The Stolen Crown Page 3

  She parried the blade away with her poker, sending it flying toward a knot of shocked nobles. Before anyone else could try his luck, she barreled her way to the door.

  “Seize her!” the baron yelled furiously.

  She squirmed free of the crowd, out of the banqueting hall at last, and ran. She wove around another troop of soldiers and skidded sharply into a hallway so narrow Friar Tuck wouldn’t have fit in it at all.

  She sprinted down it, trying to keep her fear in check. She was small, she was quick, and there was just one of her, while the soldiers were heavy with mail and moved in a pack. I can escape, she told herself. I can do it. I just need to find the way out.

  She burst out of the other end of the passageway. The halls seemed endless, flooded with people, all of them yelling or crying or speculating in hushed tones. Word of King John’s death had spread through the castle like a plague. Ellie darted through the crowd, moving as quickly as she could without inciting suspicion. Reluctantly she dropped her poker, worried it attracted too much attention.

  At first she headed in one direction as much as she could, turning left to make up for every right, assuming she’d reach the end of the castle that way. When that didn’t work, she tried to remember features of the halls she’d seen before. Once she stopped to ask a kitchen boy with an ash-covered face to point her toward the courtyard, but he gave her a rude gesture and ran on.

  After she passed the same chamber pot twice, panic started kicking in her chest. She was lost, trapped like a rabbit in a warren, the terriers on its heels. She turned, intending to retrace her steps, but a pair of soldiers were sprinting around the last corner.

  “There she is!” one shouted, his voice ragged from running.

  Ellie’s heart lurched. She dashed into the nearest room—a stone-walled chamber with great haunches of beef and pork hanging from hooks in the ceiling. She ran through it, shoving the carcasses as she went so they swung wildly, meat slapping wetly against meat, in hopes that it would delay the soldiers’ pursuit. On the other side of the chamber was a door. She burst through it. She was in a passageway with a narrow, circular staircase curving upward at the end. Ellie stumbled toward it, her limbs exhausted. She dragged herself up the stone steps, then swung open the door at the top, and shut and bolted it behind her.

  She slumped back against the door, squeezing her eyes shut. She knew she couldn’t keep running from the soldiers for much longer.

  Think, Ellie, she told herself. There’s got to be another way to escape.

  She looked around her. The room was high ceilinged and filled with warmth from the fire burning in its hearth. Chairs upholstered in rich red velvet were placed around the fireplace, and on the walls hung great tapestries of hunting scenes. Thick furs covered the flagstone floor, and on a polished table was a heap of letters, waiting to be sent, all sealed with a glob of gold wax. Everything was lit by shafts of colored sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows.

  Something shone on the wall above the fireplace: a silver arrow. It was lean and lovely, glinting in the slanting sunlight.

  Ellie knew the arrow well. It was an exact match for the one Robin Hood had won from the Sheriff of Nottingham in an archery contest many years ago. She’d carried it in her quiver, just like Robin had, until after they rescued Marian, and she’d given it to her; Ellie had known how much the keepsake of her old love would mean to her. The ballads said that the sheriff had an exact twin of the arrow made and swore to bring Robin down with it, but never made good on his pledge. And now it hung here, on the castle wall.

  Ellie looked around the room with new eyes. These must be the sheriff’s private chambers, she realized.

  What would Robin Hood do if he were with her right now? The answer came to her in a giddy burst.

  She jumped up on one of the red velvet chairs and lifted the arrow from its fixings. It was light in her hand, the head narrowed to a deadly point.

  A volley of fists pounded on the door, sending the latch shuddering. Startled, she nearly fell off the chair. The soldiers had found her.

  Time to run again . . .

  She leaped down and ripped off her dress, leaving it in a pool on the floor. Light in her jerkin and leggings, the arrow in her hand seeming to restore her energy, she sprinted from the room through a hall lined with suits of armor, up a brief staircase, and into an opulent bedchamber, its walls painted with murals of various saints at prayer. She ran to the window. The ground was a long way down—too far to jump. To get out, she would have to go back down, which meant fighting her way through the soldiers. And with just one arrow, and no bow, she wouldn’t stand a chance.

