SHERWOOD FOREST
IT WASN’T THE FIRST time Arthur thought about it, not by a fucking spit-shot. But it was the first time he said it out loud.
“I should leave.”
He let the words slip out and they were suddenly real, though broken into meaningless grunts as he hustled through the Sherwood’s understory. Arthur was tired, he was hungry, and he did not goddamned have to be.
I should fucking leave. But David would hate him.
Even now, even as they sprinted back to camp after being spotted at the gord outpost, David was smiling. Fucking smiling. He was, impossibly, always like that. Despite every fool adventure and brush with death they’d been through together, David still smiled at sunsets and sang to himself and told jokes. And if David could stomach more of this, then Arthur had no right complaining none neither. They’d been through Locksley together, watched it burn together, survived everything since together. They’d been tied up and gagged together, watched their friends die together, and they’d keep on pushing together until they got killed together, probably doing something fucking stupid together like not leaving when they should, together.
But the world was better when there was someone watching your miserable back, and David had his.
“We probably don’t need to run,” Arthur huffed out, without slowing. “Whoever saw us at the build site … I don’t think they’re following.”
“They’re not following,” David answered, bouncing beside him, “because we’re running. Why change what’s working? Sides, running’s good for you.”
“A twisted ankle ain’t.” Arthur pivoted to glance behind. “And Arable’s struggling. We can slow down for her.”
With a shrug, David the stallion slowed from a gallop to a canter.
“You ought to put on some muscle,” Arthur complained, “so you can be slow like me.”
They continued on for a while, weaving through barren trees across uneven ground, following the distant line of the ravine that would lead them back to the camp. Once Arable caught up with them, she was the first to brave the question. “Any thoughts on what happens next?”
“That’s for Will to decide,” Arthur answered.
“I say this is a good thing,” David said, his face calculating. “Well, not a good thing, it’s clearly not good, you know, but it’s a kick in the shin, innit?”
Arthur eyed his friend in silence until he was certain those were the actual words he’d spoken. “First you say running’s good for us, and so is getting kicked in the shin? Someone raised you wrong.”
“Well, we’ve been in a slump of late,” David explained. “We knew things’d be harder as winter moved on, but right now all we’re doing is surviving. Will might actually be thrilled about your little tower.”
“I never said it was a—”
“Because we’ve got to do something about it, right? And now. Organize a group to watch it, disrupt supplies, maybe look for others like it, you know? This … this is what we’re good at.”
As always, David had a point. If the Nottingham Gord could be ready to go on the offensive again, then damn it, so could Robin Hood. Will Scarlet promised them, come spring, that he’d build a network of companies spread all across the Sherwood. Said he knew how to do it, they just had to get through winter first. But snow or not, the gords had just declared the end of winter. Which meant it was time for them to come out of hibernation.
Arthur picked up his pace.
Arable excused herself when they finally neared the camp. She kept her privacy away from the main group, and was likely only the better for it. More than a few times Arthur had thought upon living at the edges himself, maybe even spending time with Arable. She’d proven herself useful, and sharp, and able to take a fucking joke. The rest of the group thought she was the source of their foul luck, but the rest of the group were limp-wrist skivers who’d thought Robin of Locksley could magically make their troubles go away. Arable was more realistic, like Arthur. Though he’d learned long ago that women were not wont to enjoy his company unlessing they’d asked for it first. And he was ever too busy anyhow, given that he and David bore the brunt of keeping the others alive.
They came upon the first of the group in the ravine, half-naked and bathing in knee-deep water that was more like to kill than clean them. Nobody liked being dirty but neither had anyone ever died from it. The near bank was steep to the water, so he and David had to carefully pick their way down.
John Little, bare chested and tying his breeches as he walked, bellowed a greeting up as he heard their commotion. Despite their rationing, John was large as ever, his big wet belly slogged side to side. “Slap the wet off, ladies,” John called to the others. “The boys are back early.”
