Lionhearts

by Nathan Makaryk

  On the other hand, they might have instructed the cooks to be more conservative with the salt if they truly knew what was at stake. It didn’t matter how many quarried stones in the castle’s walls stood between John and danger, if he could be felled by a single urinary stone.

  He pushed the plate away. There were altogether too many ways to die. He refused to let a dead pig be his.

  “Tell me about the sally,” John demanded of Hadrian the Increasingly Bitter. His swordarm was less than thrilled to be cooped up in the keep tower when there was so much potential violence below he was missing out on.

  “The sally?”

  “The postern gate,” he clarified. In France it was the sally port, and John was awfully sick of reminding people that his exile from England brought with it a slew of cultural oddities, like using the wrong words for the right things.

  “It’s well guarded. Well, it’s guarded,” answered Hadrian the Second-Guesser. “As guarded as anything can be, given.”

  “I want it sealed.”

  John wanted the world sealed.

  If it were possible, he could seal himself into a stone crypt so that nobody could get to him for months, excepting the fact that he’d probably starve or suffocate and defeat the purpose. Altogether too many ways to die, and the world had all of its attention on a very small spot at the top of his skull.

  John turned to look out the window. This northeastern corner solar boasted the only window wide enough that one could look down and see the entirety of the tiered castle baileys without dodging one’s head around like a pervert outside a brothel. Ten chairs might normally have surrounded the room’s long table, but each one individually was too short to use by the window. So John had rolled a wine barrel in from the adjacent room, which he turned into a chair, and he was now enjoying a glass of his favorite chair along with his least favorite news.

  “Seal it. Nobody comes in. Nobody comes out.”

  Hadrian the Wise obeyed, because that’s why he wasn’t Hadrian the Unemployed.

  “And send up Gay Wally,” John added absently, peering into the seething crowds below and wondering if he was watching someone die.

  Commonfolk were, unfortunately for them, the best cover to hide behind. Locks can be picked; castles, dismantled. Given enough time and resources, any intrepid assassin could outthink the traditional defenses at a prince’s disposal. But there’s no strategizing against chaos. If they wanted to come and find him, they’d have to navigate this storm he’d created. The mob below, which probably wanted him dead, was his greatest ally.

  It took longer than expected, but eventually bootfalls came down the hall again, though heavier than Gay Wally could create. It was possible the boy—who lacked enough mass to leave an impression on the world, much less a commotion such as this—was stomping deliberately to announce his approach. Or, more likely, John had missed something, and he was about to be stabbed in the back.

  Instead of his young advisor, John was faced with an aging man in pleated leather whose face was as hard and deep as the mortared stone walls around them.

  John looked about for a weapon, and found nothing but his wine cup. He took some small solace in knowing that he could certainly drink the stranger to death.

  “Lord Beneger de Wendenal, Your Grace.”

  The man did nothing to give the words any tone of disrespect, but still they sounded like a chore. Though he did not appear to be armed, John was anything but relieved. He’d already been briefed in detail by Wally about this particular man, specifically because of the question mark he represented.

  John studied his visitor, hoping to divine some sense of his purpose. Wendenal was attractive—not in the conventional sense that might describe a half-naked, freshly bathed servant girl—but more in the sense that John was compelled to look at him. Wendenal’s features attracted curiosity, and were thus attractive. He decided against explaining this beguiling fact and opted instead for, “And what the fuck are we doing here?”

  “Three months ago,” Wendenal’s mouth answered, while his eyes sharpened, “my son was murdered in the next room.”

  John potentially stood better chances of survival if he pushed himself out the window. “That’s a hell of a way to introduce yourself. I would have waited at least until how are you? before divulging that … morbid…” He had no finish to that sentence, and was a better man for it.

  “I come on behalf of the Sheriff and the castellan. They sent me because they still have many things that you can take from them, and they’re fearful that you’ll do just that. While I have already lost everything of value.”

  “Except your life.”

