The Stolen Crown Read online

  “Okay.”

  “It’s something . . . well, your father wouldn’t like it. We’re trusting you with a secret.”

  “I swear you can trust me. And if my father wouldn’t like it, that means I will.”

  So the League led Stephen, his blindfold back on, through the trap-laden forest to an area cleared of trees. What had started as a space not much larger than the abbey’s kitchen had already grown into something the size of a small village. On one side was the beginnings of their farm—chicken coops, a fledgling vegetable garden, some pens intended for sheep and cows. On the other was a clutch of small shelters, some complete, some just bare wooden frames. Men and women hoisted the beams for a new shelter, while children wove together sticks and branches for the walls, then slapped on handfuls of heavy clay to complete them. The pride of the camp was the Baker family’s tiny shop front. It was a neat, timber-framed building, looking nearly as it had in the Kirklees village. Two women stood outside, hair wet with sweat from their labors, but they were smiling as they gossiped.

  Ellie untied Stephen’s blindfold and he gaped at the scene. “What is this place?” he breathed.

  “Just what it looks like,” said Ellie proudly. “New homes for everyone fleeing your father’s taxes and a farm to feed them.”

  Jacob and Margery went to help the villagers raising beams for the shelters. Ralf and Alice went to speak to a blond girl putting the finishing touches to one of the chicken coops. She was called Cecily, Ellie remembered, and had been a neighbor of Ralf and Alice’s before the baron made them outlaws and they had to leave the village. Now Cecily must have been forced to leave too.

  Ellie realized that it wasn’t just Cecily who was new. There were far more people in the clearing than there had been even a week ago. And today, for the first time that autumn, there was a bite in the air that meant the year would soon turn to winter.

  We need to get this place ready before then, Ellie thought. There’s no point in these people fleeing the baron only to die of cold.

  Friar Tuck was overseeing an outdoor oven made of bricks, a fire inside it and a vat of bubbling liquid on top. The unmistakable smell of brewing beer reached Ellie. His tonsured head was bent over it, the bald patch on top reddened by the sun, his brawny arms stirring the beer with a vast spoon. Maid Marian, her hair in a thick silver braid, dipped a tankard into the beer and sipped. She gave an approving nod.

  “Stay here,” Ellie told Stephen. “Just don’t do anything. Or,” she threw back over her shoulder, “you can help Jacob and Margery!”

  Marian smiled when she saw Ellie, velvety eyes soft over her elegant cheekbones. Friar Tuck stopped stirring the beer. “How did it go in Nottingham?” he asked. “Were the pickings good?”

  Ellie thought with a pang of the gold-filled purse that had almost been hers, until she dropped it fleeing the banqueting hall. She shook her head with regret. “We’ll try again, though. Soon.”

  “I worry it won’t be soon enough.” Marian looked around the clearing, her face creased with concern. “If we can’t get enough shelters built, enough food in the ground or in storage, I don’t know how we’ll all make it through the winter.”

  “True enough,” said Tuck. He nudged Ellie. “Now, tell us all about what did happen in Nottingham. I know you too well to believe that it wasn’t an adventure.”

  So Ellie did. She beckoned to the rest of the League to come and listen—in all the wrangling over what to do with Stephen, she’d not told them what had happened in the banqueting hall. Their eyes widened with shock as she described the death of King John.

  “You’re certain it was murder?” Friar Tuck asked grimly. “The man didn’t choke on his own greed?”

  “It was poison, I’m sure of it.”

  “The murder of a king won’t be good for any of us,” Marian said. “Trouble will stretch farther than we can imagine.”

  “I’m sure the baron killed him,” Ellie said. “The way he knocked over the cup—I know it was him. And there’s something else I need to tell you too.” She described the escape from the castle, ending with the revelation about Stephen.

  “Stephen de Lays,” said Marian. “Yes, I remember him. I met him once, at the abbey—he was younger then, his father’s small shadow.” Her eyes were touched with pity. “Perhaps if you want to know more about the baron’s plot, you could ask the one person here who truly knows him.”

