NOTTINGHAM
SUNDAY, 29TH DAY OF MARCH
“THANK YOU FOR COMING,” she sighed.
“Oh, I had nothing better to do.” John Little’s smile stretched across his full wide face. He winked and took a respectful step backward, clasping his hands over one another across his belly.
Arable lowered herself to her knees and considered the discolored stone. The square steeple of St. Nicholas cast a shadow across the cracked marker, surrounded by other gravestones in the enclosed burial plot beside the church. While every other marker had a name and a date, this curious little cobble was just a mistake. Perhaps someone had thrown it over the wall a dozen years earlier, and it had been accidentally pushed into the earth. But for Arable, it was the only remnant of her father, Lord Raymond de Burel.
“He would’ve been a good grandfather,” she said, letting her fingers touch its surface.
John let a deferent moment pass. “Have you thought of a name?”
“Not yet,” she whispered, which was only half-true. For a son she had a few options—of the various men who had made a difference in her years. It would be appropriate to give Raymond a new life, but it seemed even more fitting to give Roger de Lacy that honor. Robin might be a contender, too, if not for all its complicated baggage. David, perhaps. But for a daughter, she had nothing. There simply weren’t enough women who had mattered to her. There were only creatures like the sisters Lady Margery and the Countess Magdalena, which made Arable wonder if power turned all women into such destructive beasts. She prayed that would not be the case with Marion. And despite their newly repaired relationship, Arable wasn’t exactly going to name her daughter after the woman that William nearly married. The only woman who’d been strong enough to pull Arable out of her difficult times and force her to flourish was named Arable, but she didn’t want to spend the next few years tisking a child with her own name.
So, no. “Not yet,” she repeated, kissed her fingers, and pressed them to the stone. She had not thought she’d ever be here again, but was glad to have a chance to say goodbye.
“My wife’s name was Marley,” John suggested. “It was a good name, I think, and she hasn’t used it in a while.”
That warmed her. “I’ll think on it,” she laughed. He was hardly the first person to give her a suggestion. Tuck had offered a couple of saints’ names, while Lord Robert had insisted she consider Tesoro—which was Italian for treasure, and also apparently the name of his rapier that had broken in battle. She owed him much, but certainly not that much.
John offered her a hand and they left the gravesite, rejoining the main road that followed the curve of the castle’s outer wall, a block to the west. Up the hill to the northeast they would come to the long Market Square, where King Richard was holding his open court for the day’s declarations.
“How was Will?” John asked as they walked.
“Hard to say.” She shrugged. Will Scarlet would always be a man of extremes. “But I’d like to say he was doing better. He needs things to do, you know? And in Nottingham … I think he had a lot to do, at least. He didn’t seem as selfish. Not better, perhaps. But headed there.”
“That’s good.” John nodded. “I hated to see him suffer.”
“Nobody’s seen him since the siege ended, nor Arthur. Charley said they’re not in the prisons, either,” she added. “They must have found a chance to sneak out. You haven’t heard from them, then?”
Little shook his head.
“Maybe they’ll head to Huntingdon.” She smiled to a young woman they passed, who was sweeping ashes into a small basin. “It’s still dangerous for them both here, so maybe they’ll come join us there.”
The next few steps were silent, which meant that John doubted the idea. She couldn’t blame him—she didn’t believe it herself.
“That’s a shame about David, though,” John said at last, his voice low. “And Charley. It’s still hard to think of him as a Guardsman, little frog ’at he is. I never would have known, not for my life. But … you say he’s trustworthy?”
“He is.” She was surprised to say it. She had thought Charley might have opted to stay behind, but he’d sought them out again and was eager to return to Huntingdon with the others. “He did right by us. You have nothing to worry about.”
“That’s good.” John nodded seriously, as if this one thing might redeem all the rest of it. “I always liked him.”
“And Will and Arthur … they’ll show up eventually, I think. Once this gets all settled.”
