Lionhearts

by Nathan Makaryk

  Somehow, they were still the first to gather in the hall. Marion awaited them in the central space, affecting as natural a position as she could. John Little and the Delaney brothers lingered at the doorways, ready for her summons.

  But ten minutes later, they were still the only attendees.

  As time crawled slowly on, Arable strained her ears for footsteps, or voices, but it seemed nobody was even in the building. John Little gave a befuddled shrug. At the edge of her senses she thought perhaps there was some commotion, which prompted them to investigate. Pushing out the heavy doors of the Elder Hall’s main entrance, Arable instantly noticed the throng of activity away at the castle’s exit. All their audience and their retinues had bottlenecked, packed shoulder to shoulder.

  Friar Tuck was hurrying closer, clearly relieved to see them.

  “What is it?” Marion asked in a panic. “Why are they leaving?”

  “They’re not leaving, they’re trying to see him!”

  “See who?” Arable reached for Tuck’s shoulder. “Has another guest arrived?”

  “Yes.” The friar smiled eagerly. “Prince John.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  JOHN LACKLAND

  HUNTINGDON CASTLE

  JOHN WAS EMBARRASSED ON their behalf, the amateurs! He wanted to scoop them all up in his arms like children, sit them down, and explain the proper etiquette of throwing a revolution. The first rule of sedition—which was also the second, third, and probably only rule—was to keep it secret. But instead there was a verifiable throng of people come out to greet him in increasingly unsecretive ways, each one wagging their tail in expectation of praise.

  “Well, we’ve found the right place,” he muttered to his swordarm, Hadrian, on horse beside him. “But I forget the bet. Does that mean I’m right, or that you’re right?”

  “I am,” Hadrian answered from the side of his mouth. “I’ll add it to your tab of all the other things you know you’ll never pay me.”

  “See that you do, thanks,” John answered. Hadrian had grumbled mightily about traveling out this way—but Hadrian grumbled about everything else too, which was nine of the ten reasons John kept him employed. “Get Wally.”

  With his signature grumble, Hadrian peeled back to fetch Gay Wally. Whatever was about to happen here would undoubtedly be populated with people whose names John simply didn’t have the capacity to care about. Gay Wally’s swollen head was unusually large precisely because it was filled with all the little useless facts of the world that men like John were expected to know.

  Huntingdon Castle was not much of a castle to look upon—a long circular curtain wall rounded the hill ahead of them, within which a singular tower rose from a motte. These defensive measures were rendered impotent by the massive open gate and the outflow of the aforementioned inexperienced revolutionists pouring from that hole. The group struggled in fairly comical ways to react to him. Some bowed, before realizing that not enough of the others were bowing to justify it. Others stood with their mouth gaping open, their souls perhaps departed for an afternoon nap. John had been bowed at and gaped at before—for most of his life, really—but those platitudes were generally instincts from commonfolk, while this group was dressed formally. And rather than a sea of shining pates and white whiskers, these onlookers were all curiously young.

  “Alright then,” John announced, after failing to identify anyone who seemed competent enough to receive him. “Who’s the man in charge?”

  He might as well have asked for the meaning of life itself, so stupefied were the responses. But one by one every face looked to another, until the grueling process of cowardly elimination ended at a short but full-figured woman quickly joining the group from the rear. “I suppose that’s me,” she answered, and the throng parted for her.

  This “man in charge” had rolling red hair, pinned back, and an ample chest—and John took a moment to wonder if he’d later get an opportunity to verify her sex in private.

  She bowed her head. “I am glad to see you, cousin.”

  Cousin. That was a bucket of cold water on his previous thought.

  “The Lady Marion Fitzwalter,” Gay Wally explained, who had sidled next to John. “Daughter of the castellan of London, granddaughter of the Earl of Essex. Her father married—”

  “Thank you,” John dismissed him, not wanting to appear uninformed. “Though frankly half the country could claim some relation to me. It’s become a popular pastime. But I do remember you, Marion,” he added, recalling her face from a few important functions that he had spent ignoring his responsibilities. “And I suppose I should apologize for my tardiness.”

