“Why the fuck do we care?” The edges of the table blurred. “What does that do for us?”
“Are you serious?” Will squinted. “If the Lions take this tournament, they’ll be the strongest they’ve ever been. And we’re riding that with them, straight up. All that coin, all that land … you think they’ll have any idea what to do with it? All they know is the city. But we know exactly how to make the most of it, and Freddy will see that. We’ll end up taking everything the Sheriff gives at the tournament and using it right back against him.”
Arthur heard all the other words Will hadn’t said. “So we’re Red Lions now. We’re not here for men anymore. All this … was just for us to join up.”
“I don’t think they have to be two different things. The Red Lions are about to expand, in a way they don’t know how. I can carve a piece of that off for myself—for us. Whether that’s with Freddy or not, I’m not sure. But it’s exactly what we wanted, and it’s happening, mark me.” Will and his plans, and his plans. “We wanted to organize … not just in Nottingham, but in every city across the county. Knock the Guard on its ass, take as we please, live like kings. Its starts somewhere. It doesn’t come easy. This will pay off, I promise.”
“Or maybe it doesn’t.” Arthur stared into David’s eyes. “And maybe we’re just hurting people for the hell of it.”
Scarlet snorted. “Have you gone soft?”
“Got no problem fighting someone who wants to fight back.” He wondered if that description fit Will Scarlet. Cocked his head. Ground his jaw. “But this isn’t that.”
“Keep the goal in mind.” Words. “The Sheriff.”
Arthur shook his head, but it wouldn’t clear up. He hated the Sheriff, too, for everything that had happened. For Much, Elena, Alan. For that ambush in the woods. For Locksley. Arthur hated the Sheriff because he loved his friends. “But you … you hate the Sheriff just because you hate.”
The girl named Roslyn looked at them, an eyebrow up, asking if he needed another. He shook his head no.
“We win this tournament, and it’s the start of something big,” Scarlet said, as slowly as he could. “I promise.”
“You sure of that?”
“I am.”
“How sure?”
He raked his fingers through his hair, some of it snagging on the black ridge of his ear. Will Scarlet’s head bobbed several times, then he pushed off from his chair. He took a few steps toward Roslyn with his hands spread wide, some smiling lie pouring out of his lips. She rolled her eyes, damn but she had a pretty face, but extended her hand for him. Will took it in his own, bent to kiss it, and instead grasped her middle finger and snapped it backward until it touched the back of her hand in one swift jerk. She shrieked and fell to the ground.
“I’m that sure,” Will said.
Arthur was on his feet without realizing it, and he shoved Will Scarlet halfway across the room.
The room emptied—had it been empty already?—except for the girl on the ground and the barkeep who was suddenly very close and armed with a club. David was at Arthur’s side. Across Scarlet’s face was absolute shock. Shock, of all things—not that he’d just broken a girl’s finger, but that his friend had a problem with it.
“How long until we’re chopping hands?” Arthur asked.
Will’s mouth stayed open.
“You’d better be right about this,” he said, all fists. “If we don’t win on Friday, I’m…”
He took a moment to look back at David. Bless his fucking soul, he agreed.
“We win on Friday, or we’re out.”
Arthur knelt to help the girl up before he left, but she panicked and backed away from him. She saw him as something monstrous—and for it, she was the smartest person in the room.
THIRTY-SIX
ARABLE DE BUREL
HUNTINGDON CASTLE
THE COUNCIL PROCEEDED AT a snail’s pace. Arable had hoped her act would open the flood gates, inspiring a rally to the cause and progress made. But instead of an eruption, she at best started a trickle. One by one, Marion teased the tiniest concessions out of each participant, the first baby steps toward anything resembling thought. She had to backtrack heavily, far from the concept of rebellion or the decisions to pay King Richard’s ransom, back to the very basic structure of society. To the nature of their government, to the simplest of laws, to the inherent and perceived rights given by civilization and by God. Arable agreed with Marion as often as she found her courage, especially when it seemed that Marion was at her words’ end. But they never spoke directly to each other, and frankly it appeared that Marion was avoiding eye contact with her entirely.