“Woof.” John flashed his eyebrows as they rounded a corner that led to the Market Square. It was packed with humans all eager to catch a glimpse of the proceedings. Heralds stood at every block or so, standing on hastily made wooden platforms, repeating each proclamation of the day. “I think we’ll be back in Huntingdon and die of old age long before this ever ‘gets all settled.’”
He squeezed her shoulder and grinned, then barked some curt words at the people before them in the crowd to make a hole, and they wormed their way down the streets to eventually return to the celebration.
KING RICHARD SAT IN THE middle of a row of mismatched tallback chairs on an elevated stage at the east end of the Square, flanked by several swaying standards and banners bearing his sigil—three lions rampant on a red field. Arable assumed those beside him were his lieutenants, though she only recognized half their symbols and fewer of their faces. Prince John was amongst them, though near the end of the row. His placement was simultaneously a show of forgiveness as well as an absolute reprimand.
A good deal of the day went by unnotably, and the crowds shifted frequently as people came to watch for some time before realizing they did not understand any of what was being discussed. There were some auctions for smaller plots of land whose owners had been unfortunately killed, but there was little excitement and often few buyers in those sales. Prince John’s most prestigious allies were punished with diplomacy alone, which much disappointed a crowd that had rather hoped to see some bloodshed for whichever side they thought was more in the wrong. Some charges of misconduct were raised against the Archbishop of York, which Richard eventually dismissed, though the Bishop of Coventry was not as lucky. Arable paid closer attention when she heard the name of William d’Albini—the Sheriff of Rutland who had once refused them hospitality as they crossed his borders—but he was receiving favor rather than disparagement. Rutland was rewarded the lands of Roger de Montbegon, who had sided with John—and so on and so on, to nobody’s surprise or interest.
There was one bit of news that was met with varying reactions, at Richard’s announcement of a new tax—which he called a carucage. Nobody else seemed to be thrilled at the idea of a new tax, but Arable lit up and slapped John’s shoulders. “That’s Marion!” she squeaked. “That was her idea, and Richard is using it!”
“Carucage?” John struggled with the word. “Never heard of it.”
“It’s a representative tax, in which a landholder is taxed based on the size of his land, rather than a fixed percentage.”
“Oh,” John answered, though he clearly did not understand. “And that’s better, is it?”
“Well,” they weren’t in the best environment for a lesson on economics, “for some, yes. How much land do you own, after all?”
“None.”
“Well there you go.”
John beamed. “I like it.”
“It’s not exactly a fix,” Arable explained, “but it’s a start. More important, it means Richard really will listen to Marion. It’s everything she wanted, everything she was working for. She can finally help us from the top down, rather than the bottom up.”
This, at least, John understood, and his face nearly choked with pride. “Maybe someday she’ll actually get a seat up there.”
Now that was a radical idea. “One step at a time, John.”
He gave her an elbow, his whole heart flush in his face. “Well, of course! Don’t you know? That’s how walking forward works.”
One step at a time.
They stayed for a while and watched. They purchased some apples and a rind of cheese from a salty old vendor who was doing very well for himself in this crowd. Most had taken a seat, turning the day’s event into a city-wide picnic—which was such an impossible thing to believe, given how recently there had been full-fledged warfare in this very same plaza. If she looked for it, she could probably find blood stains in the cobbles and stone walls. That ghost of violence was ignored in favor of a bit of relaxation and the enjoyment of King Richard’s presence in Nottingham, which would undoubtedly be a story many a child would hear for decades. That was how the world moved on, Arable recognized. By letting the past slide by. By choosing the promise of the future.
The biggest repercussions of the war had already been announced in the morning, when the King declared his brother John’s punishment. This came in the form of Richard’s proclamation of his nephew Arthur as his official heir—which frankly did not seem to be much of a punishment at all to the prince. Arable had met the man in person and found not a single stitch of his body that ever wanted the burden of being king—despite what everyone seemed to think of him, or however they misinterpreted his seizure of the castle.
Ironically, Prince John had been correct all along. King Richard made his declarations in French, which were then translated by an attendant and repeated by the heralds. Which meant that at the end of the day, after all the misunderstandings and conspiracies, John had indeed been defending Nottingham from a French-led army intent on making Arthur Plantagenet the next king after all.
