Roger’s mouth opened and closed. Twice. “I haven’t thought about it,” he said.
Arable had not much thought about it, either. She hadn’t thought about what life meant five months from now. About what the world would be like that she would bring her daughter into. About what life she could provide.
About what sort of person Arable would be proud to watch her become.
“I’m asking you to think about it,” Marion said to Roger.
“I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know? What questions do you have? I am eager to help you understand.”
“I don’t … I’m not the right person to ask.”
“Are you human?” Marion attacked him, barely able to contain herself. “Do you breathe? Have you somehow blundered your way through life without ever harboring an opinion, or a thought, on anything at all? I am not asking you for the correct answer, I’m asking for your answer. You have lived for years, and in that time you have felt something nobody else here has—you have experienced something unique and captivating, your life is utterly yours. At this moment, right now, I want the sum of your experiences, the result of every decision you have ever made to give one informed opinion. Is it right, Roger? It can be yes or no or a thousand brilliant shades between, just open your damned mouth and decide!”
Roger opened his damned mouth, but he had nothing to say.
Someone had raised that Roger from a child, just for him to become a useless sack of man who had nothing to say. Nothing to contribute.
Arable could do better.
“This is not a performance,” Marion lamented. “You are all of you only invited because your houses have every reason to be allies. This is not a hostile environment. It should not be a profound act of bravery to agree, not in this room of friends. Will no one so much as admit that their house is sympathetic to this cause?”
“I will,” Arable said, stepping forward.
Heads turned, chairs groaned against the stone floor, to look at her. Once they saw her, the usual bevy of reactions broke the silence. Snickering, haughty scoffs. A servant girl, they laughed. Who is she? A few whispers about the scars on her cheeks.
“My house supports you,” Arable said, tilting her head back slightly.
Marion was a statue, her eyes alone burning an intense fire across the room.
“Most of you do not know me, but my house was once as notable as any here represented. My father, Lord Raymond de Burel, lost his life in service to his king in 1174, and our estate was unfairly seized from us as a political punishment for my father’s failures. It was gifted to Lord Beneger de Wendenal, who razed it to the ground. We lost everything, because a man like the Chancellor simply decided as much. Any one of you could lose everything, as my family did. Any one of you could become the next servant at the edge of the room, rather than a voice at the table. But since none of you are willing to exercise that right, I will.”
She took one second to turn and take in the room’s reaction, finally making eye contact with Margery d’Oily, perched in absolute alarm at the elevated table. That gave Arable all the courage she needed to finish.
“My name is Lady Arable de Burel, I am the head of the once-great house of Burel of Derbyshire. And though we have no land, no soldiers, no coin, and no power, we do have our dignity. I pledge my house to this cause.”
Marion had not moved, though her jaw was locked tightly forward, her teeth bared. It would not have surprised Arable in the least if she leapt forward like an animal and tore Arable into tiny unidentifiable pieces, set to a deafening applause.
“Lady Arable,” she said, one eyebrow flinching upward. “You should sit down at the table with us. Roger, go get her a chair.”
THIRTY-FIVE
ARTHUR A BLAND
NOTTINGHAM
“WHY DOESN’T HE DO any of the dirty work?” Arthur asked, crossing his arms.
“I’m not an expert,” David answered, “but I think that’s why they call it dirty work.”
Alfred Fawkes stood by the open doorway of the Commons, greeting every man, woman, and child in line with a wide smile and an elaborate welcome, flourishing his red duster. This dull square of a stone building was known for giving out charity meals to those who had earned the Sheriff’s leniency, which normally meant fuck all. Arthur had seen how the Commons lists were “earned” during his time in Nottingham, and it was far more a method of control than kindness. Two gords always stood at the entrance to check the names of those who entered.
Those two gords were there today, but wrapped in fishing nets and lying on the ground, moaning beneath Alfred Fawkes’s feet.
“Courtesy of Robin Hood!” Fawkes bowed to the next young woman in line, waving her inside to the rare promise of a full belly.
Arthur and David were on the other side of the plaza, warming their hands at a brazier. They’d stood on watch while the sacking had happened. But now that the dangerous bit was over, they had their own orders for the evening. Arthur hated it.
“We have to go out busting heads for this damned archery tournament, while he stays here glad handing, pretending he’s some sort of hero? A free meal and suddenly they forget he’s also the one chopping off hands?”
“Actually, yes.” David looked at him importantly. “We’ve been hungry before.”
The worst part of being David’s friend was how he was always right about every fucking thing. They’d looked in many a different direction in order to keep themselves fed over the years. Arthur’s belly never once cared where the food came from.
As if to put an edge to that point, a mother rushed up to the line and dragged her children out of it, whispering into their ears.
Maybe they weren’t all so forgiving after all.
“Let’s go, then.” David stood. It wouldn’t be long before word of what had happened here spread, and more gords would arrive to scare off the line. If even fifty people got inside before Fawkes was chased off, Arthur would be surprised. But he knew the way of it—this wasn’t charity none neither. Tomorrow and the rest of the week, there’d be twenty gords standing outside the Commons rather than two, which meant twenty fewer men on patrol nearby whatever else the Red Lions had planned.
