Nottingham, Page 21

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  WHEN THE GUARDSMAN AWOKE it was accompanied by a gasp of pain and vomit, followed by a wheezing sound that bubbled in his throat. They rushed to clean his face and offer water. Tuck brought a cup of stew that had been simmering, but failed to find a chance to give it to him. Over half an hour he roused, wild-eyed and jumpy, though Marion did her best to speak calmly and explain what had happened. Twice he lunged and tried to run, only to stumble and hurt himself in the process. Despite its connotations, Marion allowed Will and Arthur to bind his legs and feet together, for his protection. They enjoyed the task a bit more obviously than she would have preferred.

  Eventually he could talk, though his voice was a rusted rasp. His lungs could barely manage more than a few words at a time. He had taken neither water nor food in over a day, and needed deeper rest to recuperate. His name was Jon Bassett, and what labored breaths he made were spent swearing the Nottingham Guard would find them shortly, and they should release him immediately. Marion did her best to explain he was no prisoner, and they meant to help. She hoped her presence alone would be enough to prove their peaceful intentions, but Bassett did not seem keen to trust her. She could hardly blame him.

  “We don’t liken to have you any more than you liken to be here, which is little,” John grumbled at the man, doing his best to match the Guardsman’s salt. “But we couldn’t leave you behind. I did you a number, that’s plain. But you were putting one on my friend, too, which wasn’t a kindness. You wouldn’t have gotten far on your own, and we don’t see how letting you die would help any. But do us all a favor and speak up the moment you’re able to fend for yourself so we can be rid of you.”

  Jon Bassett snorted, expelling clumps of dried blood from his nose. He tugged at his newly earned restraints as if to imply he was ready to leave now.

  Little knelt down. “You’re not well yet. Don’t be lying to us. Haven’t you heard? I eat liars.”

  As the day grew longer it became obvious they would keep camp another night, but Jon Bassett did show signs of improvement. Once he was properly fed his energy returned to him, and they took shifts walking him around the campsite to ease his muscles. He moved impossibly slowly, like a man passing a kidney stone, but it was progress. Marion’s promise that he was no prisoner was made somewhat flatter by the stretch of rope they used to leash him on his walks. He could not breathe deeply without significant pain, but the rest of his body, and his spirits, seemed quick to recover.

  “You don’t remember me,” his voice creaked, as Marion took her turn to limp him about. She did not hold the rope herself, as the others insisted he might be feigning weakness. So Sir Amon walked beside her, the tether wrapped twice around his arm. “I’ve seen you at Nottingham.”

  Marion was embarrassed to admit his face was unfamiliar.

  “I escorted you … a few months back. To see the Sheriff. We talked with the captain … in the training yard.”

  She remembered it now, though he had made no impression on her.

  “Everyone knows you collude with them now,” he said. “And you’ll get yours, no matter what you do to me.”

  The threat caught her off guard. “You don’t know anything,” she scoffed. “Maybe I’m only with them right now to make sure they treat you well. I could be in danger myself, too, for all you know.”

  His lips pursed in disbelief. “You parlayed for them at Thieves Den.”

  “I’ve parlayed for lots of people,” she answered sharply. “If you knew me better you’d know that. I once defended a tanner’s daughter who accidentally burned a dozen hides. Do you think that makes me the one who dropped the torch?”

  Of all the battered muscles in Bassett’s body, the one that apparently worked best was used for raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Do you think I’m blind? I know you run with these thieves. I can see they do your bidding.”

  Marion wished that was as true as it sounded. A great deal of trouble might have been spared so far if it were. But she matched his steely tone. “As I say, my involvement here is entirely benign. So I would suggest you reconsider what you think you know. Because I know that they didn’t need to take care of you. But they did. And at the moment they intend to return you to Nottingham once you’re healthy.”

  The Guardsman’s shoulders shook in a quiet laughter, though his face remained stoic. “I see. In exchange for my life, you demand I vouch for your … benign involvement?”

