Lionhearts

by Nathan Makaryk

  Shit.

  Had they done this to themselves?

  Had Dawn Dog been threatening Guardsmen and not known it?

  She didn’t even watch as Alfred drew. The bear of a Guardsman stared her down as he crossed the field, he folded his arms and stood behind her, his lips hid a smile. Every other eye was watching Alfred Fawkes, except for this Guardsman. He had a job, and she was clearly it.

  “Red and Gold,” the heralds called.

  “Eighty-one points,” she whispered to the guard, though she hadn’t even watched.

  “Eighty-one points!” the heralds confirmed.

  The bear man took a step forward, his hand wrapped around her bow. “Too bad,” he said in a tone that screamed otherwise. The weapon became his, her shoulder became his. She flinched and his fingers tightened on her. “Don’t fret. I’ll let you know where to go next.”

  “The Red and Gold archer has competed with distinction…” Each sentence repeated sixfold upon itself as the heralds reached every ear in the bailey, the anticipation building and crashing into Caitlin as thunder, as waves, “… but there is another challenge before he can be claimed the victor!”

  Alfred had stepped forward to the line, singular and powerfully nonchalant. For once, Cait couldn’t tell if it was an act. Had he figured it out, or did he think he genuinely won? His signature red leather coat snapped as he turned to the crowd, encouraging their applause. Up in the nobility box, the Sheriff leaned out on the railing, clad in an ivory cloak.

  “You have bested your peers … but now you face the best that Nottingham has to offer.”

  At field level, a crowd of Guardsmen entered, separated into lines, made a channel.

  “We proudly present the pride of the Nottingham Guard, the finest archer in Nottinghamshire…”

  A horse emerged through that gullet, draped in the blue-and-black trappings of the Guard, its rider held a recurve bow in one hand, held high in salute to the crowd.

  “… the niece of the late Sheriff Roger de Lacy! Every color, raise your flags to the Lace Jackal!”

  She thundered past Cait into the middle of the field, drew an arrow from a quiver at her mount’s side and launched it into the middle of the nearest target. It was an easy shot while standing, perhaps, but from horseback was something else entirely. The crowd erupted with excitement, all ten colors sizzled the air as this Lace Jackal rounded her horse down both sides of the range, welcoming the adulation.

  The rider dismounted, a few guards rushed from the sidelines to take her horse and unbuckle her quiver. She wore the same pleated leather vestments of any common guard, dirtied and unadorned. Her black hair was gathered in a tail that barely contained its plume, her face was curiously solemn and still. If she took any joy in the attention, she did not show it.

  “An expert bowman must do more than hit a target…” the Sheriff’s words came down, “… an expert bowman must have speed as well as accuracy!” More guards—there were so many of them, Cait realized—had moved the three hay targets from the field to a single line hardly a quarter of the way down the range. “Let victory be given to whomsoever can hit these three targets the fastest! Red and Gold archer, you may make the first attempt.”

  The Lace Jackal handed her quiver to Alfred, whose confidence and performance was unshaken. He gave a deep and gallant bow to the woman before accepting the quiver. Cait could see him mouth words to her that were lost in the wind, but the woman neither laughed nor flinched. Alfred spent a few moments adjusting the quiver’s belt to comfort, pulling an arrow from his hip and putting it back again in quick succession. He turned to each area of the audience and encouraged their applause, which they gave him heartily, and even Cait was compelled to yell out his name in support. His eyes did not find her, but they did glance up to the nobility box.

  At the Sheriff, she realized. He’s marking a shot at the Sheriff.

  Had it come to this? If there was no backing out, was Alfie planning on punching forward? Creating enough chaos that they could hope to escape?

  When Alfie moved, it was with shocking precision. His arm swept in one continuous fluid motion, never stopping, it pulled an arrow and slid it down the bow and released it at once, without holding, without aiming, and back at the quiver again without hesitation. One and pull and two and pull and three, he moved as smooth as silk, and each found its mark on the field, thank God. Not crowseyes, but central hits all of them. It was done as fast as Cait could imagine possible. The enthusiasm from the crowd fueled her relief, and she let herself smile as her Alfie turned and bowed, and laughed. This was the Red Fox in his glory, this was the Robin Hood he’d always wanted to be.

