Lionhearts

by Nathan Makaryk

“FitzOdo?” the lord barked. Sir Robert FitzOdo, a man of any worth should have said the full name. “You understand?”

  “Aye,” Robert grunted. He understood. He understood that Lord Wendenal intended to keep chasing the wrong clues, just as blind a strategy as the Sheriff’s fucking archery tournament. And Robert understood more than that, too. He understood the many many leagues of difference between Lord Wendenal and King Henry. And only one of those men had touched his steel to Robert’s shoulder, only one of those men had earned the words that Robert had sworn, on his knee.

  “I pledge to serve you, above all others, in good faith and without deceit.”

  It was nigh twenty years ago that Robert had knelt and Sir Robert had risen. Most knights were highborn before they bent, but Robert had risen from nothing—youngest son of a poor tailor. Most knights swore their oaths before a local lord or a knight-commander if they were lucky, but Robert had knelt to the fucking king himself. He should have been a fucking legend.

  But King Henry was dead, and all the damned decency of the world had gone with him. A good knight like Sir Robert was left to take orders from bitter barons and opportunistic nobodies. Robert was no member of the Nottingham Guard, he took no orders from Captain de Grendon and even fewer from Lord Wendenal. His sworn duty was to Roger de Busli of Tickhill Castle—Red Roger—who had given him the charge of bringing Robin Hood to Tickhill in chains. Robert worked alongside the Nottingham crew, not with it.

  He had no obligation to do things their way.

  Robert was happy to play the role of the dumb brute they saw in him—knowing better than to ever present more of himself than others assumed.

  Hunting a man takes patience and attention to detail, the kind of groundwork Robert had been laying for months along with his men Derrick and Ronnell. Chasing Robin Hood, as Wendenal wanted, meant they’d always be behind him. Wendenal’s team thought they could jaunt over to St. Peter’s Square and sniff out Robin Hood’s crumbs, and somehow magically end up in front of him. Thought they could catch a gopher by staring at the hole where it had last been seen, as if it would come back again. Daft twats.

  So while the Black Guard went to ask every parishioner what they’d seen, FitzOdo would resume his own investigation. Specifically, looking in the places Robin Hood hadn’t been seen.

  He’d been following patterns: six taverns in Nottingham of late, each robbed and warned against selling to Guardsmen.

  But one tavern, most notorious for serving them, was still mysteriously untouched.

  * * *

  THE TRIP TO JERUSALEM was built into the sandstone cliffside of Nottingham Castle’s belly. Its wooden structure was slanted and mismatched, even though the building itself was rather new. It wasn’t the closest tavern to the castle’s entrance gate, but the fact that it was part of Castle Rock made it comfortable, a frequent destination for the Nottingham Guard. Some even preferred it to the barracks hall and were happy to leave the castle proper to dine here instead. Robert left Derrick and Ronnell outside to watch. Over the last few weeks he’d coincidentally earned the trust of the Trip’s proprietor, who was the only other knight in Nottingham.

  “Sir Robert FitzO-o-o-do,” came his singsong voice, accompanied by a tankard raised in the air. Sir Richard-at-the-Lee’s hair and beard were braided into competing tails—long brown-grey wisps that threatened to dip into every cup he poured. He waited behind his countertop, positioned in the middle of the room to let him serve those on all sides. But the Trip was empty of customers this morning, and Sir Richard hunched himself over a bowl of thick mealy slop. “A trifle early today! Have you been promoted to sun, come to let me know the day has begun?”

  “Oh I see, you mean to anger me so that I’ll cut out your tongue.” Robert eased himself onto a stool at the counter. “A good strategy—it would make it far easier to eat the crap you have there.” He eyed the porridge with suspicion.

  “Fresh rat in it today,” Sir Richard joked. “Actually, no, it’s last week’s rat. Want a bowl?”

  He didn’t. But he pulled out his coinpurse. “Take my money.”

  Sir Richard grinned and ladled out another serving from a copper pot on the ground. They broke their fast together, sharing unimportant stories and trading barbs at whomsoever they pleased. Robert wasn’t precisely sure what he’d come to learn, so he meant to keep the conversation casual. It would have been a damned amateur to reveal what he wanted. If the Trip had any secrets to tell, it would be patience that brought them out—now that Robert knew to look for them.

