THE FRENCH WARD, NOTTINGHAM
FIVE SEVERED HANDS IN a row, in varying stages of rot, were nailed to the wall. Something black and putrid stained the wood deeply beneath each one, dripping down and collecting flies, maggots. Quill would have retched anything left in his stomach, but he’d already vomited at the entrance to the stables when the stench first assaulted him. He pulled his quilted doublet up over his nostrils, keenly aware there were a handful of onlookers who probably expected him to behave in at least a vaguely more official manner.
“I’m not really a Guardsman,” he didn’t tell them. “I’m just a pansy nobleman’s son playing pretend.”
He doubted they would care much about his sense of self. All they saw was his blue tabard, which meant they saw him as Guard the Guardsman.
“Cut them down,” he ordered, his voice muffled well past the point of any authority.
“You cut them down,” returned Potter. A gentle man with a wild beard, Potter had been a member of Nottingham’s Common Guard for years. He normally came with the jovial sort of spirit so common in the happy ignorant masses. “You ask me, I’d sooner put a torch to the place than touch those things.”
As would I, Quill admitted. But this ramshackle building had a history, so he understood, as a place of mercy even amongst the poorest folk in the French Ward. These mutilations were a dire shadow over them, and a terrible thing for the commonfolk to suffer.
“We’re here to help them,” he explained to Potter. Gilbert with the White Hand was using the name of Robin Hood and acts like this as leverage, and leaving the severed hands hanging would make the Nottingham Guard complicit in that fear. “If people see a couple of Guardsmen come burn down the Pity Stables, they’re not going to take it kindly.”
“I wasn’t serious,” Potter muttered. “But still, I ain’t touchin’ them none neither.”
It was easy to forget that Quill had no authority over Potter. He’d hoped his aid in Lord Beneger’s hunt would have granted him some leniency, but instead it had worked against him. Ben had assigned him right back to the nightwalkers, to keep an eye on the White Hand. To stalk him. It had been ten nights already, and Gilbert had yet to deviate from his regular schedule of haunting the castle walls.
Quill could hardly keep an eye on him at every minute, so the rest of Ben’s team kept records of Gilbert’s movements when he wasn’t on patrol, as best they could. “Patterns,” Ben had insisted. They needed to find the patterns that would let them catch him in the act. He was undoubtedly working with Will Scarlet’s crew, and watching Gilbert would eventually lead to them. And then, Lord Beneger de Wendenal would exercise some of his legendary vengeance.
Quill was still doubtful that catching Robin Hood would actually help the city, but it would undoubtedly catapult Lord Beneger to acclaim. If that victory led him directly into the Sheriff’s seat, as Quill was betting, that would in turn help the city, which was a worthwhile endeavor.
Instead of sleeping, Quill had taken to spending his days taking extra shifts in the Common Guard. After all, catching the criminal was only part of the work. The side effects of Robin Hood’s destruction infected the city; and while Beneger was content to let that eventually settle itself, Quill knew that hole in the dyke would do far more damage to Nottingham in the long run.
“Don’t take them down,” came a whimper from his right. A young boy, seven or eight perhaps, was standing in the doorway. His thin frame hung loosely, his skin nearly black from dirt.
Quill didn’t have a breadth of experience with children, outside of working for William de Ferrers. He tried to keep his voice light, nonhostile. “Why shouldn’t I take them down?”
“He said he’d come back,” the boy’s voice wavered. “Said we had to leave ’em up, or he’d be angry at us.”
“Robin Hood? Did you see him?” Quill asked, aiming for a casual tone. The boy didn’t answer, which was as good as a yes. “Had a glove on? The man who did this?”
A confused squint. “What?”
Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. Nobody knew why Gilbert kept his one hand in a glove, but such a feature was certain to identify him if he were to leave it on while in the mantle of Robin Hood. Taking it off was his disguise.
A little whine escaped from the boy’s lips, and his face clenched. He was afraid, and had no idea how to deal with it. Quill suffered a brief thought of the vagrant Hanry’s body, hanging in the Sherwood Forest. Hanry had probably once been a young fearful boy, too, and he’d grown into a fearful man, who got himself in trouble because he didn’t know what to do about it.
Quill crouched down.
“I’m sorry he’s been mean to you. There are lots of folk who are just mean, and they want to scare you, because that’s the only way they know how to get what they want. But there are other people out there who want to help you, people like me, and my friend here. His name’s Potter, and I’m Quillen.”
The boy didn’t offer his name.
“We live in the castle, and we have lots of friends who want to help. So if ever you see the man who scared you here, just run up to the castle gates and ask for Lord Beneger. Say that name for me.”
“Lord Benja.”
Good enough. “Say it three times now.”
“Benja Benja Benja.”
“Good. I’m going to take these hands down, and you can forget all about the man who put them there, alright?”
He reached his palm out, but the boy spooked and ran—leaving nothing but a rise of dust and a patter of footsteps.
“Gad, it stinks,” Potter complained.
Quill stood, stared at the hands on the wall, and raspberried his lips. “Find me something I can use.”
