A scatter of footsteps intruded, bringing the sound of armor. Will cut his latest barb midsentence and called a greeting to Monthemer. Meg straightened, her back stiff and her inner thighs sweetly aching.
Will offered her his arm and made the necessary introductions. Once Robin excused himself and returned to the archery range, the trio took position on a pair of benches. “Glad to see you, Monthemer, and in a better condition than at our last,” Will said. “How do you fare?”
“Healing. I thank you both for the attention you provided.”
Meg tipped her head, wondering at the grave timbre of his words. “Our pleasure, especially considering the aid you offered.”
“What brings you here?” Will’s question emerged as a serious one. He must have heard the same weighty inflection or saw more clues on Monthemer’s face. Contentment slipped like a fish from her hands.
“I came to ask whether you’ve heard word from my cousin, Dryden. He has yet to return the missives I sent to Bainbridge.”
“I received a note from him some days ago,” Will said. He quickly related the nature of their escape from Nottingham and Dryden’s departure with Ada. “As the matter has it, we were readying a journey to Bainbridge this afternoon.”
Meg frowned. “Milord, do you suspect violence against him? Should we have reason to fear for Ada’s safety?”
“I know not what to suspect,” Monthemer said. “The male members of my family have been imperiled these weeks, and his failures to reply leave me wary.”
“Perhaps you should inquiry after Gilbert,” Meg said. “Do you know his whereabouts?”
Monthemer inhaled sharply. “Gilbert?”
“That was his name, I’m certain. In Nottingham Castle, Dryden identified his father’s youngest brother, Gilbert, as a member of the sheriff’s entourage. He feared for his own safety and yours, being that Gilbert would inherit your families’ lands should you both die.” She hesitated. The air snapped with tension. “Am I mistaken?”
Will’s hand on her arm tensed, a pulse of unease running from his body to hers.
“Yes,” Monthemer said. “His name was Gilbert, younger brother to Earl Whitstowe and my late father. And yes, he would have inherited at my death and that of my cousin.” He sighed, the sound of a man accepting defeat. “But Gilbert has been dead for three years.”
“That cannot be. He—he—” Realization and a keen sense of outrage climbed from her toes to her scalp. “He lied to me. He stood by and created a fiction, because I could not see to contradict him.”
“Meg, there must be an explanation,” Will said.
A memory hit her, strong enough to make her flinch. Suspicions aligned like the most sinister of puzzles. “The night before we left for Nottingham, there in my cabin, he took the responsibility to tend you, milord. The quantity of wolfsbane he administered—I felt concern enough to question him.”
Will’s words held all the warmth of a winter wind, rubbing a nervous hand along her back. “Milord, had you died in the second roadside attack or because of your wounds, who would inherit Winhearst?”
“Dryden.”
“But we assumed this was Finch’s doing. He instructed Carlisle to lead the ambush where Lord Whitstowe was murdered. And Finch’s men likely struck your entourage, milord, disguising the attack as the work of outlaws.”
“We have to assume they were in league,” Monthemer said, his voice grating like the squawk of a crow. “I feel a traitor to say that against my own kin, but the coincidences have been too many, especially with his financial difficulties.”
Meg swallowed. “What difficulties?”
“Lord Whitstowe was near bankrupt. He had been supporting Arthur’s claim to the throne over that of King John, and quite enthusiastically.”
“Saints be,” Will whispered.
Robin’s footsteps crunched gravel, approaching from the nearby archery range. He cleared his throat. “Pardon the interruption.”
“What do you know, Uncle?”
“In his final days, Richard confided that he worried about Whitstowe’s influence in the Midlands,” he said. “The earl supported Arthur’s bid for the throne because John was intent on continuing the warfare in France, demanding armies and tributes from the nobility. Whitstowe wanted none of it. Arthur would’ve stayed in France with his holdings and let the English barons have their sway.”
“But my cousin was never the political sort,” Monthemer said. “He wouldn’t care one hand or the other who became king.”
“Perhaps his motives had nothing to do with influence or politics.” Will hunched low and scraped hands through his hair. “Why settle for a paltry inheritance when you can secure much more?”
“That explains their pursuit of an alchemist, and why he was keen to escort me to Nottingham.” She felt like her skin was made of boiled leather, stretched across inflexible features. “We assumed he acted out of cowardice when his father was murdered—”
“—and in the dungeon,” Will said grimly. “By the saints, I saved his life when we clashed with Carlisle. I should have let his deceptions catch him out.”
Meg gripped his upper arm. “What did he write in that missive?”
Will sat away from her and pulled it from his tunic. The sound of that parchment unfolding filled the expectant silence. He cleared his throat. “He wrote, ‘Come for her when you are prepared.’”
“Sounds nearer a challenge than an invitation,” Robin said.
“That it does.” Will sighed, his back bowing.
“But he planned this? All of it?” Her heart pinched beneath her ribs. “And we gave him Ada.”
The look of anguish on her face cut him to the size and strength of a child. He did not believe his words. Neither did she.
“Oh, Will, I apologize.”
He frowned. “In truth?”
“I—Dryden. I trusted him.” She shuddered and cupped her elbows in bandaged hands. Short, dark hair bobbed around her chin. “I knew better, but I trusted him. I placed more store in his station than in your actions.”
“You write history anew, Meg. I gave you little cause for trust.”
She jerked to her feet as if pulled by strings. “We
gave
her to him.”
“We had no way of knowing. And Finch offered you a poor choice.”