  “How’s business then?”

  “Wretched.” Sir Richard scratched at the dirt on an empty horn of ale. “Less coin coming in, more going out. Damned ransom. I should have opened a whorehouse.”

  “Everyone has to eat.”

  “My purse would argue otherwise. Altogether too much money to buy King Richard back, I say. I keep explaining that we have a perfectly good Richard right here, and I’ll do the job for only half the price!”

  He laughed the same way he did every time he told that joke, showing his dark gums and missing teeth.

  Robert probably would have loathed Sir Richard’s company in any other scenario, but there would always be a common bond between those who had taken the knee. Sir Richard-at-the-Lee knew the same unspoken prejudice, the constant accusation in everyone’s eyes as to why he wasn’t proving himself out in the Holy Land and defending his king. The slander of Coward Knight had followed Robert for fifteen years, and the Crusade had brought it back for more. But Robert was simply obeying the orders of his liegelord Red Roger.

  Sir Richard-at-the-Lee, on the other hand, had actively refused to join the Crusade. He was no man’s knight now, which by many opinions made him no knight at all. But he was still the closest thing to a sworn brother that Robert had found in this city. Sir Richard wore his disgrace with pride, had even turned it into his livelihood. The very name of his inn was a joke—when asked why he had not answered the call to war, he would defiantly retort that he had indeed “made the Trip to Jerusalem.”

  “Another bout of ill news, then?” Sir Richard asked quietly, tucking a strand of rogue hair behind an ear. “Another Guardsman who won’t be walking the walls tomorrow?”

  “Not dead … but aye.” Robert took a mouthful of the gruel. “Who told you?”

  Sir Richard answered by raising an eyebrow toward the back of the Trip, where a few small alcoves honeycombed into the earthen wall. Each boasted a table, chairs, and a bit of privacy for those with business to conduct. One had a hulking dark shape in its middle, a lone occupant that Robert had not noticed upon entering.

  “Far too early for him. Usually means he lost someone.” Sir Richard lowered his voice. “Saw a lot of him last autumn.”

  Robert did not have to squint to identify the man. His size was sign enough, and even the dim light found ways to highlight the red in Simon FitzSimon’s mane. The Scotsman led the training yard for the Nottingham Guard, and was known to volunteer himself on the occasional manhunt.

  “Just an injury this time,” Robert explained. “Young fellow, took an arrow in the thigh. But at St. Peter’s, in front of a full crowd. Could have been anyone. Hell of a thing.”

  Sir Richard scowled, moving a few feet farther from Simon’s earshot. “A lot of that lately. Tales of death and murder, I mean. They seem to frequent my counter even more often than the rats—” He stomped at the ground as one scampered away.

  Robert frowned. “Anything tasty, then? In these stories?”

  The man chewed his memories. “Some lord got gutted off the Sherwood Road not so long ago … him and his wife, too.”

  “Lord Brayden,” Robert scoffed. “I was there. And I was the one what told you about it.”

  “Ah, so you were! What else … the guards at the Commons were sacked last week so the rabble could eat for free … a lot of fighting of late, too. People attacked for no reason, roughed up for the hell of it. People are on edge, afraid to step outside.”


  “Tell me something I don’t know, Richard.”

  “Sorry.” Sir Richard leaned back. “I only know what I hear.”

  “We’ve had some trouble with other taverns—busted windows, broken horns. See any faces you don’t recognize lately?”

  He sucked air through his teeth. “Nah. My clientele tends to be more on the savory side than the un. Take The Simons, for instance. Though I’ll admit I’m glad for the coin, it’s a shame he’s here. Sorry about your friend’s leg.”

  “Amen.” Robert slid a few shillings across the table, more than was needed. “I’ll buy him another. What’s he drinking, wine? Mead? Just ale?”