  “I did not misspeak.”

  John’s eyes, on their own, opened so wide they could have rolled right out. “You’re really just such a delightful human,” he answered, pleased he had not yet been murdered. “Thank you for cheering me up. Do sit.”

  He hoisted himself back onto his wine barrel, while Lord Beneger raised a single greying eyebrow at the heap of chairs piled dramatically in the corner. Procuring one seemed a bit too troubling for the dour lord, so he settled for setting himself on the edge of the long table. His willingness to comply hopefully meant good things for John’s favorite pastime of still breathing.

  “Wendenal, then?” John asked. “Your son was William. I only knew him for the final week of his life, but he was entertaining.” That, too, he realized, was a poor adjective. It made it sound like William de Wendenal was a raconteur or a juggler, but the truth was that his very serious scrapings at the world entertained John. Perhaps it would be more suitable to say they delighted him, but he’d already used the word delightful and he didn’t want to be thought of as an amateur conversationalist. “I would have preferred that he stay alive.”

  Lord Beneger de Wendenal did not seem to appreciate that this was one of the kindest things John had ever said about a person.

  Still, he accepted it. “I would be in your debt, for anything you could tell me of that week.”

  John leaned forward. “Now you have my interest, as debts are my favorite things to collect. But come, you’re not here for that. I imagine you’ve come to see whether or not I’m mad.”

  A brief silence passed that screamed confirmation. Wendenal’s lips parted. “They used less conservative words downstairs.”

  John imagined exactly that. “Very good. Well then, Lord Beneger de Wendenal, I hope we can speak frankly. If you’re amenable.”

  Wendenal blinked. “Amenable?”

  “If you’re willing, that is.” He winced. “You don’t know amenable?”

  “No, I know the word.”

  “No?”

  “That is, yes, I know the word.”

  “Not a great word.” John considered. “Has the word mean right in the middle, makes it sound something less than friendly.”

  “Your Grace.” Wendenal’s lips recoiled at the phrase again, but he had nothing else to say.

  “So.” John kept the table between them. He was trapped in a room with a self-described angry man with nothing to lose, and Hadrian the Absent wasn’t helping anything. “I’ve had my eye on you ever since I arrived. Important people and grudges are two of my favorite things, and you’re both at once. But I’m not only interested in why you’re here, but in why you weren’t somewhere else.”

  That silence stomped about the room again, had a sip of wine, stomped some more.

  John prodded the matter with his toe. “I myself have just come from a very particular meeting this week. With a very particular woman. Who was quite nearly your daughter-in-law.”

  “Marion Fitzwalter?”

  John nodded. “My less-than-loyal cousin tried to use me as a flag of rebellion. I cannot imagine you weren’t invited—you were practically family. Instead, I find you here in Nottingham, mucking about with that gargoyle girl. What would you have me make of that?”

  “Marion Fitzwalter held a … rebel’s council?” When liars pretend at surprise, their eyes s
quint as if to feign a thought—exactly as Beneger’s did.

  “Oh, thank goodness!” John bounded off the barrel. “Beneger, I love you.”

  Wendenal swallowed.

  “So you knew about this council in Huntingdon,” John emphasized his points by burying his fingernails into the wood surface, “and you chose not to attend. This is the best of all worlds, Beneger. You are a friend, you are … a friend. I won’t forget this, you know. I make right by my friends, you know that.”

  In the coming conflict, he needed all his allies. And if Wendenal had not answered his own family’s concord, then he was firmly a loyalist. Loyal to Richard, loyal to John, loyal to England.

  The crowd outside chose that moment to swell, and the sounds of an angry mob drifted through the windows and lingered as an uninvited guest.

  “What did you say about a gargoyle girl?”

  “A Guardsman, or Guardswoman, so I’m told. You pick some curious circumstances to plow your mistress.”

  Wendenal blinked, slowly. “I’m not having any sort of relations with Jacelyn de Lacy.”