Arable enjoyed that joke immensely, even if nobody else did.
The difference, of course, was that King Richard was young, healthy, and—most importantly—not in a prison. Therefore, he had many years to make a more legitimate heir. Neither his nephew nor his brother would ever rule, and England could finally start healing. Long Live the King, after all, wasn’t an endorsement of the King—it was merely a recognition that things were generally more peaceful when nobody was fighting for the throne.
As the proceedings continued, John Little made his own improvised translations to Richard’s French, whispering them to Arable. “I hereby declare,” he announced at a half voice, imitating the king’s wide gestures, “that I have … two hands!”
Arable laughed and nudged him.
“Furthermore, this hand,” he mimicked as the King raised one higher in the air, “is my favorite! It is a good kingly hand, do you not agree?”
The audience applauded for the king’s magnificent hand, and Arable burst in laughter.
And so on.
Sometime in the afternoon, the name of Sir Robert FitzOdo caught their attention, and Arable sat up and craned her neck at the stage. “In recognition of his acts of valor and courage in defense of the city…” the heralds were saying, and Arable spotted the bald knight before the King, one knee on the ground.
“How about that,” she marveled. She’d never interacted with the man herself, but the stories Lord Beneger and Robert had recounted were certainly not of a man who deserved any royal laurels.
“… Hero of Nottingham, to receive land in the Sherwood, and dispensation…”
“Hero of Nottingham?” John asked, harshly. “Wasn’t FitzOdo the one that gave Lord Robert’s face that bruising?”
“I can’t imagine he’ll be pleased with that,” she replied, straining to understand what else was being said. “But that’s the way of the world, I suppose.”
It was not as if they could rush the stage and explain the worser things the man had done. That which had happened before the siege might as well have been a lifetime ago. King Richard was washing the slate, and perhaps it was wise to set the new table with more heroes than villains. It would be a wondrous change of pace.
It was not terribly long after that when her own name was called by the heralds.
“Did I hear that right?” John raised an eyebrow at her.
“That sounded like me,” she said, equally perplexed.
“Well go on, girl!” he roared. “Don’t want to miss out on becoming a Hero of Nottingham!”
Her name had just been one of many listed to be called in the next hour, and she waited with another crowd by the side of the stage for them to be acknowledged one by one. Most of the important dignitaries had been doled out their gifts first thing in the morning, so she waited mostly with minor commanders from armies on both sides, or lesser landowners who expected some small reward. Marion and Lord Robert’s names were also announced, though they had a slightly more prestigious waiting area where Arable was not allowed.
Eventually, she was summoned by a little shrew of a man in a motley of purple checkers, who ushered her clerically toward the stage. And then Arable de Burel was—against all likeliness—kneeling just feet away from Richard the Lionheart, King of England.
After a bit of consultation with his advisor, he turned his warm face to her. “Arable, you speak French,” he said in his preferred language, “which is good, as I would have you hear this from me directly. I understand you are with child, yes, and that the father is William de Wendenal?”
She bowed her head. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Stand, please.” When he smiled, it was as if she could see the very reason he was king. “I cannot ask a pregnant woman to bow to me. I knew William, as I’m sure you know. I was very close to him. It grieves me to hear of his death, more than I think I could ever quite express. He was a loyal and good man, and I was a better King with him by my side. Many a night passed in which I wondered if it was wrong of me to send him home, him and Robin both. Perhaps I could have avoided capture in Austria if they had still been with me!”
His advisors laughed, though Arable did not know what to say aside from, “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“I’ve also been informed of your own difficulties, Arable, and I wish to help.”
She focused and hoped to memorize what came next, that she could tell it to her daughter someday. The day that King Richard returned and everything—as Marion had promised at the council—became better.
“Unfortunately, this comes with some bad news as well. I’m sorry to tell you that William’s father—your child’s grandfather—is dead.”
Lord Beneger … Arable wasn’t sure what to do with that information. A few weeks ago it would have brought her nothing but relief, though now their relationship had become more complicated. “I had not heard that,” she replied. “I knew he’d been injured, but I was told he was likely to survive his wounds.”
