Chapter 16 | Guy of Gisborne
From a shadowy hallway in Madam Marian’s Teahouse, I watched as the madam herself arrived.
The estate had grown even since I’d been here less than a fortnight ago, and despite Marian’s absence. There were more whores than before, sashaying from room to room to ply their wares on the drunken clientele. More lost noblemen and aristocrats straying from their marriage beds, greedily paying for those wares.
Marian had created a booming economy here, and her success was evident. The woman’s ambition couldn’t be denied. Her beauty couldn’t be denied either, as she marched into the manor past crimson drapes.
She pushed a young lad in front of her—a slight boy who only came up to her chest—red-nailed hands protectively clamped on his bony shoulders as she led him down a hall.
I raised a brow, wondering what that was all about, and silently followed, peeking around a corner to watch.
Marian led the young lad to a bedroom door. I frowned, expecting the worst. Marian knocked once before opening the door, and an attractive woman stood in the frame, hands on her hips as she stared down at the boy. I recognized her as one of the two ladies of the night who had tried to seduce me the first time I’d come here, before Marian called off her bitches. Her name was Beatrice, if I recalled correctly.
Beatrice’s face broke into a sinister smile as she stared at the sniveling youth. “Oh, what’s this? What do we have here, Madam?”
“His name is Tick,” Marian said curtly. “I need you to watch over him for me.”
Beatrice reached out and trailed a single finger down the lad’s chest, causing the poor lad to shiver. “Watch over him? I’m sure we can find something more enjoyable than simply watching.”
“No,” Marian snarled, surprising Beatrice. “When I say watch, I mean it, Beatrice. Nothing more with this one. Do you understand?”
Beatrice adopted a hurt expression. Her flighty tone and seductive demeanor dropped in an instant. “Oh. Very well, then, ma’am.”
“Good. I’ll be back, whelp.” Marian pushed the boy forward, and he disappeared out of my sight into the bedroom with the whore.
Before leaving, Marian shook her head. “Learn to put a muzzle on your pretty mouth, woman. Not everything is a means for the job, or to squeeze coins out of someone’s pockets.”
I heard Beatrice reply, “I’m only doing what you taught me, Marian.”
Marian stiffened and flared her nostrils. “The lad’s hardly more than a damned child. Have some decency.”
With that, she slammed the door and stormed off down the hall, headed in my direction. She looked in no mood for a discussion, and yet, I knew she didn’t control this narrative. She had no say in it, truthfully.
I made myself known by stepping out from the shadow as she passed me.
Marian started, going rigid once again. “Christ, Sir Guy, you scared me.”
“I’ve been known to do that.”
“I didn’t think you were here already.”
“I rarely make my presence known until I want it to be,” I said, and then waltzed past her into an empty room where we could talk privately.
Marian glanced over her shoulders, as if worried another one of me might pop out of the shadows, before following me inside and closing the door.
“Who is the boy?” I asked, folding my arms over my chest.
“His name is Tick.”
“I heard that part. Even if it’s not his real name. And you know how much I appreciate real names, Madam Marian.”
Marian frowned. She looked untidy and tired—a rarity for her. Perhaps the job was starting to rattle her.
When she said nothing, I added, “Someone from the Merry Men, I take it. But what is Tick’s purpose?”
“His friend went missing months ago. I know where he is, and I promised to reunite them.”
I raised my brow, slightly impressed with her forwardness. It was a bit disappointing, however, because the more people who knew of our meetings, the more likely chaos might arise. Marian put our entire operation in jeopardy by bringing a stupid, hapless boy with her on her trek back to Nottingham, and she didn’t even realize it.
Perhaps she’s not as cunning as I believed.
I second-guessed that idea, asking, “He’s not a hostage, then?”
“No, he’s not.”
I frowned. “Where is his friend you speak of?”
“Here. Tick and a couple others fled the almshouse years ago. Took to the streets. They were separated during the execution of Dan the Dove and the ‘Merry Men.’ You might remember.”
My lip twitched at her snide tone. Of course I remembered. I’d been there. I’d been on the stage with the gallows and the prisoners when the real Merry Men attacked us. Nearly took a fucking arrow in the chest because of that ill-conceived, poorly timed mess of an event.
The riot that ensued during that day still reverberated through the city today, months later. It set us back far more than it helped, in pure cost and social currency with the townsfolk, and yet it had been George’s idea.