  “Oh, you should.” John blew out his lips. “Scars actually add something, you know. History. Probably her father, and that makes them feisty lovers, every time. You should have relations all over her.”

  “What is happening here?” Wendenal practically snapped. “Why have you blockaded yourself in this tower? How long do you mean to keep the castle locked down?”

  “Oh, indefinitely.” John hesitated. That answer should have been obvious.

  “I must ask why. What is your obsession with Robin Hood?”

  “Nothing, outside of not wanting him to stick me full of holes.” John was confused at the confusion. “I had no idea Robin Hood was still a problem in Nottingham until I arrived. He runs the local gangs, I’m told? And he’s long been the right hand of my rebellious cousin Marion. I have no doubt she can reach me here, through him—and well, he is something famous at breaking into the castle and killing people. How many Sheriffs have they lost that way?”

  Beneger didn’t answer, and John remembered that one of those had been the man’s son.

  “You understand, then.”

  “The man who called himself Robin Hood is dead,” the man said. “You saw to that, on the archery field. We also have Will Scarlet in custody, who murdered Roger de Lacy, and maybe my son as well.”

  “Listen to your own words, Wendenal,” John said, returning to his wine. “There will always be another Robin Hood, if you keep on at it the way you have. I aim to put a definitive end to that.”

  The man stiffened, his first sign of antagonism. “By locking down the castle? And the city? Why not at least let the innocent people leave, rather than trap them in the bailey?” His face was full of terrifying intelligence, begging for answers. John was willing to give them. After all, he could not keep the rest secret for long.

  “I promise you I’m not mad, Wendenal. Although it probably helps me, actually, for the others to fear my sanity. I’m not exactly concerned about their assessment of my character at the moment. As they have likely mentioned ‘downstairs,’ I am forbidden from claiming any military authority over a castle. But my advisors assure me that I am within my right to declare emergency domestic measures such as this. This Robin Hood business is a distraction—a convenient one, and one that must be seen through, yes—but hardly the entrée.”

  “Please, Your Grace. Enlighten me.”

  “This is about England’s very existence, Lord de Wendenal.”

  The man on the other side of the table tried, unsuccessfully, to eat his own skull.

  “Don’t make that face,” John scowled. “You’ll apologize for that before this is through. I was at the council in Huntingdon, you know, I was their guest of honor. That’s how I know you weren’t there. I saw them with my own eyes. They sought to put me on England’s throne, they wanted to abandon my brother to his Austrian captors and have me rule.”

  Once again, Wendenal’s only response was a single blink.

  “It wasn’t the first time the offer was made.” John explained his meeting the previous month with the two walrus men from France. “They wanted to support me, to insist that I take the crown in my brother’s absence. They were very convincing. They would have me believe they could rally half of England’s nobles to back my birthright … so long as I made certain concessions to Philip, of course.”

  “And this council in Huntingdon,” Wendenal’s jowls shook as he puzzled it out, “they, too, wanted you to claim the throne?”

  “Hardly a coincidence. I would bet anything that France is behind it. Struggling earls like Henry de Bohun and his family … they all could have easily found sway in French coin. My cousin Marion is anything but incorruptible.”

  It took no great stretch of imagination to wonder what barons and earls across England would do to keep their power in times as financially desperate as these.

  “So you refused.”

  “Of course. Fool that I am. If you were France, what would you do next?”

  Beneger squinted, which was an incorrect answer.

  “King Philip knows I have the better claim to England in Richard’s absence, but mine is not the only claim. My nephew Arthur Plantagenet could claim his right—as son of an elder brother—but he would require significant backing to be considered legitimate. But he’s a child, and gullible. Arthur’s long been a ward of Philip. When France failed twice to recruit me, Arthur was an obvious fallback plan. The only thing standing between him and success is my head—which is, coincidentally, my very favorite one.”

  Wendenal was tracking. “And you think France will try to kill you here?”