  Marion’s face lit up. “Tardiness? Why, we did not even realize you were coming!”

  “That’s because I wasn’t invited!” he returned, throwing her an exaggerated grimace. “I do hope that won’t be a problem. Admittedly, I’m not sure I understand exactly what the goal of this council is, aside from a vague promise to aggravate the Chancellor. But if that is on the agenda, you would do well to have the world’s expert on the matter at the table.”

  He placed a hand to his own breast, mostly for the rabble who were almost certainly too thick to catch his intimation.

  “That is,” his cousin answered, “the entirety of the agenda.”

  “Brilliant.” John clapped his hands. “Well I don’t know if you’ve lined up some egregious scandal against Longchamp, or if you were thinking of doing things a bit more bloodily—which I wouldn’t recommend, so much laundry involved!—but either way I would like very much to wave my princely hand to help determine whose name should next follow the word Chancellor.”

  An aggravatingly attractive smirk claimed her lips. “Have you someone in mind?”

  “Several, but I suppose that is the point of the meeting, is it not? Under pressure, I would say Gay Wally would be my first choice.”

  That smirk took a turn. “I don’t know who that is.”

  “Nor does the world,” John answered, without even giving Wally the kindness of an introduction. He would be a perfectly hilarious choice for Chancellor, in that he was the exact opposite of Longchamp in every way—young, knowledgeable, and loyal to John. “Or Hadrian,” he added, gesturing to his hired muscle, “though he’d have to trim his beard.”

  “Ah.” Marion’s eyes tightened when she finally realized he’d been joking. “As you say, shall we leave the details to the council?”

  “Oh, I am invited then?”

  “Indeed, that was entirely our mistake.” She clasped her hands. “We erred on the side of discretion.”

  “Did you?” John laughed back at her. “I’m curious how you thought this might be considered discreet. Coups and rebellions, they’re normally conjured up in back alleys and the backs of taverns … anything with the word back involved, really. Here you are, front and center, announcing it in a prominent castle before everyone. I suppose it’s possible you’re brilliant, but that generally only lasts until the first person lops your head off.”

  “There is nothing to hide here.” She spread her arms for all to see how certainly certain her certainty was. “The necessity of this action is undeniable, it’s nothing to whisper about. It needs to be yelled, and it needs to be seen.”

  “So sayeth many a martyr.” John looked into the crowd, found a pretty face looking back at him, and gave her a wink. He was rewarded with a shy blush.

  Marion exhaled, hesitating. “May I ask how you heard of this?”

  John gave one of his many well-practiced glares. “You may, and you have, but I won’t tell you.”

  It was Roger de Montbegon, the Baron of Hornby, who had alerted him to it—undoubtedly thinking he was proving his loyalty in so doing, and had since found a thousand less-than-subtle ways of reminding John of his deed. Jockeying for Chancellor himself, perhaps. So long as they replaced Longchamp with anyone John approved of, he could happily slink off into obscurity for a few years longer. But John did not see his sycophantic friend here in the crowd
, nor any other notable face.

  Just this cousin, Marion. “Please, Your Grace, follow me.”

  He was mildly offended that she had not offered him an opportunity to rest first, but as a rule he was generally delighted by anyone bold enough—or foolhardy enough—to purposefully offend him. She led John and his small entourage through the castle grounds, which were sparsely populated and boasted all the ordinary makings of a castle’s necessities. He wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting, but somehow its sheer normality was disappointing. Every eyeball was upon him, which was as good a sign as any that there was nothing uncouth planned within. The moment that somebody attempted to play casual around a prince’s sudden appearance would be the moment John raised an eyebrow in alarm.