“We’ll be down in a minute!” David yelled, one of his boots slipping a bit.
“You two should be glad you missed this!” Will Stutely shouted. He was nearly unrecognizable wet, the wild plume of his hair and beard matted down into some sort of bog beast.
“Indeed,” John added. “Worst idea anyone’s ever had!”
“Was your idea,” hooted Charley. Skinny little Charley Dancer clearly took to the cold as much as one would expect from his nickname—the frogman. He grinned against the frigid air and splashed out to dry land.
“That’s right, it was my idea!” John slapped both sides of his face. “A rare exception to a lifelong streak of brilliance. Not to be used against me.”
“Come now, John,” Charley was grinning, “you can’t be cold if I’m not cold!”
John grabbed the frogman’s little waist and shook him like a twig. “Of course you’re not cold, there’s nothing to you. Look at how much more body I have to keep warm! There are parts of my body, important parts, that I can’t even feel right now.”
Charley croaked. “John, you can’t see those parts anymore neither.”
Arthur was surprised to see Charley’s bulgy eyes and squat face actually having fun. Ever the outsider, the man was skittish in a crowd and kept strictly to himself. Tuck was there, too, and the Delaney brothers, all shivering from their brisk morning dip. But Arthur had no intention of joining them in their latest fatal contest of idiocy. He and David made the final few jumps down the incline to flatter ground.
“We need to muster everyone.” He was near out of breath. “We had a run-in with the Guard, and they’re up to something.”
It was met with groans and protestation, a bit of stomping in a circle from the oaf Stutely, but nothing that resembled surprise. Lately, every day brought bad news—it was really only a question of what form it took. The group begrudgingly dressed and ambled back upriver, toward the main bulk of the camp.
“How does it take to the cold?” Tuck motioned to Charley’s lame leg as they made their way.
“Lovely.” Charley squinted back. “Can’t feel it at all. Your arm?”
“Hm.” The friar touched his elbow that’d been broken last year and smugged himself into further superiority. Arthur sneered at him. It didn’t feel good to sneer, he knew it made him an asshole to do it. But Tuck was cradling his arm as if he’d suffered worse than any of them. He was alive, at least. There were some who’d lost nearly everything and were still working day and night. The only thing Tuck ever contributed to the group was empty stories about some fucking God who loved them despite the daily proof against. Thought this meant he was pulling his own weight, rather than dragging them down further.
Tuck was the last of them that had right to complain.
And who was the first, then?
That was the real question.
There was one poor bastard who had suffered the most, and he was still here. Still leading them.
The camp was a camp in name only. An onlooker might have thought it the aftermath of a battle, and in a way they’d be right. Bodies were strewn slapdash across the broken terrain, easily mistaken as dead. There was nothing resembling organization or purpose. Those that bothered to build shelter used little more than a few branches and a stretch of tattered fabric.
John Little called them to gather, though most simply propped a head on an elbow, or did not rise at all. Arthur doubted they’d see this news as the good thing David did, but any change from their current situation had to be a good one.
Arthur summarized their encounter for those who were close. “They’re invading the Sherwood,” he finished. “So I’d say we’ve got to move quickly.”
“There’s no point.”
Arthur startled, unsure who had said it. All eyes turned to the back of the crowd, where Will Scarlet shook his head numbly and said it again. Though his words were “There’s no point,” they dripped with insult. He meant, “It’s hopeless.” He meant, “We’re going to die anyways.”
He pushed through the crowd until he was inches from Arthur, ignoring the others. “You were right, then.” Not a question.
Arthur nodded. “Nottingham Guard is building.”
And Will Scarlet’s face sloughed, his body sat down on the ground.
He was having one of his bad days.
“You’re not ready for my brand of outlaw,” he’d promised back in December, when they thought the world was theirs to steal. And some days he lived up to that promise, driven with a crystal-clear certainty. But more and more lately, every day was a gamble. Some days he festered at the edges of civility, sniping comments with deadly accuracy. Some days he’d hunt with Arthur and David and garner their greatest spoils, but took little for himself. Some days he’d pay special attention to Arable’s well-being, other days he loathed her very name.
