NOTTINGHAM CASTLE
MOSTLY, QUILLEN KEPT HIMSELF awake by playing out scenarios of his own increasingly grisly demise. It required little imagination to think he might freeze to death one night on his midnight walk, but then he started considering the many unnatural things Gilbert with the White Hand could do upon discovering his body.
Quill had coordinated his watch schedule such that he preceded Gilbert at each station along the bulwark; this was intended to make it less obvious he was studying Gilbert’s movements, but actually made it all the more unsettling that Gilbert was following him instead. So when Quill inevitably succumbed to the night’s cold and collapsed into an icy heap on the parapets, Gilbert with the White Hand was guaranteed to be first to stroll upon his body and the endless options it offered.
Cut off a hand? He could probably break off Quill’s frozen extremities with a simple snap of his boot.
Throw him over the edge? There would be pretty pieces of Peveril scattered all the way down to the Trent.
Thaw him over a fire, then wear his skin like a glove? Sweet God, Quill hated his own imagination.
When he grew bored with these creative concoctions, he found his mind trapped in the even less enviable fantasies of how to fix all of England. Because this is what Peverils did with their free time; rather than throw dice or drink or find women to paw at, he took on every problem in the world as his own personal challenge. The frustrating part was the hypocrisy of his answers. Truth be told, his advice to Chancellor Longchamp would be to refuse to pay the first farthing of King Richard’s ransom—for the good of the country—and yet his advice to every struggling commoner was to do anything necessary to pay their share—for the good of the country.
He didn’t care much for the moral chasm between those two stances, so he returned to the idea of Gilbert lancing him through the heart with a spear and eating it raw.
The other curious side effect of his position with the nightwalkers was a new skillset—or rather, the absence of one. His was a mind that abhorred being idle, and so he normally found all manner of subjects to study or languages to learn or puzzles to unravel. If Quillen Peveril was not accomplishing something, he grew easily frustrated; this he knew about himself. But upon the Nottingham battlements, he became intimately familiar with the sensation of contributing exactly nothing to the world.
And that was, surprisingly, a useful feeling. Because he recognized it, too, in Lord Beneger’s hunt for Robin Hood.
Yesteryear’s Robin Hood was something worth hunting—two separate Sheriffs had died at his hands, after all, not to mention the political and financial upsets he caused across the entire county. But the stories they chased now were scattered and dimensionless. Behandings were terrible, yes—but when coupled with petty thievery and street brawls, they amounted to a withering pile no taller than somebody-else’s-business.
Footsteps behind him, the White Hand approaching him like an arrow.
Quill had just enough time for a gasp, and then opted to spare the man his villainous victory by diving over the edge of the wall and plummeting into the rocks below.
“I’ll be in the privy,” Gilbert said to Quill’s stubbornly stationary body.
Down in the rocks, Quill’s skull cracked against many things, his brains spilling hot steam into the night air.
“Ten minutes,” the ghost man added, without slowing.
Quill’s mind eventually returned to his control, and he stammered for any appropriate answer. “You don’t need to tell me.”
“Just making it easier on you,” the man slowed, pivoting by the braziers until his face was entirely in shadow, “for your records.”
Quill ripped his own face off with both hands and shoveled it down his throat, to choke and die as quickly as possible.
“Yesterday there was a full hour after seventh bell when nobody was watching me,” Gilbert continued, in his atonal lilt. “In which I visited the seamstress in the middle bailey and mended my own tabard. Ask for Wilmot if you need to corroborate it. For your records, as it were.”
Lightning crashed through the clouds and incinerated Quillen Peveril’s body, his ashes floated away in the wind where Gilbert could never re-collect them.
Once the ghost man was gone, down the stairs in the legitimate direction of the privy, little pieces of Quill’s corpse recongealed into putty and gave one last stab at this whole living thing. Gilbert knew they were watching him was the first sentence his primordial brain invented, followed shortly by: He doesn’t care that we know.
How long he stood there digesting that particular meal he could not say, but it seemed shorter than ten minutes. As footsteps grew closer, it occurred to him that he ought to pass this information on to another breathing human before he died again—but that opportunity was now gone. Gilbert returned with a crossbow loaded with a flask of Greek fire, and Quill was very thankful for its warmth as it shattered against his sternum and he blistered into a shriveled black ball of goo.
“Quill?” came an unexpectedly deep voice.
His eyes opened, and focused on a larger shape that was not Gilbert.
“Thought you should know,” Potter grunted, bracing himself against the crosswind, “Lord Beneger has a couple of visitors.”