All the while, Henry de Bohun and the members of his family watched silently. Even more useless than the others. Every time Marion tried to pinpoint one of them, a curt shake of his head warned her away. Whenever Arable turned, Lady Margery was there with a blistering scowl. They could not be intimidated as some of the others could, and gave no ground. The Earl of Essex, too—Marion’s grandfather—seemed entirely in line with Hereford on the matter. He was stoic and unreadable, refusing his own granddaughter’s pleas for help. So instead Marion instructed the others, leading them down simple paths of logic, in a way that was not unlike teaching stubborn children how to juggle.
When they finally broke for a midday meal, Arable seriously contemplated murdering one of them, if only to elicit a reaction. Instead she hurried behind Marion, who retired from the reception hall for her own quarters. Only the slightest moment of connection between them let Arable know she was welcome to follow.
The instant Arable closed the door behind her, Marion burst with emotion, already on the other side of the room. “What are you doing?”
“I’m … I’m trying to help,” Arable stammered. “Is that not obvious?”
“I don’t know!” Marion returned, her face flush red as her hair, her entire body leaning forward as if she might leap out of her spine. “I don’t know what on earth you’re doing!”
Arable had no words, and suddenly regretted everything. “You needed … it seemed like you needed someone to agree with you. I thought I might … start the ball rolling, as it were. I know my house is nonexistent, but I thought it was better than nothing.”
“To what end?” Marion’s eyes bulged forward. “Why would you suddenly want to help?”
Instinct told her to leave. Arable turned and put her hand on the door, but she forced herself to not grab its handle. “I didn’t. But you convinced me.”
“I convinced you?” came a laugh. “I was there. I convinced nobody. I’m supposed to believe that you alone had a change of heart?”
“It’s the truth,” Arable said, and turned to look back at Marion. She sat on her bed, her hands clasped over her forehead, her eyes begging for the world outside the window. “Why else would I speak up? Why do you think I did it?”
“I don’t know! I imagine there’s some trap at the end of it all, I expect you’re setting me up just so you can tear me down again at a moment’s notice.”
That was a feeling Arable knew all too well. It was the suspicion of the beaten, the permanent alarm that treated every act of kindness as a threat. It had been her default state of mind for a decade and a half, and it was chilling to share that moment of understanding with the woman she thought she hated. Where she had long blamed Marion for stealing power at the expense of those beneath her, she saw it now as scratching for prestige in the face of a world that afforded her none of her own.
“No,” Arable said, as gently as she could. “It’s no trap.”
Marion’s face was a fist. “Well you’ve chosen a hell of a time to decide to be useful.”
And all Arable’s sympathies threw up their hands and walked away. “Are you actually angry at me for trying to help?”
“If that’s what you’re actually trying to do … then … no. No.” Marion squinted at her, as if she were a puzzle she could decipher. “But I have no reason to trust you. You have been not
hing but combative with me for months. Now you’re surprised I can’t—”
“I’ve been combative with you?” Arable burst. “You have been wretched with me!”
“Yes! You—”
“I came to help you, and I have been outcast and shunned for doing so. By you, more than anyone!”
“Your ‘help’ has been disastrous!” Marion stood again, her hands flung to the sides, trembling. “You led Gisbourne directly to our camp—where Alan died, where Elena died, a dozen others. The fire brigades, all of this, only happened because you were too selfish to realize he was using you—”
“I know!” Arable gasped, her breath suddenly whisked away. She knew every bit of her failures, they haunted each second of her waking life, and a thousandfold more so in her dreams. “I know, I know! You think I don’t know that?”