The fucking fool. The Sheriff came up with the plan, hoping to lure the Merry Men into Nottingham if we announced we were hanging their leader. It wasn’t a bad idea on its face, yet it was nearly impossible to sufficiently plan because of the sheer influx of people I knew it would bring. The throngs of execution-watchers would make it hellacious, and they had.
Yet George wouldn’t back down from the plan no matter how logistically foolish or logically idiotic it was, and then he spent all day raping Jonathan Little instead of actually attending the event. Taking his years-long, pent-up anger out on a prisoner in shackles.
It was disgraceful. I still didn’t forgive him for that debacle, though we hadn’t spoken of it since.
I shoved down my disgust and crossed my arms again, staring down Marian.
“Tick’s friend, Bucktooth Jimmy as he’s called, showed up here after roaming the streets alone for months,” Marian continued. “Friar Tuck’s almshouse had been deserted by this point, so he had nowhere to go. He only remembered this manor as one that Robin of Loxley used to own, and he vaguely knew Robin through his guttersnipe group. I’ve been having Jimmy work as a serving hand—bringing clients their drinks, cleaning the rooms, the hallways. That sort of thing.”
I wrinkled my nose. “And you’re reuniting Tick and James out of the goodness of your heart?”
Marian shrugged and glanced away, showing a rare sign of discomfort. “I figured it won’t hurt me. There are plenty of other whelps I can find to do the work I need done.”
I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes. “Then you’re bringing back Tick and James to the Merry Men . . . where they will be in your debt and think well of you.”
“I don’t know if they’ll ever think well of me, Sir Guy. But, yes, I am doing what I can do mend my tarnished reputation with the Merry Men. I’m—”
“Brilliant,” I cut in. With a sinister smirk, I nodded. “I approve, Marian. What else can you report?”
Her face seemed surprised at my compliment. For a moment, she stared at me, slack-jawed. Not only had she not expected me to agree with her plan, but I also knew she wasn’t telling the whole tale. And she knew that I knew.
Marian was going to get a boosted reputation from this among the Merry Men . . . yet I could see the change in her green eyes. The doubt and shame that danced in her irises.
No, Marian was also doing this out of the goodness of her heart, as I suspected. She just didn’t want to admit it to me because she only knew me as a bloodthirsty murderer.
Best to keep her thinking that way.
“What about Bishop Sutton?” I asked. “You’ve told the Merry Men about his duplicity, commanding the operation with the slave girls?”
“Aye.” She nodded succinctly. “I’m not sure if they believe me, however.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s a man of the cloth, Sir Guy. He’s well-respected in the community. They can’t imagine him doing something so vile.” She wrung her wrists in front of her belly. “Neither can I, truthfully.”
“Oh?” I sauntered in front of her, towering over the woman, and tilted my head to scrutinize her with my deadly gaze. “After the debacle with Abbot Emery and nearly getting cut down in front of Rufford Abbey? Emery mysteriously found broken underneath a high window? I find it difficult to believe the Merry Men hold holy men in high estimation, Marian.”
“You forget, they have one in their ranks.”
“Aye. The chaplain. Father Tucker.”
“He doesn’t like being called ‘Father,’” Marian pointed out, and it sent a wave of annoyance through my veins. “He’s my favorite of them, in fact.”
“Why?”
“Because he . . .” She trailed off, gulped, and looked to the ground. “Treated me how I wanted to be treated, back before we fell out.”
I paused. “An interesting way to put that, Marian. One might think you’ve started to grow fond for these wicked men all over again, if one didn’t know better.”
Doubts started to fester inside me. Not of my own ambitions, but of Marian’s willfulness to carry out what needed to be done.
Is she growing soft on me? This hardened, blade-sharp whip of a woman? Perhaps it was a mistake sending her into the belly of the beast—reuniting her with her former lovers—when she is clearly a vulnerable, lost woman, no matter how haughty and high-class she tries to pretend to be.
Perhaps I should have expected this outcome.
She explained with her hands circling, trying to provide a picture for her justification. “They’ve changed, Sir Guy. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. They’re different than they used to be.”
“How so?” Any information was good information, at this point. It wasn’t enough to simply know where they were hiding away, I needed to know how they thought and operated. Marian was the best liaison for that.
I just needed to make sure I could still trust her.
