Lionhearts

by Nathan Makaryk

  “How was Will?” John asked as they walked.

  “Hard to say.” She shrugged. Will Scarlet would always be a man of extremes. “But I’d like to say he was doing better. He needs things to do, you know? And in Nottingham … I think he had a lot to do, at least. He didn’t seem as selfish. Not better, perhaps. But headed there.”

  “That’s good.” John nodded. “I hated to see him suffer.”

  “Nobody’s seen him since the siege ended, nor Arthur. Charley said they’re not in the prisons, either,” she added. “They must have found a chance to sneak out. You haven’t heard from them, then?”

  Little shook his head.

  “Maybe they’ll head to Huntingdon.” She smiled to a young woman they passed, who was sweeping ashes into a small basin. “It’s still dangerous for them both here, so maybe they’ll come join us there.”

  The next few steps were silent, which meant that John doubted the idea. She couldn’t blame him—she didn’t believe it herself.

  “That’s a shame about David, though,” John said at last, his voice low. “And Charley. It’s still hard to think of him as a Guardsman, little frog ’at he is. I never would have known, not for my life. But … you say he’s trustworthy?”

  “He is.” She was surprised to say it. She had thought Charley might have opted to stay behind, but he’d sought them out again and was eager to return to Huntingdon with the others. “He did right by us. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “That’s good.” John nodded seriously, as if this one thing might redeem all the rest of it. “I always liked him.”

  “And Will and Arthur … they’ll show up eventually, I think. Once this gets all settled.”

  “Woof.” John flashed his eyebrows as they rounded a corner that led to the Market Square. It was packed with humans all eager to catch a glimpse of the proceedings. Heralds stood at every block or so, standing on hastily made wooden platforms, repeating each proclamation of the day. “I think we’ll be back in Huntingdon and die of old age long before this ever ‘gets all settled.’”

  He squeezed her shoulder and grinned, then barked some curt words at the people before them in the crowd to make a hole, and they wormed their way down the streets to eventually return to the celebration.

  * * *

  KING RICHARD SAT IN THE middle of a row of mismatched tallback chairs on an elevated stage at the east end of the Square, flanked by several swaying standards and banners bearing his sigil—three lions rampant on a red field. Arable assumed those beside him were his lieutenants, though she only recognized half their symbols and fewer of their faces. Prince John was amongst them, though near the end of the row. His placement was simultaneously a show of forgiveness as well as an absolute reprimand.

  A good deal of the day went by unnotably, and the crowds shifted frequently as people came to watch for some time before realizing they did not understand any of what was being discussed. There were some auctions for smaller plots of land whose owners had been unfortunately killed, but there was little excitement and often few buyers in those sales. Prince John’s most prestigious allies were punished with diplomacy alone, which much disappointed a crowd that had rather hoped to see some bloodshed for whichever side they thought was more in the wrong. Some charges of misconduct were raised against the Archbishop of York, which Richard eventually dismissed, though the Bishop of Coventry was not as lucky. Arable paid closer attention when she heard the name of William d’Albini—the Sheriff of Rutland who had once refused them hospitality as they crossed his borders—but he was receiving favor rather than disparagement. Rutland was rewarded the lands of Roger de Montbegon, who had sided with John—and so on and so on, to nobody’s surprise or interest.

  There was one bit of news that was met with varying reactions, at Richard’s announcement of a new tax—which he called a carucage. Nobody else seemed to be thrilled at the idea of a new tax, but Arable lit up and slapped John’s shoulders. “That’s Marion!” she squeaked. “That was her idea, and Richard is using it!”

  “Carucage?” John struggled with the word. “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s a representative tax, in which a landholder is taxed based on the size of his land, rather than a fixed percentage.”

  “Oh,” John answered, though he clearly did not understand. “And that’s better, is it?”

  “Well,” they weren’t in the best environment for a lesson on economics, “for some, yes. How much land do you own, after all?”

