Lionhearts

by Nathan Makaryk

  The hubbub about the stage died down, as all eyes found themselves falling askance upon the Lord Robert. “We did hold a council, Your Grace,” he continued carefully, sensing the shift in mood. “We feared that King Philip of France was moving against you, and so we discussed this as a potential threat to your throne.”

  “King Philip?” Richard asked. “That’s a lofty target for an earl’s purview.”

  “It was merely a discussion, Your Grace.”

  “My brother tells me you were working for King Philip, not against him.”

  If there was still any chatter to be silenced, it fell away now.

  “With respect, His Grace the prince has misunderstood our intentions.”

  “They meant to put me on the throne,” Prince John declared, standing from his chair at the end of the stage. “There was nothing to misunderstand.”

  “Which would mean,” the king picked up the thought, “the removal of myself.”

  Lord Robert glanced sideways for help, but found none. Nobody else of any notoriety had actually arrived at the council, so there was none here to either share the blame or defend him. Certainly not a lowly, newly bestowed countess like Arable.

  Robert’s voice quivered. “You were captured, your fate unknown. We sought only to protect England, to do as we believe you would have wished us to.”

  “My fate was anything but unknown. It was quite explicitly known to all.” Richard drew back his sleeves, ringed in golden fur, to reveal his bare wrists. They were red and raw, the wounds were clear from any distance. “I sat chained in an Austrian prison for months, awaiting the ransom from my country. A ransom to which you did not contribute, all while conspiring with your allies to denounce me and leave me to rot. And you would claim this is what I would have wished of you?”

  Arable’s heart was pounding, but indecision crippled her. If she spoke to defend him, she might be casting her lot in with his, whatever that may be. And it was highly unlikely she had anything to add that would sway the king’s accusation. But Lord Robert had rescued them all, and was now about to suffer for it, with nobody to stand by his side.

  “Your Grace, I fought for you,” Robert pleaded, confusion in his voice. “My bannermen rode by your side, we bled and died for you here. I myself took your trusted command and infiltrated the city to stop this war—what … what else would you ask of me to prove my loyalty?”

  “Consistency.” Richard’s voice was bemused. “Your loyalty means nothing if it only exists while I am nearby.”

  An exasperated sigh drew from Robert’s bruised lips. “Of course, Your Grace. I throw myself to your mercy, and pledge that Huntingdon is ever your friend. This misunderstanding is solely my failing, but I have delivered you—”

  “There you are again, Huntingdon, you say one thing but do another.”

  Robert shook his head. “I don’t understand, Your Grace.”

  “You say you throw yourself at my mercy, but still you kneel there, unmoved. If you are a man of your word, then I invite you to prove it. Throw yourself, then, at my feet.”

  This was met with a few snickers that were quickly hushed, while Richard splayed his fingers out to demonstrate the empty space before him.

  “You want me to … you ask me to throw myself at the floor?”

  “Exactly that.”

  Robert looked about uneasily, brushing his sleeves flat and tidying himself. When it seemed clear the King did not mean to retract this unusual demand, Robert swallowed, pulled back on his haunches, and dove limply to land on his belly before the King. The stage erupted in laughter, and Arable’s stomach twisted with embarrassment for the man. There was no need for such belittlement, but it was an utter relief as an alternative to something worse.

  “Robert of Huntingdon, I strip you of the title of earl, and demand that you surrender yourself to my custody until Chancellor Longchamp has decided what to do with you.”

  Arable gasped, but threw a hand over her mouth.

  From the sides of the stage, several royal Guardsmen in red-and-gold tabards moved forward and lowered their long pikes in line with Lord Robert, who struggled to right himself, stammering for words. “Wait!” he cried, but one of the Guardsmen turned his pike around and punched its flat end into Robert’s stomach. The crowd exploded in joy at the display of violence. Tears jumped to Arable’s eyes—for Robert’s mistreatment, but even more so for the number of people who watched it in laughter, letting their cruelest side show.

