NOTTINGHAM
TUESDAY, 24TH DAY OF MARCH
“EVERYTHING WILL BE BETTER when King Richard returns.”
That had been Marion’s private belief for years. Her royal cousin had departed England mere months after his coronation, bleeding the country of its coin, its resources, its nobility, its knights, its manpower, its prestige. It was practically a cuckolder’s con—seducing the entire country to trust him just long enough to marry him, only to vanish days later and take everything of value with him. He had left his bride—England—penniless, in favor of a dalliance with his mistress, the Holy Crusade. By that analogy, perhaps he was not the sort of husband England should wish back in her bed. But without him, England was being assaulted by carrion suitors, like the great Penelope in Odysseus’s absence. Good husband or not, his return would scare off the scavengers.
“Everything will be better when King Richard returns,” she had reminded them at the council, along with the reality that his capture made that impossible. It was the very reason they had sided with one of those scavengers—conspiring to raise John to the throne, and seek alliances in the riven political world of Chancellor Longchamp. Everything would indeed be better if Richard could return, but instead they’d had to take things into their own hands.
But unbeknownst to any of them, it had already happened. Richard had been traded from Austria to the Holy Roman Empire, who accepted seventy percent of the ransom along with hostages and promises, and released Richard nearly two months ago. His armies had been traveling by foot ever since. All their fears and conspiracies had been meaningless. If only they’d known just to have patience. If only they’d waited for King Richard to return, to make the aforementioned everything better.
No more war tithe, no more ransom. No more gain for de Senlis to call for Marion’s head. No more of the Chancellor’s nepotism. Perhaps some of Richard’s nepotism, but nobody was expecting heaven on earth. And, most importantly for their immediate circumstances, no more reason for Prince John to barricade himself in Nottingham Castle. King Richard had returned, and every last thing would be—inarguably—better.
Except here they were outside the city of Nottingham, having just discovered that not everybody actually believed he had returned.
“What do you mean they don’t believe I’m really me?”
The King’s question was met with an exasperated huff from the Archbishop of Canterbury. “I mean precisely that, Your Grace. They will not even entreat to discuss it. They shouted at me from atop the city gates as if I were a burglar.” Hubert Walter was a careful man, the sort of proper English gentleman whose every nuance spoke to his skills at diplomacy rather than villainy. He had been freshly appointed to his position, a reward for his infinite service to Richard during their long journey. “They accused me of being a French spy!”
Marion bit her lip at that. They were, after all, currently having this conversation in French—at Richard’s preference. Were anyone from within Nottingham Castle able to listen in on this deliberation, they would think themselves proven correct.
“Who else would I possibly be?” Richard asked, incredulous. He turned to a soldier at his left. “Is it the beard?”
If anything, Richard was thinner than Marion remembered him, no doubt a result of his time in captivity. And darker, certainly, given his long campaign in Jerusalem. “Can we not demand a parley?” Marion suggested. “If Prince John will simply come and meet his brother face-to-face, this nonsense would be over.”
“The envoy refused,” Archbishop Walter answered with a chirp. “He said the prince would not be so easily tricked to let our archers feather him, not even to…”
Richard’s eyebrows climbed halfway to his crown. “Go on.”
The holiest man in the room swallowed. “… Not even to bare his arse at you.”
While the room recoiled in affected offense on Richard’s behalf, he simply rolled a smirk from one cheek to the other. He leaned closer to Marion. “He might as well show his face then, we’d hardly know the difference.”
She was glad to see that his irreverent humor had not been starved out of him. She had only interacted with him a handful of times in her life, but she’d always been impressed with his ability to make every interaction feel like a personal one, letting every person believe they shared a secret with their king. It was the same charisma that had made Robin who he was—and Robert, too, she realized, catching the earl’s glance across the table—and at another time she might unpuzzle why she was drawn to that quality so.
She wondered if other people ever described her the same way.
Robert, as if to answer, straightened his half cape and flashed her a comical grimace.
“Prince John is under the impression we are a French army,” Hubert summarized, “and rejects any compulsion to reconsider.”
“Have they seen the banners?” Richard balked.