“Regretfully, this wasn’t in battle.” The King looked to his advisors. “He was murdered yesterday.”
“I was witness to it,” came a hoarse voice, and Arable found its owner. She had not noticed that William de Ferrers was amongst Richard’s council, possibly because his face was so swollen and distorted. One of his hands was bandaged into a thick ball. More linens were wrapped around his neck, ineffectively concealed by a green kerchief. But his tight curly hair and ivory cloak were his alone. He stood, though with extreme difficulty. “It was Robin Hood.”
“Robin Hood?” Arable asked aloud. There was no one left to claim that title, except for Will Scarlet, who was currently unaccounted for.
Ferrers simply nodded. “Robin Hood. He and his men came into my office while Lord Beneger was visiting me. We were discussing his son, actually, when they attacked. Robin Hood forced a noose around my neck and threw me from the window.” His good hand scratched at the cloth around his throat, which explained his gravelly voice. “I was very lucky that my neck did not break, and luckier still there were men on the battlements who saw me, and cut me down before I strangled. We rushed back to my office, but it was regretfully too late for Lord Beneger. Robin Hood and his men had killed him, and were long gone.”
“My God.” Arable could hardly understand it. Robin Hood and his men … Scarlet and Arthur … and Gilbert, perhaps? Zinn’s crew? Who else hated Lord Beneger? She’d never cared for Ferrers and would have loved to see him thrown out a window, but she had no idea who to thank for that. As for Lord Beneger, she had yet to understand what emotions were going to burrow up later about his murder.
“My men are investigating,” King Richard assured her, “but in the meantime, you have your grief to tend to. However, as I’m sure you are aware, Lord Beneger had no other legitimate heir, but he does have considerable affairs. Though you were not married to William, I’m told you were important to him. As my debt to William, then, I use my prerogative. If your child proves to be male, he shall inherit all his grandfather’s land and titles. If not, I would urge you to marry quickly, to secure your household.”
She was utterly bewildered. Your household.
“What are you saying?”
Richard, this strange man with a crown and a gentle face, reached out for her hand. “I’m saying that you have my friendship, Lady Arable de Burel, Countess de Wendenal. And I hope your future is brighter than your past.”
ARABLE REMAINED AT THE ceremony in a stupor for some time, offered a seat in one of the finer spectator galleries that had been erected nearby. There seemed to be an endless number of affluent men who were now eager to offer her a chair and congratulations. Later she might realize they had begun the time-honored dance of the nobility—courting those with power in the hopes of adding it to their own. It was not chivalry that gave her a cushion to sit upon, but greed. But for the moment, Arable did not care in the slightest. If these capitulating men sought to be considered as a potential suitor, that was their mistake to make. For none of them knew her, nor what she had been through.
Countess de Wendenal needed nobody’s help.
Such a strange thing, she could hardly wrap her mind around it. She’d spent half her life in fear of Lord Beneger, the man who’d eradicated every last Burel from England, who’d decimated their estate down to rubble. Now, instead, it was the Wendenals who were extinct—and the last surviving Burel had control of their titles. She thought about dismantling the Wendenal manor as a fair balance, but that felt like a selfish sort of petty revenge. Revenge was Beneger’s game, no. The Wendenal manor would stand. She could change the name, of course, but something felt appropriate about keeping it, that her title as its steward would become her trophy. A testament to what she had endured, and overcome.
Though her daughter would decidedly still be a Burel.
At length, Arable spotted some of her friends in the crowd—John Little caught her gaze and gave a flummoxed bow, which she could only purse her lips at and shake off. The Delaney brothers each doffed their cap to her, though Nick’s smile was one of both admiration and loss. Perhaps they would consider coming with her to the Wendenal estate and leave Huntingdon behind. Though Huntingdon’s castle was far grander than anything she’d just inherited, there was no pretending any of them felt at home there. Instead, Arable could give Marion’s group a true place they belonged, without the watchful eye of the Countess Magdalena, and without the sense of indebtedness.