A quick search of the room garnered an iron horseshoe pick, and soon enough Quill was holding his breath on a small wooden ladder against the wall beneath the hideous display. He struggled just to keep his balance two rickety rungs up. The ladder, admittedly, would have collapsed under Potter’s weight.
The stench up close was horrific.
Why not today? Quill wondered.
Today was a fine day to return home, to report to his father that the Sheriff’s seat in Nottingham was in good custody. What did it matter if that wasn’t true? Ferrers would be replaced eventually, whether by Beneger de Wendenal or someone else. Quill could move on with his own life, to something worthwhile, to bettering himself. He couldn’t fix every wrong in Nottingham, not with a thousand lives and a thousand allies, and nor would any of it matter. He’d already made his contribution, by deducing Gilbert’s identity as Robin Hood. That was a job well done, and Lord Beneger could take it from here. There were a thousand boys that would still be afraid, with or without Quill in the city. If he went back home to the Peak, he could at least focus his efforts in Derbyshire and make meaningful improvements to a place that actually mattered to him.
But he—again—chose to stay. And he was starting to wonder if there was something deeply wrong with him, at a fundamental level.
The first and freshest hand pried free easily enough, falling like a stone to the ground and sending a cold shudder down Quill’s spine. But the older hands rent hideous when he tried to wrench them away, sloughing off in pieces and somehow Quill was vomiting again.
THEIR NEXT STOP WAS a tavern near the Market Square, whose carved placard featured a hunchbacked traveler and a dog that was dressed far fancier than any dog had reason to dress. The Bell Inn was either a local gem or an obnoxious wart, depending on who was asked. Its walls featured an eclectic assortment of trinkets from all over the world—or, at least, such was the claim. Many of the drunken conversations in its hall centered on the veracity of those stories, and everyone fancied themselves an expert on the matter.
Quill had only visited the Bell once before, to satiate his curiosity. But this day the door was locked despite it being a very drinkable hour. There were no patrons at the Bell Inn, not since it had been visited by Robin Hood.
A groggy male voice refused them entrance when they knocked a third time. But after Potter barked out, “Sheriff’s Guard, come on now!” a barrel rolled behind the door’s thick frame and it opened to reveal a woman with a wide, textured face.
“Doesn’t matter who you are!” she growled. Quill tried to realign everything he knew to make sense of how she could be the owner of the groggy male voice. “I can’t serve to you. Lessin’ you want to buy a whole barrel.”
“We’re not here to drink,” Quill said. “Heard you had a few problems. Mind letting us in?”
The woman shrugged and flung the door open. “Can’t get worse. Might as well let the whole city know you’re in here.”
He noted the queer comment and ducked his head through the doorway, blinking to acclimate to the low light. Within, the stools and benches were piled upon the tables, and dust lines on the ground spoke to a morning’s sweeping. There were two windows that would normally light the room in the day, but both were boarded over with recently milled timber. The normal human musk of a tavern was overwhelmed with the vinegar stink of wine, mixed with lye.
After some brief introductions, the woman—who identified herself as “Nissa, but most call me Niss”—explained what had happened. “Last night, a group comes in looking to make trouble for themselves. Normally chase ’em out, don’t need that here. My husband deals with that, and he’s a sight to reckon, but these ones wasn’t interested in leavin’.”
“Is your husband the proprietor?” Potter asked.
“Offie’s the Bell, and I’m plumb-goggin’ the opposite.”
Quill recognized some of those as actual words. “Offie’s your husband?” he guessed. “And where is he now?”’
“He’s upstairs, but no good tryin’ to talk to him. They put a beat on him, feckless cocksuckers, he’s still in and out.”
“Now, no need for language,” Potter balked.
“Ain’t no language, just fact. Each one of them had a cock in ’is mouth and not a single feck amongst the five of ’em.”
“Alright then.” Quill tried not to imagine what that meant. “Let’s talk about them. Five, you say? Rumor has it that Robin Hood is claiming responsibility for it, does that sound right to you?”
“He said as much. Standing right here when he kicked Offie’s head to the ground.”
An odd shiver took Quill’s spine and he stepped away from the spot. Beneath him, a large circle on the dark stone floor had been cleaned free of straw and dirt. It was freshly scrubbed, where Niss had probably cleaned up her husband’s blood.
“Would you recognize him again? Or any of the other four?” Quill asked. “Any obvious scars, or gloves, anything like that?”
He felt a tinge of confusion from Potter at the second mention of the glove. Nobody outside Lord Beneger’s force knew yet that Gilbert was suspected as a traitor.
Niss shook her head, and busied herself at wiping the cobwebs from some of the wall’s ornaments. “Kept their hoods on, hardly saw their faces. Robin Hood was a tall skinny fellow, I can tell you that, and not much pack to his kicks, at least. Otherwise Offie’d be in worse shape.”
Not Will Scarlet, then. Too short. This one was likely Gilbert himself.
Potter grunted. “And you’re closed until your husband recovers?”
“Fuck on that. I can run the place on my own, but they smashed all the horns.”
Quill looked around the room, scrutinizing it again. “They smashed the horns?”
