Lionhearts

by Nathan Makaryk

  “You don’t think you can protect me?” she asked, knowing that would be as effective as kicking him in the groin. “With every Guardsman around, and you too? Just for me to shoot a couple of arrows, and get a little applause?”

  He made a face. It was hard to tell what the face meant, since every one of his faces was uglier than the last. She wondered which face he made when he pawed at the servant girls.

  Eventually he relented. “You’ll need a range necklace.” He shook his finger at the far end of the field. “We’ll be giving them out all week. Just have your friends show up, and if they can hit two out of three targets we take their name and give them a necklace that lets them in. Anybody with a bit o’training can do it.”

  That was probably true, but it wouldn’t be good enough. Cait could hit a target at a short distance, but not all of them could. And they couldn’t just steal range necklaces or make forgeries, on account of the names of the participants being written down as well.

  “There’s the part, then, wherein I was hoping you could help,” she said, as softly as whores like Clorinda spoke when trying to woo someone. “I don’t think my friends will be good enough to earn a necklace on their own. They don’t stand a chance, either, but it would mean the world to them just to have the opportunity. They’ve never even been inside the castle walls, you know. I know it’s a big favor, but … well…” she fought back the bile of forcing this last bit, “… we don’t see each other very much. And we don’t have all that much in common, either. Maybe this would help?”

  The tangled red pubic hair of her father’s face split wide to show his yellow teeth, the perverse result of him smiling. “I’ll need their names. How many friends, then? Two? Three?”

  Caitlin shot for the moon.

  THIRTY-THREE

  MARION FITZWALTER

  HUNTINGDON CASTLE

  LADY MARION FITZWALTER HATED exactly two of those three words.

  Growing up in a family of moderate prestige, there was often someone hovering over her and her sister, reinforcing their manners. To keep their backs straight and their lips pursed. To bow their heads slightly when responding to an elder. To speak distinctly, succinctly, and only when asked.

  To be better than a common maid—to be a lady.

  “It’s true that my name is Lady Marion Fitzwalter, though I suspect many of you have heard that name coupled with another. Outlaw. Now, I have yet to be arrested for anything, and not so long ago I was nearly married to a Sheriff, so I would argue that I still have some work to do to truly earn that title. But still, titles have a certain persistence, don’t they? They tie a pretty bow around a thing, let us decide everything we wish about it, rather than see it for what it is. Titles are comfortable. And outlaw, I admit it, is an alluring one.”

  The reception hall at the base of the Heart Tower had been reorganized such that the tables bearing her audience formed a single unending line, folded into a horseshoe. Marion stood in its center. The middle section alone had an elevated second row, whereupon sat the Earl of Hereford and his extended family. Those on the floor level were the impostors, the forty or so assistants who had come in lieu of their invited masters.

  Come to report back that which Marion had prepared all night to say.

  “Well if I have earned this title, then I wear it proudly. For what I have accomplished as an outlaw, as a thief, as a rebel—whatever name you may have heard thrown my way—may surprise you. Peace. Security. Tolerance. Perhaps not the adventurous words you might normally associate with criminals, but that is a sobering reflection of the laws we break. Laws that do more to turn good men into criminals than they do to protect them. Laws that threaten our ability to care for ourselves, and our families, and anyone who depends on us. Laws … that are not even laws. If there is any one thing I hope we can decide on today, it is this very distinction.”

  While young Marion and Vivian were taught to exude grace, their male cousins learned how to exude authority, how to command. The more Marion was taught to fit into society, the more she realized she could also master the same things the boys were taught. It required little else than taking everything involved in becoming a lady, and doing its exact opposite.

  “In the last year, we have been subjected to an unbelievable strain—first to pay for King Richard’s departure, and now to pay for his return. Make no mistake, I love Richard. He is my kin. If he were not, I doubt very much you would be listening to me at all right now, or if you were it would be from the audience of my gallows. Much of England’s struggles would be better if he were returned to us, and so I understand the desire to pay this ransom. Richard is a good man, and a good king, and we do him honor to wish him back.