  The King continued with an insulting nonchalance. “I award the earldom of Huntingdonshire to Lord Simon de Senlis, fourth of his name. The de Senlis house has proudly led Huntingdon for generations, and Lord Simon proved himself with distinction in the battlefield outside these castle walls. Lord Simon, you have my absolute faith in your position.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” replied de Senlis, who had risen simply from his chair not so far away from Arable, and sat down again with the contemptible smile of a man whose every plot had come to fruition.

  Beside him, beaming with pride, the Countess Magdalena de Bohun.

  Watching her husband’s ruin, with a single cocked eyebrow.

  “Richard!” came a cry from Arable’s left, and the crowd shifted to see Marion, her face red and furious, who was clearly freeing herself from two other attendants who must have been trying to keep her from interrupting. Thank God, Arable exhaled. Marion repeated the King’s name like a mother scolding a child, and the shocked murmurs of her impudence rippled through the spectators.

  But at this, it was Arable’s turn to laugh.

  They had no idea what they were about to witness.

  They thought Richard was a Lionheart? Then Lady Marion Fitzwalter was a dragon.

  “I will vouch for Lord Robert’s loyalty,” she announced, her every syllable on the precipice of derision. “He had nothing to do with the arrangement of the council in Huntingdon. I can gladly explain it—though I assure you, its details are far short of scandalous.”

  The crowd gave an uncertain grumble. Let them, then. Arable adjusted her seat to watch with pride. Let them be surprised.

  King Richard angled his head and smiled, gesturing grandly to Marion. “My cousin,” he introduced her to the crowd, “whose name, I understand, is well known in these parts.”

  Marion ground her jaw, eyeing the King with precision. Her voice lowered. “We discussed this.”

  “We did discuss this, cousin. Or rather, you discussed it with me, before I had any other knowledge of it, and I took your version as truth. But since then I have been informed not by one or several but by dozens of my loyal advisors that your council in Huntingdon was anything but short on scandal, and that you and Lord Robert were behind its orchestration.”

  That was preposterous, Arable thought. It was his wife, the Countess Magdalena. She planned it all, then abandoned us, forced us to carry her burden.

  “As I said, I can explain—”

  “It has been explained, cousin. I also understand that politics is not the only bed in which you two have become entangled.”

  Marion’s jaw dropped.

  King Richard nodded to his men. “Take my cousin into custody as well,” he ordered them, “where she will remain until charges are levied against her, for conspiracy against her king, to be tried as a traitor to the crown and country.”

  “No!” Arable screamed, but it was lost in the crowd’s reaction, and there was suddenly a hand on her shoulder. She panicked and reeled—the man reaching to her from the row behind had an old, spotted face, but one that was familiar.

  “Sit down, Arable,” urged Waleran de Beaumont, the Earl of Warwick. The husband of Margery d’Oily, sister of Magdalena. He’d been Roger de Lacy’s friend, he’d fled from Nottingham last autumn when Prince John turned on him, just as he’d vanished from the council in Huntingdon after the prince’s arrival. And now he was here, his wild eyebrows pointed in a furious warning. “There’s nothing you can do. Not from here. Not right now.”

>   “They’re innocent!” she whispered back to him.

  “I know they are,” the earl hissed back. “But this isn’t a court, this is theater. And you’re a player now, like it or not. Keep your head low, and you may survive to play in the next act.”

  He tugged her to be seated, though he kept a firm but respectful hold of her shoulder.

  Arable turned back to the stage—the stage, by God—as Richard was calling for his men to remove Marion by force.

  Where was Amon? Arable strained to look. Why was he not there to protect her?

  “Marion!” Lord Robert screamed, still on his knees, until he shoved at the nearest Guardsman and stole a sword from the man’s scabbard, wielding it back wide. More blades were drawn, Arable’s heart stopped—

  “No, Robert!” But Marion was surrounded by men in red tabards, their pikes leveled to make a cage around her, while others moved forward and drew their swords against Robert. “Don’t fight! Put your sword—”

  The first ring of steel on steel shattered the tension in the crowd. Like a hot bubble of oil it burst, and sent ecstasy in its wake. The city had suffered the clamor of war merely days ago, but the shrill cry of combat now brought the city to bloodlust. The crowd in the Market Square was at its feet, pulsing, cheering, as city Guardsmen flooded forward to join the fray.

