Lionhearts

by Nathan Makaryk

  “We don’t just have to find it,” David insisted, “because we’re not insane enough to try that. You don’t think they’re going to notice two very insane people looking like us wandering up to the bailey gate? With everyone trying to escape, you think they’ll let us walk in?”

  “Not looking like us.” Arthur smiled. “But if we take out two guards down here, and get their tabards and cowls…”

  “Fack!” David kicked out. “Fack fack fack fuck fuck fuck that might work.”

  FORTY-SIX

  QUILLEN PEVERIL

  NOTTINGHAM CASTLE

  QUILLEN PEVERIL WAS THE greatest failure of a generation.

  He had come to Nottingham for one singular reason—to determine if it was so unstable as to require intervention. Quill had known in his heart that it needed help, but he’d been too worried that his father would equate that failure with Quillen. He had selfishly hoped he could fix it himself via empty little acts like spying on Gilbert or stopping noblemen from shitting in the streets. He’d thought that sniping sarcasms from on high counted as a contribution.

  Nottingham Castle was now eating itself alive, and Quill was the one that let it get this bad.

  Swords were drawn, Guardsman against Guardsman, and absolutely nobody had any firm grasp of what was happening. In the middle of one group was Prince John and his handful of sentinel men, trying very desperately to remove themselves from the battlements to the safety of the higher keep. But between him and his destination was a red mountain of rage called The Simons, who had literally spent his entire life teaching people how to kill each other.

  And half of those very people were on his side, screaming for vengeance for the quartermaster’s murdered daughter.

  The only reason the prince had not yet been torn to pieces and thrown over the walls was that there were just as many Guardsmen on his side. They weren’t necessarily loyal to the prince; they simply happened to be nearest him when the riots began, and naturally obeyed when he started calling for protection. Those Guardsmen didn’t know they’d be instantly squared off against their own friends. But they definitely knew that the prince’s sentinels carried crossbows, and any Guardsman who tried to switch sides would undoubtedly have his morality rewarded by a quarrel in the back.

  The reason Quill knew they thought all these things was because—of all the damnedest luck in the world—he was one of them.

  “Stand down!” and “Move aside!” and “Get out of the way!” were all shouted liberally by members on both sides, and under any other circumstances they probably could have all calmed down and discussed things rationally. But Simon FitzSimon was screaming murder more primal than any animal, clawing his way through the men, forcing them to surge forward. Meanwhile, Prince John was prodding his crossbowmen to make progress as well, forcing both groups to roll and swell toward each other until the gap between them disappeared and Quill let out a masterful shriek.

  The only saving grace now was that the Guardsmen, for the most part, didn’t want to kill each other. Rather than a clash of swords, every man became a peacock—their arms and weapons brandished wide in a hopefully empty threat. But the distance between them shrank quickly. Someone’s hand found Quill’s face and he did his best to return the gesture, but the throng was compressing them together, and within seconds Quill had a mouthful of knuckles. Somewhere there was a guttural scream, perhaps the first legitimate injury, and the entire crowd flinched and rattled, and Quill did not want to die this way.

  “Swords up!” he screamed, as soon as he maneuvered his mouth away from the stranger’s fingers. “Swords up!”

  He thrust his own tip to the sky, the only direction that was safe. There was not even elbow room enough to resheathe his weapon, but straight up there were no comrades to accidentally skewer.

  “Swords up!” repeated the man whose fingers he’d tasted, mimicking the act, glancing his eyes around nervously to see if he would be killed for it. But thankfully, and against all recent precedent, the call for civility spread and weapons rose, rippling away from Quill. The brawl settled, if only slightly; the shouting was replaced by the long harrowing wail of Simon FitzSimon, trapped in his sea of students, lost to a world of grief.

  “Guardsmen!” came a deep throaty roar, though Quill could not see its owner. “Stand down, fall in line!”

  Finally their numbers spread out again, though the sounds of fighting did not abate. It came from below, over the lip of the battlement wall. Despite their orders to fall in, one by one their group realized what was happening in the archery field and they gathered at the ledge to watch. Whatever frenzied massacre they’d just avoided up here was already happening twentyfold throughout the lower bailey.