  “But we also honor him by tending to England’s needs in his absence, by helping our country thrive. And this ransom … this ransom cripples us. By accepting it, we do the nation irreversible harm. Thus we are bound to break our honor to Richard one way or another, whether we like to or not. It is an impossible and piteous position, but given that we must forsake him, we are lucky in that we get to choose the manner in which we do so. We can choose to either abandon his body or to abandon his kingdom. As I said, Richard is a good man, and a good king. Ask yourself which of these options a good king would have us do.”

  There was nothing terribly creative about her rebelliousness as a child. Every noble had that one daughter who hated to practice etiquette, tomboys who preferred running with the boys over sewing with the ladies. But that was not quite Marion’s path. She did not hate learning to become a lady at all, she simply hated that she was not simultaneously learning how to become everything else. Being a lady had its absolute advantages, as does a hammer. But one cannot become a carpenter by only mastering a single tool.

  “I wish I could say I would give anything to have King Richard back with us, but we’ve tried that, and it doesn’t work. Austria has captured him. Austria has done us profound wrong, demands unpayable sums, and somehow we roll over like a dog and take it. I don’t know how any of you are even sitting, it makes me so angry my blood turns, it scratches at my mind that we would even consider paying them for hurting us. Our king is captured, and it is a tragedy! But England has borne tragedy before. We have weathered worse, we will weather worse again.

  “But do not be tricked by Austria’s offer to think that this tragedy is ahead of us, and that we might still somehow avoid it. No. It has already come upon us. For anyone here who has ever lost someone—a child, a parent, a friend—you know that the worst pain comes from refusing to move on. Believing that you could have done more. Destroying yourself with grief, with regret. This is what we do in paying the Austrian ransom. It is a higher sum than we can ever raise, and in trying to do so we starve ourselves. We sell the very land beneath our feet, we cripple the next generation of proud English men and women.”

  What she hated about the word Lady was that it was restrictive, as if that were all she was, all she could be. Yes, she embraced it when she needed to, when she wanted to, when she chose to. Being a Lady was a weapon to flourish, not an anchor as the tomboys thought. It opened the door, where she could then reveal her other titles. Her other weapons.

  “And for what? Do we actually think that Austria, who has shown the color of their character by capturing our King and crusading army, will return him to us? Should we trust in a nation that has already defiled us so completely? Are we fools enough to give them exactly what they ask? The nobleman who gives in to the demands of a thief only invites bolder demands from bolder thieves. Trust me, I’ve known a few thieves in my time. Anyone with a shred of wisdom knows it is folly to pay Richard’s ransom. We’re not here to argue this, it is simply too true to be debatable.”

  Fitzwalter, too, she hated. What did it matter that she was her father’s daughter? What did that describe about her character that was so important for a stranger to know upon first meeting her? What qualities of her father were assumed to be passed down to her that made it critical for half of her n
ame to be his, rather than her own?

  “What brings us here is the question of whether we are bound to follow Chancellor Longchamp’s demands to pay the ransom. If a king makes a terrible choice, yes, it is our duty to obey. Call it our English privilege. But what of William Longchamp, who would lead us to our own deaths? William Longchamp is not king. Is it our duty to obey his command and let ourselves suffer? William Longchamp is not king. It is well known that he purchased his position with coin, not experience. His contributions to Richard’s war chest were his only qualifications. William Longchamp is not king. His power is a measure of his pockets, not his prestige. His orders reflect his own desire to stay in power, and not what is best for our country. Was anyone here surprised when he chose to pay the ransom? By paying it, he prolongs his tenure as Chancellor. The longer it takes to raise the capital, the longer he holds his grip onto power. If he bankrupts the nation and successfully brings Richard back alive, he will be in royal favor for the rest of his life. Is his comfort worth starving your subjects? Is this worth your wealth and resources? For Longchamp to keep that which he has never deserved? He knows he will be replaced the moment anyone else wears England’s crown, and rightfully so. By keeping him there, we have become his lackeys.”