Arable’s home would be a haven for all. She’d never been to Locksley, but she wanted it to be all the things that John Little and Marion described about that place, and more.
Eventually there were more names she recognized summoned to the King. “Lord Robert, Earl of Huntingdon!”
Robert assembled forward and bowed, his half cape pulled dramatically to the side with one arm. His face, however, looked much like Ferrers’s. Robert had taken a gruesome beating at the hands of Sir Robert FitzOdo—the Hero of Nottingham—in the battles for the city streets, and it would be some time before his charming smile was seen again. He had very likely watched FitzOdo’s commendation, Arable considered. That must have been difficult for Robert.
“Huntingdon,” King Richard acknowledged the earl, and then stepped sideways to consult with an advisor who was furiously shuffling about some ledgers. They consulted for a short time before Richard waved his hand in understanding, and turned back to Robert with something akin to disappointment. “I’ve heard much of the exploits of Huntingdon, of late. My coinmaster would remind me that you were negligent in your dues toward paying my ransom.” This he accented with a comical frown.
“That is true, Your Grace,” Robert returned lightly, “though not for want of effort. I am most pleased to see that you have returned to us, regardless of Huntingdon’s missing share. Perhaps we can repay you in another way?”
“Mm. Perhaps.” The king made a nondescript signal to his advisor. “My mother traded many important men as hostages instead of ransom payment, and we still have a good deal of money to raise in that regard.”
“Indeed, Your Grace.”
“But what concerns me more is the account of a particular council you held recently at your castle…?”
The hubbub about the stage died down, as all eyes found themselves falling askance upon the Lord Robert. “We did hold a council, Your Grace,” he continued carefully, sensing the shift in mood. “We feared that King Philip of France was moving against you, and so we discussed this as a potential threat to your throne.”
“King Philip?” Richard asked. “That’s a lofty target for an earl’s purview.”
“It was merely a discussion, Your Grace.”
“My brother tells me you were working for King Philip, not against him.”
If there was still any chatter to be silenced, it fell away now.
“With respect, His Grace the prince has misunderstood our intentions.”
“They meant to put me on the throne,” Prince John declared, standing from his chair at the end of the stage. “There was nothing to misunderstand.”
“Which would mean,” the king picked up the thought, “the removal of myself.”
Lord Robert glanced sideways for help, but found none. Nobody else of any notoriety had actually arrived at the council, so there was none here to either share the blame or defend him. Certainly not a lowly, newly bestowed countess like Arable.
Robert’s voice quivered. “You were captured, your fate unknown. We sought only to protect England, to do as we believe you would have wished us to.”
“My fate was anything but unknown. It was quite explicitly known to all.” Richard drew back his sleeves, ringed in golden fur, to reveal his bare wrists. They were red and raw, the wounds were clear from any distance. “I sat chained in an Austrian prison for months, awaiting the ransom from my country. A ransom to which you did not contribute, all while conspiring with your allies to denounce me and leave me to rot. And you would claim this is what I would have wished of you?”
Arable’s heart was pounding, but indecision crippled her. If she spoke to defend him, she might be casting her lot in with his, whatever that may be. And it was highly unlikely she had anything to add that would sway the king’s accusation. But Lord Robert had rescued them all, and was now about to suffer for it, with nobody to stand by his side.
“Your Grace, I fought for you,” Robert pleaded, confusion in his voice. “My bannermen rode by your side, we bled and died for you here. I myself took your trusted command and infiltrated the city to stop this war—what … what else would you ask of me to prove my loyalty?”
“Consistency.” Richard’s voice was bemused. “Your loyalty means nothing if it only exists while I am nearby.”
An exasperated sigh drew from Robert’s bruised lips. “Of course, Your Grace. I throw myself to your mercy, and pledge that Huntingdon is ever your friend. This misunderstanding is solely my failing, but I have delivered you—”
“There you are again, Huntingdon, you say one thing but do another.”
Robert shook his head. “I don’t understand, Your Grace.”
“You say you throw yourself at my mercy, but still you kneel there, unmoved. If you are a man of your word, then I invite you to prove it. Throw yourself, then, at my feet.”
