This is the tale of a boy that was angry with the world.
Will Scarlet on his right side, David of Doncaster on his left, they ran. There was no way to plug that hole, no way to close the gates again. Just like that, the lower bailey was lost. Up on the ramparts the archers scrambled to shoot down into the attackers, but down here there were just people ready to be trampled. They couldn’t fight this.
Nobody ever taught him that his hands could be used as anything but fists.
Screams, again, this time the dying. Arthur wondered pitifully if the people behind him might slow the horses down with their bodies. Might buy him a few extra seconds of life.
So he smashed the world, to make it as ugly as he thought it was. As ugly as he thought himself.
Up ahead, the slope and the bridge up to the barbican, where the portcullis was already being lowered. It stopped a few feet off the ground—low enough for people to scramble beneath, but impossible for a horse. The men who manned the gates knew the danger, and a small group of spearmen had already come out with shields to make a wall, to let as many people through before the horses got to them. Arthur prayed he would get there in time. He didn’t even realize he was praying, but he asked God for help more times in thirty seconds than in thirty years.
One day the angry boy met another boy, whose hands were open, not closed. The angry boy had never seen such a thing before. Didn’t know hands could do that.
The crowd around the portcullis was huge, a hundred people desperately trying to duck beneath it to safety, and the spearmen expanded to keep them protected. Some joined that group, though armed only with swords they fared little chance against mounted attacks. Arthur ran past the shield line, astonished he was alive, pushing forward, urging, he could hear the riot of violence behind him. The archers, too, were retreating from the curtain wall, back to the doorways that led up to the middle bailey barracks. He cursed whoever had given the command to open the gates for the captain, who didn’t think the French could rush it in time.
The angry boy used his fists on the new boy, because it was the only language he spoke.
After ducking under the iron teeth of the gate, Arthur helped Will Scarlet do the same, but his stomach lurched when David was not there. He turned and looked through the grate’s wide squares, but David was not nearby. Damned damned David of Doncaster, always easy to spot in a crowd, he was still down at the foot of the hill with four other men. They’d picked up one of the siege ladders and had turned it into a fence, keeping the charging horses at bay.
And the new boy, bleeding, welcomed the angry boy still, with open hands.
Because that was the only language he spoke, too.
Arthur screamed his name, as others flooded under the gate. They even raised it up a few more feet that the crowd could escape faster. But some were still behind, fighting back, or creating a blockade with David. David had probably called Arthur’s name, asking for him to help, and he hadn’t heard. Or maybe David had just gone, because that was who he was. It was his instinct to help before ever looking after himself. It was that thing Arthur had thought he’d found, the urge to help—but here he was, realizing it wasn’t in him yet.
He could talk about it, but it wasn’t in his bones. David … David did it just as natural as breathing.
In time, the angry boy learned to open his hands, and with it he opened his heart.
The makeshift hovels that the baileyfolk had built from the broken spectator stands, they were obstacles for the horses, too. The siege ladders quickly turned those obstacles into dead ends. They’d accidentally made a maze. And from above, some quick-thinking shitheads in the middle bailey started throwing barrels down, small casks full of oil, that shattered and splashed open amongst all that wooden claptrap. Bam bam bam, the barrels fell with sickening noise, even over the roar of everything else, and quickly followed by a hail of arrows, their heads lit ablaze, and where they found wood and oil the flames took quickly.
One of those barrels, sent by some horse-fucking Guardsman who thought he was saving the day—Arthur watched as it crashed squarely over his friend David’s head.
When the new boy died, the angry boy’s heart closed into a stone fist.
Arthur was carried backward by the crowd, away from the portcullis. The world had lost all color except the orange of flame. The gate slammed down, its hideous iron scream putting an end to the day’s fight. More arrows rained down from above. The structures of the lower bailey billowed into a massive column, the black smoke encompassing the entire bailey, choking the attackers and forcing them back. The French had conquered the bailey but couldn’t use it, not now, not until the fires were out. Anyone who tried to stay in that inferno would be burnt to cinders.
Arthur didn’t move from the inner gate, despite the heat, despite Will Scarlet’s attempts to pry his bleeding fingers off those iron bars. His eyes were locked on the black shape that was once his only friend.
And when the angry boy smashed the world again, it was all the worse. Because it was no longer the only language he knew, it was now the language he chose.
SIXTY-FOUR
QUILLEN PEVERIL
STREETS OF NOTTINGHAM
THE SKY WAS BLACK, though it was but only midafternoon. Quillen covered his mouth and nose with his jerkin whenever they were outside, and his eyes stung from the ash in the air. None of them knew what exactly to make of the raging smoke that erupted still from the castle’s first bailey, but not one of them was naïve enough to think that the castle being on fire could count as a good thing.
He was still paired with Lord Beneger and the earl Robert of Huntingdon, though they had lost Gilbert some time ago in one of the many instances when they’d been separated from Sir Robert FitzOdo. Their day was spent in waves of attack and retreat, running at sometimes breakneck speeds through the streets parallel to those the main English army occupied, trying to keep up with FitzOdo and his mobilized pockets of followers in the city. At times the three of them fought reluctantly alongside those citizens just to keep near FitzOdo, at other times they worked against them—notifying the army that they were about to be assaulted, in the hopes of dissuading any more needless killing. More than a few times Quill stopped to wonder what exactly their mission had devolved into.