  Ellie looked to where Stephen sat on a heap of wood, long legs stretched out in front of him. She called him over. He came slowly, as if he were in trouble. When Ellie introduced Marian and Tuck, his eyes grew round as chestnuts. Ellie hid a smile. Maybe it isn’t just village children who play at being Robin and his Merry Men, she thought.

  She repeated her story to him. He listened in silence, face as still as a mask.

  “So your father killed King John,” Ellie finished. “Don’t try to deny it—I know what I saw. But why did he do it? Is he helping the French? Does he want the throne for himself?”

  “I don’t believe it,” Stephen muttered. He ran his hands through his bright hair. “I mean, I do believe what you said—I just never thought my father would go that far. Killing the king! My God.”

  “But why did he do it?” pressed Alice.

  Stephen gave a bitter laugh. “How should I know? He’s ambitious. He’ll get something out of it.”

  “We know he’s helped the French before,” Ralf said. “Maybe he’s helping King Louis take the throne.”

  “The only person he ever helps is himself,” said Stephen bitterly. “If he is working for Louis, it’ll be in exchange for land, or a title, or gold. Mark my words.”

  No closer to figuring out the baron’s plot, the League went to help finish constructing a shelter large enough to hold two families. Stephen threw himself into the work, taking the heaviest loads, attacking the gnarled stumps that needed to be dug up to make way for the new house. He worked until he was sweaty and panting, yet it made Ellie uneasy. She believed him when he said he hated his father, but she still wasn’t sure it made him right for the League. Surely a person needed to be driven by more than just revenge to do something good in the world.

  When the shelter was done, Alice tied Stephen’s blindfold back on—a little too tight, it looked like—and the rest of the League led him off through the lengthening dusk, back toward the Greenwood Tree.

  Ellie lingered behind. She needed advice and hoped Maid Marian could give it to her. She’d loved Marian ever since she knew her only as the mother abbess. Marian had come to collect Ellie from the village after her mother was hanged, taking her in at Kirklees as a novice nun. At first Ellie loved her with the blind devotion of a grieving orphan, desperate for someone to care for her. Later, when she discovered Marian’s true identity, she loved her with a fierceness born of knowing how truly good and brave Marian was.

  Friar Tuck, on his way back to the beer, ruffled Ellie’s hair. “Is the Greenwood Tree taking good care of you?”

  “Always. And we’re taking good care of it, too.”

  Many of the tree’s more ingenious devices were the friar’s doing. His eyes always shone when Ralf showed him the bits they’d patched up or even improved, though he rarely took them up on their offer to stay with them in the clearing. It was too full of ghosts for him and Marian—ghosts of Robin, of Will Scarlet, Little John, and the rest of the Merry Men.

  Marian put an arm around Ellie and led her to a stack of logs behind the row of shelters. Lanterns peppered the approaching dark, and they could hear the friendly sounds of families talking, eating, settling down for the evening.

  “Something’s troubling you, isn’t it?” asked Marian, sitting on one of the logs and drawing her skirts around her—Lincoln-green skirts, the color worn by the Merry Men.

  “It’s Stephen,” she replied. Marian waited patiently while she sat beside her, ordering her thoughts. “It’s just . . . I truly believe he won’t betray us to the baron. Anyone can see how much he hates hi
s father, and I don’t blame him. But have I done the right thing, letting him stay?” She gestured around at the clearing, at the shelters, at the families huddled together breaking bread. “I’ve just got this awful feeling I’ve put everything in danger.”

  Marian took Ellie’s hand. “You’ve done the right thing: You kept your word.” She smiled at Ellie’s relief. “Everyone deserves a chance, don’t you think? You’ve given Stephen his. It’s up to him now what he does with it.”

  Ellie grinned. “Thank you,” she said. “You always make me feel better.”

  After a little while she left Marian and set off for the Greenwood Tree. As she strode through the shadowed forest, a plan formed in her mind, as clear as the cool night air. She knew now how to get the new farm built by winter.

  Tomorrow the crown jewels would be traveling down the Kirklees road.

  And the League of Archers is going to steal them!

