The Ghosts of Sherwood

by Carrie Vaughn

  Marian finished putting stitches in the wound, and John was growing more alert after the drink, not less, as the pain dimmed. Good. He needed to explain himself. Robin rushed over, then hesitated, and Marian had never seen such a look of hurt and joy and confusion on him. She had never seen him speechless.

  She said, “John, you must tell him about the children. Please. Robin, he says men took the children.”

  “I tried to stop them, but—” Marian laid a hand on his shoulder. Obviously, he tried to stop them. Did he think he could succeed against well-armed soldiers? Did he believe his own legends? “Seven men in the forest with swords and bows. They ambushed them, carried them all off. Mary and John made a go of fighting, but they were no match. And Eleanor—Mary told her to run but she would not leave them.”

  Marian’s heart fluttered, and she nearly fainted. Dear, sweet Eleanor, what were they doing to her? Robin leaned on Marian’s shoulder. His hand was shaking.

  “They wore good armor and tunics, they were not outlaws,” John said. “They went southwest, along the deer trail that runs near the road, where the stream branches near that stand of alders.”

  “Then we go,” said Will, who was always the one to leap to action without plan or forethought or anything. He looked around, as if searching for a weapon, but there were none readily to hand. How the pattern went in the old days: Will would immediately demand some action, Much would advise caution, and Robin would laugh at them both and choose some middle, sensible road. And John would follow Robin.

  Now Much was silent, and Robin sank onto a bench, shaking his head.

  “My enemies have done this. The king—I did not think he would bend so low, to take such revenge. I knew I had made enemies, but I did not think . . . I did not think. Marian, you were right. I should never have let them wander off, I should never have let them go off alone—”

  As if he had had any say in the matter. “I never said that.”

  “They were always safe in the woods, Rob,” John said. “I was always looking after them.”

  “I know,” he said softly.

  “I think in the old days, I would have been able to lay out all seven of them—”

  “In the old days, you had all of us with you. No matter. We’ll go after them now. They have brought their doom upon themselves. Will, Much, gather everyone you can, with every weapon to be had.”

  “Night is falling,” Much said. “I’ll get Giles. He’s the best tracker we have.”

  “Yes, good. Send him ahead to catch them out. Will, you and I will follow and see what these scoundrels are made of—”

  “And me, I’m going too,” Marian said.

  “Marian—” She gave Robin such a look that he drew back. “I think I may pity these fellows when you find them, my dear.”

  “We can make jokes later, when they’re safe.”

  “Yes. Marian—” His voice caught, and she nearly burst into tears at that. Instead, she threw herself into his arms and clung there. He pressed his face against her neck, and they drew all the comfort they could from one another, their arguments forgotten.

  In scant minutes they were ready, a troop of a dozen or so with weapons and shuttered lanterns, and strict instructions from Much to stay back until called. Still, it was too long, and Marian’s thoughts kept slipping to what such men might do to children, and all to get at their father. She had changed into a tunic and leggings, pinned up her hair, donned an old wool hood. Looked just like a forester.

  She returned to the hall to tell Robin it was time to go and found him sitting with Little John. The injured man was bundled with blankets, fast and warm, and finally seemed to be close to sleep. She might have told Robin to let him be, but they were speaking quietly. Smiling, as if no time had passed. And oh, please let this be a reconciliation between them. Robin was a stronger man with Little John beside him.

  Quietly, she drew close and listened.

  “Rob, why did you name the boy John? I understand why Mary and Eleanor. But why would you name the boy after that horrible man?”

  Robin chuckled, and the sound came out harsh. “He’s named for you, you brute.”

  John stared as if such a thing had never occurred to him. “Oh.”

  “Why did you never come home, my friend? You’d have been welcome any time. You should have come home.”

  “You should not have gone to Westminster.” Robin gave him a look, and John ducked his gaze. “Sherwood is the only place I fit. The trees are bigger than I am.”

  Marian scuffed her feet to make a sound. “Robin, we’re ready.” She held his bow and quiver to him. He approached to take them from her, and in his gaze she saw both rage and delight. He had once made a career of revenge.

