The Stolen Crown Read online

  “Behind you!” a man barked. Just in time Ellie dodged a steaming curtain of water that sloshed from the cauldron he carried.

  “Keep sharp,” Master Crump snapped. “You’re no good to us boiled.”

  Rapidly he set each new servant to a task—peeling turnips, chopping carrots, scrubbing endless piles of dishes, turning the meat over the fire pits. Ellie shrank into the shadows against the wall, watching the door for a chance to escape. The money she wanted wasn’t to be found here but in the banqueting hall—wherever that was. I could follow one of the servants carrying food, she thought. They must be going there. . . .

  Someone grabbed her arm.

  She whipped around to see a black-haired woman with a face like a walnut. She pulled Ellie into the middle of the kitchen, where a pile of chickens lay waiting to be plucked. Ellie looked longingly back toward the doorway.

  The woman scowled. “Don’t tell me you’re squeamish.”

  Her voice was far younger than her looks; her face must have been cooked rough by long years in the kitchen.

  “Squeamish?” said Ellie. “Not me.”

  She grabbed the nearest chicken and began pulling off the feathers. Ellie had plucked plenty of birds, both at the abbey, to help Sister Bethan in the kitchen, and in Sherwood Forest, where Margery would gut and truss them ready for the campfire. Ellie worked quickly, determined to bolt as soon as the chance presented itself.

  “Humph. You’ll do,” said the woman grudgingly.

  Another woman, this one as stringy as a runner bean, was talking urgently into Master Crump’s ear.

  He grunted in annoyance. “Listen up!” he addressed the kitchen. “It seems they’re short of servers in the banqueting hall. Not one of you is fit to be seen by the king, but it will be the worse for all of us if the barons wait too long for their feast. Who here can serve without overturning a plate?”

  Ellie’s heart leaped. This was her chance to get inside the banqueting hall, pouring wine with one hand and fishing for purses with the other.

  “I can do it!” she said too loudly.

  The runner-bean woman eyed Ellie contemptuously. “I don’t think so, Master Crump. She’s the dirtiest one here. She’ll put the barons off their meat.”

  Master Crump began turning away. Ellie started forward, alarmed that her chance was slipping away.

  “I serve at my father’s inn,” she said quickly, the lie slipping like butter off her tongue. “On the road north of Nottingham. I’ve served far rougher crowds than this one and never spilled a drop.”

  Master Crump cocked an eyebrow. “Rough, eh? Fine, fine—just follow her.” He pointed to the string-bean woman. “Keep your head down, don’t drop anything, and above all, hold your tongue.”

  The string-bean woman looked Ellie up and down, shook her head, then handed her a tray piled with custard tarts. Ellie nearly staggered under its weight, thanking the saints for her strong archer’s arms. The tarts smelled like heaven’s halls—rich cream and nutmeg, encased in buttery pastry. She gave herself a moment to covet them, then followed the woman out of the kitchen. She could hardly believe her good luck.

  The heat and hustle faded behind them. They wound through a few passageways and reached the banqueting hall.

  The smell of food, fire, and people hit Ellie like a wave. The hall was so large, minstrels were stationed at each of its four corners, barely audible above the raucous shouts and chatter of the guests. The dishes streamed in endlessly—fruits and cuts of meat heaped high, loaves of bread and sweating rounds of butter, quivering jellies, suckling pigs and roast ducks, whole fish and songbirds you could eat in a bite. The lords and ladies ate from silver platters and drank from golden goblets. They rustled with silks and velvets, the ladies’ hair decorated with jewels. Ellie had never seen so much finery in one place. If she could lift just the necklace from the woman nearest her, she could trade it for enough money to buy a pig for every villager.

  The tables were arranged in a horseshoe shape. At the head was a glittering throne, built all out of proportion, as if made for a giant. On it sat a man wearing a fur cloak and red velvet robes covered in golden embroidery. Ellie’s skin went hot. So this was King John, the monarch so cruel every child could recite a dozen songs and tales about his misdeeds before his or her fifth birthday. His hair was reddish in the torchlight, his face shaved smooth. His cheeks were heavy and smeared with grease from the duck leg he was eating. Ellie’s fingers curled around her tray of tarts. For one dark moment she wished she had her bow in her hands instead.