“They have,” the archbishop’s mouth pursed against a frustrated scowl, “and they think it is part of the deception.”
A sharp man with a sharper moustache—Sir William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke—let out a long laugh, taking in the scope of the army that had been assembled. His own sizable host was amongst them. “This would be the most elaborate deception in history! They’re mad to think as much.”
Their armies had converged in the fields to the north of Nottingham’s city walls. Their battalions sprawled long and wide, as if their numbers needed any exaggeration. The sigils of Derbyshire and Nottinghamshire were most prevalent, matched closely by Huntingdonshire and Cheshire, but dozens more mingled amongst them. Sheriff de Ferrers’s original intention of reclaiming Nottingham Castle from John had practically become an afterthought, as this gathering was more a celebration of Richard’s return—overrun with loyal lords eager to prove themselves by welcoming their king with startling obedience. Marion, too, had been overwhelmed with relief when she had chanced upon the army on the Roman road—letting it whisk her back north to discover that Robert had not lost his earldom at all, but joined forces with Derbyshire and Cheshire to march on Nottingham. With Richard’s army added to theirs, it was ludicrous that Nottingham Castle thought it could defend itself from them.
A breeze lifted the flap of the command tent, beyond which lay thousands and thousands of good men, awaiting instruction.
“My brother is not mad,” Richard said quietly, his face calculating. “If he truly believes we are a French army flying English banners, someone else must have put that idea in his head.”
Marion sealed her lips as tightly as possible. She had no idea how the prince had concocted this idea about a French invasion, but there was no denying that her council in Huntingdon must have done something to push him toward paranoia. It was not an easy thing to pretend she did not carry some blame for all this, but with practice she could get good at it.
“It’s not so surprising, is it?” asked the Earl of Chester, a man made round by both muscle and wealth. “Nobody believes the king has returned. John’s allies have been rallying his call for almost a month—not just here, but all throughout England and France, too. Everybody knows that if they don’t claim for John, they’re essentially supporting young Arthur instead, who’s a ward of King Philip! Given that choice, why wouldn’t they pick John? Like it or not, these are fiercely loyal Englishmen before us, not a band of rebels. And they believe they are defending their new king.”
“That’s how it was in Tickhill,” joined Hugh de Puiset, Bishop of Durham. “The baron there—de Busli—claimed in favor of John the moment he took Nottingham. When I told him Richard was returned, he practically threw me out of his castle. I had to bring two of de Busli’s men to Belvoir to see for themselves, and they very nearly died on the spot.”
“You say that to be funny,” Richard raised a finger, “but that’s happened, too. I’m told the commander of Mont St. Michel died of fright when he heard I’d been released. I did not realize I was so … terrifying.”
“Perhaps we ought to prop you up outside the gates, then,” suggested the archbishop. “And make this battle a unanimous victory.”
“Battle?” Marion asked, more than a little out of turn. “There’s not going to be a battle. This is a misunderstanding, not a coup.”
Every human in the command tent stiffened, looking to each other. It was a game she’d seen a dozen times before, where the men of power each avoid being the one to explain to the woman what was happening, as if she could not figure it out.
“Do not underestimate the danger of a misunderstanding,” Richard lectured, though not unkindly. “That is, after all, why we are here. I heard my brother was claiming castles, seizing power. If I had known he was simply defending himself from imaginary threats, I would not have bothered marching my armies here. Yet here we are, two idiots, screaming into the abyss.”
“What of his followers? Do they deserve to die, for following orders?”
“For following my brother’s orders over mine? Yes,” Richard balked. “John at least has the excuse of ignorance. Those that stood at the gate today and turned the archbishop back are openly traitorous.”
“And even if John genuinely thinks he’s only defending himself,” the Earl Ranulph said, “the people see it as a coup.”
“So we let them sit in their castle until they’re ready to come out and talk,” Marion explained it back to him. “What we don’t do is start trading English lives.”
“Marion,” the King spoke, before his supporters could jump on her. “I do not disagree with you. But nor can I allow the people to see me as weak. If they see my brother as rebelling and that my reaction is nothing beyond knocking on his door and walking away, then that coup suddenly becomes real. No, I must treat this as if it were real. And if my brother was actually making a grab at my throne in my absence, then my reaction would be swift. And violent.”