  “Simons, I swear to you, you will have justice,” came the voice again, and now Quill could see its owner, Captain Fulcher de Grendon, running to join them. He passed Prince John and his entourage, hurrying unmolested for the staircase to the highest bailey. “But first we have to get this castle in order! The prince has commanded a full lockdown of every castle gate and the city as well, and there are people killing each other down there!” He accentuated this point by thrusting a finger over the ledge at the mob that had converged at the outer castle gate. The Guardsmen normally posted there had retreated within the gatehouse’s chamber, and were very likely praying that the doors would hold.

  “You can fight each other tomorrow if you want.” De Grendon pulled his hair back to fix its tail. “Right now, we have the Lord’s work to do.”

  * * *

  LATER, QUILL WOULD REMARK that “we have the Lord’s work to do” was at once both a criminal understatement, and an insultingly accurate one. The work that needed to be done could only possibly be accomplished with divine intervention. There were few orders given as to exactly what form their work should come in, but the mutual recognition was that there were dozens of Guardsmen trapped in the lower bailey who’d been stationed there for the St. Valentine’s tournament, and that they should be rescued until cooler minds prevailed.

  Jacelyn de Lacy was one of them, Quill knew. She’d played her part in the tournament to perfection, but the prince’s unexpected decree had fallen shortly after her final bout. Her persona of the Lace Jackal had likely earned her both admirers and haters, which put her in real danger. Quill only had loyalties to a few people in the Nottingham Guard, and she was one of them.

  If Lord Beneger was accounted for, Quill would likely take whatever commands that man had to offer instead. But left to his own devices, Quill’s brain somehow thought that his underweight, self-absorbed little self was the appropriate person to rescue a woman who was very likely impervious to even the concept of needing rescue.

  Ferrers!—Quill cursed, pouring all the blame for this on the Sheriff’s incapable shoulders. Quill had originally predicted that his archery tournament plan would be a failure; but that doubt had faltered a few days earlier when a beastly associate of the Red Lions surrendered himself to the Nottingham Guard. He asked for refuge in exchange for his firsthand knowledge of every gang member competing in the contest. Between him and the other informant, Rob o’the Fire, it seemed pretty clear that the Red Lions’ ship was sinking and the rats were bailing out. So while the Nottingham Guard had already implemented a handful of tactics to weed out legitimate archers from victory, this Will Stutely fellow had sat on the battlements with Quill, singling out his old crewmates. De Grendon had been prepared to arrest them all, after their leader was publicly humiliated by Jacelyn de Lacy.

  Until the prince surprised everyone by taking over.

  And announced whatever abominations he thought proper.

  And now, there was no telling up from down, much less right from wrong.

  Upon arriving at the barbican down to the lower bailey, Quill instantly knew the job ahead of him was a nightmare—a horrified throng of people lay on the other side of the double portcullis. Normally left open for passage between the baileys, both gates had been lowered to keep the rabble o
ut of the castle proper.

  “Open the inner gate!” Quill demanded once the men at the wheels noticed him. He snapped his fingers to gather six or seven of the nearest Guardsmen to join him, to help in whatever madness lay on the other side. “We’re going down, but only open this gate enough for us to crawl under, you understand?”

  The gatemen’s cowls bobbed, and a moment later the iron gates groaned under the turncock’s latch, rumbling up foot by foot until Quill’s group could scramble into the antechamber between the gates. Then the teeth of the portcullis bit down into the ground behind them.

  What am I doing? He felt like a gladiator, awaiting his entrance to an arena where he was destined to die.

  “Back away!” He slapped at the fingers of the citizens who were hoping to find some sort of escape this way. Their crowd retracted at the sight of the Guardsmen’s weapons, then farther and farther at Quill’s commands. As they stepped back, one figure stepped forward—her unmistakably broken face a welcome relief indeed.

  “Jac!” he gasped, waving her to approach. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  “Do you have Will Scarlet?” she asked, her good side as dead as her right.