  “I’ve made no demands.” She met his eyes. “The manner of your gratitude is up to you.”

  “Ah yes, very thankful. Look at all my good fortune.” He tried to splay his hands wide, but his restraints stopped him quickly. “That’s the difference between us and you, you know. Selfishness.”

  Marion felt a pang of offense at being labeled the outsider. But she let him continue.

  “You want me to make a deal to save my own skin. They call that a thieves bargain. It has that name for a reason—no decent person would ever take it. I’d be selling short my friends to help myself. The next time I see you in Nottingham—yes, I could keep my mouth shut … about what you do here in the forest. And I wonder who would be hurt by that? I wonder which of my friends might suffer the next time your group here play their games of terror? Whose life am I trading for my own?”

  “I’d say you’re being a bit overdramatic. We’re not hurting anyone.”

  He just held her stare and coughed with a targeted irony.

  “They’re good people,” she insisted.

  “Sometimes, might be. Everyone is good people when they’re good. But you’re a fool if you think that’s all they are. You’ll see. They’ll turn on you. They’ll turn on each other, and they certainly won’t let you set me free at the end of this.”

  “They will.” She stopped walking to make a point of it. For the first time she truly took in his face, the forced clench of his jaw, the slight twitch to his eye. There was the young boy he once was, and the potential for friendliness in his dour lines. It was so easy to label him as Guardsman. Here was a decent man named Jon Bassett who was tied up in the woods by those he thought meant to kill him. Of course he was terrified, and of course he would antagonize her. “You’ll go home safely. You have my promise on that.”

  Jon Bassett shook his head. “I’ve already seen your promises. They only last until the first thief pulls steel.”

  Marion had no response.

  “Why not turn them in?” he added, his eyes darting toward the others. “Get us to the horses. The three of us leave right now, and you can still land on the right side of this. And you…” he shifted his attention to Amon, “… you might even keep your knighthood.”

  Amon wouldn’t betray her in a thousand years, but the point was real enough. Their safety was only as strong as the weakest of them.

  Worse, she felt the prod of that weakness within herself. She would be lying to say she did not see the reason in his offer. Marion risked losing too much by all these complications, and not just for herself. If she were disgraced or labeled a criminal, it would be blamed on her “woman’s folly.” And woe unto the next ambitious woman who braved her head amongst the men of court, if Marion set such a precedent. Her responsibilities extended so much farther than herself.

  Far off across the glen, a flurry of birds took to the air.

  “You know I’m right,” Jon Bassett urged.

  She shook it off. “You realize what you’re offering me, don’t you?” she asked. “I believe they call it a thieves bargain. I’m told that no decent person would ever take one.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  GUY OF GISBOURNE

  THIEVES’ CAMP

  EVERY SECOND THAT PASSED was merciless. The extremes of exhaustion and excitement battled over Guy’s nerves. He stayed at the top of the ridge with Devon and Ferrers, waiting for the others to signal their readiness. Morg and Bolt went their own way, setting up in a concealed position close enough to the thieves’ camp for Bolt to use his crossbow once the trap was sprung. Sir Robert FitzOdo originall
y insisted on leading the horseback charge, but changed his mind when he realized Devon would be a part of that as well. Guy’s new recruit had certainly gotten under the knight’s skin, which was an impressive thing to do. So FitzOdo opted to join Reginold and Eric in their long run around the valley to circle behind the enemy camp. Once they were in position, they’d be hidden from the outlaws below, but plainly visible from Guy’s vantage.

  That meant there was nothing to do but wait, and Guy found it hard to fight off the pull that wanted to smother him into sleep. He had barely closed his eyes at the inn that morning, and felt far crispier than he would prefer for a maneuver like this. Fortunately, every errant noise in the distance startled him alert. He was endlessly afraid the thieves would spot them and make a run for it, and Devon’s plan would spell their disaster.

  “What you said earlier took bravery,” Guy said to the young Devon, as Ferrers slipped away to relieve himself in the bracken. “You haven’t interacted with a lot of knights, I’ll guess.”