  Next to the king, on his right, sat a man in blue with a gaudy gold chain of office, bedecked with flourishes and flowers. The Sheriff of Nottingham, she realized. He had been an old foe of Robin Hood and the Merry Men, and seeing him now was like watching a character from a ballad come to life. The sheriff’s thick hair and beard were gray, and he darted his eyes to and fro, as alert and cunning as a fox.

  The man seated on the king’s left was drinking from his goblet, his face hidden. He put the goblet down, revealing hard blue eyes and a pointed black beard. Ellie shivered.

  It was Lord de Lays.

  All at once the foolishness of her position struck Ellie like a bucket of cold water. Here she was, face hidden by nothing but a layer of dust, half a room away from the man who had made her a fugitive.

  What was I thinking? she wondered, aghast.

  One thing was certain: She couldn’t stay. Not if she hoped to escape Nottingham Castle alive.

  Fighting down panic, she started backing out of the banqueting hall, toward the web of hallways that would lead her to freedom. But her path was blocked by the string-bean woman.

  “Master Crump should have listened to me,” she scolded. “Can’t handle it here, can you? Well, you’re not leaving until that tray’s empty. Those tarts are King John’s favorites.” She shoved Ellie, sending her swaying a few steps back into the hall. “Go on—go and serve the king!”

  Ellie stumbled to the tables. Her hair had gotten loose under the frilly cap, and she let it fall around her face. She took the tarts to the lords and ladies first, hoping to empty the tray so she could avoid serving King John and standing in arm’s reach of Lord de Lays.

  Women in silks and men in fur took sloppy handfuls of the pastries, barely looking at Ellie in between bites of food and swigs of wine. As she moved among them, she felt like a moving target, a doe among the trees, the baron’s eye the arrow that could bring her down.

  “I won’t be silent!” roared a voice. It was King John. The eyes of the room turned toward him. His face was red, wine slopping from the goblet he clutched. The sheriff had a hand on his shoulder and seemed to be trying to calm him down. King John slapped it away.

  “God’s teeth,” the king bellowed. “Get off me, man. I don’t care who knows it—when I find the thief who dared steal my crown jewels, he’ll find himself hanged by sundown.”

  Murmurs rippled around the room. Even the minstrels stopped playing for a moment.

  The crown jewels!

  A flame of envy toward the thief ignited in Ellie’s chest, along with a grudging respect. The crown jewels were the most valuable treasures in England—the crown worn by the monarch, the orb and scepter he held to show his authority, and dozens of other jewels. They would have been heavily guarded, she knew, and she wondered how the thief had managed it.

  “Girl!” It was a woman in a blue gown, snapping her fingers at Ellie. “Are you catching flies or serving sweets?”

  Ellie hastily offered the tray to her. The woman helped herself, nibbling the pastry as she continued her conversation.

  “If the king can’t hold tight to his jewels, however will he hold on to his throne?” She smiled at her companions with the air of a spoiled child used to approval, and was rewarded with their hearty laughter.

  Ellie moved on to the next table. Hands decorated with rings plucked tarts from the tray.

  “No Englishman would dare commit such a crime,” one of the men
was saying darkly. “I tell you, this stinks of the French.”

  “King John is weak,” replied his pale, hugely pregnant wife. Her husband put a quelling hand on her arm, darting a look over his shoulder as if the king might be standing behind him.

  She shook him off. “Oh, he’s too drunk to hear us,” she said. “As usual. The French know how little loved he is, and think they can take his place. You mark my words. The next thing they steal will be his throne.”