  He marched out. John gazed longingly after.

  “Stay there,” Marian commanded. “Don’t try to follow, you’ll bleed out.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “We’ll return shortly. And—thank you for looking after my children.”

  Little John grinned.

  v

  SOON ENOUGH, THEIR CAPTORS threw them down and made them walk, awkward and stumbling with their hands tied, choking on the gags. At least they hadn’t gagged Eleanor, but then, she hadn’t yet made a sound. Mary’s sister tried staying close to her, but one of the men would come along and shove her apart, just for the sake of doing so, it seemed. They didn’t travel very deep into the forest; they paralleled the road, even while keeping out of sight of it. Likely, they were meeting another party there. More enemies, more danger.

  Finally, they stopped to rest. One of them kicked Mary’s and John’s feet out from under them, so they fell over. The men passed around water sacks but didn’t move to let their prisoners drink.

  The ruddy-bearded man, Edmund, stood before them and looked them over, scowling at John and Mary. He considered Eleanor further.

  “You’re a quiet one, aren’t you? Not even a scream from you.”

  Eleanor stared at him, owl-like, in that disconcerting way she had when she was unhappy.

  “What’s your name, then?”

  Nothing. Mary’s heart raced, knowing what would come next and being unable to stop it.

  “I asked you your name, girl. What is it?” Eleanor was half his size—no, smaller even—but that didn’t stop him from grabbing her face, squeezing, pushing until he shoved her against a tree. She didn’t even squeak.

  Mary did. She screamed, muffled against the gag, and thrashed against her bonds. Anything to get his attention. She choked herself on her own desperation. But the bully let Eleanor go, thank God.

  Their captor came over and ripped out her gag. She spat against it, coughed. “She won’t speak, she has no voice. Please, leave her alone, I beg you.”

  Edmund considered, glancing back at the girl who huddled by the tree, shivering. “No voice? Mute?” Mary nodded. “Is she simple?”

  She didn’t answer, because Eleanor was certainly not simple but she would seem so to a man like him. If they thought her so, maybe they would leave her alone. Or maybe they would torment her even more.

  “What are your names?” the man asked her.

  “I’m Mary. These are John and Eleanor.” She hoped to set him a little at ease so he would stop harassing Eleanor.

  He nodded. “Thank you, Mary of Locksley. Give them some water.” He gave this order to the youngest of them, a beardless youth with a constantly startled expression. He had a bruise on the side of his face—so he’d been one of the ones the ghost had struck. Alas, that the ghost hadn’t killed them all.

  And the ghost was likely dead now.

  The young one came to them with a water sack and regarded John dubiously. “I take this off, you promise to be quiet?” John nodded quickly. They all stayed quiet and drank when he tipped the sack to their mouths. Eleanor spit the water back out. The boy sighed and left them alone.

  Mary ought to keep quiet. She’d put Edmund somewhat at ease and ought to leave him there. But she didn’t. “Who
are you? Why are you doing this?”

  “Your father has enemies.”

  She laughed. She didn’t mean to; it was just such a ridiculous thing to say. Of course her father had enemies, but never ones that had stooped to kidnapping. “And is this meant to win him over? He will kill you for this.”

  He leered. “Not with you standing between us.”

  “Then you’re a coward.” She should not have said that. She expected that he would hit her for that, and she braced for it, determined not to cry out.

  He stepped over to her and spoke low. “When I was a boy, I served the Sheriff of Nottingham. Many of my friends died with arrows in their backs. Robin of Locksley is the coward and should hang as a thief and a murderer. Taking you will remind him of what he has to lose.”

  “And you’re so very brave and honorable, bullying young girls while they’re tied up.”

  That time, he backhanded her with a closed fist. Her vision lit up; her skull rattled. She bent over, gasping. It hurt, and her nose filled. Blood, maybe. Don’t cry, don’t cry . . . Straightening, she stared at him, trying to project an utter lack of concern. She could pretend not to be frightened.

  John’s and Eleanor’s eyes both went round; they stiffened with fear and anger. But they remained still and quiet. Good. If Mary could keep Edmund’s attention, he would leave them alone.