Marion could scarcely believe it. “So your first act upon returning to England would be to slaughter your own people? Your men, gone for years, come home only to die a few miles from their families? Is that the kind of king you want to be?”
The eyes that met hers were cold, and for a brief moment she saw the result of his captivity there—a naked rage that refused to be controlled again. But Richard did not snap, he simply waited it out, then softened. “I will be the kind of king who brooks no revolts, especially from my own brother. We send our full force in, at first light, and we take the castle as quickly as possible.”
Marion withheld a gasp, but he noticed it.
“I hate this no less than you!” he bellowed, daring anyone to argue. “Frankly, more of you here should share my cousin’s horror. A little too eager for a bit of killing, I’d say, all of you. But if John will not parley with me, I see no alternative.”
“There must be!” Marion’s mind raced to find one. “John’s no fool. If he were simply able to see you, face-to-face, he would relinquish the castle immediately! So while killing everyone between you and him would certainly be effective,” she hit the word sharply, challenging anyone to find joy in that prospect, “there’s realistically only one person in that castle we actually care about.”
William d’Albini fidgeted. “Don’t make us guess, woman. What are you suggesting?”
She steeled herself against that word—woman. It was meant to paint whatever she said next in a poor shade. She’d borne it her entire life, but never grown accustomed to its sting. Most of Richard’s advisors here were already skeptical of her presence—which admittedly was more a result of nobody telling her no rather than someone telling her yes.
But for now, she was in the room, and she intended on making the most of it. To Richard alone, she answered. “Use a scalpel, not an axe. Wait as long as you can to make your main assault—and in the meanwhile, send in a small force to infiltrate the castle and find Prince John. If he can be convinced you are who you are, all the better. If not, then he should be extracted and brought to see you in person.”
The King snapped his fingers to seize attention, though he waited some time as he chewed the idea over. “I concur. But I cannot wait to start the assault. Come morning, they must see the wrath of their King, or think me coward. As a silver lining, I should think the chaos of the siege would only help this small force to find an opening in the castle’s defenses.”
Robert made eyes with Marion at this news and whistled. “So you’ll siege the castle with the full strength of your Holy Crusaders … as a diversion?”
The King grimaced. “If we’re lucky, then yes. If not … well, the siege will work, too. And I suppose my men could use some bloodshed. They’ve been cooped up for ages, waiting for me to get out of that damned castle. With a host of our size, there’s no chance the siege will fail. But it may take a few days. So if the small force gets to my brother first, well then just think of all the English lives you’ll have saved by doing so.”
All the lives she’ll have saved. That was not the currency in which she counted success. Marion could think of nothing but those who would die, meaninglessly, between the prince’s stubbornness and the king’s reputation. It clawed through her belly like an animal. She’d spent months—months!—scraping for the survival of a hundred souls in the Sherwood … and now those kinds of numbers seemed trivial, mere grains of salt over a banquet of war.
“Very good,” d’Albini chuckled. “And who is to lead this force?”
“I suppose it ought to fall on me,” William de Ferrers answered, “as I know the city better than anyone else.”
“No, you’re Sheriff here, you need to be seen on the front lines, that the people know you’re on the right of this,” Richard answered. “If you’re seen sneaking into your own city, it would read poorly. No, I need you at the vanguard. Ferrers, I hope you’re better than your father at doing this.”
“Well.” The young Earl of Derby seemed to take it as a compliment. “I am still alive.”
The other earls all volunteered to take on the special task, one by one, each boasting of some cunning attribute or past victory that made them an ideal candidate. Each begging for their king to trust them to carry out this, his first private request upon return to his country. But Marion felt it coming, a wave as strong as any ocean. She met Robert’s eyes as he shook his head at the capitulating barons, the poor fools. He knew it, too. None of them had the highest card.