  “None.”

  “Well there you go.”

  John beamed. “I like it.”

  “It’s not exactly a fix,” Arable explained, “but it’s a start. More important, it means Richard really will listen to Marion. It’s everything she wanted, everything she was working for. She can finally help us from the top down, rather than the bottom up.”

  This, at least, John understood, and his face nearly choked with pride. “Maybe someday she’ll actually get a seat up there.”

  Now that was a radical idea. “One step at a time, John.”

  He gave her an elbow, his whole heart flush in his face. “Well, of course! Don’t you know? That’s how walking forward works.”

  One step at a time.

  They stayed for a while and watched. They purchased some apples and a rind of cheese from a salty old vendor who was doing very well for himself in this crowd. Most had taken a seat, turning the day’s event into a city-wide picnic—which was such an impossible thing to believe, given how recently there had been full-fledged warfare in this very same plaza. If she looked for it, she could probably find blood stains in the cobbles and stone walls. That ghost of violence was ignored in favor of a bit of relaxation and the enjoyment of King Richard’s presence in Nottingham, which would undoubtedly be a story many a child would hear for decades. That was how the world moved on, Arable recognized. By letting the past slide by. By choosing the promise of the future.

  The biggest repercussions of the war had already been announced in the morning, when the King declared his brother John’s punishment. This came in the form of Richard’s proclamation of his nephew Arthur as his official heir—which frankly did not seem to be much of a punishment at all to the prince. Arable had met the man in person and found not a single stitch of his body that ever wanted the burden of being king—despite what everyone seemed to think of him, or however they misinterpreted his seizure of the castle.

  Ironically, Prince John had been correct all along. King Richard made his declarations in French, which were then translated by an attendant and repeated by the heralds. Which meant that at the end of the day, after all the misunderstandings and conspiracies, John had indeed been defending Nottingham from a French-led army intent on making Arthur Plantagenet the next king after all.

  Arable enjoyed that joke immensely, even if nobody else did.

  The difference, of course, was that King Richard was young, healthy, and—most importantly—not in a prison. Therefore, he had many years to make a more legitimate heir. Neither his nephew nor his brother would ever rule, and England could finally start healing. Long Live the King, after all, wasn’t an endorsement of the King—it was merely a recognition that things were generally more peaceful when nobody was fighting for the throne.

  As the proceedings continued, John Little made his own improvised translations to Richard’s French, whispering them to Arable. “I hereby declare,” he announced at a half voice, imitating the king’s wide gestures, “that I have … two hands!”

  Arable laughed and nudged him.

  “Furthermore, this hand,” he mimicked as the King raised one higher in the air, “is my favorite! It is a good kingly hand, do you not agree?”

  The audience applauded for the king’s magnificent hand, and Arable burst in laughter.

  And so on.

  Sometime in the afternoon, the name of Sir Robert FitzOdo caught their attention, and Arable sat up and craned her neck at the stage. “In recognition of his acts of valor an
d courage in defense of the city…” the heralds were saying, and Arable spotted the bald knight before the King, one knee on the ground.

  “How about that,” she marveled. She’d never interacted with the man herself, but the stories Lord Beneger and Robert had recounted were certainly not of a man who deserved any royal laurels.

  “… Hero of Nottingham, to receive land in the Sherwood, and dispensation…”

  “Hero of Nottingham?” John asked, harshly. “Wasn’t FitzOdo the one that gave Lord Robert’s face that bruising?”

  “I can’t imagine he’ll be pleased with that,” she replied, straining to understand what else was being said. “But that’s the way of the world, I suppose.”

  It was not as if they could rush the stage and explain the worser things the man had done. That which had happened before the siege might as well have been a lifetime ago. King Richard was washing the slate, and perhaps it was wise to set the new table with more heroes than villains. It would be a wondrous change of pace.

  It was not terribly long after that when her own name was called by the heralds.