  One figure stalled his approach, that of a breathtaking lady in a stunning blue dress, fabric whipping violently about her in the wind. She stood on the solitary footbridge that led from the main grounds up to the tower’s entrance, poised like an ancient statue, and showed no signs of joining them. John nodded to Wally, who took note of the woman and blinked several times as he conjured up the appropriate knowledge.

  “The Countess of Huntingdon, Lady Magdalena de Bohun,” he said, rather pleased with himself for a puzzle well solved. “The author of the invitations, so we’ve been explained.”

  “Hm.” John led his horse forward, noting that her eyes followed them. “She looks less than inviting now.”

  “It’s worth noting that I’ve recognized no one else,” Wally added. “Unless they all await you in the council room.”

  “Sit by me, then. I think I’m going to need you to whisper quite a number of things into my ear. I’ll do my best not to let it arouse me.”

  While Gay Wally’s face crumpled into some delicious concoction of revulsion and confusion, John dismounted to give his horse to the approaching groomsmen.

  “She’s a prince’s steed, no one else is to touch her. See that she’s ten-flatted, immediately,” he demanded of them, to which they nodded and retracted. He would sadly not get to enjoy their ensuing manic debate as to what being ten-flatted meant—as he had invented the phrase on the spot—but it put a spring in his step, nonetheless.

  In little enough time, he was welcomed into a wide room with a generous ceiling, lined with green-and-gold banners. Fading tapestries of hunting scenes and falconry lined the walls, threatening to bore any lingering passerby to death. A circlet of half a hundred chairs was arranged about a few long tables, while another table was raised behind the middle section and filled with the older type of dignitaries that John had expected to find. Wally identified their titles as quickly as John could forget them.

  A breathless fascination hovered in the air, aimed at him, and it dawned upon John that his every action was becoming the source of incredible scrutiny. He selected an unimportant pair of chairs for himself and Wally, and the decision received the same amazement as if the roof had torn away and rainbows had poured into the chamber from on high. Every chair in the room was quickly filled, no man wanting to be the last for John to wait upon. A servant girl half a table away poured wine into a glass until it overflowed, as her focus was entirely on John.

  He crossed his legs, and felt the room inhale in anticipation.

  He uncrossed them, the murmurs rippling outward.

  He held his breath, the room held with him.

  He parted his lips and whispered to Wally. “What exactly have we gotten ourselves into?”

  When Wally didn’t have an answer, that’s when John knew something was amiss.

  “Please,” John said, loud enough for the entire gallery, which basked in the all-mighty glory of having been addressed, “pretend I’m not here. I’ve arrived offensively late, and am eager to simply listen for the time being. I’m just an observer—a breathtakingly handsome, but humble observer.”

  A ripple of laughter burst from a hundred lips, finally easing the room.

  “Just an observer,” Lady Marion echoed his words, gesturing to him as she took the center of the stage. “Now that’s something, isn’t it? This room is already full of them. The servant-who-is-not-Richard-de-Percy sits beside the page-who-is-not-William-Malet, who sits beside the prince-who-is-not-the-prince!”

  John pursed his lips, having no idea if that sentence was supposed to make any sense to him.

  Marion swept her hand across the audience. “I’ll let you draw your own conclusions. But I wonder if the Chancellor would be so modest? Can you imagine William Longchamp sitting amongst you, asking to be treated the same as any man? I lack such imagination. I would think he would have demanded the head of the table, and a throne for it, too. I don’t imagine he has ever been eager to listen to anyone at all. It says something about the measure of a man, don’t you think? And whether or not he should rule.”

  Whether or not he should rule. That phrase stood instantly erect.

  John had misjudged them entirely. This was no friendly marcher rebellion, of finding clever ways to disenfranchise a rival, no. They were not simply planning on replacing Longchamp. Their aim was higher.

  Much like the two French walruses he’d met in Lancashire, they meant to put a crown on John’s head.