“And still I let you stay with us! When anyone else would have kicked you out, or punished you. You said I have been ‘wretched’ with you? I say I have been generous. I gave you protection, and food, and—”
“Grief,” Arable interrupted her, the word sharp on her lips. “And grief, Marion, you gave me grief. At every opportunity. With every look, you remind me how unwelcome I am. And the others follow your lead, don’t you see that? Nobody knew how to react to me, so you set that precedent for all of them. And you’re angry I didn’t thank you for that?”
For a moment it seemed Marion would fight back, but when her mouth opened it drooped and then puckered tight again, the redness of her face moving into her eyes. She sniffed and looked up at the ceiling. “I am … a human, too,” she said, her voice betraying her. “Am I expected to be above all emotion? I lost everything, and I’m supposed to be invulnerable to that? When I see you, I see everything I lost, I see so much pain and needless death. I show a little honest reaction, and you will not even allow me that?”
Pain and needless death.
“I take the blame for the things I’ve done, I do. But not…” Arable’s throat caught, unsure she should broach that one name they hadn’t mentioned. Too late—she could see the recognition in Marion’s eyes. “But it isn’t my fault Robin died.”
Yes, she’d released Will Scarlet from prison, which brought Gisbourne upon all of them. But not Robin, that wasn’t on her.
“I did as he asked, at great personal risk. I brought him back to the castle, because he wanted to rescue you. I didn’t kill him, but you act as if it was me alone. And you’re right, Gisbourne used me to find your camp. He used me. You don’t think that is terrible enough for me to endure? Don’t you see how unfair it is for you to judge me for that, to blame me for being used? Why would you choose to hate me instead of Gisbourne? Have I not suffered enough for what he did to me?”
A long pause settled between them. Outside, a horse whinnied, and a smith doused his metal in water, leaving a soft hush to replace a constant clanging Arable had not even noticed.
“Could I not say the same?” Marion asked at last. “Have I not suffered enough? Do I deserve your scorn?”
“You literally took my life from me,” Arable answered.
Marion took that, she nodded long and hard to herself before looking up again. “I never even knew you existed until after it was all over. William never told me he had a lover. I proposed a marriage to him, to strengthen our positions, and he said yes. He never mentioned you. I didn’t take your life, he did.”
Arable had never pretended otherwise. But still, there was no untangling that. There was no talking that out.
“If you ask me to blame Gisbourne instead of you,” Marion finished, “surely you can see that you should be blaming William instead of me.”
What a mess. Her and Marion and William and Robin. Four terrible people, who knew nothing other than how to hurt each other. Robin and William went into a room one night, and Robin was hanged for William’s murder the next day. Be it by sword or by noose, those two men had killed each other. For some time, Arable had wondered if she and Marion were destined to walk that same path.
“I wish I knew what happened.”
“As do I,” Marion echoed.
The last time Arable had seen William, she’d called him worthless and walked out of his office. The last time she saw Robin, he was stealing away from the postern gate into Nottingham’s middle bailey, ready to smash the world. “I want to know who drew first,” she whispered. “I want to know what they said.”
Marion nodded. “But would it matter? The damage would be the same.”
The damage.
“I’m with child.”
Marion’s hand went to her mouth, and might have stayed there for a lifetime. “It’s William’s?”
Arable nodded.
“My God. That almost seems impossible. That seems so long ago.”
Arable gave a sad laugh. “Well there hasn’t been anyone else—”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” Marion added quickly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”
She had never heard Marion say I’m sorry before.
“I do blame him.” It wasn’t nearly as terrible to say as Arable had thought it would be. “William. I hate him sometimes, I hate him more than anything. For thinking he could fix the world, for swooping back into my life and then throwing me out into the streets…”
She didn’t have anything else to say about it. She’d said it all in her mind a thousand times, but the words made it seem trivial, it was a thing that died before it could be born.
Marion tilted her head up. “Then hate me.”
Arable matched her, finding her face utterly sincere. “What?”
“I was wrong. Don’t blame William. Don’t carry that. Don’t carry that into your baby. Find a way to forgive him, for your child’s sake. Whatever’s left, that you can’t forgive … fine. Yes. Put it on me. I’ll take it.”