This was met with a few snickers that were quickly hushed, while Richard splayed his fingers out to demonstrate the empty space before him.
“You want me to … you ask me to throw myself at the floor?”
“Exactly that.”
Robert looked about uneasily, brushing his sleeves flat and tidying himself. When it seemed clear the King did not mean to retract this unusual demand, Robert swallowed, pulled back on his haunches, and dove limply to land on his belly before the King. The stage erupted in laughter, and Arable’s stomach twisted with embarrassment for the man. There was no need for such belittlement, but it was an utter relief as an alternative to something worse.
“Robert of Huntingdon, I strip you of the title of earl, and demand that you surrender yourself to my custody until Chancellor Longchamp has decided what to do with you.”
Arable gasped, but threw a hand over her mouth.
From the sides of the stage, several royal Guardsmen in red-and-gold tabards moved forward and lowered their long pikes in line with Lord Robert, who struggled to right himself, stammering for words. “Wait!” he cried, but one of the Guardsmen turned his pike around and punched its flat end into Robert’s stomach. The crowd exploded in joy at the display of violence. Tears jumped to Arable’s eyes—for Robert’s mistreatment, but even more so for the number of people who watched it in laughter, letting their cruelest side show.
The King continued with an insulting nonchalance. “I award the earldom of Huntingdonshire to Lord Simon de Senlis, fourth of his name. The de Senlis house has proudly led Huntingdon for generations, and Lord Simon proved himself with distinction in the battlefield outside these castle walls. Lord Simon, you have my absolute faith in your position.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” replied de Senlis, who had risen simply from his chair not so far away from Arable, and sat down again with the contemptible smile of a man whose every plot had come to fruition.
Beside him, beaming with pride, the Countess Magdalena de Bohun.
Watching her husband’s ruin, with a single cocked eyebrow.
“Richard!” came a cry from Arable’s left, and the crowd shifted to see Marion, her face red and furious, who was clearly freeing herself from two other attendants who must have been trying to keep her from interrupting. Thank God, Arable exhaled. Marion repeated the King’s name like a mother scolding a child, and the shocked murmurs of her impudence rippled through the spectators.
But at this, it was Arable’s turn to laugh.
They had no idea what they were about to witness.
They thought Richard was a Lionheart? Then Lady Marion Fitzwalter was a dragon.
“I will vouch for Lord Robert’s loyalty,” she announced, her every syllable on the precipice of derision. “He had nothing to do with the arrangement of the council in Huntingdon. I can gladly explain it—though I assure you, its details are far short of scandalous.”
The crowd gave an uncertain grumble. Let them, then. Arable adjusted her seat to watch with pride. Let them be surprised.
King Richard angled his head and smiled, gesturing grandly to Marion. “My cousin,” he introduced her to the crowd, “whose name, I understand, is well known in these parts.”
Marion ground her jaw, eyeing the King with precision. Her voice lowered. “We discussed this.”
“We did discuss this, cousin. Or rather, you discussed it with me, before I had any other knowledge of it, and I took your version as truth. But since then I have been informed not by one or several but by dozens of my loyal advisors that your council in Huntingdon was anything but short on scandal, and that you and Lord Robert were behind its orchestration.”
That was preposterous, Arable thought. It was his wife, the Countess Magdalena. She planned it all, then abandoned us, forced us to carry her burden.
“As I said, I can explain—”
“It has been explained, cousin. I also understand that politics is not the only bed in which you two have become entangled.”
Marion’s jaw dropped.
King Richard nodded to his men. “Take my cousin into custody as well,” he ordered them, “where she will remain until charges are levied against her, for conspiracy against her king, to be tried as a traitor to the crown and country.”
“No!” Arable screamed, but it was lost in the crowd’s reaction, and there was suddenly a hand on her shoulder. She panicked and reeled—the man reaching to her from the row behind had an old, spotted face, but one that was familiar.