  Even from afar, Cait could sense an unease in the nobles’ box, and no proclamation came forth. They did not think he could do it, she realized, wondering how they were now desperately rearranging their plans. And the crowd is now even more on his side, they cannot move against him now.

  Alfred bowed again, all the way to his toes, when he offered the Lace Jackal’s quiver back to her. She returned no politesse but plucked three arrows, each one with a double ring of black painted round its shaft. Each arrow drooped lightly, held between her knuckles, and when she drew the bowstring back it was hardly a pull at all. She flicked all three, drawing each arrow on the outside of the string rather than the inner, in the blink of an eye. Cait was dumbfounded, it was more like a bizarre novelty performance than archery. It was very possible that all three arrows had been loosed before the first even found its mark. There was practically no force to each shot, but it was enough to prick their heads into each haybale.

  The Lace Jackal did not flourish or cater to the crowd, she simply dropped her bow to the ground and walked off the range, victorious. For it they loved her even more, an uproar that brought weakness to Cait’s knees.

  “Red and Gold archer!” came the Sheriff’s words, through the heralds’ mouths. “Do you think you deserve another chance?”

  Alfred’s bow was in the air the moment the question ended. He shook it, his arm tall and strong, the crowd gave another round of excitement.

  “Red and Gold archer!” came the heralds. “Do you think Tymon the Hammer deserves another chance?”

  At this, Alfred lowered his longbow in confusion, and the crowd was unsure how to react.

  “Red and Gold archer!… Do you think Asher of Radford deserves another chance?… Do you think the Preacher of Ropers Close deserves another chance?”

  Cait tested the hand that still rested on her shoulder, but it tensed at her slightest twitch.

  “Good people of Nottingham, you deserve an apology … This honest day’s games and mirth has been invaded … By a criminal who does each of you dishonor … Who brings each of you danger!… This archer in red and gold is known by another name … A name that was not his to steal … The name of Robin Hood!”

  Whatever joy the crowd had for Alfred curdled into spite and poison. This is the moment, she knew it had to be. Alfred had his bow and arrows still, he could launch them up to the Sheriff’s box. The Lions would spring to action, cause a commotion. Wherever there were crowds, the Red Lions were at home. This is the moment.

  “The Lord Brayden of York, his Lady Edith of York, Guardsman Dillon Fellows … these are but a few of the names of Robin Hood’s victims … the poorfolk of the French Ward, whose hands he has taken … even the ladies of the night who deserved St. Mary’s mercy … do they deserve another chance?”

  Neither Alfred Fawkes nor any Red Lion had done any of those things.

  Red-and-gold flags danced in the sky, this time not waved in celebration but thrown from the crowd in fury, they fluttered and fell to the earth.

  They could get out of this, Cait knew it, give us the signal. She pivoted on the ball of her foot, she could break the guard’s balance with her weight. This is the moment, but Alfred needed to start it. They needed to all act together, or they would be certainly taken down individually.

  “It is a testament to the city
that this false Robin Hood be captured … by the niece of the Sheriff whom he slew … a woman who has shown what true bravery is, what true heroism is … not by fighting against our city but by joining it!”

  The Sheriff’s voice was everywhere, amplified by the heralds, while Alfred was alone in the middle of the field, effectively muted by the crowd’s boos. There was no denying his title, anyway. Clorinda had sold him out. The Sheriff knew exactly who he was, who all of them were. From the moment they had walked through the castle’s gates.

  This is the moment, it had to be. Alfred fingered an arrow. Now.