  Ellie moved on, so distracted she nearly tipped her tray into one of the ladies’ laps. Usually she cared little about the royal dance of kings and queens that took place far above her head, but what she’d heard had alarmed her. If these guests were right, what might a new ruler mean for the villagers? Would life under a French king or queen be better? Or would it be worse? After all, a new monarch might love food and finery even more than King John and raise taxes higher yet to pay for them. She was sure the lords and ladies of England wouldn’t just let France take the throne—there would be a war to defend it. She imagined Ralf and Jacob forced to take up arms, and herself, Alice, and Margery cutting off their hair and following the boys to the battlefield. . . .

  Slumped at the next table was a man, nearly as deep into his cups as the king, leaning heavily over a pile of smeared plates. His companions were caught up in a heated conversation over a bet one had made, and nobody’s eyes were on their drowsy friend.

  Or on the silken purse that hung at his waist, bulging with coins.

  Using the tray as a cover, Ellie leaned toward the man, proffering the tarts with one hand while the other nimbly worked at the ribbon that fixed the purse to his belt. The knot gave way. A thrill passed through Ellie as she dropped it into the pocket of her dress.

  Now it really is time to go, she thought. Her tray was almost empty and she had a contribution toward their farm. Now if she could get out before the baron saw her, she could call the day a success after all. . . .

  “Oi!”

  Her heart sank. The string-bean woman was bustling over, as unwelcome as a bad dream.

  “Those tarts are almost gone, and you still haven’t served the king. Get over there now. You wait until Master Crump hears about this. . . .”

  There was nothing for it. Her feet like lead, she made her way to the top table, where King John and Lord de Lays were seated. Her only hope was that the firelight was dim enough, and her face dusty enough, that the baron wouldn’t realize the outlaw Elinor Dray was right under his nose.

  Up close, King John reeked of drink. His face was red and shiny, his hair damp and stuck to his thick neck. Ellie held out the tray, dipping into a deep bow that she hoped shielded her face from the baron. John swiped clumsily at the tarts in a way that reminded Ellie of a bear pawing up fish from a stream. He bit into one and custard dribbled down his robe.

  “Thieves,” he growled. Flecks of pastry fell from his mouth. “Thieves who dare steal from their king! When I find them, I’ll . . .” He seemed to have trouble completing his thought and reached for his wine goblet instead, taking a long gulp.

  Ellie’s heart was pounding. Surely she could go now? She turned to make her escape, but the sheriff raised his hand to stop her.

  “None for me,” he said—but pointed sharply toward the baron, indicating she should serve him next.

  The sounds and smells of the room faded away. Ellie felt like she was underwater. Nothing seemed real. She stepped toward her enemy, keeping her hands as steady as she could. All she could hear was the rasp of her own breath, all she could see was the baron’s stern profile. . . .

  But Lord de Lays was absorbed with watching the king swig noisily from his goblet. His lip curled with distaste and he turned to the man seated on his other side.

  “We won’t have to put up with this for much longer, Lord Clerebold,” he said in a low voice.

  “I trust the plan is in place, then?” the man murmured. He was of middle age, with thin gray hair and a monkish look to him.

  Despite the danger, despite the foolishness of it, Ellie stood still as a hare, straining to hear the baron’s response.

  “Indeed,” he said softly, his words nearly lost in the din. “In two days’ time the coach will travel by way of the Kirklees road. My men will do the rest.”

  “And are the . . . the items we discussed safe in the meantime? It will not do to have them go missing again.”

  The baron chuckled. “We couldn’t have that, could we?” He clinked his goblet to Lord Clerebold’s.

  Ellie stood frozen.

  The crown jewels, she thought, her heart thumping so hard she thought the men would hear it through her dress. That must be what they’re talking about. The baron is the thief!

  She was brought back to herself by Lord Clerebold looking up at her. She swallowed hard and dipped into another bow, her head as low as she dared. Lord Clerebold glanced at the tray, then waved her away. The baron didn’t look up at all.

  She turned and walked swiftly toward the door. She felt as light and free as a bird released from a cage. Her mind was racing with what she’d heard. She couldn’t wait to tumble her ideas out to the rest of the League, as bright as the gold and silver she’d stolen.