“Why not head back to the Trip to Jerusalem?” he asked at the next opportunity. “We can secure it now, and defend it if FitzOdo comes back later.”
“There are only three of us, Peveril.” Lord Beneger was clearly loath to explain himself. “You’ve seen how many followers FitzOdo has. We can’t defend that tavern from him if he comes back to it. Our only chance is stop him out here.”
“Then let’s just stab him already!” They’d been near FitzOdo all day, sometimes fighting side by side.
Beneger shook his head. “If we confront him while he’s with his people, they’ll eviscerate us. But if we can isolate him, then we can control him. That’s the key to winning your battles, Peveril. Only participate in fights you know you can win.”
Lord Robert’s bated breath told Quill that he was having similar doubts.
“Arable might need us,” Quill argued. “They might already be back. This wasn’t the plan.”
“The plan was to stop FitzOdo, to clear a path for her.”
“Killing the knight doesn’t change anything.” Lord Robert’s voice was careful. “If his followers all go back to the Trip later, as you say, they’ll still overwhelm us—with or without him. But if we go back now, at least we can be there if Arable’s group is successful.”
Lord Beneger’s brow hardened on them. “If we go back, our only strategy is to hope for the best. Out here, we have our best opportunity to strike.”
“Ben,” Quill said, not even meaning to be so informal, “FitzOdo did a lot of things in the name of Robin Hood, but he wasn’t…”
The look he received was as good as a slap in the face.
“Don’t,” was all Beneger said. But Quill couldn’t help but wo
nder if they were chasing FitzOdo for the wrong reasons. If Beneger had become so obsessed with hunting down his son’s murderer that he could not see the folly in what they were doing now. The Grieving Father of Nottingham was already beyond fatigued by their day of skirmishes he was ill suited for. The man was on the wrong side of age to strike fear into the hearts of anyone who did not know him. It was his reputation and name that made people give him his leave, but in the midst of a melee with strangers he was just an older man with silvering hair—quite the easy combatant at a glance. Quill recalled with unease his first encounter with Lord Beneger in the spiral stairwell, where he had broken his knife against the stone wall. His best days were behind him, and still he pushed on.
This was a man driven to a single goal. And it was not the right one.
Quill was about to suggest to Lord Robert that they leave Beneger to his revenge, when the earl pointed a finger through the grey haze of the street. “There.”
FitzOdo was retreating from the group he’d met. He was carrying a heavy glaive now, and the awkward dimensions of the massive axe prevented him from running.
“He’s leaving them.”
“And heading toward the Trip,” Beneger added. “What did I tell you? It’s now, then.”
Quill cursed under his breath.
Even though they’d been more or less hoping for this opportunity for hours, Quill had been leaning toward the less. He’d hoped the war would take care of the FitzOdo problem on its own. Not to mention that Quill had never sparred anyone with a glaive before, and he was fairly certain his head might pop itself off just to save the trouble.
But instead he loped through the crooked alley to the left, where they hoped to intercept the Coward Knight on his way back to the inn.
There was a compelling part of Quill that wanted to raise his hands and claim privilege—that he could walk away and return to a home of comfort in Derby, leaving this mess to the commonfolk and soldiers who were much better prepared for killing and dying. But both his companions had more prestige than he, and showed no signs of hesitation. Huntingdon was an earl, for God’s sake, and here he was leaping through city streets like some sort of brazen vigilante. It was the coward in Quill that made him want to flee, he knew that. He knew it, he accepted it, he’d happily write home about it and scream it from the rooftops if it meant he didn’t have to hold any of his innards in his hands this day.
When they rounded the corner into a small squarish plaza, the behemoth shape of Sir Robert FitzOdo was standing in wait, expecting them, the long cleavered blade of his polearm held at a casual but dangerous angle. His voice, unnaturally deep. “Made your decision finally, did you?”
“FitzOdo,” Lord Beneger said, catching his breath. “You have crimes to answer for.”
“And you think now’s the time for the answering, then?” The knight’s lips pulled back into a farcical grin. “Oh, because I’m alone. You’ve been following me all day, but justice waits until you think you have the advantage, does it? Fickle thing, your justice.”
Beneger swallowed. “You have abused your power for months. Your only charge in this city was to track down Robin Hood, and instead you—”
“Robin Hood’s dead!” FitzOdo howled. “Anybody can pretend to be him, because there is no Robin Hood. He’s a whisper in the night, he’s a fucking myth. You can’t catch a myth, you can only change its details. That’s what I did. I did the impossible—I killed a dead man. And in so doing, I saved this fucking city.”
Quill couldn’t hide his laugh. He pointed at the black smoke that made a dark canopy, streaming over the buildings around them. “It doesn’t look saved to me.”
“Shut your cunt mouth, Peveril.”
He did.
“A few months ago,” the knight continued, “nobody in this city would have lifted a finger in defense of it. They would have thought their precious Robin Hood would do it for them. Well, where was he today?”