  Sir Richard barked in response. “Stick with ale for him! The Simons would have crushed your bones to jelly for offering him a southern drink. But if you want mead yourself, then I’m your man. Increasing hard to acquire of late, but at-the-Lee is at-your-service. Cheapest in town here, if you can even find it anywhere else.”

  “No thanks, ale’s fine,” Robert answered, quietly pocketing that information away. Whether it meant anything, he couldn’t tell—but it was something unique about the Trip, which was exactly what he’d come to dig up. Maybe one piece of the puzzle, or maybe nothing. He could’ve asked more directly, but any barkeep was—by nature—untrustworthy with secrets. Which was the very reason Robert drank his shit small beer and ate his shittier porridge. Richard-at-the-Lee gave him a parting smile and took another gulp of his own porridge, letting it muck about in his whiskers as he swallowed it down. Robert found it a disgusting habit, though others found it endearing—earned the man his nickname of the greenbeard.

  Robert carried both horns of ale toward the shadows at the back of the inn. While half the building was built proper, with a vaulted wooden ceiling that let the hearth smoke drift away, its other half was buried into the rock itself. Robert had to stoop as the sandstone cave loomed downward, giving the back tables of the inn the feeling of a rabbit’s hole, or a stomach. Simon FitzSimon noted his approach and dipped his head in silent acknowledgment, but seemed less than interested in anything more.

  “Top you off?” Robert offered, placing one horn at the edge of his table.

  The master-at-arms raised his eyes to meet Robert’s, then moved slowly back down to his own horn, still full to the brim.

  Just this once, Robert chose to forgive the man his disrespect. It was no surprise the quartermaster hadn’t stood at his presence, no surprise he hadn’t said, No, sir, thank you, sir. Simon FitzSimon was one of the most respected men in the castle and several years Robert’s senior, but he was still nothing more than an arms-trainer who should show due respect to a bound knight. But for this moment, Robert chose not to care.

  Simon saw himself as father to every recruit that came through his yard. And this morning, one of those “sons” had been ambushed.

  “You heard about this morning, then,” Robert said.

  The armsmaster’s head nodded, slowly. “Dillon Fellows.”

  “Hell of a thing. I was there, I carried him to the castle.”

  Simon’s lips tightened, a slow nod of his head. It said thank you, but it also said you’re not one of us. It said you get a pass this time. It said we’re better off without you.

  “I know you don’t care for me,” Robert said, surprising himself with his frankness. “I know none of you do. You don’t try to hide it. But I’m here. You have the only sober knight in Nottingham at your disposal, looking for the man who shot your boy. I’m on your side.”

  There was probably more to say, but he hadn’t meant to start anything. Simon had never done him any particular wrong.

  He moved to leave, but the Scotsman stopped him. “FitzOdo.”

  Simon slid his own horn a bit to the left and replaced it with the one Robert had brought. It was the tiniest of concessions.

  “I don’t know you enough not to care for you, but I can tell you something. Dillon Fellows. That name mean anything to you?”

  Robert shook his head.

  “His older brother Brian Fellows was killed in the autumn, murdered by the man who would then murder Roger de Lacy, while wearing Brian’s tabard. Dillon cried like a babe at his brother’s funeral, he’d only just joined the Guard then. His mother was there, begged Dillon to leave, begged me to let him. Dillon’s not much of a Guardsman. Would’ve made a better stableboy, or a chair. But he stayed in the Guard, to do right by his brother. He watches at St. Peter’s every morning, talks to the people on their way in, talked about his brother, you know? Not for himself, mind you, but to help other people, going through their own troubles. Gives out half his pay to those in need. Everyone there knows him by name, feels safer when he’s around. Like he’s family. They ought to put him on the pulpit. He’s young and friendly, people love him—gives the Nottingham Guard a good name, you know? That doesn’t happen much.” Simon took a swig of the ale. “Did you know any of that?”

  “No,” Robert answered.

  “That’s why people don’t care for you. You’re not one of us, and you can’t help that, but you don’t want to be one of us. The Guard is a family. Literally, sometimes—brothers, fathers, and sons. It’s something noble for those that could never be a knight. You don’t eat with us, you don’t drink with us, and those two goons of yours are like rabid curs.”