  No, of the three words in Lady Marion Fitzwalter, only one of them told her story. Only one word contained all the information someone needed to know about her. One word unique enough to contain her victories and failures, her moments both public and private, the maze of her experience turned upright that it might be considered and admired for both its complexity and simplicity.

  “Look, then, at what he has done, this William Longchamp who is not king. Look at his demands, at the things we might otherwise call laws, if we did not know better. Look at the punishments he imposes for refusing the ransom. Requisition of land. Deposition of power. These are things a king might claim, but William Longchamp is no king. These are not the Chancellor’s to demand. Those who refuse his payments have lost their seats, have had their castles taken from them. Imprisoned. This is not justice, no one can even pretend as much. These punishments have not been indiscriminate—they occur only to his political rivals. He knows the ransom is unpayable, but he uses it to replace prominent men with his own, to sow his seed of corruption into the very framework of England’s power. And we are letting him. And every day that we do not resist, his influence grows.”

  Marion. Just Marion.

  Know my name, and you know who I am.

  “This is not a political question, it is moral imperative. Every day that we sit back and hope it will get better, we are actively helping him. You’ve essentially declared yourself his allies, because even your neutrality helps him. We have come to the point where inaction is more dangerous than action, where complacency is equivalent to death. All of you, every one of you, is currently on the Chancellor’s side by virtue of your silence. In helping him, you help Austria—for what is Chancellor Longchamp if not an extension of Austria’s arrogance? I had invited Englishmen to join me here, I hope I have not received Austrians instead. If you don’t like being called an Austrian, then you’re in the right place.

  “The solution is self-evident. In want of Richard, the crown must pass to its next rightful heir. We are here to support John, son of Henry, brother to Richard, and next in line to England’s crown. It is his hand that should be guiding us through these dark times, it is his leadership we should seek rather than kneel and capitulate to the demands of Austria. If Austria had murdered Richard, we would be at war with them, with John leading our armies. Instead Richard is merely imprisoned, and so we reward Austria for doing it? No.

  “No, Richard isn’t England. England is England. If they think they capture all of England by capturing one man, that is their misjudgment to make. England endures no matter who you take from us. By letting ourselves be crippled by Richard’s absence, we admit that we are nothing without him. Tell me, are you nothing without Richard? Or are you … endlessly, inconsolably, inestimably, and unforgivingly … still England?

  “We can bow to foreigners, or we can bow to our prince. We can give in to the demands of those who wish to enslave us, or we can look to the future. We can destroy England, or we can rebuild it. I know where I stand. Who stands with me?”

  It was her absolute best. In her head, in her rehearsal, it had stirred them to riot.

  Instead, nobody stood.

  Every member of her audience, who had stared blankly at her through every word, now looked down into their hands, or nodded absently, or blinked. Only Henry de Bohun met her eyes, a stern look that spoke to his disapproval.

  Marion, the impostor.

  Marion, the helpless.

  Maid Marion.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  ARABLE DE BUREL

  HUNTINGDON CASTLE

  A YEAR EARLIER, ARABLE had been washing laundry in Nottingham Castle when her friend Gunny approached, with a grin and a torn piece of parchment. On it was a hastily drawn sketch of a bird’s head, and Arable had no idea what was so exciting about it. Gunny asked her several times to describe the picture, as if she were a blind old woman who needed help reading, and Arable explained over and over that it was a boring old bird and that they needed to return to their work.

  Eventually Gunny pointed at the picture and said it was a hare. Arable thought she was insane, until a moment later her perception shifted, and the drawing transformed into something it wasn’t. The beak became ears, the head snapped around, and Arable suddenly had difficulty seeing the bird that was so obviously there a second ago.