Robert waited for Marion’s silent approval before he addressed the King. “Your Grace, without Ferrers, we will need someone who knows the castle as well as he. We have a girl with us who worked as a servant in Nottingham Castle for years. We also have … the world experts at sneaking into the castle and … finding important men.” It was kind of him to avoid the word assassinating. “And we also have people already positioned in the city, to help us.”
That was a bit of an exaggeration, but in essence he was saying that we have Robin Hoods.
“And,” Marion added, surprised he hadn’t started with it, “thanks to the poor turnout of our recent council, every single one of our men knows exactly what Prince John looks like. No offense to you, Sheriff,” she referred to d’Albini, “but I doubt your soldiers are so familiar with the prince’s face. Had you answered the call to our council, perhaps. But your men would be sneaking around a castle full of John’s influential supporters, hoping to find someone who ‘looks important.’ Whereas my crew,” she hadn’t used that word before, “we could die off down to a single man, and that man would still be able to finish the mission.”
Her phrasing brought the tone down a bit. It was almost as if the others who had begged for the role hadn’t considered how dangerous it would be.
“Very well. Huntingdon. Cousin.” Richard nodded. “It’s you.”
“Stay with me a moment when we’re done,” the Archbishop of Canterbury added. “I have something that may aid you.”
“See to it,” the King finished. “The details are yours, but know that my campaign starts at first light, and does not stop until John has surrendered. Godspeed.”
THEY DID NOT SPEAK as they followed the archbishop from the command tent, across the rolling farmlands of the hills outside the city, now flattened by an army’s march. Robert did not so much as look back at her, but Marion knew every bit of his focus was upon her. It was the absences between them that spoke everything, the enormity of their silence. They did not look at each other, because they knew the other was there—and would be nowhere else.
They had not spoken of what happened that night in John Little’s tent, because there was nothing to speak of. That is, nothing to put into words. Nothing that an observer could describe as salacious. They had spoken of her hopes of turning herself over to Lord Simon de Senlis, and he urged her to reconsider, and then the conversation had ended.
But when their words were done, they had not looked away from each other.
At first she’d almost found it comical, as if they were each waiting for the other to say one final thing. But as that silence lengthened, she knew neither of them would break it. At first her heart had raced with wonder, with anticipation, that they were on the verge of springing into an embrace … but with time it became more intimate than anything physical could ever be. The longer she looked into him, and he into her, the more she felt herself change, as if she were shedding layers of her very soul. At first she was aware only of the faces she was making, but then of her body, and eventually she was so relaxed she was aware of nothing but her own self-perceptions. At first, the lioness that Marion tried to present to the world. Then, the uncertain lady she knew others saw in her. Next, the terrified girl she saw in herself. Beneath that, just a human, just a heart, slowly sloughing off all the unfair trappings that she’d placed between herself and happiness. She was more naked than she’d ever been, letting Robert stare into her, with no pretense. In him she saw the same discarding of masks, from earl to husband to man, to need. They were just two souls, desperately in need of the connection with the other, lying a foot apart on the floor of a dirty tent. If it was hours that had passed that night, Marion would not be surprised. And both of them knew that while they had done nothing to violate Robert’s marriage bonds—or Marion’s grief—they had simultaneously done something far, far worse.
And so they walked together, bound together—entwined, beyond any ability to explain it. It eluded definition, but had somehow become an integral and precious part of her. When she tried to discard it—to chide herself for replacing her mourning for Robin with this new, adventurous thing—it somehow only nestled in deeper. When she tried to think of Robin now, it was always Robert standing next to him, the better man by far.
And each, as untouchable as the other.
THE ARCHBISHOP’S AID CAME in the form of a waif of a young woman, dirty and wide-eyed, clutching a young boy of similar description. Her name was Sarra Billinsgate—so the archbishop explained—and she had very recently escaped from the city.
“Nor is she the only one,” he continued. “We’ve received a steady trickle of city refugees, who found us as soon as the army arrived. Most are, regretfully, being detained—for fear of inviting any of John’s spies into our ranks. But I’ve spoken with this one personally, and am compelled to believe her.”
The woman’s breathing was short and strained, her grip on her son tight enough to leave a mark. Her neck was too skinny, her arms were nearly bone.