But even on his good days, there was little of that invincible boyish brat Will had been before becoming Robin Hood. Before Much and Alan and Locksley. Before Elena. That man had crumbled, and what walked in his place was debris. He was barely even recognizable, hidden beneath a ragged blond beard and a month of grief.
The crowd waited to see if Will Scarlet had any more instructions. “We have to leave,” he said at last, to the ground. “If someone saw you—as you say—we have to pack up and move camps. Again. We move within the hour.” Then he burst up again and stormed away silently. People made room for him as though he were on fire. Some would argue he was.
David gave a piteous frown. “What do you think?” he whispered.
“He’s in a mood,” Arthur answered. “That’s where he wants to be.”
So John Little gave the order again, ignoring Will’s lurk. “Get to it, then. Off we go.”
With every knuckle of depression, the group dispersed, as if this were the final fall of the axe. They’d reacted the same way a week earlier, and before that, again and again. It would happen again a week from now—they’d gather whatever belongings they had, pack what they could into whichever sacks were still continent enough to carry weight. Existing only to break down whatever small amenities they’d built for themselves in the willowbank, to tie their shredded boots tighter about their ankles. To pick which items were no longer worth carrying and abandon them. To slog on.
“To hide,” Arthur added, aloud. He’d thought this news would be a call to action, not the bell of a funeral dirge. They were in a loop of hell, an unrelenting repetition of misery.
And I do not have to be here.
IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG for Arthur and David to pack. They’d become experts at impermanence. He’d long learned that if they waited for every last person to be “ready,” they’d be waiting a week. It was best to start their travel in a trickle, letting the strongest lead the way and force the others to hurry. This also gave those that harbored a desire to slink away the opportunity to vanish forever.
If they all left without me, Arthur wondered, would I bother to follow?
“We should build a castle next time,” David said cheerily.
Arthur was familiar with each of those words, but they had no business living in that order. “What?”
“We should build a castle,” his friend repeated. “Rather than move every week, we should just build a castle and stand our ground.”
“I think castles take longer than a week to build.”
“Hm.” David chewed it over. “But you don’t know?”
“If you’re asking if I’ve ever personally—”
David clapped and folded his arms. “I’m gonna build a castle.”
Arthur might have said more, but Will Scarlet made his way closer. His pack was full, and he pushed against his knees with both hands as he ascended the steep ridge. He didn’t stop by them, nor so much as grunt a greeting.
“Gords are building,” Arthur said after he’d passed. “We’ve got to stop them.”
The figure climbed two steps more, and paused. “We can’t.”
“You said we could.”
It was just Will’s back, no more. “I thought we’d have more time, Arthur. Another month, at least. We could’ve recruited some more men from the villages, train them. But … but we’re everyone. We can barely keep them alive, much less fight back. We’re just … we’ve got to move.”
Will Scarlet pushed off again, and Arthur exchanged an uneasy glance with David.
“He’ll think of something,” David urged, as if sensing Arthur’s thoughts. “You’ll see. I’m gonna get that castle.”
Scarlet was first over the edge, and Arthur was halfway up the ravine bank himself when Friar Tuck’s raspy nasal whine caught him. “You can’t leave yet!”
Arthur didn’t turn around to reply. “They’ll catch up.”
“You can’t leave yet,” Tuck repeated. “Lady Marion isn’t back yet.”
A shiver took a little romp through Arthur’s body. It wasn’t the idea of waiting that irritated him, it was the implication that Marion ought to make the call. She hadn’t spent the entirety of winter with them. She’d frequently left for days on end—a week, even—while the rest of them froze. She ate well and did not suffer as they had. This day she’d gone out for a friendly walk as if the morning was made for picnicking instead of survival. Her bodyguard, Sir Amon Swift, also enjoyed a fairer life, rather than lending his desperately needed strength to keeping the group alive.
