Baron Walter FitzRobert, Earl of Essex, and my grandmother Rohese.”
“What a beautiful name, Rose.” Lord Robert continued his saccharine courtesy. “Named for a flower as beautiful as yourself.”
“Rohese,” her grandmother gave the subtle correction. “Named for my own grandmother, who was anything but beautiful. It’s been forty years since anyone has called me that, and ten more since it was not said in jest.” She shifted her weight. “I should scold you for trying to flatter me, but instead I’ll accept a kiss.”
She wobbled forward and craned her neck out, paper-thin skin threatening to tear apart at the gesture. But Lord Robert smiled and brushed her cheek with his own, to her inestimable delight.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” Marion admitted. “It is a long journey for you two. You could have sent an observer, as many of the others have.”
“It was coincidence, and curiosity,” her grandfather responded, feathering back his rogue eyebrows. “I was already planning a visit to York to discuss relations with the new High Sheriff there, and this was a convenient stop along the way.”
“The High Sheriff of York?” Marion worried at the implication. Osbert de Longchamp was brother to the Chancellor, the very man this council was formed to conspire against.
Her father clearly sensed her hesitation. “Indeed. I don’t much like the man, but that has little bearing on whether I must work with him. I hope that is something this council of yours will keep heavily in mind.”
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