  Every nuance that came next was familiar to her—despite the dread in her heart and the immediacy of the moment, she felt as drawn to him now as ever. The way a curious scent can recall a long-lost memory, his actions now reminded her, unbidden, of the first time they had lain with each other. Now it was his quiver that dropped to the ground, but then it had been his shirt. In his fingers now were three arrows, held limply, but then it had been a feather. He drew it smoothly down the bridge of the bow, fingers that had made that same graceful journey across her breasts. He held there, confident in his desire but still a gentleman who was asking for permission. Then he sprung as surely as an arrow itself, a man who knew exactly what he wanted.

  Ironically, the similarities continued in that it was over in a second.

  Then, it had been hilarious—when it was just the two of them to share that embarrassed moment. Now, the audience jeered at his pathetic attempt to copy the Lace Jackal’s move. His three arrows flung impotently in the air, not one of them finding its mark. Because now, as then, he somehow thought he had something to prove.

  The Lace Jackal returned with two Guardsmen at her side, holding chain and manacles.

  “Citizens of Nottingham, your prince would have a word with you!”

  All eyes flew up to the nobles’ box. The sun had mercifully slunk behind a heavy cloud, and Cait could clearly see the prince vault from his chair onto the ledge, steadying himself on the pole of a bannerette. His toes teased over the lip and the forty-foot fall that invited him to the field.

  “Nottingham!” the prince bellowed. Though the heralds repeated him, Cait could hear his actual voice. The audience hung on his words as they never had for the Sheriff. “This man is not Robin Hood. I met the real Robin Hood when he was alive.” He spoke slowly, certain that his words were carried properly. “This is merely an impostor. It does us no good to put him in irons.”

  Caitlin’s breath caught in her throat. Hope.

  “He is simply the face of a greater enemy. He is proof that if we strike down one Robin Hood, another will take his place. Potential Robin Hoods hide amongst you, like a plague. They are a disease amongst the good people of this city. And it falls upon each and every one of you to be vigilant, to find the Robin Hood and refuse him sanctuary!”

  That hope crumbled.

  If only she had an arrow, she could pluck the prince from his perch, they could escape in the ensuing riot. Alfie was already restrained, but the arrows he’d shot, lying limply in the grass …

  “Guardsmen!” Prince John called to the Lace Jackal and her companions. “Bind that man, but do not take him to the prisons. Strap him to the archery target.”

  She could slip the bear guard behind her. Run. Now now goddammit now.

  Alfie didn’t fight back, and Caitlin didn’t run. The paw on her shoulder was heavier, or the ground was closer, or the world was over.

  “To the nine finalists! You were robbed of your victory by this man, the same as Nottingham has been robbed of its security! It is not enough to sit idly by as traitors wreak havoc on this city! I ask each and every one of you to take arms against such villainy when you see it! You nine are now Nottingham’s champions!”

  The ground had the audacity to slide by beneath her feet, she was in a line now, with the others, the eight others. She found David of Doncaster and Ginger Twain and Ricard, but there was nothing in their eyes but the calm deadness of goats before the slaughter.

  “Give them each a bow and arrow!”

  Impossibly, the Guardsman pressed a longbow into her hands. He had to fold her fingers around it, she was too dazed to control herself. Four of them, four of the nine “champions,” were loyal to her. She forced herself to focus. Instead of hoping for a single arrow, they now had a total of four. To feather the prince something fierce.

  “Individually, the Robin Hood can beat any of you!” The prince was rallying the crowd. “That is what he is counting on! But together, we cannot be defeated! When we work together as a city, as one, then he has no power over us! He can only flourish so long as he terrorizes us! If we refuse to be afraid, if we refuse to be broken, then we are unstoppable!”

  Her thumb and forefinger had the thin shaft of an arrow between them now, and across from her was Alfred Fawkes, arms chained wide across the hay target, his chest obscuring the crowseye in the middle.

  His lips, God, his lips trembled.

  He looked at nothing. As if he could not believe this was real. Don’t worry, love. This will be a sight for the ages.

  She glanced sidelong, but couldn’t catch Ricard’s eye.

  Prince John. “On my mark, join your neighbor! Join your prince! Stand up against those that would divide us, stand up against their terrorism, stand up for Nottingham!”