“This is my fault,” she said. “From the start, I pressed Ada into our scheme. She complied out of guilt. Now—dear saints, how she must despise me.”
Like a thin layer of new ice over a lake, her skin had a sickly sheen. Red edged her lids, making pale irises even more ethereal. She pushed linen-covered hands into her eye sockets, grinding.
He curled her into his embrace and kissed her head. “We’ll come to that when she is free.”
“But how? Dryden fooled everyone, and he’ll be awaiting our play. We cannot simply walk into Bainbridge Castle and ask for her…”
The desperate cadence of her words trailed into silence. “Meg?”
“Ada’s only value is as a hostage,” she whispered, her expression distant. “If Dryden seeks an alchemist this badly, he’ll trade for me.”
Fear stabbed his gut, then more fear. Anger flooded the wound. “Absolutely not.”
“Why? The decision is mine to make.”
“Hardly,
wife
,” he said. “I won’t permit it.”
She stiffened. “Will Scarlet, I have not had cause to argue with you in hours. I relish the opportunity.”
“Enough of it, Meg.” The fear and anger poisoned his manners, coarsened his tone. “Dryden will not play fairly. Either he’ll be desperate to hide his actions, particularly the murders, or he’ll flaunt his superiority over the law. Think now,” he said, grasping her arms, shaking once. “You have to know that.”
He almost regretted the hard words that drained hope and fight from her face. But neither would he play fairly or gently, not when the prize was her safety.
“Then what do we do?”
“Come with me.”
He walked her through the gardens, into the manor. Guards that had regarded him with suspicion or contempt only days before offered their fair greetings. He nodded absently, weaving through the corridors and halls, until he found Marian working at an embroidery panel in her chambers. Robert played nearby, holding Alice’s apron strings like reins to a horse.
“Marian? Pardon the intrusion. Will you keep my wife company?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Of course.”
“Watch her,” he said. “She’s blind but crafty. Tie her to a tree if you must.”
Meg stayed his retreat. “Where are you going?”
Marian’s eyes watched him. Meg listened. But only Will knew his thoughts, thoughts hewn of desperation. He had used his pride like a shield, a defense as he sacrificed hopes and selfish dreams in favor of honor. With Meg he had discovered something more dear, the strange manner of regard and trust they agreed to call
love
. And to keep her safe, to correct the wrongs committed against her sister, he would lay down that shield.
Where he needed to travel, his pride could not follow.
“Excuse me, Meg, Marian,” he said. “I must speak with my uncle.”
He wanted to help. Duty and title demanded that he, the Earl of Loxley, aid in ensuring safety for the people within his sphere. And an old, innocent, insistent cry gathered inside him. He could do no less than fight for justice.
But another sort of call urged him to wait, one of a more personal character. Will had stumbled into this trouble, although quite by accident and through disreputable means. But the fight was his to conclude. Robin could not stomp into his nephew’s fight, nor could he abandon his responsibilities to the people under his care.
What that left for him to do, he could not decide—other than the small, anticipatory choice he already made.
Sighing, he turned back to the ledgers. Marian had kept impeccable records of the manor’s work receipts and productivity, as well as testimonies for every dispute and judgment. Her fine hand touched every sheet, curled around every detail. Touching a finger to the long-dried ink, he imagined the life she must have led in his absence, the responsibility and the waiting—and a loneliness to match his. At each turn, she behaved on behalf of their lives together.
Even with regard to Will, he finally admitted.
“Robin, may I speak with you?”
Will stood in the doorway.
“Devil be,” Robin mumbled to himself. The muscles along his torso tensed of their own accord. He gestured to the chair opposite his desk. “Sit.”
“Gramercy, no.” Stance wide, hands behind his back, he maintained the posture of a man ready to do battle. “I shan’t be long.”
Robin lamented the circumstances that brought them to enmity, but looking at the boy he had guided and raised filled him with pride. Marian was right, which came as no surprise. Will had matured into a man of worth and goodness, ever seeking but never asking for the validation Robin long withheld.
“What is it, Will?”
“Dryden is unpredictable. He is dangerous. A threat to order throughout the whole of the Midlands.”
“No argument there. You found a hornet’s nest and pried it wide.”
He expected a quip, some manner of crass reply. But Will’s face remained stony. A battle fumed inside him, permitting no levity.
“I cannot—” His voice splintered. His cheeks reddened. He adjusted his feet in that arrogant stance. “I cannot brave him on my own.”
He stood and averted his eyes from Will’s embarrassment, half out of respect for the man’s pride and half out of hopeful expectation. “That surprises me,” he said, trying to keep his words level. “Your entire life, you’ve tried to do everything on your own.”
“Not this.” Will dipped his head and swallowed. “I hardly escaped Finch with my neck. In doing so, I put Meg at risk. I am—I am not endowed with experience enough to defeat him.”
Robin poured a hasty glass of ale. He required a few swallows before admitting the last and thorniest impediment to offering aid: He wanted Will to ask. The dictate struck him as petty and selfish, but neither could he suppress it. Somewhere during their association, Will had stepped to the fore. He was younger, stronger, more daring and thoughtful, and now he was more determined, more disciplined. Robin’s dominance waned, and he was prepared to act more like a friend than an uncle. But he required an invitation. He wanted to know that in Will’s eyes, in the eyes of his most fruitful and frustrating undertaking, he was still a man of value.
Facing his nephew, he looked into those eyes. And waited.
“Robin, I need your help.”