  In their own stalls, the other nobility were alarmed but not fleeing. Arable tried to rise again, while Waleran’s grip on her elbow only tightened. “Do not help them,” he pleaded. “Think of your child!”

  And he was right.

  She did nothing.

  She did nothing, as Robert swung his sword at the men with pikes, parrying their long thrusts but finding no room to get close enough for an attack of his own.

  She did nothing, as he was beaten backward, spinning and stepping deftly over low attacks, as he spun and saw the crowd gathering below, where more Guardsmen had cut off his escape.

  She did nothing, as he threw his cape around an incoming pikehead, redirecting it and lunging at its owner, even as another pike came in and punched a hole in the fabric, which tore in half as he wheeled away.

  She did nothing, as Robert’s name was screamed from the far end of the stage, where the two Delaney brothers had suddenly appeared, waving wildly, shouldering a few of the unaware Guardsmen from their post and off the platform, creating an opening.

  She did nothing, as Robert flew, bounding across the stage in a few graceful leaps. Nothing, as he dove off the edge and slashed his weapon at a pole beside him, toppling a red banner of Lionheart to slow down his pursuers. Nothing, as he vanished into the crowd, calling to Marion, promising to return for her.

  Nothing, as the Delaney brothers stumbled to catch up with him, to escape as well, suddenly confronted by Richard’s quickly recuperated private guard.

  Nothing, when the sharp tip of a pike plunged into Nick Delaney’s chest.

  Nothing, despite the urge to keel over.

  Nothing, as Peetey crumpled to the ground beside his brother, too awestruck to defend himself when a sword came down into his neck.

  Nothing, despite her every instinct, nothing.

  She did nothing as Marion’s dream fell to pieces, as her friends were dissembled.

  “No refuge, no mercy!” King Richard called to the crowd. “Not to those who would take advantage of England in her king’s absence! England is united against the thief, against the outlaw, against the subversionist! Loyalty to England!”

  The crowd—especially those closest to Arable—responded, “Loyalty to England!”

  “Say it,” Waleran whispered next to her. “You don’t have to mean it.”

  She did nothing—but neither did she cry out in terror, nor panic. No, not anymore. She did not look for an exit this time, she did not even think to hide. She did nothing now … so that she could be ready, someday, when the moment was right. If her muscles tensed, it was not in fear.

  Arable de Burel was steel, poised for the fight.

  Because while the Countess de Wendenal’s first official actions could outwardly be described as doing nothing, her inner thoughts for what came next were afire with the decidedly treasonous.

  Prince John stood by his brother on the stage. “Loyalty to Richard!”

  She joined the chorus. “Loyalty to Richard!”

  Each word, a lie.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Much of this list is retroactive gratitude for people who worked on this book’s predecessor, Nottingham, whom I may have not met until it was too late to change its acknowledgments.

  For both that book and this one, I continually owe my profound thanks …

  To all my readers, thank you deeply for spending your time with me and these (very many) pages. Whether you enjoyed them or not, I hope you found that time worthwhile. After all, inspiration doesn’t just come from the things you love, but from the things you don’t … which is what compelled me to write this series in the first place.

  To my editor Bess Cozby, for being a die-hard evangelist of this series, who not only always knows how to shape it into its best form, but is also particularly good into tricking me into thinking I came up with each idea myself.

  To my agent Jim McCarthy, who is endlessly kind and understanding and has quite curiously not slapped me hard across the face even once, despite the fact that I have very likely deserved it.

  To everyone at Tor/Forge Books (regardless of whether they had a hand in this book, because they’re all just fantastic), and specifically to Linda Quinton, Fritz Foy, Lucille Rettino, Patrick Canfield, Lauren Levite, Sarah Reidy, Caroline Perny, Jamie Stafford-Hill, Peter Lutjen, and Lauren Brenzy. Also to Matie Argiropoulos and Dakota Cohen of Macmillan Audio, and, of course, the spectacular audiobook performances for Nottingham by Raphael Corkhill and Marisa Calin, who have become the voices in my head when I write.