  “That was the first one,” Devon admitted.

  “Hopefully not your last.” He smiled, hoping to give the boy some confidence. “Brave or naïve—they’re cousins, after all. Best be sure your expectations for this next part are tempered then. The odds we get Jon Bassett back alive are narrow. It’s good to have hope, but the reality is he’s probably dead already.”

  Devon seemed confused. “Then why are we trying?”

  “Don’t ask me that.” Guy turned to look at him plainly. “Ask yourself. You’re trying, aren’t you? You spoke up against FitzOdo when you didn’t have to. You could just take orders, happy to be outside of a prison cell. But seems like you actually care. Why? Why are you here?”

  The question might as well have been a woman, as Devon had no idea what to do with it. Guy certainly couldn’t expect the young man to have distinguished a keen sense of morality so quickly. He had likely only accepted this position in the Guard to save his own skin. But Guy hoped to guide the young man, in all the ways he had failed to do with Jon Bassett.

  When Devon answered, it was with little conviction. “Responsibility?”

  It sounded less like a real answer than a guess at what Guy wanted to hear.

  “Responsibility.” Guy raised an eyebrow. “That’s a fake thing, we made it up. Us humans. We created the word so we wouldn’t sound so selfish all the time. Honor, piety, responsibility. They sound wonderful and we tell our children about them so they’ll behave. I’m no different. I told my children about them, as well. I’m a damned proud hypocrite. Yours is still too young, yes?”

  “Very much so.”

  “He’ll grow up to respect them, thanks to you, and he should. As should your other children.”

  “We only have the one daughter.”

  “For now. You’ll have more. Trust me, have many more.” Guy pictured his two sons, Henry and John, young and happy as they’d once been, and tried not to think about how old Henry would have been now. He bit it off and continued. “It’s good for them to respect those words when they’re children, but later in life they’ll realize they’re all brands of the same selfishness.”

  “Selfishness?”

  “Absolutely. Don’t make a face. Selfishness is what keeps every man alive. It’s why we don’t sit still and starve. It’s why we’re here, right now. Am I wrong?”

  Devon appeared to be at a loss. “But I’m tired, and I hurt. Wouldn’t it be selfish of me to give up and go to sleep?”

  “It would be. So why are we still trying?”

  This time he answered quickly, and it rang of honesty. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  It was an improvement, if unimaginative. Guy had to teach the boy better. His men were the future of the Nottingham Guard, and it was his job to make that future a bright one.

  “Right and wrong are arbitrary. They’re just words we use to describe actions that either help us or hurt us. In the Sheriff’s Guard, we try to maintain order, so we say interfering with us is wrong. We decide capturing one of our members is wrong, to protect ourselves. We believe England is safer and better off when its people are protected, when its laws are absolute and not open to reinterpretation by every fool lord with an inflated sense of importance. Because such a country protects us, which makes our endgame selfish, no?”

  Devon chewed on that answer, but did not accept it. “I don’t see how wanting the country to be safer is selfish. It helps ourselves, yes, but it also helps so many others. Selfishness serves only one person. Order and laws, these benefit us all. Why call them selfish?”

  Guy smiled, and dared to hope that the damned little gerold might actually be worth his own weight.

  * * *

  WHEN IT HAPPENED, IT happened fast. Three black shapes moved across the distant hillock, wiggling just enough in what Guy assumed was a wild waving of their arms. He gave the word and backed down from the ridge, with Devon and Ferrers following suit. They each selected one of the unwieldy halberds they had brought with them, planting the base of the long shaft in their saddle’s stirrup. Neither had any training in such a weapon, but they only needed to ride with it, to give the impression of a mounted assault. It would look awfully threatening from a distance, and panic the thieves as FitzOdo and the others attacked from behind.

  Guy heaved himself to his own mount, a black palfrey named Merciful. She awaited his command, happy to ease up over the ridgeline to begin their descent. It was a long slope of pitted heather down to the camp, which made a gallop impossible. Guy’s thighs were already bruised from the amount of riding they’d done in the last day, so he could barely feel whatever more damage he was doing to them now. It wouldn’t matter once this was over.