  The sound of running feet reached her. The soldiers had gotten through the door, then.

  She ran through more bedchambers, their velvets and silks melting together in a swirl that threatened to suffocate her. She raced through the door and found herself at another spiral staircase.

  Thank God, she thought, crashing down it. At the bottom, surely, she would be able to find the courtyard again. . . .

  “Got you!” growled a voice. Ellie shrieked. A soldier was at the bottom of the stairs, one hand on his sword.

  He lunged toward her. Ellie had no choice but to run back up—and farther away from any chance of escape.

  She reached the chamber she’d run out of but could hear the other soldiers within it. If she went back inside, she’d be caught. So farther up the staircase she went, the muscles of her legs screaming, pounding higher and higher up the castle. Through a window she glimpsed the ground, and freedom, ebbing ever farther away.

  At the top was a door. She swung it open and staggered inside.

  Standing in front of her was the boy with the pale-blue eyes—the one in black, whom she’d knocked into in the banqueting hall. The one who’d seen the stolen purse and heard the baron yell who she was. She saw now that a sword hung from his belt.

  He grinned, his eyes gleaming. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Out of my way,” Ellie snarled. She gripped the silver arrow like a dagger and pointed it toward him.

  Quick as a cat—quicker than Alice, even—he grabbed Ellie’s arm. She tried to wrench free, but he was strong and held her fast. With one black boot he kicked back a tapestry hanging on the wall and dragged her behind it. For a moment she was smothered in the heavy fabric and couldn’t see. She struggled violently, but he gave her a shove, and she staggered backward into open space: a narrow alcove in the wall. The tapestry fell back into place, concealing them.

  “What,” she panted furiously, “in the name of God do you think—”

  The boy put a finger to his lips. The sounds of soldiers’ boots and booming voices filled the room. They tramped closer, then past the tapestry, and away. Ellie’s irritation turned to a confused gratitude.

  When the sounds of the soldiers had faded, the boy relaxed against the wall of the alcove. Light filtered thinly through the threads of the tapestry. His features were strong, his gaze clever and quick. His hair was red like Margery’s, but with hints of gold and rich brown, like autumn leaves.

  He turned his cool blue eyes on Ellie. “Well?” he said.

  “Well what?” she asked warily.

  “Well, I’ve just saved your skin.” He grinned, and it took the coolness out of his eyes. Ellie just stopped herself from smiling back.

  “You did,” she replied haughtily. “And thank you. But why help me? Are you hoping for something in return?”

  “You’re not very trusting, are you, Elinor Dray?”

  Ellie scowled. “Life as an outlaw will do that to you.” She pushed back the tapestry and went back out into the room. He might have saved her, but no good could come of talking to a boy she’d first seen among the barons, who knew her name and what she was.

  The boy followed, drawing the tapestry back into place. In the clearer light she took in his clothes of rich black fabric, covered all over with an embroidered pattern of leaves. The hilt of his sword was unmista
kably made from silver.

  “It’s far easier to be trusting when you live in a castle,” she said.

  He laughed. “I don’t live here, actually. But you’re right. I do want something. I think you’re going to like it.”

  Elinor raised her eyebrows. She doubted that very much.

  He stepped closer to her. She held her ground, watching him through narrowed eyes.

  “Look,” he said, “I can get you out of the castle. That’s more than you can do on your own.”

  “If you know my name, you know what I can manage on my own,” she shot back. “I’ve done more than escape a few soldiers.”

  “That’s not what I . . .” He rolled his eyes. “This isn’t just ‘a few soldiers.’ Every man in this castle is looking for you, and you’re nowhere close to a way out. Do you even know which side of the castle we’re on?”

  Ellie said nothing.

  “I thought not. I’ll get you out. I’ll save you from the dungeons, or worse.”