  So the crown jewels would be traveling down the Kirklees road—the League’s home territory. Anything could cause a cart to break down on that lonely road—a sharp dip in the terrain, an errant stone, five archers in the trees waiting to relieve the baron’s men of their ill-gotten jewels. . . . If she and her friends could just steal the jewels away, Maid Marian and Friar Tuck, former Merry Men, would know how to sell them. They wouldn’t just make enough money for the farm. They’d have enough to live for years—no, decades—out from under the baron’s cruel boot.

  She was nearly at the door when a terrible sound cut the air. It was something between a gasp and a moan, like an animal caught in a trap. She spun around. Every head was turned toward the top table. Someone dropped a goblet. A woman screamed.

  King John was half standing. One brawny hand was propped on the table, the other was clutched around his neck. He was swaying, but not from drunkenness, Ellie thought. Something was wrong. He looked like he’d been pained by bad meat. He groaned again, fingers clawing at his throat, then slumped over the table, eyes and mouth stretched grotesquely wide.

  The banqueting hall rang with a din of screams and shouts. Lords rushed to assist the king. One worked his collar loose, while another yelled at a servant to bring water. Lord de Lays was pulling away the king’s cloak—and leaning over him to knock away his half-drunk wine goblet with a quick hand, letting the last of the liquid soak into the rushes at their feet. Ellie’s eyes narrowed.

  King John’s gasps faded to a hideous gurgle. With one last convulsion, he fell heavily onto the floor. He lay completely still.

  A shocked hush descended on the banqueting hall.

  The sheriff straightened up. In a hoarse voice he shouted, “The king is dead!”

  3

  THE KING WAS DEAD—AND Ellie was certain she could identify the murderer. She saw again in her mind’s eye Lord de Lays knocking away John’s goblet.

  It was poisoned, she thought.

  How easy for a man sitting next to the king to slip something into his wine? Especially given how drunk John was and how unlikely to notice. She had no doubt the baron would commit treason—the highest possible kind—to get what he wanted. His plotting must go far deeper than smuggling the crown jewels along the Kirklees road.

  Panic swept the banqueting hall. Several ladies burst into tears. A young nobleman fainted, sending platters and goblets rolling to the floor. Voices broke out with wild claims.

  “He choked on a bone,” one woman said. “I would swear it.”

  “It was a French assassin,” a man insisted, his eyes darting around the room as if he would be next. No one was looking toward the baron.

  A troop of soldiers rushed into the hall. “Make way!” their leader bellowed as they converged on the body of King John.
At the sight of their flashing chain mail, Ellie dropped her tray into the rushes. She had to get out before things got any worse.

  Curious servants thronged at the doorway, eager to catch a glimpse of the drama playing out. Ellie pushed her way through them, like a salmon struggling upstream—and a shoulder met hers, sending her spinning. She just had time to see who belonged to the shoulder—a boy a little older than her, dressed in black, his eyes pale blue—before stumbling backward onto the floor.

  The purse flew free of her pocket. The gold coins scattered from its mouth, seeming to fly horribly slowly through the air, and showered over her. The boy’s blue eyes went wide.

  A soldier wrenched Ellie up off the ground, pulling her arm back so hard she gasped. “The king’s not paying you that well, servant girl,” he said roughly. “What’s your name?”

  His voice cut through the din. The guests were turning toward this new spectacle, including Lord de Lays.

  His face flushed red with anger. “She’s the outlaw Elinor Dray! Hold her fast!”

  Ellie snapped from her trance. She stamped hard on the soldier’s foot and he yelped, his grip loosening just enough that she could wrench free. The doorway was blocked by the throng, so she took off at a dead run for the fireplace.

  She had a panicked idea about grabbing a flaming log and fighting with it—just the kind of stupid thing Jacob might suggest—then spied a better weapon. She reached the poker just before the soldier’s hands grabbed at the back of her dress, and she swung around and batted him across the face with it. He reared back, roaring.

  A baron in a heavy cloak stood between her and a wave of oncoming soldiers, a short sword in his hand. “Stop there!” he commanded, swinging it at her.