Marian shrugged at my question. “It’s hard to explain. They’re more . . . mature? Other than a recent food mishap, that is.” She looked up at me once she figured out how to parse through her jumbled thoughts. “They’ve taken in younglings. They’ve started training classes—swordplay, scripture, music. Women inhabit their camp in droves, now. They’ve grown softer. And it’s no accident, I think, that it’s all come during Robin of Loxley’s leadership stint.”
“Softer? Excellent. Easier to crush them, then.”
I didn’t much care for all the extra opinions Marian shared. What it meant for there to be more women and children amid the Merry Men. It wasn’t my job to sympathize, and empathy had never been a strong suit of mine anyway.
She grew frustrated at my quick rebuttal, the soft pillar of her neck tensing. I imagined running my thin blade through the cartilage and watching her thin neck peel apart in the middle.
“There are children there, Guy!” she whined. “Whelps who want nothing to do with this conflict. Many of them who know nothing about this conflict.”
“Yet you’ve just told me they are preparing for battle and war.” I narrowed my eyes. “No one is innocent in this, Madam Marian. It’s the cost of doing business.”
She froze, eyes dancing as they searched my face for answers. She looked close to tears, which was pathetic to see. “You really are as heartless as they say, aren’t you?”
I leaned forward, until my lips were mere inches from hers. “I’m more heartless, woman. There are children here who also need help. And don’t forget what I have of yours.”
Marian inhaled sharply. “I haven’t forgotten.”
I’ve always made sure to have contingency plans in place. Did I ever expect Maid Marian to work under me because I paid her well enough? No. If that had been the case, then the highest bidder would always have her ear.
But a threat? Well, that went much further.
“Good,” I said lowly, pulling back. “Because the children here suffer too, Marian, and it’s because of the antics of the Merry Men and knave bandits like them. So do I still have you? Will you be strong?”
Her full ruby-red lips puffed together. Slowly, she pursed them, and I could read the fury in her eyes as easily as anything. “Aye,” she said at last. “You still have me, Sir Guy.”
I studied her face for any deceit, but couldn’t find any. I knew I wouldn’t—not when I had something precious of hers to hold over her head.
I reached into my coat and pulled out a small slip of paper. Handing it to her, I said, “Here is your next message to the Merry Men. Don’t fail me.”
With that, before she had even opened it, I pushed past her to leave the room. At the door, I turned, deciding to leave her with one last bit of fuel—a reminder.
“Good luck with your endeavor to reunite the lads, Madam Marian. I hope your efforts to do some good in this world are not dismissed by the bandits you’re helping . . . as they always seem to be.”
I STOOD OFF IN THE corner of the grand conference room in Nottingham Castle, the morning after my nighttime rendezvous with Marian. Not relegated to the shadows, per se, yet relegated to the side. The least important man in the room, which irked me.
Sheriff George sat in a high-backed chair as if it were a throne. Bishop Sutton stood near him, hinting at their solidarity with his closeness and his clerical robes. Sir Amadeus Montford, the head Templar Knight in this region, stood across from them. His face was ruddy with barely concealed anger. The large knight had his arms crossed over his chest, looking impatient and flustered.
“This disaster in Ravenshead will not stand,” Montford announced. “My people will react with force if need be, should we learn of barbarism in that region.” He narrowed his eyes on George. “You would do well to keep the people of your land in check, Sheriff.”
George scoffed, adjusting himself on his seat in a sign of discomfort. “I can’t control what every person in Nottinghamshire does, Sir Montford. You know that.”
“The people of Ravenshead are my flock,” Bishop Sutton said, bowing his head. “I cannot imagine there is veracity to this claim of treachery. The messenger I spoke with said your knights never arrived in my town.”
“And you believe them?” Montford snapped back incredulously. “Sir Charles and Initiate Brandt were tasked with collecting vacant land in Ravenshead for the Order. If they are not there, then where did they go?”
The bishop shrugged. “I cannot say.”
“Aye. And I cannot ask them, either, because they are missing. Every Templar Knight is loyal to our cause, but Sir Charles more than most. He would not dally or neglect his duties. Which is why I will trust my gut instinct more than the words of a scared, shivering commoner.”
“And what does your gut tell you, Sir Montford?” I asked from the side.
His head snapped over. “That something is amiss. Charles and Brandt can take care of themselves—they are fierce fighters. Still, I will send other knights to uncover their whereabouts, unless I hear more.”