  She folded her arms. “You still haven’t said what you want.”

  “To come with you.”

  She scoffed at him, trying to hide her surprise. “Come where? I’m an outlaw.”

  He looked at her solemnly. “I know you are. I want to be one too. I want to join the League of Archers.”

  Ellie’s mouth gaped. Join them? This boy with his teasing smile and fancy clothes shouldn’t know anything about the League of Archers. Besides, the other members of the League were friends she’d known since she was tiny, and they’d played at being Robin Hood together in the woods. Side by side they’d fought back against Lord de Lays, saved Maid Marian, and chased Will Scarlet through Sherwood Forest. And now this stranger wanted to join them?

  And yet . . . what chance did she have of escaping the castle by herself? All she’d done so far was get farther and farther from freedom.

  “You’re asking too much,” she managed. “The League is . . . it isn’t looking for new members.”

  “I’ll prove myself,” he said immediately, as if he’d expected her to argue. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  “But why? You’re no outlaw. You’re not even a villager. Who are you?”

  “I’m no outlaw yet. I’m the son of a nobleman.” The blue of his eyes clouded over. “The things I’ve seen—they make me sick. The corruption, the cruelty . . . I know more than you can imagine about the people you’re fighting against. I’ve seen their greed at close quarters, I’ve grown up with it. Can you say the same thing?”

  The boy’s anger was as sudden as lightning on a clear blue day. His fists were clenched, the muscles in his face taut. Ellie wasn’t sure if it made her trust him more or less.

  “No promises,” she heard herself say. “But if you get me out of here, we can talk.”

  “About me joining the League of Archers, you mean?”

  “Yes. About you joining the League of Archers.”

  The boy’s anger melted. He was grinning again. “This way, then.” He reached for her hand.

  Ellie snatched it back. “I can follow you just fine.”

  “All right.”

  He hurried away. He was tall, nearly as tall as Jacob, and Ellie had to rush to keep up with his long strides. He walked with ease and familiarity through the bedchambers, looking straight ahead as he went.

  Whoever he is, he knows his way around Nottingham Castle.

  The boy led her into a small room with a narrow bed and a large chest. He heaved it open and rummaged around inside, coming up with a length of rope. Ellie kept her face impassive as he turned to grin at her, clearly hoping to catch her looking curious.

  Or impressed, she thought with irritation.

  He took the rope to a window striped with iron bars. In the middle, two of the bars were missing, creating a space just large enough to fit through. He started tying the rope to one of the remaining bars. Ellie shouldered past him and peered down.

  They were at the back of the keep. Below was an empty alleyway, far enough from the crowds that all she heard was birdsong and the breeze.

  She narrowed her eyes at the boy. “How did you know where the rope was?”

  He shrugged and gave her another infuriating grin.

  “How did you know how to find your way to the back of the keep? And how did you know about the League?”

  “So many questions,” he said, looping the rope in a knot.

  “Here’s another. You didn’t answer me before—who exactly are you?”

  “My name’s Stephen.” He yanked hard on the rope to test it. “You’re the outlaw, not me. Anyway, don’t you think this can wait until we’re out of the castle?”

  Ellie gave a grudging nod.

  Stephen smirked and gestured toward the window. “Good. Now, who’s going down first?”

  4

  ELLIE LOOKED FROM STEPHEN’S SMUG face to the sheer drop to the alleyway below. “After you, I think.”

  “As you wish.”

  Not quite believing he’d do it, Ellie watched Stephen wrap the rope around his fist and swing first one leg, then the other, over the window ledge. The sun lit up his bright hair as he braced his feet against the wall and stepped his way, bit by bit, down the sheer stone. Ellie leaned out to watch his descent. When he was close to the alley, he leaped down and grinned up at her.

  Ellie hesitated for a moment. It was a very long way down.

  Come on, she told herself. It’s this or take your chances with the guards.

  So she wrapped one fist with rope, as Stephen had done, and levered herself out into the open air.