  6

  THE LEAGUE OF ARCHERS WERE crouched in the trees beside the Kirklees road, looking out for the coach carrying the crown jewels. When she glanced at her friends, Ellie saw that Jacob’s eyes weren’t on the road, but on Stephen. He’d barely let Stephen out of his sight since he joined the League. Last night Jacob had slept in the roots of the Greenwood Tree so he’d hear if Stephen tried taking off in the night. During every daylight hour he’d been Stephen’s shadow, whether he was fletching arrows, skinning game, or making plans with the rest of the League.

  Ellie sighed. How long is this going to go on?

  She wondered if they would ever be able to truly trust Stephen, and supposed that today’s mission was as good a test of that as any. She still cursed the loss of the purse of gold in the banqueting hall, but if they could seize this quarry, her ill-fated trip to the castle—and Stephen’s presence at the Greenwood Tree—would all be worth it. They’d be able to feed the villagers for years.

  From the branches overhead came the call of a thrush—Margery, keeping lookout. Ellie edged toward the road. As soon as she saw the coach coming toward them, she knew it was their target. It was made of a lovely pale wood, with grilles over the windows to block anyone from seeing inside. Surrounding it were eight men on horseback, clad in helmets and chain mail, swords swinging at their belts. The dark-haired man leading the charge wore a velvet cloak the color of spring leaves. To anyone else on the road it would have looked like a transport for some rich lord or lady. But Ellie knew the truth: The men were there to protect the crown jewels.

  “That’s the one,” she hissed to the League.

  Margery dropped down beside them. They all raised their bows to their shoulders, arrows ready to fire. Stephen had a bow too, one of the extras Ralf had made since leaving the village, and his sword was back at his belt. “You’d better not try anything,” Jacob had warned him that morning when Ellie handed back the blade. Ellie had seen something rise in Stephen’s eyes—a quick flash of irritation—but he’d simply nodded in agreement.

  He was straight and alert now, watching the oncoming coach and its guards. Something in the way he held himself told her he’d done more than squire while he was away at the Crusades.

  “Fan out,” Ellie murmured. “Draw.”

  They spread out in an arc, bowstrings pulled back, arrows at the ready. The coach rattled closer. Ellie could feel the tension in the air thickening.

  “Eight guards,” Ralf whispered. “Eight against the six of us.”

  “We have surprise on our side,” Ellie said. She kept her voice firm, but with every moment the coach drew closer, her body felt more taut than her bowstring. She forced herself to breathe steadily, played out what would happen in her mind: They would overcome the men, they would steal the jewels, they would give hope and food and shelter to every peasant fleeing the baron’s grip.

  The coach was very close now. She could see the soldiers’ eyes gleaming under their helmets, make out the flies buzzing around the horses. It was time.

  “On my count,” she whispered. “One, two, THREE!”

  She burst out onto the road. The League flanked her, all of them training their arrows on the men surrounding the carriage.

  The horses reared back. The guards swore. “What’s the meaning of this?” cried the man in green, pulling the reins of his bucking horse, its hooves kicking up dust.

  “Stop there!” Ellie cried. “Raise your hands or we’ll shoot!”

  For a long, thin moment she thought they’d refuse her. Then the green-cloaked leader gave a terse nod, and sixteen hands went into the air. Her heart speeding in her ears, Ellie walked toward the coach door, her arrow still poised to fly.

  The sizzle of a sword being drawn stopped her short. It belonged to the man in green.

  “If you value your life,” he said, “you’ll step away from that door.”

  Ellie paused, just a split second too long—and the man gave a short jerk of his head.

  In the space of a breath everything changed. The seven remaining men drew their swords and, with a wild chorus of yells, charged toward the League. The guard nearest Ellie swept his blade in a broad arc that would have caught her wrist if she hadn’t twisted away, firing her arrow before his horse’s eyes so the animal skidded back in panic.

  Another man yelled and dropped his sword as Ralf loosed an arrow into the unprotected spot under his arm, then he jumped off his horse and tried to grab Ralf before he could string another arrow. Ralf swung his bow wildly, before the riderless horse reared up and came down heavily on the man’s shoulder, knocking him to the ground.