  One of the others laughed. “She certainly has her father’s tongue, doesn’t she?”

  “Tell me, Mary of Locksley. You speak like your father. Do you also shoot like him?” He held up a bow. And what was he going to do now . . .

  “Nobody in England shoots like Robin of Locksley,” she said.

  “But you do shoot?”

  She nodded.

  “I want to see.”

  He took a knife from his belt and cut the rope off her hands. First thing she did was touch her face. Her right cheek was numb, and yes, her hand came away from her nose bloody. Gently as she could, she wiped her face with her sleeve. Made more of a mess than not, but nothing felt broken. Just bruised and bloody. Made it easier to glare at him. Slowly, she got to her feet.

  He offered her a bow and arrow, and she took them, imagined shooting him. But he pointed off into the woods. “You see that birch there?”

  It was far off, nothing more than a white line in shadow, especially in the late afternoon light. Edmund said, “If you can hit the notch between those two branches, I will let you all go.”

  She couldn’t do it. It was too far away and he knew it. He was teasing her. But the worst part was John and Eleanor both looked at her with hope, as if they believed they were already saved.

  He added, “And if you point that at any of us, I will beat the little one bloody. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now shoot.”

  Her eyes watered, trying to keep the target in sight. She blinked to clear her vision, breathed to steady herself. She must quiet her heart if she was going to be able to shoot at all, much less hit anything. Her face still throbbed and her limbs felt like ice. She shook her arms to loosen them. Planted her feet and tried to feel the earth under them, to root her down.

  The bow wasn’t the best—it hadn’t been well cared for, and would likely split before too much more use. The arrow likewise—both had been made quickly, without much thought to quality. She ran her fingers over them, feeling their weaknesses, taking them into account. The draw was too heavy for her, but no matter; she only had to do this once.

  She had been taught to shoot by the greatest archer in England. She imagined her father’s hand on her shoulder, as he’d helped her when she was young. Stand like this, watch where your hips are, your shoulders—aim doesn’t come from the arms alone, but from the whole body. Do not look at your hand, the bow. Look at the target and send your will there. Once you have drawn, do not force the shot—simply let go. Breathe out, release.

  The whisper of air, the thunk of a target struck—the sounds of her childhood, when they practiced at the butts behind the manor, John with his first small bow, Eleanor in her basket, fussing and crying, when she still knew how to cry, and Mother and Father cheering when Mary hit a bull’s-eye. Happy days.

  She had closed her eyes, after releasing the arrow. She didn’t want to look. Her arms fell to her sides. The glade was silent, so silent she thought she could hear the fletching on the arrow still trembling.

  “She did it,” one of them murmured. The youngest of them. Astonished, he looked at Edmund, then ran off to the birch. Raised a hand and confirmed, yes, well struck. The white line was interrupted—she had hit the notch, dead center. John laughed.

  “Of course I did. I’m Robin Hood’s daughter,” she said, because it would make them furious to hear it.

  The youngest of them returned with the arrow resting in his hands, staring at it. It might have been a holy relic, and a murmur went round the company, Robin Hood, he’s real. Their gazes held wonder. Trepidation. A couple of them glanced over their shoulders, for what might be lurking in the woods. Where is Robin Hood? they whispered.

  She was astonished and might have laughed at them for being foolish. But she was the one who said the name first, wasn’t she? Invoked his name. Conjured him. She held herself straight and steady, holding the bow easily, as if it had been born in her hand. One of the outlaws of legend. Let them think that when they looked at her, as if she’d had any part at all to play in those stories.

  “Well?” she asked, glancing back at Edmund.

  Edmund’s look darkened. He glared as if she had insulted him, and she waited for him to hit her again. But he only said, “I’m not letting you go.”

  “But—” John started to argue, then thought better of it.

  Mary held on to the calm she’d claimed, to make that shot. “That’s what I thought.” She dropped the bow at his feet.

  “Somebody tie her,” Edmund said, and marched off. One of them did, her hands behind her back, harder and tighter than they needed to. Because they were afraid.