“I’m not Lord Beneger,” Quill answered, fairly certain that was true. “Why are you telling me?”
“Because they didn’t ask for Lord Beneger,” the man huffed. “They asked for Benja Benja Benja.”
THEY MET AT THE narrow table the next morning, a long skinny dining space that was more hallway than hall. Quill had spent the evening with Lord Beneger and his two unlikely visitors in his private quarters, before sending them on their way again. At first light, they summoned his crew.
The bells from St. Nicholas had long sounded nine when their group was fully met. Captain de Grendon stood by Lord Beneger’s side, his eyes shifting nervously about as if to remind himself that he was supposed to be in charge of things. His entire Black Guard was present, including the brute Kyle Morgan and Ludic of Westerleak from the gaols. Even the armsmaster Simon FitzSimon settled in, raising a particularly scruffy eyebrow at the rest of them. Jacelyn de Lacy stood notably in front of the five men in Derby green tabards that rounded out Wendenal’s task force. Last to join was the Coward Knight FitzOdo and his two lemmings, Derrick and Ronnell.
“There he is,” Lord Beneger moaned, clad in a flowery grey doublet with tongues of red. “Ever the latecomer, FitzOdo.”
For most it may have been an innocent jab, but Quill recognized the insult nestled therein. It was an intentional reminder of FitzOdo’s shaming sixteen years ago, and his role in the failed siege on Nottingham during the Kings’ War. Quill wondered how many in the room were knowledgeable enough to even know the details.
But if FitzOdo took offense, he did not show it. “We had a late night.”
“At a tavern, no doubt.” Beneger did not hide his disdain. “While you were out drinking, we received our first actionable information in weeks on Scarlet and his crew.”
“Really.” The knight seemed unimpressed. “What is it?”
“We’ve learned he frequents a brothel in the French Ward called the Spotted Leopard. Even more so, we know the name of his favorite whore—a man who goes by Saddle Maege.”
“A man?” FitzOdo recoiled. “Where’d you hear this?”
Beneger gave a brief account of the late-night visit from the woman Sarra and her son.
FitzOdo gave an ugly sneer. “She’s playing you.”
“We’ve considered that,” Quill answered. She had not been shy in asking for compensation for her service. “But we found her story compelling. The circumstances are believable.”
“Bullshit. I’ve been following Robin Hood for months, since before you showed up. We’ve never seen any evidence that he does any whoring, much less that he’s a fucking pillow-biter.”
Quill had to laugh. “I don’t think you’re making the argument you think you are. If this information is true, it is indeed surprising that you never uncovered any of it.”
“Oh fuck on you, Peveril.” The knight dismissed him. “You never heard it none neither until last night. You didn’t uncover fuck all. It came walking up to the castle, wrapped in a bow. All you did was listen. And why do you suppose this girl felt comfortable talking to you in the first place? I’ve—”
“I met her son last week, helping with another issue.” Quill stood his ground. “That’s why they came to us. The more we actually help people, the more they trust us. Chasing ghosts all day doesn’t do anything for the people we’re supposed to be protecting. They need to see us helping.”
“I agree,” the captain said, though he added nothing else.
Eventually Jacelyn inclined her head. “Are we still thinking this is Gilbert?”
“No,” Beneger answered. Quill had already discussed it with him, that there were no patterns at all in Gilbert’s schedule that matched their sightings of Robin Hood—and absolutely none that ever put him near a whorehouse. If there was any truth to the rumor that someone in the Guard was working with Robin Hood, it certainly wasn’t with the man who openly welcomed documentation of his trips to the privy. Quill’s embarrassment at being completely wrong about Gilbert was thankfully overshadowed by their new lead. “We’re no longer considering him a threat.”
“Well he’s still a damned nightmare of a person.” Ronnell’s eyes grew. His brother, Derrick, shook in agreement.
“You have new orders?” Jac asked Beneger.
“We move everyone onto this whorehouse. We need to know every soul who comes and goes.”
One of his Derby host squirmed. “I’ve never been in a wh—… in a house of ill repute.”
“Ill repute?” Quill smiled. “Why, that’s my favorite type of repute.”
“Everyone, you say?” asked Morg, glancing to the captain.
“We’ve discussed it, yes,” de Grendon confirmed. “Lord Beneger needs as many Guardsmen as we can spare. There will be a lot of people to track, and we have to determine which ones are threats. There’s also rumor that Will Scarlet’s in the city—Sherwood’s been quiet for a few weeks, but I’m sure you’ve noticed things are louder here.”
“Smart money says they’re working with one of the gangs, Red Lions most likely,” Jacelyn said.