“See that she’s fed,” Marion ordered, crouching down to the balls of her feet, hoping to make a comforting face at the child. He buried his face away from her. “You’re safe now, both of you. I know this must seem terrible—armies outside the city, and being detained. But I promise you you’ll eat, and be protected, and that everything will get better from this point on. After all, King Richard is back!”
And about to siege your city.
If either reacted, it was with a nod so subtle it might as well have been nothing.
“Do you like it?” Robert smiled, flipping the end of his cape about, catching the boy’s attention. “I could have one made for you, young sir. Would you like that?”
The boy looked to his mother, though still they said nothing.
“We understand the city gates are locked down, and no passage is permitted,” Marion added. “We’d very much like to know how you got through them.”
Sarra swallowed, perhaps to some pain. “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”
“Quite the opposite,” Robert said. “If someone helped you get out, they may be able to help us get in. They may be the key to stopping this war before it begins.”
After a look down at her son and a curt shake of her head, Sarra answered clearly. “They’re called the White Hand. They’re a gang, though that’s not a very kind word for them. The Red Lions were all killed, and now there’s a dozen gangs instead, the White Hand is one of them. Only they’re trying to help people, help smuggle them out of the city.”
“The White Hand?” Marion was surprised by the haunting phrase. “I don’t suppose the name Gilbert means anything to you?”
Sarra seemed shocked to hear it. “That’s him, he’s their leader, yes. He’s the one that led me and Hugh out.”
Robert clearly sensed Marion’s hesitation. “You know him?”
“Gilbert was part of Locksley, he stayed with us after the fire, but disappeared shortly after Robin joined us. He’s something of a ghost story.” She turned back to Sarra. “Did you see him? Did you talk to him? Tall, gaunt, and the glove?”
She nodded her head. “He’s a good man, he was kind to us. His people leave their symbol throughout the city, a sign you can find for safety. There are caves under Nottingham, long tunnels, though you need a light to see. One reaches out far beyond the city gates, that’s how he’s been getting people out. So long as the prince’s men don’t see.”
“Well this is only good news,” Robert laughed. “We have a secret way into the city, run by a … friend? Or someone sympathetic, at least. Sarra, I know you’ve already been through more than anyone should have to endure, but could you do one thing more for your King? Could you lead us the way back to the entrance to this cave?”
She shook her head no before she had the bravery to say it, her mouth twisted hard to find some way to back out now. But even as she did, her son peeked out again, staring at Marion as hard as his little eyes could. His lips parted and a slight voice asked, “Are you Lady Marion?”
“I am.” She smiled widely, though she was shocked to have been known. “You’re a very smart boy, how did you know that?”
“We saw you last autumn,” his answer came. “In Thorney. You were with Robin Hood.”
“I was,” she answered again, though her smile now was forced.
“There are a lot of Robin Hoods in the city now,” he said, and gulped for air. “But everybody knows they’re liars. Robin Hood’s dead, isn’t he?”
Unsure how to respond, Marion braved the truth. “He is.”
“That’s okay,” the boy said matter-of-factly.
“Is it? Why is that?”
“Because you’ll look after us.”
Marion did an admirable job of not running very, very far away.
“I’ll show you the entrance,” Sarra said. “But not for your King. I’ll do it for you.”
“YOU’RE NOT GOING,” ROBERT said, exactly one moment before she said the opposite.
“Of course I am,” Marion answered. “It was my idea.”
“You’re not, it’s too dangerous.”
“Because I’m a woman?” Marion asked, shocked he would make the distinction. “You had no trouble taking me to Grafham.”
“Because there wasn’t going to be any killing there,” he responded sharply. Behind him, the fields stretched far down the gentle hills to the city walls, above which the tiers of Nottingham Castle sat, climbing and wrapping around each other, daring them to come closer. The sky was full of heavy clumps of clouds, dark beasts turned brilliant gold at their edges. It would have been a perfect spring dusk if not for the promise of death that hovered around them.
Robert continued. “We will very likely have to kill a lot of people to get into that castle, so I can only afford to bring people who are very good at that. I already hate that we have to bring Arable along, but she’s necessary. She knows the city, she knows the castle. She’ll be enough.”