As if to make a point on it, a curl of wind whistled through the alley, bringing with it specks of glowing ash.
“Exactly. I taught the people to stand up for themselves, and that’s what we did today. This city should be sacked, but instead it’s intact. The words you should be looking for are thank you.”
“If you are so certain you’ve acted honorably,” the earl Robert said, defiantly flipping his half cape over his shoulder, exposing the hilt of his rapier, “then submit yourself to us. We shall hear the full account of your actions. Perhaps the King himself will judge in your favor.”
FitzOdo’s jaw hardened, his eyes made a very obvious summation of the earl. “Well there’s the thing. I did not act honorably. After all, I’m the Coward Knight, aren’t I? I earned that name here, in these streets, when I infiltrated the last army that tried to siege the castle. Saved the city then, too, and labeled with dishonor. But you know what? I don’t need your respect. I don’t need the pissant King’s respect either. The only worthy man I know is King Henry, and I’ve done him proud, rest his soul, in this fetid shit world he left behind. So go fuck yourselves with your honorable. And get out of my way so I can save some more lives.”
Metal on metal, Robert and Beneger drew their weapons. Quill did the same a moment later, his delay earning a new barrel of laughter from FitzOdo.
“You’re mad at me for killing a few people,” he chuckled, “and yet you insist on adding yourselves to that list?”
“You kill us, it will be in a fair fight,” Beneger said evenly. “But you tortured the innocent. Beat them, burnt them, murdered them. You don’t deserve to be in the Black Guard, much less to be called a knight. If you will not come with us willingly, we’ll take you by force, FitzOdo.”
“Say my fucking name!” the bald knight snapped. “I’m a goddamned knight, I knelt before the King himself, you will say fucking sir when you address me!”
Oh, Quill sometimes hated himself, because he couldn’t keep from saying it.
“Very well. Fucking Sir it is.”
Like a raging bull, the battle began with a kick in the dirt. Fucking Sir dashed his feet in fury through a pile of ash that had already rained down, causing the three of them to recoil. A second later the plume was split by the heft of his axehead, forcing them to startle backward and give the monster space. Beneger, in their middle, split distance with the earl and signaled Quill to circle sideways, that they could surround him. It seemed an obvious advantage to Quill, even with his rudimentary knowledge of the finer points of killing things—and three against one seemed like the type of mathematics that ought to settle the fight easily.
Instead, FitzOdo somehow threatened all of them at once. The long pole of his glaive meant he was always poised against two of them, and he flicked constantly at the third, daring an attack. Beneger made a couple feints with his sword but FitzOdo practically snarled them off, while the earl seemed more interested in making light footwork than risking any sort of attack. Quill was left waiting for an opening—surely FitzOdo’s bare back would present itself eventually, and then it was simply a matter of stabbing it with his stabstick.
FitzOdo attacked first, a swing that started at Robert and ended at Beneger, and Quill tried to leap forward into the gap, but the glaive was already rounding and came careening low in a slice that Quill only avoided by throwing his legs backward; which had the predictable effect of landing him stomachwise on the ground. He panicked and rolled, only barely able to hold onto his sword as he did so, expecting his body to neatly split in two as FitzOdo came for a second round. But Ben distracted him, and the first shrill howls of steel on steel split the air as Quill scrambled to get his feet under him again.
A series of cracks continued as FitzOdo struck forward violently, again and again, pushing Beneger backward. Beneger managed to parry the thick blade’s thrusts to alternating sides as he retreated, but it was obvious there was more force behind those strikes than Beneger could handle. Quill ran forward along with Robert to engage him from behind, but the man had clearl
y anticipated that. He pivoted and flung his weapon up at both of them—Robert wisely ducked to the side, while Quill brought his sword up on instinct and felt the impact rock his entire body. His arms were flung wildly against his own face and he was pushed backward, his forearms reverberating with the violence of the attack.
And suddenly his sternum cracked and he collapsed to the ground.
FitzOdo had struck him square in the chest with the wooden end of his long handle, which was the only reason he was not dead yet. But his vision rippled with bright lights and stars and hot lances sliced through his ribs when he tried to inhale. My ribs are broken, Quill gasped, I can’t breathe. He groaned and grabbed at his chest, kicking himself backward on the ground with his feet, gulping down air in short shallow bursts. His hands were quivering uncontrollably, and he grabbed his entire chest as if to keep it from sliding apart in halves.
He could only watch, in agony, as FitzOdo stomped the ground again with his unreasonably thick legs, punched forward with his glaive held horizontally in his hands, and then charged Lord Beneger de Wendenal. Once, twice, Ben’s sword made contact with the cleaver but only accidentally, and then the huge protruding tooth of the glaive was in his side and Ben screamed, falling back with the momentum of the blows. Quill had to blink to make certain what had happened; it looked like Ben had taken the blade mostly in the armpit. It was very possible the man’s arm was halfway severed at the shoulder, and he clutched the wound in his left hand, blood seeping through his fingers.
Lord Beneger was going to die, and Quill was going to watch it happen.
And then he was probably going to die as well.
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