  “What?”

  The second gate complained heavily against its counterweights, but jolted up, sliding between them. As the antechamber emptied of its men to go help below, Quill crouched and tugged Jacelyn de Lacy to join him on this side of safety.

  “What do you mean?” he repeated the question.

  “I mean, do you have Will Scarlet? Did he make it to the prisons?”

  “I don’t know…” They’d left him in Lord Beneger’s custody after his capture, hastening to the archery tournament for the day’s event. “Where else would he be?”

  “He could be anywhere, until we find Ben,” she huffed. “I’m going to check the prisons.”

  “No time for that,” he urged her. “If he’s there, he’s there. If he’s not, nothing you can do about it now. We have more important things at stake. Ho!” he called, noticing two injured Guardsmen limping up the lower bailey’s ramp, trying to maneuver through the commonfolk. Quill looked up through the barbican’s murder holes to shout at the men at the wheels. “Open the gate again, let these two in!”

  Once more the iron groaned, up only a few feet, as Jacelyn and Quill both knelt to bring the two men into the antechamber. One had long blond hair and a look of absolute panic, the other boasted a vicious gash across his forehead and was covered in blood.

  “You’re safe,” Quill said, trying to get a good look at the gash. “Get to the infirmary. You’ll need some honey and egg whites to wash that out.”

  They nodded and huddled together, and Quill shouted again at the murder holes. “Open the inner gate, get these two some help!”

  There was no response.

  “Ho, is anyone up there?”

  A moment later a silhouette covered the grate. “You, too, Peveril, get back up here.” It was Captain de Grendon’s voice.

  “Just these two, Captain. I’m going down to help.”

  “No you’re not,” the captain responded. “Prince’s orders. Nobody goes in or out.”

  “Not even Guardsmen?” Quill was incredulous.

  “Nobody. He was extremely specific.”

  Quill looked back out through the bars, and the crowds of people trapped below, still rioting, still at each other’s throats. He felt a sickening lurch of sympathy for the Guardsmen who had just crawled under that gate, now as trapped on its other side as the rest.

  “Well you two are damned lucky then,” he told the injured men, as the inner gate started its ascent. “What are your names?”

  “Norman,” they both answered in unison.

  Quill had not expected that. “You’re both named Norman?”

  They stared back absently, as if the question were some sort of monster. Then a glance at each other, then back to him. Again, simultaneously, “Yes.”

  Probably new recruits. Probably wouldn’t last the week. But right now, every man was worth his weight in gold. “Alright, Norman. Get Norman here taken care of, then get back out here. We need every able man we can get.”

  The less-injured Norman nodded, but turned back after only a few steps. “What about the postern door? We were … we were told to help guard it.”

  “Locked down tight,” answered de Grendon, climbing down from the wheels. “Prince’s men have everything.”

  “This is insane,” Jacelyn answered. “The prince is insane.”

  “He might be.” The captain nodded grimly. “But he’s the prince.”

  INTERLUDE

  SIR AMON SWIFT

  HUNTINGDON

  EACH NIGHT, AMON COMPOSED his thoughts onto paper, that he might sleep the better without them rattling so inside his head. On the rare night, he browsed through his own pages, hoping he had already forgotten more about the world than he knew now.

  17th of November

  I have rarely known a man to possess himself of rigid principle. I would argue that self-interests alone constitute a man, and his public moral doctrine bends to whatsoever aids him in their pursuit. That this self-deception is so readily mistaken for integrity is the foremost disease of our age.

  * * *

  NOT FOR THE FIRST time, Sir Amon Swift’s thoughts drifted backward, wondering what life of leisure and respect should have been his. Had he known what misadventures lay in wait when the castellan Robert FitzWalter gave Amon the assignment of protecting his daughter years earlier, he may not have been so eager to accept the payment of his knight’s fief. The protection of a young lady to the court should have been as docile a task as any, and should not have included any amount of foresthood galivanting or rebellions. While docility had never been high on Amon’s wishes in life, he imagined that he could acclimate to it quickly.