“She should be back soon enough,” Arthur answered, and heaved up the incline.
“If the Nottingham Guard truly is nearby…”
“She’ll be fine.” He stared at Tuck’s angry little face, his beard shooting out like an animal’s whiskers. “Besides, isn’t your god watching out for her?”
Tuck snorted. “He’s your God, too, whether you like it or not.”
At that, he had to laugh. “Well I wish he wasn’t, then. Seems he hates us of late. Have you tried praying lately? That ought to make life a bit easier.”
“We have to trust in Him.”
“That’s right, he loves us all, doesn’t he? Has a terrible way of showing it.”
It was the same helpless-maiden routine, with a different savior. People waiting for Robin Hood to save them. Waiting for God. Waiting to be saved rather than lifting a finger for themselves.
“He does love us all,” Tuck insisted, because of course he had to. “Despite us, our faults.”
“Well if I had a woman who loved me half the way your god loves us, I think I’d find me another woman.”
“If you’d already found one woman,” David chimed in next to him, “then you wouldn’t have enough coin to find you another one.”
Arthur wagged a finger at his friend. “First order of court, fuck you. Secondly, all I’m saying is that it must give you pause, no?” He threw what he hoped was a piercing gaze down upon Tuck’s ugly little bald head, who answered by way of clenching his jaw. “Maybe your almighty man in the sky isn’t there at all, or that he doesn’t give the first fuck about you? Or maybe the gords in Nottingham prayed harder than we did last night? Or worse, that my grandmother’s pagan gods are up there instead, laughing themselves to shit-all as they listen to you praying to the wrong jackass?”
Tuck didn’t flinch, he just nodded and accepted it. He looked over his shoulder, the entirety of the camp behind him, readying themselves for another day’s miserable march. The friar somehow seemed inspired by it.
“Any halfwit can complain about the hard times,” Tuck said. “There’s no genius in pointing out the very obvious. Our lives are not now what we’d like them to be, and you suppose it takes a brave man like yourself to blame someone else? Well that’s fine. Do it. Complain all you like about how our troubles are proof the Lord hates us, shout it out as loud as you can. I’ll listen to every word, I promise I will, if you make me one promise in return. For every good moment, for every bite you eat, for every night you sleep safely, for every healthy breath you take, for every day your friends laugh at your jokes instead of telling you how intolerable you are … give Him credit for that, too. Every time you want to blame Him for the bad, or say He must not exist since He hasn’t personally attended to your every passing fancy, you must also thank Him for the fact you’re alive enough to have such thoughts. You think the troubles you count outweigh the blessings you don’t?”
Arthur would’ve responded, but he didn’t have the hundred years it would take to get through the friar’s skull. By Tuck’s argument, if Arthur were to lose nine of his fingers, he should be thankful to still have the one. A fine theory for a victim, but a man who thought that way would never be anything else. Tuck couldn’t see the shittiness of their truly shit situation because he’d spent his life blinding himself to reality. Arthur was happily miserable because he was smarter. To know misery is to know exactly what you need to fix.
Tuck continued, not realizing that nobody cared. “Of course I doubt, to answer your question. That’s why we call it faith. And do you? Doubt, that is? Do you look at the arrogant little pile of bitterness you’ve built up in yourself and wonder if maybe there might have been a better path for you? Do you ever watch someone pray, amazed at the solace and comfort they find in the Lord, and realize you’ve never known that kind of peace? You have your laugh at me for keeping faith, and yet you seem so very very sure I’m wrong. What makes your belief better than mine? Tell me, Arthur, do you ever stop to wonder if perhaps you might be wrong, every time you open your damned mouth?”
Beside him, David put a fist to his lips to cover his laughter.
“I’m not intolerable,” Arthur grumbled, but he plopped to the ground and consented to wait.