  For the past few months, as far as Arable was concerned, Lady Marion Fitzwalter had been a bird. A bitter, vindictive little bird whose arrogance would get them all killed.

  And now she was a hare.

  “I am eager for your thoughts,” Marion continued, as if the silence that followed her speech had not been devastating. Her words had moved Arable to tears, she was still wiping them from her face. But apparently nobody else in the entire room could be bothered to so much as look up from the table. “This council is met to discuss all our ideas, not just to listen to mine.”

  There were no ideas. The same faces, empty, waited for Marion to either continue speaking or dismiss them with seemingly no preference. There were neither approving nods nor angry head shakes. No laughter, no grumbling. Arable had watched it all from the side of the room where she stood with the other servant girls, ready to pour from her decanter of wine should any of the attendants be brave enough to drink.

  “I’m afraid this will be a very boring day if no one else has anything to contribute.” Marion tried to laugh, earning herself absolutely nothing. Arable saw in her now the cunning politician rather than the shrew.

  Marion picked a face, seemingly at random. “Norfolk, you are all too familiar with the danger that faces us. Roger Bigod struggled for years to claim his rights as earl of your county, after King Henry refused to confirm his earldom for utterly political reasons. It set Norfolk back a decade, which you have only now begun to recover from. That was a clear overreach even for a king, but it’s the same overreach we allow daily from the Chancellor. Do you wish to see Norfolk suffer more, when Longchamp chooses to steal your master’s title again?”

  The man who represented Roger Bigod remained silent, as if he did not even realize he was supposed to answer. When it became painfully obvious others were waiting upon him, he startled innocently. “Oh, my apologies! I am here only as an observer.”

  A motto for the man’s life, Arable considered.

  But Marion did not seem rattled, instead pivoting to another. “Lancashire. The Baron of Hornby has long been a friend to Prince John, making him an obvious target for someone such as Longchamp. This meet is in your favor, too, it would promote your allies and secure your own barony. Surely you cannot claim to be impartial.”

  Roger de Montbegon’s portly surrogate raised his hands in abstention. “I cannot claim anything, I am afraid. My instructions are si
mply to listen, and to report back to the baron the results of this council. I dare not presume to speak for him, nor his intent.”

  “There will be no results of this council,” Marion smiled, though her tone did not, “if everyone refuses to have an opinion. May I ask your name?”

  “I am here on behalf of the Baron Roger de Montbegon…”

  Marion silenced him with a raised finger. “I know that. I don’t care. I mean your name. You.”

  The man only fidgeted, as if an acorn had suddenly appeared between him and the plush seat.

  “Yes, you. I am looking at you. You have a name. It simply isn’t possible that your parents forgot to give you one.”

  After an awkward swallow, “Roger.”

  “Roger?” Marion’s face slacked. “That’s your baron’s name, and it’s also your name?”

  “Yes.”

  Arable had to stifle a laugh. The whole country was full of Rogers and Roberts and Richards and Williams and Johns. Her hand moved down to her belly, to the slightest curve she was now actively ignoring. She had not considered any names yet, because that would make it too real. But she took this moment to remind herself to name her child something exotic, like Clytaemnestra—or something equally mundane, but at least unique. Table. She could name her daughter something like Table, and then at least no one would ever have to wonder which damned Table she was.

  And just like that, there was now a daughter in her belly rather than a question mark. And in her eyes, hot tears.

  “Very well, Roger, forget that you are here to represent your baron,” Marion was saying. “I promise we will not mistake your own opinion for his. I ask for your thoughts on this, which no one will hold against you. Do you believe Chancellor Longchamp should have the authority to take land and coin at his whim in order to keep his position, acting as king? To appoint his own undeserving men to positions of power while the king rots in an Austrian cell? Or do you think that power should return to the royal bloodline, to a rightful heir?”