“Every cup, every flagon, anything they could find that’d hold ale. Either smashed to pieces or put a hole in it.”
“That’s…” Quill walked carefully about, noting the lack of servingware, and tiny shards of debris in the cracks of the tables and cobbles, “… strange. Were they drunk?”
“No. They came for that. Had hammers with ’em. Said it was punishment for us serving to Guardsmen like you. So thanks for makin’ yourselves so visible comin’ in, I’ll bet they’ll be back for a third round tomorrow now.”
“Third round?”
“This was the second time. Same thing a week ago. Horns aren’t too hard to replace, though I’d rather not spend the coin on ’em. Bought a handful in the Square after last week, had a few other taverns kind enough to bring me some of their own. Then last night they smash ’em all up again, and this time my windows, too. While, might I add, they was suckin’ on cocks and fully feckless.”
Quill would have laughed if he wasn’t busy trying to piece it all out. He took a moment to be impressed with Nissa, who was able to find the humor in her husband’s beating and the attack on her livelihood. She seemed the sort of woman who’d weathered far worse, callused against everything but the chore of having to clean up after life’s inevitable obstacles.
And if that fact was obvious to Quill after only a few minutes, it would be equally obvious to anyone else who encountered her. Nobody was dumb enough to think she could be intimidated.
“Do you recall what times they were here? Both last night and last week?”
“Course I do. Last night was just after midnight,” she answered without hesitation. “Week before … Friday. Half after tenth.”
Bless her memory. Quill could compare notes with Ben’s team, to see if Gilbert had any time unaccounted for in those periods. Look for the patterns, and then be ready for him. It was good news that people like Nissa were finally willing to talk about it with the Guard. Back in the autumn, the commonfolk took a protective secrecy about Robin Hood’s activities. But when he roughs up a whole alehouse just for serving to Guardsmen—or chops off people’s hands—then he costs himself allies.
As Potter wrapped up the discussion with Nissa, Quill found himself staring behind the bar at three large barrels of ale, mounted on their sides. Her earlier comment about selling the whole barrel stood up in his mind and stretched its legs.
“Niss.” He aimed a finger at them. “You said they smashed your horns and flagons, but they left the ale barrels?”
“That’s right.”
“They take anything else?”
She shook her considerable head no. “Didn’t take nothing. I had a couple bottles of mead they broke, but mostly just the horns. Just broke what we can pour into.”
“And they said it was for serving members of the Sheriff’s Guard?”
Her face twisted, as if to say she couldn’t care less about their motivations. “I’ll serve anyone, s’long as they don’t break the place. An’ I’ll continue to do so, so come back whenever you’re thirsty now. I could use the coin. You can be sure we’ll be ready for ’em next week, iffin’ they dare to come again.”
They left the Bell Inn behind, though Quill paid special attention upon exiting to scan the street for any conspicuous faces who might be watching them. Potter seemed eager to return to the castle, and Quill could not argue against it. If he was lucky enough to quiet his thoughts, he might be able to catch a few hours of sleep before his night’s shift on the wall.
“What do you suppose they’re after?” he asked as they turned south on Hollows.
“What do you mean?” Potter returned. “They hate the Guard, they hate anyone who caters to them. Seems simple enough.”
“Why smash the horns, but leave the ale? They could’ve broken the taps off those barrels with their hammers, spilt everything she had onto the floor. They could’ve cut the wine skins, but no. They left the merchandise. That would’ve put poor Niss and her husband back a good ways further than her lot of horns.”
Potter shrugged. “They also didn’t kill anyone. You’re angry at them for not doing the worst possible thing?”
That was true. Robin Hood had killed Lord Brayden and his mistress, raped her in death, and mutilated five poorfolk just for sport. Here he had just crushed some drinking horns and left a man with a few days’ worth of bruises, no more. It was hard to find any parallel to the attacks, since they seemed so stubbornly unassociated with each other.
“They was sending a message, is all,” Potter dismissed it. “Not to sell to Guardsmen.”
“Then why go back?” Quill wondered aloud. “One visit is a message, two is a purpose. Everyone knows an innkeeper can’t refuse service to Guardsmen if they want to drink, so what good is punishing them for that?” And especially someone as hard-boiled as Nissa.
“And why this tavern?” Quill added, just speaking as the thought came to him. “You ever drink here, Potter?”
He shook his head. “Usually the Trip, or the Salutation.”
“Me too. This place, this is hardly known as a frequent stop for Guardsmen.”
“Maybe this is just their first stop. Maybe we’ll see similar attacks on other taverns soon?” Potter raised an eyebrow. “I don’t see the mystery. They told her why they did it.”
“Which is only the first reason to doubt it.” Quill wasn’t in the business of taking thieves’ words at their face value. “If we look strictly at their actions, it seems … it seems like each time, Robin Hood simply wanted the Bell Inn to be closed for one day. No more, no less.”
Potter clearly didn’t care anymore. “Then why beat up the husband?”
Quill had no answer. “I don’t know. But I’m starting to think there are a lot of things I don’t know, and that is not a position I have any experience with.”