“I know Gilbert, though, and she doesn’t.”
“Doesn’t matter. Sounds like he’s willing to help either way. You’re staying here. Not because you’re a woman, but because you’re you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re Lady Marion, even that little boy knows who you are.” He scratched at his cheeks, and shook his head. “You’re too important to die in a cave under the city, or by some errant crossbow bolt in the middle of the fighting.”
“I’m too important? You’re an Earl, Robert, I’m just—”
“Stop it.” He flinched and brought both his hands to his face, fidgeted, then they moved to her shoulders. As always, he didn’t quite touch her, not quite. His palms hovered an inch away, he wouldn’t cross that line. Which meant that it must have been her that moved first. In a moment her arms were around him, his hand on her jawline, drawing her in, her heart leapt into her throat, but he paused. Perhaps he was too breathless to continue, or perhaps he was aghast at the next boundary they thought they’d never cross. Perhaps waiting for her permission. Perhaps that’s all he’d been doing that night in the tent.
But this time, the madness of all of it—all of it, the rebellion, and his damned insistence on facing an army on her behalf—it removed her every inhibition, her fingers found the laces of his doublet and she pulled him into her, thrilled that he met her just as forcefully, just as eagerly. His lips were thin, but confident, the stubble of his chin scratched her, and when his tongue parted her lips she lost herself, her fingers finding his hair, his elbow, she pulled his cape around her to be closer, to keep him, to keep him from going to the castle.
When they stopped to breathe, he touched his forehead to hers. “You’re too important. And no, not just to me. You’ve started something, and you’re going to see it through.”
“What?” She couldn’t keep track of what he was saying, continuing their conversation as if nothing had just happened. “You mean the council? It’s over, it was a failure. King Richard is back.”
“It wasn’t a failure.” His hands held her cheeks, he placed a single kiss on her brow, her eyelashes flicked against his skin. “You’re the face of something now. And you’re also King Richard’s cousin. People were afraid to stand with you at the council, even though they knew you were right. Now that Richard’s back, you’re in favor again. People will … they’ll kill just to be associated with you.”
To be associated with you. There was a jealousy in those words, as if he found himself unworthy of such a role. “For what? I advocated for King John, who’s now clearly a madman. I wanted to dethrone the Chancellor, whose reign is over now that Richard is back. What do they—”
“It doesn’t stop there!” he said, his eyes imploring her. “You weren’t just advocating that the Chancellor be controlled, you were advocating that any ruler be controlled. You convinced that room that even a king should have restrictions, that we can make an England where the people are not afraid of their rulers. Where those rulers are bound to follow the rules as well. And with a king like Richard at your side, you can make that a reality. You saw that. Before all our eyes, you changed the King’s mind.”
“Barely—”
“Barely, yes, today. But tomorrow? That’s why we can’t risk you, Marion. You’re tomorrow.”
Suddenly the city and castle of Nottingham tumbled away from her feet. She was a thousand miles in the air and had no idea how she hadn’t realized it. It was everything she’d been building on a small scale at Locksley, suddenly laid out before her, and all she had to do was grab the thread and keep pulling.
“So no, you don’t get to risk your life crawling through a cave with me this afternoon. I’m not going to throw you over a horse and ride away like Amon did, but damn it—you have to start listening to the people you trust. Think of what Amon said to you. You’re not allowed to sacrifice yourself anymore. He was right, Marion. This was your call, and we’ll do it for you. You keep worrying about whether you can be anything like Robin Hood was, but you don’t get it at all. Robin Hood was a king, yes, but king of his pond. But you, you’re playing in the ocean. It’s time that you act like it.”
She felt her draw drop. She didn’t feel like the queen of an ocean. She felt like a petty little girl who wanted the fleeting joy of kissing him again, without the guilt of what it meant for her memory of Robin, or for Robert’s very living wife. She wanted to crawl into a tent with him and hide until the war was over, then crawl out and ask who had won. And the fact that she wanted these things, instead of the power—she knew in her bones—was the reason he was right.
“We’ll bring you back the prince,” he straightened, “or die trying. My lady.”