David held up the parchment roll Zinn had assigned them, a list of names who were likely to best Alfred Fawkes at the archery tournament come Friday. A list of people who needed inconvenient injuries that would prevent them from competing.
“I fucking hate this.” Arthur didn’t even whisper it anymore.
* * *
THEIR FIRST STOP WAS the sixth name on their list, and farthest from the center of the city, but it was the only one that Arthur thought he’d enjoy. There was a chapel at Heth Beth Bridge, whose groundskeeper was their target. David had upturned his nose at why Arthur would want to start with a “man of God,” when frankly that was the best reason to do it. Arthur couldn’t think of anyone else who more deserved a good bit of smashing.
“Asher, I think?” David studied the parchment. He was better with his letters than Arthur, but that didn’t matter when the person doing the scribbling was even worse. Red Fox was using all his resources on this. He had people watching the sign-ups at every hour, noting the names of anyone who seemed like a legitimate threat. The smaller gangs were used to track down information on them, so that muscle like Arthur could pay them a visit.
“Tall,” David continued reading, “brown beard. Or maybe bard?”
“Why would they write brown bard?”
“I’m just reading what’s here. If you start clobbering the wrong man and then a brown bard comes out of nowhere with a sword, you’ll feel sorry for that comment.”
“I’m going to feel sorry either way.” Arthur pushed forward. He felt sorry his life had spiraled down to this, sorry that he didn’t know how to fix it, and sorrier still that David was ever at his side, never complaining. “If you have to do something you don’t want to, best to get a drink on first. Or, wanting that, punch a priest.�
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“He’s not a priest.”
“I’m going to close my eyes and pretend he’s Friar Tuck.”
“Friar Tuck’s not a priest, he’s a friar.”
“Probably because somebody already punched the priest out of him.”
David scrunched his face into a ball, but Arthur paid him no mind. On the far side of Heth Beth Bridge was a little garden surrounded by a low wall, maintained by the chapel. A less-than-tall man with a less-than-brown beard was there shoveling dirt into a barrow, who inclined his head when he realized they were headed his way.
Arthur waved him away. “Looking for Asher.”
The man motioned down the bank toward the Trent and resumed his duties, not saying so much as a single word. Arthur wondered if he ought to ask the man’s name, and bring it back to the Lions. Just in case he was on the lists, too, on one of the other assignment rolls gone out to others in the group. Save them the time of coming back here. Maybe Arthur ought to take a swing at every damned man in Nottingham, just in case they meant to be in the way someday.
Down a short footpath through the reeds came the clear sight of a tall man with a beard. If the sun were on his face instead of reflecting in the water, turning him into a silhouette, odds were strong that beard would be brown. He was calf deep in the river, raising a large basin with both hands and straining the water out, and part of Arthur reminded himself that if he didn’t do this thing now, then the Dawn Dog would be back tomorrow and he wouldn’t know when to stop.
“Asher, right? Question for you.”
The man startled, but didn’t stop what he was doing.
“About heaven, that is. An’ what happens when we get there.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Let’s say a little boy dies—killed—no fault of his own, he goes to heaven, right?” Arthur stopped at the water’s edge just long enough to pull his boots off. “Does he ever grow up in heaven? Or is he stuck at eight years old for all eternity?”
“I’m sorry, what’s this about? A boy who died?”
“Nobody else grows old in heaven, right? So what about the little boys?” Arthur stormed into the river, wanting nothing other than for it to be over, and soon. “They stay young and curious forever and ever? Never actually learn anything? Never mature? Never fuck a girl? A hundred years go by and they’re still bright eyed and make mistakes, never get to be a man, never get to learn what that means?”
Asher took a step back, but he was too late. Arthur splashed through the water straight at him, kicked the back of the man’s knee, and pushed him down backward, barely enough time for him to gasp. He sputtered and hacked out water, but Arthur had already grabbed the wooden basin, raised it over his head, and hammered it down into the groundskeeper’s side. The leading edge cracked at the impact, which would be enough for Asher’s ribs to complain about it for weeks. He wouldn’t draw a bow to full length for a month.
“Sorry ’bout that.” He pulled the man’s arms until he was sitting upright, keeping his head out of the water. “Maybe you ought to pray harder next time.”
Arthur kicked the water, he kicked the world, he kicked at every god, and didn’t feel any better for it. His body was a shell and he’d come back to it later.
“Are you alright?” David asked quietly, when Arthur made it back up the embankment.
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
Arthur.
Back across the bridge, back to the heart of the city.
Arthur.
Another name on the list. Another job. Another task.
Arthur.
A trade. They’d get something later, if they did this today.
Arthur?
It would be worth it.
Arthur.
“Arthur.”
“Is that him?”
“You’re worrying me.” David stepped into his vision, though he was focused on someone else. A cob named Jefferey hauled his water buckets up the Long Stair to deliver to some better establishment in the Parlies for pennies. The buckets were braced by a framework of light wood around his body to keep from spilling, his arms suspended outward to hold the thing up. Water carriers like him grew stout and strong, and Jefferey was no exception. His face was a mask, long accustomed to the grimace of his work. Arthur tried to find something to hate in him. Some foreign features, maybe. That’d be enough.