  The party got John and Eleanor to their feet and continued on.

  vi

  WHEN THE NEWS CAME of King Richard’s death, Marian, Robin, and his folk gathered in Robin’s upstairs chamber, not by any plan but by a need for old comfort. These were the men and women who had lived in the greenwood with him until just a few years before, and they still felt the bonds of that time. Much leaned against a wall, his arms tightly crossed, his face puffed up and brave and tears sliding down his cheeks anyway. Will held his head bowed, his hands laced, apart from the others, outside the light of the hearth fire. Brother Tuck, clutching prayer beads, murmured. Tuck would be dead in ten years, but he lived long enough to christen all three children. Alan, Raymond, George, a half dozen others who’d followed Robin to Locksley manor and a lawful life. Grace, who cut her hair short and wore a tunic and leggings like a man and looked after the dairy cows, and who was as good an archer as any of the others. She stared at the fire, her face a mask. Bess had still been alive then and sat with Marian, fussing, because Marian was only weeks away from giving birth. She lay in a chair, bundled in fur, her feet propped up on cushions, sad and miserable and frightened. Robin stood by her, holding her hand, but his mind was elsewhere.

  Little John came in last, quiver over his shoulder like he expected them to go into battle. “It’s true, then?” He only had to look around the room and its weight of grief to know it was true. “Are we sure his death was natural? Not murder?” So many had wished for the death of Richard Lionheart.

  “He died of a wound at Limousin in France,” Robin answered. “I suppose, in a sense, one can call it murder. But all legal.”

  “And his brother will become king?”

  Robin’s voice was soft, resigned. “It was King Richard’s will that it be so.”

  Agitated, John paced and swore enough to make Bess gasp. “Could he not have taken just a year or so off from his wars to father an heir? Anyone would be better than that . . . that . . .” H
e closed a fist and growled. “What are we to do?”

  Robin squeezed Marian’s hand, let go. She resisted reaching after him, and then the baby—Mary-to-be—kicked hard and she had to shift her weight yet again. Her husband went to the middle of the room, took up a martial stance as he had so many times, chin tipped up, resolved. Hopeful faces lifted to him. He had a plan, yes, and they would once again fight against the man who had done them so much harm—

  “I will go to Westminster and swear fealty to the rightful King of England,” Robin said.

  The silence turned brittle. Marian watched the faces, mouths open, tears welling, turn from shock to anger to resignation, and the grief deepened. That they must call this man king. That Robin would not fight.

  “You can’t, Rob,” John said simply.

  “But I must. If I want to protect these lands and what we’ve built here—I must. I wish you all would go with me. He knows you by reputation if not by sight. It would send a powerful message.”

  Will was not the only one who grinned at the thought of what the new King John would do when confronted with Robin and his followers, now upright loyal subjects. He would turn green.

  Most of these people would follow Robin into hell if he asked them.

  “That man hates you, and you will bend a knee to him?” John said, disbelieving.

  “There is power here. The king is only king as long as the barons support him, and I can use that. Ensure he never treats anyone the way he treated us.”

  “Us? You’re a lord, and the rest of us are lowborn. There is no us. You choose your wealth and title over your honor,” John spat.

  Robin hated when John threw down their ranks. He glared. “Will you please listen—”

  “I can’t do it,” John said. “I won’t kneel before that man.”

  “Oh, John. I need you most of all. Marian, tell him what it means, why I must go—”

  “You’re both right, that’s the devil of it.” She shook her head. “When you turned outlaw, you had nothing to lose. Now . . . I at least have so very much to lose. Bess, help me, I need to walk a bit.” Her maid took her arm and she lumbered to her feet like some bloated cow. Everyone, all Robin’s followers, flinched as if to leap up and help her. Sometimes, she felt like a bit of heraldry, the flag they followed, some holy icon. Robin’s lady. Ignoring them, she rested her hand on the ache in her back and walked slowly, balancing the baby’s weight. Movement helped the little one settle, for now. “Robin’s right. He can do more good behind the new king as a loyal baron than in front of him with a sword. But no one should have to bow to a man who treated them so ill.” They didn’t know it then, but the swords would come out again one day.