  And suddenly, his cousin Lady Marion—who, to his knowledge, was no walrus—had every single drop of John’s internationally envied attention.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  CAITLIN FITZSIMON

  BENEATH NOTTINGHAM

  THAT WAS THE THING about Caitlin, some thought she was tough or cruel. A hard woman, she’d heard that used before, as if it were supposed to mean something. She was no harder or tougher than the environment she lived in, but she weathered it better. Caitlin had the opportunity to take all the bitter stings the world had given her and turn them into something else, rather than be turned into something else herself. Some people shrank in the face of calamity, they withered and died under its pressure. Not Caitlin. When life gave her shit, she took it out on something else.

  Right now, she was taking it out on Will Scarlet’s face.

  She felt the impact drive down her forearm, right to her elbow with a long reverberating squeal. She had wrapped her hand in thick leather straps to protect her knuckles, but she could still feel every blow in the ache of her bones. She wanted to stretch her fingers and massage her palm, but she wanted to punch Will Scarlet more. So she went for that second option.

  His head recoiled from her fist and hung limp—some pathetic expletive dripped from his lips, but she couldn’t hear him. His body sagged from his shoulders, which were suspended up by Dawn Dog and Ricard the Ruby. Neither could conceal their discomfort very well, which was for the better. Nobody liked this sort of thing—she would have worried if either was still smiling. But punishment was punishment, and did Will Scarlet ever deserve more of it.

  “You want to lie to me again?” she asked, hoping he would.

  “Fuck…” was all he could say, little bursts of blood spittling out. But his head started bobbing up and down. “Yeah, yeah it was me.”

  Caitlin frowned. She was really looking forward to giving him one more square. But she knew how to train dogs, and you can’t punish them for doing what you wanted. For most mutts, you had to know exactly how to hit them.

  One hit makes you a joke.

  Two make you serious.

  Three make you an enemy.

  She didn’t want Will Scarlet’s fear, she wanted his obedience. But with men, it was always hard to tell how many hits it took to be taken seriously. And Will Scarlet ran on the more rabid side. She’d thought he’d taken his blows already, that he’d become a content little sheep—which was far more useful than her original hopes to kick him out of the city on sight. But apparently this little sheep had been up to no good.

  “I know it was you,” she said, handing him a rag to wipe his face. “I need to know how many others there are out there. What other surprises are waiting for us.”

  “Why does it matter?” His voice, weak, barely louder than his
breath. The rag, held to his eye. Blood, dripped black and red across half his face, which was already swelling and turning blue. Cait took a moment to enjoy it. She’d brought him deep into the tunnels for this, far through their sandstone mazes that he might never find his way out if they were to leave him here alone. They were in the sphere of a cesspit, long ago farmed out for manure, but forever retaining a stank of bile. They were far enough from the Lions Den that his screams would never make it back there. Alfie wouldn’t approve of her doing this, necessary as it was.

  “It matters because of who you claim to be,” she answered, signaling for Ricard to bring a bucket of well water. They had passed several low tunnels to get here that had holes down that were always filled with water—clean water, the only good part of living beneath the city. She dipped her hands in, to scrub the blood from her fingertips. “And since you seem to keep forgetting, I’ll say it another time. Red Fox is Robin Hood now. So when I find out you’re murdering people in the name of Robin Hood, that danger lands on us. Not you.”

  “I didn’t do it in the name of Robin Hood.” His blood dripping on the floor. Pat pat. “I just … did it.”

  “Why did you do it? Who were they?” she asked, dully, because she didn’t really care. She already hated that she’d learned something valuable from her meeting with her father. “Who were these two nobles to you? This Lord of Brayden, what the fuck did he do to Will Scarlet?”

  “Nothing.” His voice was a whisper. “We came upon them on the way to Nottingham, Arthur and David and I. And Stutely. We took what we could, nothing special. Nothing we hadn’t done a hundred times…” His sentence lingered like a guilty child. She flexed her fingers, letting the faint sound of the stretching leather speak for itself. “And then I went back. I don’t know why. I went back … and opened their carriage … and just … just bam bam bam … in the chest … and that was it. Barely a few seconds. Then we were on our way.”