  “Did I hear that right?” John raised an eyebrow at her.

  “That sounded like me,” she said, equally perplexed.

  “Well go on, girl!” he roared. “Don’t want to miss out on becoming a Hero of Nottingham!”

  Her name had just been one of many listed to be called in the next hour, and she waited with another crowd by the side of the stage for them to be acknowledged one by one. Most of the important dignitaries had been doled out their gifts first thing in the morning, so she waited mostly with minor commanders from armies on both sides, or lesser landowners who expected some small reward. Marion and Lord Robert’s names were also announced, though they had a slightly more prestigious waiting area where Arable was not allowed.

  Eventually, she was summoned by a little shrew of a man in a motley of purple checkers, who ushered her clerically toward the stage. And then Arable de Burel was—against all likeliness—kneeling just feet away from Richard the Lionheart, King of England.

  After a bit of consultation with his advisor, he turned his warm face to her. “Arable, you speak French,” he said in his preferred language, “which is good, as I would have you hear this from me directly. I understand you are with child, yes, and that the father is William de Wendenal?”

  She bowed her head. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Stand, please.” When he smiled, it was as if she could see the very reason he was king. “I cannot ask a pregnant woman to bow to me. I knew William, as I’m sure you know. I was very close to him. It grieves me to hear of his death, more than I think I could ever quite express. He was a loyal and good man, and I was a better King with him by my side. Many a night passed in which I wondered if it was wrong of me to send him home, him and Robin both. Perhaps I could have avoided capture in Austria if they had still been with me!”

  His advisors laughed, though Arable did not know what to say aside from, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “I’ve also been informed of your own difficulties, Arable, and I wish to help.”

  She focused and hoped to memorize what came next, that she could tell it to her daughter someday. The day that King Richard returned and everything—as Marion had promised at the council—became better.

  “Unfortunately, this comes with some bad news as well. I’m sorry to tell you that William’s father—your child’s grandfather—is dead.”

  Lord Beneger … Arable wasn’t sure what to do with that information. A few weeks ago it would have brought her nothing but relief, though now their relationship had become more complicated. “I had not heard that,” she replied. “I knew he’d been injured, but I was told he was likely to survive his wounds.”

  “Regretfully, this wasn’t in battle.” The King looked to his advisors. “He was murdered yesterday.”

  “I was witness to it,” came a hoarse voice, and Arable found its owner. She had not noticed that William de Ferrers was amongst Richard’s council, possibly because his face was so swollen and distorted. One of his hands was bandaged into a thick ball. More linens were wrapped around his neck, ineffectively concealed by a green kerchief. But his tight curly hair and ivory cloak were his alone. He stood, though with extreme difficulty. “It was Robin Hood.”

  “Robin Hood?” Arable asked aloud. There was no one left to claim that title, except for Will Scarlet, who was currently unaccounted for.

  Ferrers simply nodded. “Robin Hood. He and his men came into my office while Lord Beneger was visiting me. We were discussing his son, actually, when they attacked. Robin Hood forced a noose around my neck and threw me from the window.” His good hand scratched at the cloth around his throat, which explained his gravelly voice. “I was very lucky that my neck did not break, and luckier still there were men on the battlements who saw me, and cut me down before I strangled. We rushed back to my office, but it was regretfully too late for Lord Beneger. Robin Hood and his men had killed him, and were long gone.”

  “My God.” Arable could hardly understand it. Robin Hood and his men … Scarlet and Arthur … and Gilbert, perhaps? Zinn’s crew? Who else hated Lord Beneger? She’d never cared for Ferrers and would have loved to see him thrown out a window, but she had no idea who to thank for that. As for Lord Beneger, she had yet to understand what emotions were going to burrow up later about his murder.