“We don’t have to do this. We can say we couldn’t find him.”
Arthur shook David off, aiming to intercept the man once he made it to the top of the landing. Jefferey had been easy enough to find, which meant that any Red Lion could do it, too. They’d go for his arm, likely, not caring a shit about what that meant. This cob needed his strength for his living. A bruised rib or a sprained wrist meant he wouldn’t work for a month, which was a death sentence. Arthur could spare him from that, at least.
“Start a fight with me,” he said.
David sighed, but relented, as Arthur plowed forward.
He wanted to fight. Deserved to be fought. Deserved to be hated, though David wouldn’t do it. But he should.
“Hey!” David yelled from behind, pretending they were at odds. Maybe not pretending. “Don’t you walk away from me, Norman!”
Norman was always their name of choice for each other when they needed the other to play along.
“Go fuck yourself!” Arthur answered, steering wildly closer to the cob. He gave himself a drunken stumble. David yelled another few things and drew closer. Arthur sidestepped toward Jefferey, who pivoted absently to steer clear, not paying them no mind. It was too easy, Arthur rolled his fingers, already wrapped with a leather strap, and drove every bit of his weight into a punch that landed square and high on Jefferey’s right cheekbone. The man went down with a grunt, his buckets unloading river water everywhere. “Out of my fuckin’ way!” Arthur finished and ran off, leaving David behind with his hands outstretched, helping the water carrier back to his feet.
His eye would swell shut in the next few days. He could still haul water with one eye. But he couldn’t aim a bow.
He also couldn’t escape a fucking cobber’s life.
Maybe Jefferey was the best archer in Nottingham. Maybe Friday would have changed his whole life. Maybe he’d be paying someone else to cob for him if he’d taken the grand prize.
Maybe now he’d go the other way. Ask the gangs for help. Make a trade. Do a job.
Get dragged down.
Maybe next year, Jefferey would be the one punching fucking cobs on the street, lying to himself, lying to his friends.
One horn for the groundskeeper.
One for the cobber.
Another for the tanner’s assistant.
Two for the hooper. That one had gotten sloppy.
“Let me help you with that.” The last horn was only half-empty, but it slid away from him into someone else’s hands. Will Scarlet picked it up and drank it to the last drop. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and pointed to Arthur’s hands. “Rough night?”
“Yeah,” David answered for him, still nursing his second. Ale and wine. Arthur didn’t need to answer, because the nicks on his knuckles already told the evening’s story.
Arthur’s memory swam to figure out when Will had arrived. David had disappeared for a couple of horns, come to think of it. Gone to get him, no doubt. “Still one on the list,” he mumbled.
Scarlet nodded. Maybe. Hard to tell. Could have been the whole world that dropped down for a bit. Arthur hadn’t stood up in a while. Wasn’t sure how drunk he was. Not enough, that was the answer.
“Just one more,” Scarlet said, “then we’ll sleep it off. You know who it is?”
Arthur nodded yes, and turned his head. He forgot the name of the tavern they were in. Forgot which borough they were in. But he knew who he was here for. On the other side of the room was a young woman named Roslyn, serving out drinks, with auburn hair that fell to her waist, bound in yellow ribbons. She was apparently quite the archer.
Scarlet fol
lowed his gaze, confirmed with David, and sighed. “Best to get it over with, then?”
Arthur scratched at a splinter in the table. “What the fuck are we doing?”
“Don’t think about it,” Scarlet answered. “Let’s just get to tomorrow.”
“Is this what we came here for?”
“I hate it,” David said. “I hate this.”
“I hate it, too,” was Scarlet’s answer. “But it’ll be worth it.”
“When?” Arthur didn’t want to keep his voice down. Wanted to make a scene. Wanted a fight, maybe she’d run. “We’ve been here over a month. Nobody’s going to follow us. There’s nothing in the Sherwood for us to go back to anyway. Robin Hood isn’t even ours anymore. We lost. We should’ve gone with Marion.”
Will tipped the horn back again, hoping for more. “You’re drunk.”
“I am.” Arthur pulled at the splinter. “And we should have gone with Marion.”
The crowd was thinning, not that it had been a jovial group to start with. This wasn’t a tavern where people sang and laughed, this was one for men to stare into their drinks, and the abyss. To spend what they didn’t have. Nobody was looking for a good time here. There wasn’t coin enough in Nottingham to buy that anymore.
“I bet they think the same thing.” Scarlet gave a hollow laugh. “You think Marion is out there changing the world right now? They’re probably still starving in ditches, if they haven’t been arrested yet. I guarantee you they wish they’d come with us. The whole world wishes they were somewhere else. You want to go? Walk away like Stutely did? What’s stopping you?”
The splinter jammed under his fingernail. Drew blood.
Across the table, David lowered himself and tried to catch his gaze.
Arthur sucked the blood.
“It wasn’t as easy as I thought it’d be, I admit that.” Scarlet lowered his voice. “But we’re getting there. David’s training the Lions at the bow. If they win, it’s because of us. Freddy won’t forget who delivered that victory.”
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