  Ginger Twain was sweating, but would not look at her.

  “For Nottingham!” the other archers shouted.

  “For Nottingham!” David added, meeker.

  She tried Ricard again. His face a statue.

  No matter. They’d follow her.

  Alfie couldn’t stop this anymore, it was up to Cait.

  This is the moment.

  “Ready, archers!”

  They’d follow her. They were smart. They were just awaiting her signal. They needed someone to start it.

  “Draw!”

  And the rest of the Lions, they would follow suit.

  Wouldn’t they?

  “Loose!”

  And she didn’t stop it.

  She didn’t send her arrow screaming up at the nobles’ box, she didn’t turn and bury it into the Guardsman behind her, or the Lace Jackal. The shame of it suffocated her. Her arrow soared absently to the left of Alfred, that was the sum of her courage. The sum of her leadership.

  The other arrows punched a hole in Alfred’s chest that burst bloody, his face contorted in utter shock. He didn’t know how this had happened. That was his dying thought, it sickened her to think, how did this happen? Why didn’t anyone stop it? Why didn’t Cait stop it?

  But as it turned out, Cait was a coward.

  Her lover’s head twitched a few times before it sunk forever into his chest, but she didn’t look at him. She couldn’t see anything through the tears. They weren’t even for him, she knew already, she was crying for herself.

  What a waste of life, this Caitlin.

  “This is the punishment for those who seek to destroy us from within!” The prince was celebrating. “But as I said, citizens, it is not enough! The Robin Hood cannot survive on his own, he survives through the silence of others! Those who turn a blind eye! I understand that temptation, but in doing so you help the enemy! Doing nothing in the face of evil is as damaging as that evil itself!”

  The Guardsmen ripped the arrows from Alfred’s body, which sloughed to the ground. Blood stained the crowseye, all the way down.

  “Guardsmen!” called the prince. “How many arrows found their mark?”

  Some amount of work went into the counting. “Eight, my lord!”

  “Eight! Eight of nine!”

  “Whose arrow is missing?”

  No.

  She bit her lip. David and Ginger Twain and Ricard stared forward, mortified, they had killed Alfred, they killed the man she loved.

  “Red and Red!”

  “Bring her forward!” And the ground caught her, hands found her arms and dragged her, she tried to struggle but her legs didn’
t work anymore, they’d rightfully given up on her. “Any archer could have made that shot, especially these final nine champions! But Red and Red missed! She did not do her duty to this city. That is how we find them, friends! You find the Robin Hood by finding those who sit by in silence! Whomsoever sits on their hands while evil does its work is a friend to that evil! Silence is complicity! And let the punishment be equal, to those who let evil thrive!”

  Something hit her cheek, wet, the Guardsman’s spit. The grass scratched at her as they dragged her, she didn’t start sobbing until Alfie’s body was beneath her, his face mottled in blood and bewilderment. Cold manacles closed around her wrists, hay scratched the back of her neck, Alfie’s blood wet her shoulder blades. Before her, the harsh emptiness of everything that she’d once known.

  From above there was a riot, and she looked up, daring to hope. Something was happening on the ramparts, a throng of Guardsmen in a fight, holding back a mountain.

  “No! That’s my daughter!” her father screamed.

  Help me, she prayed.

  “The gates of the castle are locked!” The prince ignored the commotion. “The gates of the city are closed! Nobody leaves or enters the castle until we have flushed out all those who have supported the Robin Hood! Nobody leaves or enters our city until his stain is gone forever! It is time for good people to rise, to stand up, and cleanse your city of this filth!”

  Across from her, downrange, eight archers nocked their arrows.

  They didn’t save Alfred. But they’d save her.

  “We start with her,” the prince bellowed, “but we do not stop until all of them are gone! My eight champions, loose your arrows on my mark. For Nottingham!”

  Her father would stop it.

  All eight, David and Ginger and Ricard included, repeated it. “For Nottingham!”

  “Loose!”

  Alfred.

  Not one of them missed.