  To the team at Penguin Random House Australia for bringing me to the other side of the world, particularly to Beverley Cousins, Caitlin Jokovic, and Madison Garratt.

  To my wife, Cassie, for once again suffering the worst of keeping the child distracted so I could write.

  To the child, Ryland, except no. Quite the opposite. This book exists literally no thanks to you. You have in fact done everything in your three-year-old power to pull me away from writing for so-called critical activities like bulding train tracks, sword-fighting, wrestling with the sleepy monster, and trips to “The Grilled Cheese Store” (which, sorry to blow your mind, isn’t even its real name). You seem to be actively working against me, which means I hereby declare you my mortal enemy. I know you can’t read this yet, but someday you will—and when that day comes, know that you had best arm yourself with the nearest foam sword you can find, for I am very likely standing right behind you and I have been planning this moment for years.

  To the cast of the original stage production of The Legend of Robin Hood, whose unforgettable performances continue as my inspiration for their characters. Particularly to those whose roles continued into this book: Elisa Richter, Andrea Dennison-Laufer, Jaycob Hunter, David Chorley, Larry Creagan, Ryan Young, Gabriel Robins, Evan Green, Rob Downs, and Kyle Hawkins. But yes, also to those who I so brutally murdered in the previous book: Frank Tryon, Michael Keeney, Scott Keister, Sabrina Ianacone, Glenn Freeze, Jeremy Krasovic, and Bryce Wieth. And, of course, the crew and contributors: Lauren Shoemaker, Brian and Heidi Newell, Amber Robins, Amanda Zukle, and Sarah Haase.

  To the many wonderful new writer friends I’ve made along the way, in every stage of their own journeys, who are far too numerous to try to list here; and particularly to those in the Debut Authors ’19 group for creating a community of people all in need of each other’s advice, experience, and shoulders (both for boosting and for crying).

  Finally, to Talisker scotch whisky, who I include here solely in the hopes they will send me a free bottle. Or, you know, any other scotch distillery that would like to beat them to it.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

 
This is a work of fiction, inspired in equal parts by history and folklore.

  It is faithful to neither.

  (This note contains spoilers, so if you’re just casually browsing through the book and found this, I suggest you wait and read it after you’ve finished.)

  The return of King Richard to England and his immediate siege of Nottingham Castle is fairly well documented and occurred very closely to the manner depicted in this novel. The three-day duration and specific timeline of the siege, the identities of the allies on both sides, and the epic misunderstanding of the defenders believing they were under attack by the French have all been re-created as faithfully as possible. Even the names of the two men who finally came to meet with King Richard—Fulcher de Grendon and Henry Russell—are accurate (although almost nothing is known of either of these two men aside from their names, so I’ve obviously taken the liberty of shoehorning our own heroes into these roles). Like the first book in this series, I’ve also leveraged some revisionism in looking at the historical figures of John Lackland and King Richard, choosing to find alternative justifications for John’s behavior when he was—by all reliable historical accounts—just a terrible person. Likewise with Richard, I prefer to find the darker side of the legendary Lionheart, in order to bring both of these figures closer to a middle ground that we can comprehend.

  The council in Huntingdon was entirely my own creation, though eagle-eyed historians may notice that all the invited barons to Marion’s council (the ones who did not show up) will eventually become the twenty-five signatories of the Magna Carta against King John a decade or so later. That’s right, Marion started that. Fight me.

  There is one egregious historical error which I must confess. You may have noticed that the year of this book was only mentioned once, and for intentional reason. The first book was set in late 1191 which would set this book in early 1192, but the actual siege of Nottingham did not take place until early 1194. I retained the calendar dates of all events, but have quite brazenly moved the entire thing by two years, so that it would better suit the fictional narrative and characters established. In reality, Richard sat in an Austrian prison for about a year before being traded to the Holy Roman Emperor Henry VI and held there for another year. The effort to raise his ransom obviously lasted significantly longer than the few months described in this novel. I was hoping nobody would notice this change, so it’s probably a bad idea for me to mention it now. This is, I presume, why I don’t get invited to all the raging historical fiction writer parties.