Nottingham, Page 20

  “When I must,” FitzOdo winked, instantly earning Guy’s trust. “As I was saying, these horses last night struck my curiosity. I followed them a bit, enough to see they had a prisoner with them. They broke for the night in a set of caves, I think mostly to get out of the rain. I can’t promise you they’re still there, but I can tell you this much. You’re going the wrong way.”

  Hallam. Devon had been wrong. Hallam was practically where they started, much closer to Thieves Den than Hathersage. Their long rain-soaked night had been wasted, while their quarry had been sleeping rather than traveling. Guy glanced at Devon and saw the horror of this knowledge crawl up into his asshole for some heavy frolicking. Poor man.

  “Eat up, mount up, and let’s go,” Guy said.

  “Forget eating up,” Eric answered, pushing away his bowl with a finger. “Jon needs us. I don’t want to make him wait.”

  “Eat,” Guy demanded. “You’re no use to him if you don’t take care of yourself. We have a few hours’ ride ahead of us. A few minutes won’t make the difference.”

  Eric humphed, but didn’t eat any more. It was possible he wasn’t able to, given the state of his mouth. “If they’re there,” he said darkly, “the girl’s mine.”

  “If they’re there,” Guy matched his intensity, “we take them in.”

  “Captain—”

  “That’s not who we are. If you want to play by their rules, if you want to take whatever you want just because you want it, then go join them. We’re better than that. Justice, not vengeance. You’d all do well to keep that in mind.” Guy received a nod from each, excepting the young Ferrers, who didn’t seem to think it applied to him. “You heard Wendenal. The Sheriff didn’t want those outlaws harmed.”

  “That was before they captured Jon,” Eric growled.

  “Eric.” Guy said it carefully, refusing to raise the man’s temper. “Why are you here?”

  The two locked eyes, and Eric’s anger subsided. There was a reason Eric wasn’t a crown ranger anymore, and it wasn’t a pretty story. He had chosen once to make justice personal, and it nearly cost him everything. Left alone, the man was still at the mercy of his own demons. But Guy had given him a second chance rather than a gaol cell, and he’d earned it every day since.

  In some ways, Guy realized, that made Eric the first gerold. He’d never thought of it like that before.

  FitzOdo reared his massive head and stood. “Let’s at it then, and hope they’re still there.”

  * * *

  THEY WERE.

  FitzOdo had called it a cave, but that was an exaggeration. One tussocky hill rolled over another, and left a barren overhang that provided only a meager bit of shelter from the elements. Guy lay on his belly in the heather with the others, having crawled to the top of a neighboring hill to spy down on the camp. It sat in a wide bowl of a muddy hollow, but the night’s rain clouds had rolled along and left them a clear view even from a distance. Regardless, Guy could not make out any details. A slender white ribbon of smoke floated up and out of the blackened overhang, evidence of a campfire, but Guy struggled to identify any of the shapes around it.

  “There’s movement,” Eric mumbled. “Can’t tell how many, though. No sign of the horses, or the carriage.”

  “You’re certain that’s them?” Reginold asked, squinting his eyes in rapid succession to prove how little it was helping.

  “Could be a different pack of thieves with a different Guardsman as a prisoner.” FitzOdo rolled his head obviously, as if daring them to question his story. Bolt choked a little, his version of a laugh.

  “We have a few options, then,” Guy said, sliding back away from the ridge. It was probably ridiculous to stay prone at this distance, but nobody was willing to risk messing this up. “No horses and no carriage could mean a few things. Could mean they abandoned them earlier, to throw us off. Or could mean that’s only half of them down there, and the rest are out doing whatever unsavory things thieves like to do in the morning.”

  “Raping, I’d think,” Reginold said, though no one even gave him a courtesy laugh. “If I were a thief, I’d think you’d start your day off with a good rape or two, then maybe some ham.”

  FitzOdo stared at Guy dully. “He’s always like this?”

  “Unfortunately,” Bolt answered, earning himself a smack in the chest.

  “If they’re not all there,” Guy continued, “we risk losing Bassett again. Might be wiser to wait and see if the others return. At the same time, if that is all of them, waiting only prolongs the danger he’s already in. I’m open to suggestions.”

  There was a short amount of face-making at this, and FitzOdo answered quickly upon seeing their reaction. “We should go now,” he barked, rising as if the decision had been made. “While we still have the advantage.”

  It seemed to be exactly what everyone wanted. It had been a long ride back to Hallam, and there was nothing they wanted so much as to put this behind them.

  But Devon didn’t move. Guy caught his eye, saw his urge to say something. He gave him a tight nod, permission. Devon’s lips parted and his voice was weak. “What advantage?”

  “What?” FitzOdo said, barely noticing the distraction.

  “You said we have every advantage, but I don’t … I don’t see that.”

  “Are you serious? Is he serious?” FitzOdo chortled. “They don’t have any horses with them. We do. You want to wait for more of them to show up, with fresh supplies and horses? Or you want to ride down there and take care of them while they’re sleeping?” He sneered and turned to the others for a laugh. “Or perchance the word advantage is just a little too big for you?”