  You don’t invite me to eat with you, Robert wanted to say.

  You don’t invite me to drink with you.

  And Derrick and Ronnell are the only ones who treat me with respect.

  He might have said as much, might not have. But a curious thing next, that drew his attention. The soft patter of bare feet on stone—a tiny mop of a thing, some dirty street boy, hurrying down the steps beside him toward the front door. The child left a trail of dirt in his wake, coming from a bucket that he carried with both hands.

  Robert had come looking for anything unusual, and that ever counted. Might be nothing, might not. Whether he could even directly ask the greenbeard about it, he wasn’t sure. But something in Robert FitzOdo’s gut told him that just like that, he was in front of the gopher. How long it would take to show its head, though, he couldn’t tell. That was the problem with groundwork like this—it was slow. And the archery tournament had established a deadline that couldn’t be ignored.

  So yes, he and his boys would continue to watch the Trip. But it didn’t mean they could stop doing the other thing. That … that had to continue.

  “Glad I came to talk to you,” he said, and left The Simons to his drinks.

  “… I observe my homage to him completely, against all persons, in good faith and without deceit.” Robert had memorized the words long prior to kneeling. Years before, as a boy, he’d recited them in his dreams. They were better than prayers, because they were accountable on this earth, not the promise of the next. But he would eventually learn that simply knowing the words was meaningless. A thousand different interpretations lay buried in their phrases.

  For instance. If he could only do his duty through deceit, which part of his vow should he break?

  Fucking Nottingham. Robert had been late to the war here sixteen years ago. His duty was to King Henry the Elder, to defend the castle from his usurping sons. But in Henry’s absence, was Robert’s duty to protect his king, or to protect his king’s lands? Were they equal? With an army between him and his duty, there was no way to break the siege lines from behind and get to the castle, not in good faith.

  Not without deceit.

  What name would they have called him had he sat idly by and waited for the war to be over, watched as his king’s castle was sacked? The Waiting Knight? FitzOdo the Absent?

  Instead he chose to act.

  He infiltrated the army of Henry’s youngest son, led by the traitor Earl of Derby, father of the current Sheriff William de Ferrers. Robert sabotaged the elder Ferrers’s siege engines, and personally slew the knight-commander that was flooding the castle’s walls. That was the act of FitzOdo the Brave, that was the act of the Warring Knig
ht.

  But he had acted in “poor faith,” said his king, he’d succeeded through deceit. He’d broken his vows as a knight.

  So he became FitzOdo the Coward.

  The Shameless Knight.

  King Henry transferred his scutage to Baron Roger de Busli, even then too fat for his station, who had held his battalion at bay a mile from the city’s edges and waited for a victor. Red Roger they called him now, the Bloody Baron of Tickhill, whose every infamous act was secretly performed by his favorite pet knight.

  Fucking Nottingham.

  The city that ruined him.

  * * *

  THE RAIN CAME THAT night, pounding fiercely down upon a man who had once proudly knelt before the king, who had sworn to do his duty with diligence and honesty. Robert could barely see the wall beside him, and he knew surely if there was a God that She must have difficulty seeing down through the storm as well.

  The rain was appropriate.

  Beneger de Wendenal thought he could kill the gopher by screaming loudest into its tunnels.

  While Sheriff Ferrers thought he could invite the thing out to dinner.

  Robert knew the truth.

  Flood the hole with water.

  Turn its home against it.

  “How do you want to handle it?” Derrick asked, half shouting through the downpour. They had returned to the Spotted Leopard just before the sky turned its hate upon them, before they had changed their respectable clothing for these fucking costumes.

  “Same as ever,” Robert ordered, “you take the lead, I’ll let you know if I want to change pace.”

  He fidgeted at his smock, already soaked through, as if it mattered.

  The problem, he had realized some time ago, was that nobody wanted to rat out the wonderful Robin Hood. He was friendly, he brought presents, he bought loyalties. It was an understandable trade when all he asked in return was a simple “Never seen him.” The poorfolk were his shield, he used them as cover. He put them in danger.

  But still they did his bidding. Still they hid his secrets, in plain sight.