  “I think they’ll try to kill me anywhere. I thought Nottingham would be safe, as it had sent no representative to the traitor’s council. Derby’s no good, it’s still all wooden timber and I would make a tempting roast. Warwick was an option—I rather like the Earl Waleran de Beaumont, but his familial relations with Hereford are troubling, and he was at the council. So Nottingham it was.”

  Wendenal’s eyes sharpened. “So you think Robin Hood’s gang is trying to assassinate you, by Marion’s order … in France’s name … to crown Arthur as king … to France’s benefit.”

  “You’re deliberately making it sound implausible.” John licked his lips. “And you’d be right, if you weren’t so wrong.”

  Outside, a swell of noise.

  Poor Wendenal, he truly had no idea how deep was the shit in which they were dancing. France was not going to hang all their plans on the hopes of a few hired killers. He deserved to know that which John had kept from everyone else.

  “There is an army coming to England as we speak, Beneger. And it aims to destroy me.”

  The man’s face did not budge.

  “Oh, I know. And I’m the last person in the world who wants it to be true, but there are certain facts that do not disappear at the bottom of a bottle. I’m not some paranoid madman in a tower,” he explained. “I’m literally England’s last hope.”

  Wendenal inhaled deeply, his exhale full of judgment. “This army, it’s coming to Nottingham?”

  “Yes. It was gathering a week ago, I hear. My spies on the continent have kept me informed. Had I accepted Marion’s offer, no doubt this French army would have been mine to command, in claiming the throne. Instead it will come for my head, to pave Arthur’s path to the crown. The last report said they were gathering galleys to bring them across the channel. I imagine they’ll reach our shores within a week. Two at the most.”

  He returned his gaze out the window, wondering what the hills beyond the city walls would look like with an army blanketed over them. Nottingham Castle had never fallen—but it had only ever been attacked by Englishmen, whose desires were to occupy, not destroy. This French army came with a singular purpose. A quick strike, to John’s heart.

  “Against an army, we can at least make a stand here. I’ve summoned as many of my own loyal men to the castle as I can.
I’m glad to count you amongst them. If we thwart Philip’s design and send him back to France, we can help secure peace for everyone. But if I am killed, then my nephew Arthur claims England’s throne and you are all subject to King Philip. Richard will die in his cell and England’s independence will be over. It might be hundreds of years again before she rises and unshackles herself from France, if ever.”

  “Then we should be preparing,” Wendenal stammered. “These people in the baileys—”

  “Are trifles. Trifles, Wendenal.” He leveled his eyes on the man’s curious face, desperate to find understanding. “The gates of the castle, and the city, must remain closed. No one passes through, we cannot provide them any opportunity. If an assassin finds a way to get to me … well then, I hope you’ve brushed up on your French lessons.”

  It was the world, on his shoulders.

  “And if we succeed?” Wendenal’s gruff voice faltered.

  “Then we pay the damned ransom!” John blurted. Austria did more than capture England’s king, they held the entire country hostage. “Austria knew that without Richard, England would fall into factions. And a people divided are most easily conquered. The answer—the only answer—is for Richard to return. Everything will be better if Richard returns.”

  “You don’t want to be king?”

  “Good God no. I’d literally—literally! Look at all this!—rather be dead.”

  Lord de Wendenal clicked his tongue. “How much of the ransom has been raised?”

  John wished he had a better answer. “Not enough.”

  “I think that a lot of people,” Wendenal said carefully, “view the payment of this ransom as weakness. They think that England will look weak for capitulating to Austria’s demands.”

  “They’re right,” John sighed. “But it is still the best plan we have. Perhaps England can someday pay Austria back for this injustice, in time. In a decade, Richard can claim his revenge. But England has to survive this threat to make that possible.”

  “What about a rescue?” Wendenal asked, with a spark of light in his eye. “Could Richard be rescued?”

  “I’d say you’re too old for swashbuckling, Beneger.”