  Ellie shot three arrows in quick succession, hitting two men in their sword hands and a third in the leg, just before he swung on Margery. She spared a glance for Stephen, stringing another arrow in the middle of the fray, then dived aside as a guard on horseback bore down on her. She saw a flash of heavy teeth and wild eyes before rolling clear.

  Up on her feet again, she restrung her arrow and swung it back and forth among the guards still on their horses. She’d killed two men in battle before. Sometimes their ghosts joined that of her mother, visiting her memory on the nights she couldn’t sleep. She had no wish to add another dead man to her conscience, but this was starting to feel desperate.

  The man in green was off his horse, his thin face set. He strode toward Jacob and parried the bow, knocking it from his hands in one ferocious sweep. Jacob staggered to the ground and the man stalked closer. Ellie’s fingers were slippery with sweat; they fumbled as she nocked another arrow.

  Too late. The man was pulling his sword arm back, ready to make a killing blow.

  “No!” came Margery’s horrified shriek.

  Stephen was running toward the man and Jacob. He threw aside his bow and drew his sword, and as the green-cloaked man swung his blade, Stephen met it with his own. They smashed together in a clang and scrape of metal. The man gave a yell of surprise. Stephen whirled his sword around and struck again, the force of the blow sending the man stumbling back, away from where Jacob lay on the road.

  Stephen pressed toward him, his jaw set and eyes intent. Their swords struck, danced in a whirlwind of silver, then clashed again. The green-cloaked man was much bigger than Stephen, yet Stephen parried every blow, slicing, stabbing, and swinging with expertise, one moment springing from danger and the next darting forward to deliver a powerful attack. A thrill passed through Ellie. She’d never seen swordsmanship like it.

  What more surprises do you have for us? she wondered.

  “Ellie!” Alice’s cry brought her back to the battle. She twisted to see a guard advancing on Alice and hurriedly loosed an arrow. It caught the top of his arm, sending him staggering back with a scream. Looking around wildly, Ellie saw that the rest of the guards were down, or locked in battle with the rest of the League. Stephen and the man in green were still dueling furiously.

  Now’s my chance!

  She ran to the coach door. The lock was big and heavy, but she grabbed a rock from the road and slammed it into the wooden door until it splintered.
The door fell open.

  The interior of the coach was dark. Ellie jumped onto the step, blinking as her eyes adjusted. It was empty. There were no glittering jewels here, just two padded benches facing each other. Bitter disappointment bubbled inside her. The baron had been talking about the crown jewels, hadn’t he? How had she gotten it so wrong?

  Something stirred on the floor beneath one of the benches. Ellie crouched down to look.

  Huddled beneath a cloak was a boy. He was young—about eight, she thought—and his eyes held the mute terror of an animal in a trap.

  “Who are—”

  But Alice was yelling another warning: “More guards coming! Ellie, we need your help!”

  “Stay here out of danger,” Ellie told the boy. He nodded.

  She leaped from the carriage and slammed the door shut. A party of men on horseback were thundering up the road toward them. They came from the direction of the baron’s castle and wore his colors—green and a sickly purple.

  “I know them,” Stephen said. His color was high and there was a smear of red over his cheekbone. “See that one on the far flank? He’s deaf in his right ear. That short one’s stronger than he looks. And him”—he pointed at a man who looked nearly as broad as his horse—“we need to deal with him first. He’s the best fighter among them.” He pulled off his scarf, which was knotted around his waist, and wound it around his face to make a mask. “Don’t want my father to know where I am,” he explained. “Not yet, anyway.”

  The broad man galloped toward the skirmish with his sword drawn. “Give us your cargo, in the name of Lord de Lays!” he roared.

  Ralf shot Ellie a confused look. “If this new lot belong to the baron, who do the men guarding the carriage work for?”

  There was no time to wonder further. The original guards—those who could still stand—scrambled to regain their weapons and their horses.

  “We’ll never surrender to you,” the man in green spat, limping toward his mount. His face was even bloodier than Stephen’s.