  It was nothing like being in the Greenwood Tree, she reflected. If she stepped wrong in the Merry Men’s hideaway, now the adopted base of the League of Archers, it was a long drop, but she never felt in danger there. She always felt protected by the ingenious walkways—first built by Robin and his men, later patched up by the League—by the arms of the tree, and by the benevolent spirit of the place.

  But now, rappelling down Stephen’s rope, if she maneuvered wrong, let her hand slip, she’d plummet to the ground. The stone wall was rough through her boots, the rope murder on her palms. She went down hand over hand, keeping her eyes trained on the rope, not daring to look down at Stephen in the alley below.

  “You can let go now, I’ll catch you,” he called when she was almost at the bottom.

  She ignored him, jumping her own way down to solid earth. “Thank the blessed saints,” she murmured, rubbing her sore hands.

  “Thank me, not the saints,” said Stephen. “I’m the one who got you out. I hope you’re a girl of your word.”

  “We’re out of the castle, not out of danger. Come on—the rest of the League will be wondering what’s happened to me. Don’t do anything to draw attention.”

  She could hear the Nottingham crowd once more. It grew louder as they made their way out of the alley and into the town’s streets. But the tenor had changed—before, there had been music and shouts, and a festival feeling in the air. Now the people sounded like an angry mob—and looked like one too. They were packed shoulder to shoulder in the street, their faces twisted with concern, anger, and fear. One phrase kept ringing out above the hubbub: “The king is dead!”

  Bad news spreads fast, Ellie thought grimly. Had word spread too of the girl running from the scene of his death—the outlaw Elinor Dray? If Stephen had remembered her face, others would too.

  They joined the bustling throng, Ellie peering around in the hopes of spotting lanky Jacob’s sandy-colored head above the rest. Stephen kept close beside her. They pushed past a man wearing a bloodstained apron who looked like he’d run to join the crowd straight from his butcher’s shop.

  “What’s going on?” the butcher was asking a woman wrapped in a tattered shawl.

  “There’s been a fight among the barons,” she said with certainty. “And when the king’s friends fight, it’s worse for us somehow.”

  “No,” joined in another woman, who was holding a red-faced baby
to her chest. “I heard it was a surprise attack. The king was set on by a French lord hiding in a suit of armor.”

  “That’ll come down on our heads too,” the butcher replied darkly. “You can be sure of it.”

  The rumors got wilder as they went. “That French wife of his is to blame,” a woman in a filthy apron told her friend. “The king learned of her plot to run off with a baron and make a fool of him.”

  “Well, I heard the king cast her out—he’s going to marry a Spanish princess instead.”

  Stephen snorted. “That’s so ridiculous!”

  The two women stared at him. “I suppose you know better, young man?” snapped one, her eyes narrowed.

  “Maybe I do,” said Stephen.

  Before he could say more, Ellie grabbed his arm and yanked him away.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she whispered. “We’re trying not to get spotted, remember?”

  “Like your friends, you mean?” He waved an arm at the crowd. “Let’s face it, you’re never going to find them in all these people.”

  He was right, Ellie realized. And the rest of the League must have guessed how impossible it would be for Ellie to reach them again. They were probably on their way to the Greenwood Tree—and the sooner she followed them, the better. It surely wouldn’t be long before soldiers spilled out of the castle, shouting her name and ordering her captured. But what would her friends say when she turned up with a stranger in tow?

  I could lose him here, she thought. Just slip away in the crowd. It would be as easy as a deer disappearing into the trees.

  She glanced around, readying to dash away—and saw that Stephen was looking at her expectantly. She sighed. She couldn’t do it. She’d given her word—her word as the leader of the League of Archers. He’d kept his side of the bargain, and now she had to keep hers.

  “You’re right,” she said. “They’re not here. We’ll meet them at the Greenwood Tree.”

  His pale-blue eyes went wide. “The Greenwood Tree? You mean the one where Robin—”

  “Keep it down!” she snapped. “Yes, that one, of course. Let’s hurry, before it gets dark.”