  For a moment, Devon shrank. But Guy saw the look in Reginold’s face, and the way Bolt shifted his eyes while pretending to smile. They weren’t comfortable with the way the knight had just insulted Devon, and frankly Guy wasn’t keen on it, either. Against all odds, Devon shook off his worry and spoke, quickly, his eyes buried in the heath.

  “You’re right. Or you would be, if all we wanted to do was storm down there and kill them. But like the Captain said—that’s not what we do. We’re here to end this peacefully, and to get Jon Bassett back alive. If we ride down from where we are now, they’ll see us coming. They’ll have a chance to prepare, they’ll be ready for us, and they might even kill Jon before we get there. Or they’ll put a sword to his throat and make us all strip down to our privies before stealing our horses and running off. Your plan only works if we don’t care about Jon’s life.”

  “It doesn’t matter, boy—” the knight bellowed.

  “On the other hand, we can take an hour and reposition to another side. We approach from on top of that hill where they can’t see us, and slip down the sides of the overhang. We’ll be inside their camp before they have any clue. A few of us can stay here with the horses, so that we can storm down on them just as you described. But that’s not the real attack, that’s just the diversion.”

  Reginold and Bolt nodded to him, there was a pride in their approval. Guy gave him a wink.

  FitzOdo alone hated it. “That is a waste of time.”

  “It’s better than a waste of life,” Guy said, with finality. “Let’s make it happen.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  MARION FITZWALTER

  SHERWOOD FOREST

  “I THOUGHT THE SWORDS were bad, John,” Marion said, her eyes strained and aching. They had volunteered to watch over the wounded Guardsman in shifts, though Marion stayed nearby even when it was not her turn. He had not yet awoken in nearly a day, which seemed a bad sign, but at times he would stir in befuddled agony long enough for them to force some water into his mouth. If he ever woke, Marion wanted to be the first to speak with him, to try to convince him he was safe.

  “How’s that, then?” John Little asked.

  “The swords,” she repeated. “I thought that was as bad as it would get. I was wrong.”

  “Ah,” he said, his mouth closing quickly. He bore the burden of this awfully,
and she had not meant to shame him. John insisted he only struck the Guardsman once in the chest, but the force of his quarterstaff had clearly broken something important. “I’ve made some mistakes lately, there is that.”

  “You’re just out of practice,” Marion tried to lighten his mood. “It’s been some time since you’ve brought a lady gifts. We’re not fond of swords, John, and we’re not fond of dying Guardsmen, either. Try flowers.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said solemnly, but broke a small smirk. “I gather you won’t be giving me the same advice on how to handle this one?”

  Marion laughed. “Bury him and pray? No, that would be the worst thing we could do. If we bury this man, we might as well dig our own graves beside him.”

  They had debated about bringing him to a city to find a doctor, but it seemed risky to transport him any farther. They had found a relatively safe spot to camp beside a glade of silver birches, and they had fortunately brought enough supplies for a few days. Marion sent Clarell home for her own safety, and the hope that her horse’s tracks might mislead their pursuers. She had asked the same of Sir Amon, who predictably refused to leave her. Instead Arthur had taken Amon’s horse, to bring word of their predicament back to the Oak Camp.

  Friar Tuck tended to the wounded Guardsman’s comfort as best he could by keeping him cool and washing his soiled clothes in a nearby stream. There was little else to do besides pray for his recovery, upon which so much depended. Before the skirmish, they had been on the verge of peace talks. Robin swore his friend Wendenal was still trying to keep that promise, but Sheriff de Lacy could not honor any such agreement if they accidentally became murderers. Poor John Little knew it, and carried the guilt of that precipice. The only thing he didn’t seem to know was his own strength.

  Will Scarlet and Elena naturally protested the entire endeavor. Both had argued heavily to leave the fallen Guardsman behind, and despite their impetuousness Marion wondered if they might have been right. When Captain Gisbourne inevitably returned to search for his lost man, he could provide far better medical assistance. His resources in Nottingham would be greater than anything to be found in the Sherwood. The simpler side of Marion’s conscience insisted the moral choice was to help the man, as they had done, and that leaving him behind would have only compounded their error. Yet beneath that excuse was something a bit darker she did not wish to dwell upon. Trying to help the guard now meant she could later argue they’d done their best to save him, even though he stood a better chance at surviving if they left him for Gisbourne to find.

  Marion had gambled the man’s life for her own reputation.

  She needed him to live, that she would not have to regret that choice.

  “You can see why they need you,” Marion said softly, sometime later, when Robin found himself idling behind her. He had remained stubbornly quiet since their departure from Locksley. He would offer determined bits of succinct advice, on how to move the man safely, on how to hide their trail, on terse facts. His opinions were few, which was a rarity for him. It was more than obvious he regretted his decision to stay. If the Guardsman’s unconscious body had been discovered even a few minutes earlier, Robin would undoubtedly have left with Wendenal, and been all the happier for it. Every inch of his skulking linger spoke to that truth.

  “They need to disappear,” Robin said, not taking any care to hide his callous tone. “Before they do more damage.”