  As evening pulled herself over them, Lord Robert and Lady Marion took the shelter of Little John’s hovel for privacy. More companions such as the Delaney brothers and Charley Dancer gathered by the fire, and discussion of de Senlis’s ultimatum became impossible. Tuck tried to hide his bewilderment at watching Robert and Marion disappear together, but the growing connection between them was impossible to ignore. Amon chose to think nothing of it—Lord Robert had responsibilities as both an earl and a husband, and Marion knew better than to further complicate their already tenuous situation. The attraction between them was a natural result of the adventures they had shared, and nothing more. While the countess Magdalena had given them both slights, petty revenge was not in either of their natures.

  “That was a kindness, what you said earlier,” John Little shifted his weight toward Amon, “but Marion will never see herself as more important than anyone else. She wouldn’t always be off trying to save everyone if she didn’t think each one of them deserved it.”

  “I know,” Amon answered. “But she asked my opinion, which I stated.”

  “She already carries the weight of every soul we’ve lost,” Little sighed. “She wouldn’t stand letting one more fall to protect her. She aims to turn herself over to this Lord Senlis, I tell you that plain.”

  “Well then oughtn’t we find a way to talk her out of it?” Peetey Delaney asked. “She’s done so much for everyone here. How can we let her sacrifice herself?”

  “She’ll argue that’s not your decision to make,” Little responded.

  “Then we argue it is. We make a point of it.”

  “There’s no stopping her from doing what she will,” Tuck laughed mildly, “unless anyone plans on tying her up.”

  He meant it as a joke, but it was inarguably true. The only thing capable of pulling Marion away from Huntingdon now was a coil of rope and a heavy sack. Amon wondered where his duty would fall, if the Delaneys tried to abduct Marion for her own safety. To protect her from Lord Simon de Senlis.

  12th of December

  I have never met an evil man. Circumstance has brought me all manner of man and woman, and I use the male descriptor
here for both, for ease rather than preference. I have met men ruled by petulance, by greed, by a numbing ambivalence to the consequences of their actions. Men taken to fanaticism, or ignorance, or to variations of both. I’ve known men whose actions could be described as cruel, I’ve known men with bones entwined in their beards who eat mud and claw at their own skin. I’ve met murderers and rapists whose disdain for themselves and the world led them to acts of depravity, but I’ve never met an evil man.

  * * *

  AS A SWORN KNIGHT, Amon shouldn’t be in a situation where he would have to choose between fulfilling his vow or serving the law of the land. Thus far he had avoided any personal entanglement with the Nottingham Guard, and had not so much as unsheathed his sword against any enforcer of the king’s law. Even now, Lord Robert’s rule held authority in Huntingdon and Amon would be lawful to raise arms against an insubordinate lesser lord, regardless of de Senlis’s justification.

  But if the Chancellor were to present himself here and declare Marion a traitor, then Amon’s situation would complicate. His very knighthood could be jeopardized by breaking the king’s peace to defend her.

  Marion had grown dear to Amon over the years, but his vows were not to abide by his endearments. Lady Marion Fitzwalter had made her own choices, which were often to hold the law with little respect. Amon’s private priorities did not match hers.

  28th of December

  Mathematics teach us a principle of inverse proportionality—in which the value of one item decreases as the value of a second item increases, in equal portion. I would argue that the true value of any man is proportionally inverted to that man’s estimation of that value. The more a man professes his importance, the more certain it is that he is immediately replaceable. Knowledge of this formula negates its application, of course, so I cannot appraise myself with it. I would modestly hope that I might fare well. But in countless towns I have found a crannyway, or church, or slum, or public house, or tavern, where—based on the hearsay that often precedes me—some man tells me I am worthless at best or an abomination at worst. Sometimes they have sought to correct the problem of my existence personally. I am lucky to say they have each failed, but I fear I will one day meet my fate at the edge of their prejudice. While I do not advertise the details of my life, neither will I ever deny them. Every one of these men … or any man in this world who considers himself so flawless that he is compelled to condemn a perceived flaw in another … can be held most rigorously to this principle of inverse proportionality.