  “My men are investigating,” King Richard assured her, “but in the meantime, you have your grief to tend to. However, as I’m sure you are aware, Lord Beneger had no other legitimate heir, but he does have considerable affairs. Though you were not married to William, I’m told you were important to him. As my debt to William, then, I use my prerogative. If your child proves to be male, he shall inherit all his grandfather’s land and titles. If not, I would urge you to marry quickly, to secure your household.”

  She was utterly bewildered. Your household.

  “What are you saying?”

  Richard, this strange man with a crown and a gentle face, reached out for her hand. “I’m saying that you have my friendship, Lady Arable de Burel, Countess de Wendenal. And I hope your future is brighter than your past.”

  * * *

  ARABLE REMAINED AT THE ceremony in a stupor for some time, offered a seat in one of the finer spectator galleries that had been erected nearby. There seemed to be an endless number of affluent men who were now eager to offer her a chair and congratulations. Later she might realize they had begun the time-honored dance of the nobility—courting those with power in the hopes of adding it to their own. It was not chivalry that gave her a cushion to sit upon, but greed. But for the moment, Arable did not care in the slightest. If these capitulating men sought to be considered as a potential suitor, that was their mistake to make. For none of them knew her, nor what she had been through.

  Countess de Wendenal needed nobody’s help.

  Such a strange thing, she could hardly wrap her mind around it. She’d spent half her life in fear of Lord Beneger, the man who’d eradicated every last Burel from England, who’d decimated their estate down to rubble. Now, instead, it was the Wendenals who were extinct—and the last surviving Burel had control of their titles. She thought about dismantling the Wendenal manor as a fair balance, but that felt like a selfish sort of petty revenge. Revenge was Beneger’s game, no. The Wendenal manor would stand. She could change the name, of course, but something felt appropriate about keeping it, that her title as its steward would become her trophy. A testament to what she had endured, and overcome.

  Though her daughter would decidedly still be a Burel.

  At length, Arable spotted some of her friends in the crowd—John Little caught her gaze and gave a flummoxed bow, which she could only purse her lips at and shake off. The Delaney brothers each doffed their cap to her, though Nick’s smile was one of both admiration and loss. Perhaps they would consider coming with her to the Wendenal estate and leave Huntingdon behind. Though Huntingdon’s castle was f
ar grander than anything she’d just inherited, there was no pretending any of them felt at home there. Instead, Arable could give Marion’s group a true place they belonged, without the watchful eye of the Countess Magdalena, and without the sense of indebtedness.

  Arable’s home would be a haven for all. She’d never been to Locksley, but she wanted it to be all the things that John Little and Marion described about that place, and more.

  Eventually there were more names she recognized summoned to the King. “Lord Robert, Earl of Huntingdon!”

  Robert assembled forward and bowed, his half cape pulled dramatically to the side with one arm. His face, however, looked much like Ferrers’s. Robert had taken a gruesome beating at the hands of Sir Robert FitzOdo—the Hero of Nottingham—in the battles for the city streets, and it would be some time before his charming smile was seen again. He had very likely watched FitzOdo’s commendation, Arable considered. That must have been difficult for Robert.

  “Huntingdon,” King Richard acknowledged the earl, and then stepped sideways to consult with an advisor who was furiously shuffling about some ledgers. They consulted for a short time before Richard waved his hand in understanding, and turned back to Robert with something akin to disappointment. “I’ve heard much of the exploits of Huntingdon, of late. My coinmaster would remind me that you were negligent in your dues toward paying my ransom.” This he accented with a comical frown.

  “That is true, Your Grace,” Robert returned lightly, “though not for want of effort. I am most pleased to see that you have returned to us, regardless of Huntingdon’s missing share. Perhaps we can repay you in another way?”

  “Mm. Perhaps.” The king made a nondescript signal to his advisor. “My mother traded many important men as hostages instead of ransom payment, and we still have a good deal of money to raise in that regard.”

  “Indeed, Your Grace.”

  “But what concerns me more is the account of a particular council you held recently at your castle…?”