  “You know they don’t have that option,” she replied. The Guardsman’s chest gave a short stutter as if to emphasize her point. “This is what happens when they’re left to their instincts. They steal the wrong wagon, they nearly kill someone when they don’t have to. They mean well, you can see that, whether or not you believe it. They just need training.”

  “Training in how not to kill someone?”

  “Not that.” She didn’t have the right words to piece it together. It was another facet of what she’d seen building at Locksley Castle, a glimpse of what was possible. “They need training in just … in just how to be. Does that make sense? Without a master, they have no rules, like a child without a parent. They don’t have any experience living outside of direction, outside of … the law.”

  “Congratulations,” came his dry response. “You’ve figured out why they’re called outlaws.”

  “Shut it.” She could feel that fake smile on his face even behind her head. “But yes, they also need to learn how to control themselves. How to avoid a fight. How to steal without getting into trouble, before something truly terrible…”

  Her sentence drifted away to horrors of the past. Robin was silent behind her, for likely the same reason. That soft part of her told her to let it lie, but it was an open wound in him that she could sting. He had proven himself unconscionably prickly so far, and she was feeling something shy of charitable at the moment.

  “You need to do this for me,” she finished simply. “You have to try.”

  A quiet eternity passed before he responded. “Alright. On one condition. You stay, too. That captain knows who you are, and I can’t protect you if I’m in the woods.”

  Marion didn’t have the energy to explain how misplaced his heroism was, but she’d already come to the same conclusion. Nottingham wouldn’t be a safe place for her until this had blown over.

  “Well then,” Robin continued. “First thing, they have to stop stealing war supplies.”

  “Obviously.”

  “They steal from the army, the Sheriff has to respond. If they want to steal from someone, they should steal from a stealer. There are plenty of men who have grown fat off the war who shouldn’t have. They get robbed, and who can they complain to?”

  Marion nodded.

  “It’s just a suggestion. Only take from those that can afford to lose it, and don’t take more than they’re able to do without. Keep the violence to an absolute minimum. That makes it harder for the Sheriff to justify hunting them down.”

  There was a finality to his sentence, as if it were that easy. “That’s not enough.”

  “It’s a start.”

  “Laying low isn’t enough,” she repeated. “Not with winter on the horizon. You’ve seen their camp, they can’t survive there.”

  “That’s true,” he said softly. “I’m surprised they’ve lasted this long.”

  “They need real shelter, they need to stockpile, they need to be able to protect themselves from others who would see them as easy targets, too.”

  She felt a puff of warm air on her neck, Robin’s laugh. “You want me to build houses for them? I appreciate your confidence in me, but…”

  “They’ll need help for all that. They’ll need to pay for that help.”

  “Which means even more coin.”

  “They’ll also need to pay for that help to keep quiet.”

  “Which means … a stupid lot more coin.”

  “It means more than coin, Robin. They need allies.”

  “Alright,” Robin rolled with the idea. “Then they need to be a force for good. There are others out there who need help as well. If they’re going to be stealing a stupid lot more coin, we might as well shoot for the sky. Enough that they can endear themselves to the people. They’ll need friends in the villages, in the towns…” He trailed off, thinking it through.

  “And stop being such a wart about it.” She brought her hand up to her shoulder, reaching for him. A few moments later, his hand slid into hers. “You’re here with us, you might as well enjoy it. Try to pretend you’re not an ass.”

  “That may be asking too much,” he said, but she could hear his smile this time, and he squeezed her fingers.

  “I’m serious,” she followed. “If you’re going to be here for a month, I need you to believe in this. This is not some casual distraction from the war. It’s not enough to just avoid the next disaster, we need to work toward something. Do not idle your time with us. I need this to work. And it’s going to work.”

  She could feel him hesitate. His breath
abated, even the constant sway of his feet stopped. But his hand was still in hers.

  “They’re here because of me. I convinced your father to open his doors, I convinced these people Locksley was a safe place for them.” She had been trying to help. It was her sister’s death that first led her to the comfort of helping others in need. It drew her from her melancholy, it brought purpose to the life she rudely still had. Over the years, her family’s status shined a light on the things she touched, bringing attention to her causes. At court she had become well known as a voice of dissent, so much so that she sometimes felt her involvement in a situation actually hurt it. If she was its champion, some assumed, then it must be another unfixable charity case.

  She liked to think she changed minds. Even when she was overruled or ignored, she hoped to have a cumulative effect, over time. She was a river, slowly eroding centuries of selfishness. As a woman, she was not so crippled as the other lords that acted only for their own betterment. It was, in fact, one of the reasons they suffered to listen to her. Unmarried, she had dangled a potential betrothal into her family’s influence during many a negotiation, just to open the door a little.

  Even at that, she had found no victories. Some mockingly compared her to Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes. The terrible truth was she enjoyed the reputation. She liked being the troublemaker, the underdog, anything that upset the way things were. It reminded her of Vivian.

  “All the coin in the world won’t matter if they don’t believe they have a future, Robin. They need to believe they can win. And I need you to believe it, too.”

  “Alright,” Robin whispered, adding no jokes or bitterness. He didn’t need to say any more than that.

  These people were on her. She needed a victory.