“Agreed.” Beneger tapped a map of the city that had been spread across the table, gesturing vaguely at its scope. “And there’s not enough of us to simply raid a gang that size. They could move their Robin Hood—whoever he really is—beneath our noses all day. We need confirmation of his whereabouts.”
“I’ve seen no proof they run with the Lions,” FitzOdo growled out.
“Proof?” Beneger turned on him. “You’ve been responsible for tracking Scarlet for months and this is the first time you’ve braved that word. Are you to tell me now that you have a single valuable morsel of knowledge you’ve obtained from your long search?”
“Red Lions were the obvious guess,” FitzOdo continued, his teeth ground tight. “But I hear it’s not them. In fact the opposite, I hear that group hates Will Scarlet, blames him for everything sour that’s ever happened to them.”
Morg flexed his muscles. “But no harm in finding out for ourselves.”
“There is, actually,” countered the bald knight, finally rattled. “Could be that the Red Lions are the only things keeping Robin Hood’s gang at bay. We take out the Red Lions, we’ve just given Robin Hood control of the city.”
“We’re not giving him anything,” Beneger snapped. “We’re taking. We’re taking everything from him. We know where to find him, he cannot be hard to find now.”
“But he has proven to be,” countered the captain, cautious to contradict Lord Beneger. “FitzOdo has been searching for him for months and found nothing. I would not underestimate Robin Hood’s ability to evade detection.”
“That was Gisbourne’s downfall,” Simon mumbled. “Thought it would be easy.”
“We won’t make that mistake.” Beneger’s jaw tightened. “All eyes on this whorehouse, and he cannot slip by.”
“No.”
This new voice came from behind, small but certain—as if he shouldn’t have to even raise it at all.
Every face turned to see the thin frame of William de Ferrers in the doorway, covered in a blustering black fur that he had undoubtedly selected to make him appear more suited to his sheriffcy. But some men were born to lead, and others were whelps made for whipping. It was a sucker punch of a reminder as to why Quill lingered in Nottingham, to see this spindly runt replaced by a worthy successor.
“I have a lead,” Lord Beneger explained, barely hiding his disdain for the man, “and I’m following it.”
“You’re not.” Ferrers walked carefully into the room, as if half the stones in the floor were traps. He held their silence until it was uncomfortable, daring anyone to speak against him. “It does us no good to catch another Robin Hood in the dark. The people will simply think we’re lying again.”
He spoke smooth as silk, concerned mostly with the fingertips of his arrogant gloves. To anyone educated in the art of politicking, these were basic tricks. But some of the men in the room were of simpler minds, and mistook the caricature of strength for the real thing.
“We could hang a Robin Hood every day of the week and it would only make him more dangerous,” the Sheriff continued. “The people need to see him captured, they need the proof that it’s really him—that’s what we failed to do at his hanging. More importantly, they need to see him fail. His story needs a definitive—and public—end.”
He paused, but nobody bothered to ask him to continue. It was too obvious that he wanted it. At last he placed his fingertips on the table and looked up at Lord Beneger.
“I’m arranging for a great archery tournament, to be held here in the castle. It shall coincide with the commemoration of the martyr St. Valentine in two weeks. Participation is open to the commonfolk, and the prizes will be formidable. Coin, of course, but land, too, throughout Nottinghamshire—and a building here in the city. The sort of prizes that no man could chance ignoring. It will be too tempting a target for the hubris of our dear Robin Hood. We keep a strict eye on its participants, and we ensure his victory. Up to a point. Then not only will we best him in archery, but we’ll capture him before a crowd of people and denounce him for his crimes immediately. The legend of Robin Hood ends there.”
The silence that met him was not the awe that Ferrers probably interpreted it as. It was more the stunned silence of watching an invalid fire a crossbow bolt into his own eye. The idea was as flawed as it was misguided, with too many obvious things that could go wrong, too many things for them to possibly track. It was exactly the sort of idea that a young man would dream up, a fool’s plot to lure an enemy in and then prove himself the hero. A lord’s fantasy, based on nothing but fancy.
But Ferrers was Sheriff now, and Quill was just a Common Guardsman on the midnight shift. He should have summoned his father a month ago. He should have done what he had come here for, and used his family’s influence to put someone worthwhile in the sheriff’s seat. Instead he’d grown content to wait it out, not realizing what damage this child might do at the head of the table. He would write his father this very night. He had to.
With the absolute smallest possible bow of his head, teeth set hard in place, Lord Beneger complied. “As you say, Sheriff.”