“Sit down, Arable,” urged Waleran de Beaumont, the Earl of Warwick. The husband of Margery d’Oily, sister of Magdalena. He’d been Roger de Lacy’s friend, he’d fled from Nottingham last autumn when Prince John turned on him, just as he’d vanished from the council in Huntingdon after the prince’s arrival. And now he was here, his wild eyebrows pointed in a furious warning. “There’s nothing you can do. Not from here. Not right now.”
“They’re innocent!” she whispered back to him.
“I know they are,” the earl hissed back. “But this isn’t a court, this is theater. And you’re a player now, like it or not. Keep your head low, and you may survive to play in the next act.”
He tugged her to be seated, though he kept a firm but respectful hold of her shoulder.
Arable turned back to the stage—the stage, by God—as Richard was calling for his men to remove Marion by force.
Where was Amon? Arable strained to look. Why was he not there to protect her?
“Marion!” Lord Robert screamed, still on his knees, until he shoved at the nearest Guardsman and stole a sword from the man’s scabbard, wielding it back wide. More blades were drawn, Arable’s heart stopped—
“No, Robert!” But Marion was surrounded by men in red tabards, their pikes leveled to make a cage around her, while others moved forward and drew their swords against Robert. “Don’t fight! Put your sword—”
The first ring of steel on steel shattered the tension in the crowd. Like a hot bubble of oil it burst, and sent ecstasy in its wake. The city had suffered the clamor of war merely days ago, but the shrill cry of combat now brought the city to bloodlust. The crowd in the Market Square was at its feet, pulsing, cheering, as city Guardsmen flooded forward to join the fray.
In their own stalls, the other nobility were alarmed but not fleeing. Arable tried to rise again, while Waleran’s grip on her elbow only tightened. “Do not help them,” he pleaded. “Think of your child!”
And he was right.
She did nothing.
She did nothing, as Robert swung his sword at the men with pikes, parrying their long thrusts but finding no room to get close enough for an attack of his own.
She did nothing, as he was beaten backward, spinning and stepping deftly over low attacks, as he spun and saw the crowd gathering below, where more Guardsmen had cut off his escape.
She did nothing, as he threw his cape around an incoming pikehead, redirecting it and lunging at its owner, even as another pike came in and punched a hole in the fabric, which tore in half as he wheeled away.
She did nothing, as Robert’s name was screamed from the far end of the stage, where the two Delaney brothers had suddenly appeared, waving wildly, shouldering a few of the unaware Guardsmen from their post and off the platform, creating an opening.
She did nothing, as Robert flew, bounding across the stage in a few graceful leaps. Nothing, as he dove off the edge and slashed his weapon at a pole beside him, toppling a red banner of Lionheart to slow down his pursuers. Nothing, as he vanished into the crowd, calling to Marion, promising to return for her.
Nothing, as the Delaney brothers stumbled to catch up with him, to escape as well, suddenly confronted by Richard’s quickly recuperated private guard.
Nothing, when the sharp tip of a pike plunged into Nick Delaney’s chest.
Nothing, despite the urge to keel over.
Nothing, as Peetey crumpled to the ground beside his brother, too awestruck to defend himself when a sword came down into his neck.
Nothing, despite her every instinct, nothing.
She did nothing as Marion’s dream fell to pieces, as her friends were dissembled.
“No refuge, no mercy!” King Richard called to the crowd. “Not to those who would take advantage of England in her king’s absence! England is united against the thief, against the outlaw, against the subversionist! Loyalty to England!”
The crowd—especially those closest to Arable—responded, “Loyalty to England!”
“Say it,” Waleran whispered next to her. “You don’t have to mean it.”
She did nothing—but neither did she cry out in terror, nor panic. No, not anymore. She did not look for an exit this time, she did not even think to hide. She did nothing now … so that she could be ready, someday, when the moment was right. If her muscles tensed, it was not in fear.
Arable de Burel was steel, poised for the fight.
Because while the Countess de Wendenal’s first official actions could outwardly be described as doing nothing, her inner thoughts for what came next were afire with the decidedly treasonous.
Prince John stood by his brother on the stage. “Loyalty to Richard!”
She joined the chorus. “Loyalty to Richard!”
Each word, a lie.