Somehow that was so much more meaningful than an apology ever could be. “I can’t hide anymore,” Arable said. “I can’t run in the forest anymore.”
“I know.”
“We need a life.”
“That’s what this is supposed to be about,” Marion answered. “And I can’t do it alone.”
Arable looked at her, reading the history of lines in her face. The things she spoke of, the ideas she’d presented at the council so far … it was a world Arable wanted for her daughter. So very, very much. “You’re not alone. Like I said, I’m here to help you. If you’ll take it.”
Marion closed her eyes as a tear rolled down her cheek. When she opened them, her face was full of thanks. She reached out her hand, Arable took it.
Outside, the smith started his hammering again. The world was still moving, along with all its problems.
“Well,” Arable huffed, trying to transition to the matter at hand. “You can work all day and night to draw an opinion out of these people, but for what? They’ll report back to their masters what they’ve seen here, what they’ve heard—just with facts, not opinions. Every absent earl is only interested in the attendee list, to know where the battle lines have been drawn.”
“I know,” Marion answered, her eyes suddenly alight. “But I couldn’t just let the council be done after a few minutes. Then they all report back that this was a waste of time. But if they report that we debated about it for days … perhaps that gives it more merit. Maybe that will turn a few heads.”
Arable studied Marion’s face. “I saw you in there. You’re not just trying to turn heads. You want to win.”
Marion considered it. “If only for the change of pace.”
“You’re making more ground than you realize, I think,” Arable said. She’d seen the hesitations, the urge to participate. “They’re just … waiting.”
“For what?”
“Your grandfather,” she said, with a certain amount of disgust. “It’s as if they cannot take you seriously if he does not agree with you. Or Hereford. With those two sitting silent at the back of the room, the rest are terrified to speak up. If they were gone, of cours
e the others could admit to an opinion or two. But they need someone to … to validate this. Probably just because you’re not a man.”
Marion rolled her eyes. “Well they all came to hear from Lady Magdalena, so it can’t just be that.”
“And I imagine they only would have trusted her if her father stood by her side as well. It’s always been this way, you know that. If a woman has a good idea, then it’s seen as empty girlish chatter, until a man has the same idea. Then it’s genius.”
“So you’re saying,” Marion breathed heavily, “that the reason I feel like a dancing monkey is because that’s how they see me.”
“In as many words,” Arable admitted. “Get your grandfather involved. If you get him to speak up, I think they’ll all follow you.”
Marion bristled and blew out her lips. “It’s insane to think I’ve somehow become the spearhead of this movement. A year ago I was content with small acts of charity around Nottingham. Months ago I could barely survive persecution. Now I’m the face of a rebellion.”
Arable took a moment to look at Marion with new eyes. She looked as powerful as the stone walls around them, as if her feet were tree trunks with roots that stretched down into the heart of England. The face of a rebellion, indeed.
“I have an idea,” Arable said, scratching an itch that had been nagging her all morning. “Remember when you told Roger to fetch me a chair?”
* * *
THE RECEPTION HALL WAS still empty and lifeless, which was not necessarily a departure from how it felt even when filled with these people. Marion’s speeches had not gained her any traction, nor pleading, nor informed debate. In the history of the world, these had always been the weakest of stimuli. If Arable’s time in Nottingham had taught her anything, it was that action brought much more tangible results than words ever could.
She had only a short amount of time until the meeting reconvened, but it would be enough. Arable left the Elder Hall and the castle entirely, off the main grounds to the villages that speckled the hills down to the banks of the Cook’s Backwater, where John Little and the others had made their new homes. John Little greeted her with a smile that warmed her soul, but she had no time for idle talk. She gathered as many of them as she needed, explained her plan quickly, and by the time they were regrouping up the hill by the castle gate, the bells rang out from the Heart Tower that signaled the council to resume.
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