“I don’t believe that is necessary,” Bishop Sutton shot back. “Wasting more manpower on a situation we don’t understand yet.”
“It may be the only way to learn more about the situation, Bishop,” Montford pointed out.
Sheriff George shrugged. “We could just raze the village to the ground. Would that satiate you, Montford?”
Montford stiffened at the implication of bloodlust.
Sutton gasped. “Sheriff! That is uncalled for. Those people are honest, hardworking folk. And they provide ample taxes to your coffers, don’t forget. Not everything can be solved with the blade.”
George glared at the bishop. “Then maybe it is you who should be keeping his people in check, no?”
I smirked at their back-and-forth. Seemed the camaraderie between George and Sutton was wearing thin, and I was pleased to see it.
A tense moment passed in silence.
Finally, Sutton lifted his chin. “You are right, George. This is my responsibility. Perhaps I’ve stayed cooped up in Nottingham too long, when my diocese needs me. My people may very well be getting restless.”
“What are you saying?” George asked, and I recognized the hint of panic in his eyes.
He didn’t like the idea of being separated from the bishop’s coin purse. I, personally, relished the idea.
“I am saying that I will make good on my claim that no one from Ravenshead would do such a thing as Sir Montford is suggesting,” Sutton said with a firm nod. “They are a peaceful people. Farmers and peasants.” He faced Montford. “As such, I will ride there myself to investigate the situation.”
“When?” George asked.
“Tonight. Hoping to return with my findings in a few days’ time.” The bishop raised a brow at the Templar Knight. “Is that an agreeable compromise for you, Sir Montford? If you won’t listen to the words of a ‘scared, shivering commoner,’ perhaps you will trust a bishop of England?”
The knight grumbled, shifting his feet. “I suppose that will work.”
“Good.”
I said, “I will prepare the caravan to make the trek comfortable and safe. Bandits are festering in Sherwood Forest, after all, Bishop Sutton.”
The bishop bowed his head to me. “Most obliged, Sir Guy.”
With that, I left the conference room, leaving Sheriff George looking like a lost pup without anyone to steer his shaky leash.
THERE WERE TWO PRIMARY roads to get to Ravenshead—northeast and northwest. I rode alone through Sherwood Forest that afternoon, checking each path.
The eastern path was favored by outlaws, because it went further toward the fringes of Nottinghamshire, bordering on Lincolnshire. If trouble arose in the eastern forest, it was a simple skip across county lines to escape the Sheriff’s scrutiny.
West held fewer bandits, overall, yet I knew it to be closer to the Merry Men’s camp. They preferred the thicker trees that made it easier to hide. There were more hideaways to escape to if something went awry.
I checked both paths, my horse galloping across the trade roads. No one dared stop me during my inspection. My black cloak, garb, and stature on my steed was easily recognizable, and if there were bandits peering through the trees at me—as I suspected there were—they were too scared to face me.
I brought the fist of the law with me, and no one wanted to squabble with the Sheriff of Nottingham if they could avoid it.
Both paths seemed suitable. The western one would be more dangerous because of the Merry Men. The bandits to the east—though likely more numerous—were not as dangerous or daring as the bandits led by Robin and Jonathan Little.
Down the eastern path, near a bend in the road, I reached into my tunic and brought out a scrap of torn cloth. Across the muddy white scrap was the large emblem of the Templar Knights’ red cross.
I dropped the cloth onto the road from horseback, in an obvious place.
Then I returned to Nottingham.
By nightfall, I was standing in front of the chief guard to the Sheriff of Nottingham, a man named Sir Connor.
I took the stoic man by the arm and said in a low voice, “You will focus your escort contingent on the western path to Ravenshead. Draw attention to your guard convoy through that road with your numbers.”
“Very well, sir,” Connor answered with a salute. “And the eastern path, sir?”
“Bishop Sutton will travel with a smaller convoy down the eastern route. Our strategy is to divert attention from the east, in case bandits get squirrelly. By the time they realize the western convoy is a farce, it will be too late.”
“Brilliant, sir. It will be done.”
“This all, of course, is circumstantial, Sir Connor. I don’t suspect any trouble will brew during Bishop Sutton’s journey.”
“Of course not, sir. He will have the full force of the Nottingham guard to protect him.”
I nodded, and Sir Connor left my presence.
As I watched him go, I thought, Well, not the full force of the guard, if the convoys are split, now will he?