  He screamed from the bottom of his lungs, and was rewarded with the sight of four black shapes darting out from under the overhang. He was too far away to identify their faces, but the smallest one at the edge with long hair must have been the girl, Elena. Two others were men, but none of their shapes seemed to match the massive John Little, or the young knifeman.

  The fourth shape was taller—Robin of Locksley. Guy had given Locksley every opportunity to position himself on the right side of the law, and he’d thrown it away to follow in his father’s traitorous steps. What came next was anyone’s guess.

  The bodies scattered, stumbling, two of them diving back into their camp, but Eric and Reginold were there to meet them. Every hoofbeat brought Guy closer, able to see more details. Reginold put an arrow through one man’s thigh and then tackled him, pinning him to the ground by sitting on his chest. Eric caught the other, spinning him around in his tracks and smashing the hilt of his sword into the man’s face.

  Guy didn’t even flinch at the violence. Baron de Lacy’s asinine command had been to leave them unharmed, an instruction so meritless he had not even given it to Guy in person. He lent his voice to William de Wendenal, the king’s stooge, rather than let Guy fulfill the duties of his position. That command had nearly cost them lives at Thieves Den, and Guy would not suffer to let it hinder them again. If the Baron reprimanded him for anyone harmed here, Guy wouldn’t care. His men’s lives were not worth taking chances.

  The two remaining thieves—the girl and Locksley—ran from the assault, but headed directly toward the approaching Sir Robert FitzOdo. Guy watched Locksley throw himself between the knight and the girl, drawing a sword as she fled out into the muddy field. At Guy’s command, Devon and Ferrers peeled off to the left to intercept her, while Guy continued forward to help FitzOdo against Locksley.

  The shrill clash of their swords split the air, and Guy watched the silhouettes of the two men hack at each other. He leaned into Merciful, urging her harder as the ground leveled out, to close the final distance to the camp. Even though FitzOdo was bald, it was difficult to differentiate the two men as they rotated and swung wildly—but there was no mistaking the moment one man’s sword smashed through the other’s head, embedding itself as the victim toppled uselessly over. The sword stayed
in its victim’s skull, wrenched from the attacker’s hands as the body dropped. It was eerie to see such violence from a distance. Guy hoped it was Locksley who had been felled. He did not want any of his men to face off against a man who could take down a knight like FitzOdo.

  A sharp cry came from the left where the girl, who had not made it far, was wavering in place. A crossbow bolt was in her stomach. She looked down at it, her shoulders shaking. Elena took a few more steps and another quarrel punched through the middle of her chest, sprung from Bolt’s hiding spot. The woman dropped to a knee, wobbled, then went face first into the slop.

  At last, Merciful arrived at the camp, and he reined her into a walk. Reginold was yelling at his prisoner, flicking the arrow in his leg to keep him from wiggling. But it was Eric of Felley’s voice that cut through everything else.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “I’m sorry,” came FitzOdo’s voice, and Guy was relieved to see the man stumble out of the shadow into the daylight, his head intact though splattered in blood. “This was the only way.”

  “Who the hell are these people?” Eric asked furiously.

  Guy realized he was missing something. His gut twisted. He slid down from Merciful, strode purposefully over to Reginold to see the faces of his two captives—and both were strangers. Guy did not recognize either of them from the fight at Thieves Den.

  “Where’s Bassett?” he asked the prisoners, but he had the terrible empty feeling that he knew the answer.

  “I don’t feel proud about using you like this,” FitzOdo was saying. “You’ve still done a good thing today, you know.”

  Damnation.

  “Who are they?” Eric spat again.

  “Thieves, outlaws,” FitzOdo said happily, wiping the blood from his face. “Just not yours. Fugitives from York. I’ve been tracking them ever since they crossed the border. They holed up here for the last few nights, but I knew I couldn’t take them on my own.”