The Stolen Crown Page 6

  The broad guard gave a yell of fury and his men broke into a charge.

  “Out of the way!” yelled Ellie. “Move!”

  The League scattered, Ralf and Alice hauling Jacob, who still looked dazed, clear. In the road where they’d been standing, the two groups of guards met in a clash of metal and a roar of curses. Ellie’s knees went loose when one of the guards nearly decapitated a rider in the baron’s colors, his sword swinging just shy of his opponent’s ear. The man in green took on the baron’s biggest soldier and was knocked from his horse for the trouble. The huge man swung around again and sent the green-cloaked man flying backward with a sword swung low into his stomach. He fell flat and lay still. Blood began to pool on the road around him.

  The League seemed forgotten, both sides intent on finishing the other off. “Time to go,” said Ellie, shoving them in the direction of the trees.

  “But what about the jewels?” asked Alice.

  “They’re not here. Get away while you can—I’ll meet you in the trees!”

  “Meet us?” Ralf said. “Come with us!”

  “Just go!” Ellie ordered. To her relief, they did. She ran back onto the road, toward the coach. The rasp of swordplay and the gasps of wounded and dying men sounded all around her. She dodged blades and fists and swung the broken carriage door open once more.

  The boy was standing now, watching the fight through one of the grilled windows. For a moment he startled, but when he saw it was Ellie, he breathed out with relief.

  He’s so little, she thought. If there were no jewels, then he must be the cargo the baron was trying to claim. Ellie would not leave him here to be kidnapped.

  “Don’t be scared,” she said urgently. “I’m getting you out of here. Come on, take my hand.”

  He hesitated for a heartbeat, then slipped by her and jumped lightly to the ground. Ellie reached for him, but he wriggled from her grasp and began running, back up the Kirklees road in the direction his coach had come from.

  “Please come back!” Ellie cried over the din of the battle. “We want to help you!”

  The boy stopped.

  “We’re the League of Archers,” she panted, running to meet him. “You know the Merry Men? We’re like them.”

  At this the boy turned. When Ellie held out her hand, he grabbed it, and they ran together into the trees, to where the League were waiting.

  7

  “ANOTHER NEW MEMBER?” ALICE SNAPPED when she saw Ellie running toward them with the boy. The others were waiting under the spread of an oak tree, far enough from the road that the sounds of battle faded under the sigh and rustle of the forest.

  “Shut up, Liss,” said Ralf, elbowing his little sister.

  “Is everyone okay?” Ellie asked urgently. “Any injuries that need tending?”

  Everyone showed off bruises and scrapes, but nothing worse. Jacob looked pale, a bruise blossoming on his forehead from where he’d hit the road, and Ellie worried for a moment he was more hurt than he was letting on. She was taken aback when he turned to Stephen and held out a hand.

  “Thank you,” he said stiffly. “For helping me. For saving my life.”

  “Anytime,” said Stephen coolly, but Ellie could see that he was pleased. He took Jacob’s hand and shook it.

  “You fought well,” Margery told him. She looked sheepish. “I’m glad Ellie let you stay.”

  Stephen grinned widely. Under the oak tree his face was latticed with moving leaf shadows; dirt and blood were smeared on his cheek. Right now, Ellie noticed, he looked nothing like the arrogant boy in black she’d met at the castle—he looked like a true member of the League of Archers.

  “I believe I owe you my thanks too.”

  It was the boy from the coach. He stood a few paces away from the League and gave them a formal little nod.

  “Though I don’t thank you for attacking my carriage,” he added. His voice shook slightly, yet he carried the air of someone used to being taken notice of. His face was framed with close-cropped blond hair, his eyes brown and serious, his chin sharp. He wore a velvet tunic of midnight blue and red silk leggings. His boots were buffed to a gleaming shine. Compared with his attire, even Stephen’s expensive clothes looked shabby.

  “We didn’t exactly mean to attack you,” said Ellie. “We didn’t even know it was you in the carriage. We thought it was . . . well, treasure.”

  “The crown jewels, I bet.” The boy’s voice was getting steadier. “Everyone wants them, but nobody knows where they are.”

  Ellie was taken aback by this. “That’s right,” she said. “We were after the jewels. But I told you the truth when I said we’re like the Merry Men. We don’t want the jewels for ourselves—we want to use them to help people.”

  The boy looked at her doubtfully. “Help? That’s what my father and all his friends say. But none of them really mean it.”

  “So who is your father, then?” Alice asked, her voice hard. Ellie threw her a look. “What’s your name?” she asked in a kinder tone.

  He hesitated for a moment. “Tom.” Then he cleared his throat and straightened his spine. “Thomas Woodville of the House of York. My father is Lord Woodville. He’s in London and I’m on my way to meet him there.”

  “But why would Lord de Lays want to kidnap you?” Ralf wondered.

  The boy shrugged. “I expect he wanted to ransom me. My father’s very rich. The baron has always been jealous of him.”

  “That sounds about right,” Stephen said grimly.

  A branch snapped nearby—probably just an animal passing through, but Ellie was taking no chances. It was high time they put some distance between themselves and the Kirklees road.

  “Come on,” she said to Tom. “We can’t stay here any longer—the baron’s guards are bound to come looking for us. Let’s go to our camp. Then we’ll find a way to get you safely to your father.”

  It suddenly felt terribly important to Ellie that they do just that. In different ways the entire League had lost their fathers. Ellie’s had vanished to the Crusades. Margery’s butcher father, and Jacob’s fletcher one, were too integral to Kirklees village to leave it for the forest. And Master Attwood, father of Alice and Ralf, had been fading away since their mother died. He, too, still lived in the Kirklees village, but he was nothing like the man Ellie remembered from back when Mistress Attwood was alive. And of course, when it came to fathers, in many ways Stephen had drawn the worst lot of all. How to reunite Tom with Lord Woodville was at least a problem possible to solve.

  She tried to take his hand once more, but Tom drew back.

  “You saved my life, and for that I am grateful,” he said stiffly. “But I can’t leave. My . . . my uncle was hurt. I need to find him.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” said Ellie. “It’ll be best if you just stay with us.”

  “I thank you, but no. And I’m sorry.” He turned on his heel and ran into the trees.

  “I suppose we’re following him, then?” Alice grumbled.

  “If you can keep up,” Ellie shot back, and took off.

  The boy was quick as a rabbit, with a surer step than she’d expected. As they got closer to the road, Ellie realized—with considerable relief—that she could no longer hear the din of battle. Ahead of her, Tom dashed out of the trees, then stopped short at the edge of the road. She nearly ran into his back, the League spilling out behind her.

  The battle was over. Broken bodies, of horses and men, lay in the dirt. The quiet was eerie. Three saddled horses stood abandoned, one of them cropping the grass on the verge. Stephen grabbed its bridle. “We should keep the horses,” he said, running a hand over its sweat-soaked nose. “Could be useful.”

  Tom looked wildly around, then ran to a body in the road. Ellie recognized its green cloak, now muddied and twisted—Stephen’s dueling foe. A puddle of blood lay around him.

  “No, Tom, it’s too late,” Ellie cried, but the boy was already on his knees, heaving the body onto its back.

  The man ga
ve a rasping groan. Everyone started with surprise.

  “He’s breathing!” Tom shouted. “He’s alive!”

  Ellie rushed to his side. The man’s clothing was bloodiest on his front, so she pulled open his jerkin, revealing the wound—a deep gash in his stomach where, she now remembered, the baron’s soldier had sunk his blade.

  “How bad?” breathed Ralf.

  Ellie closed the jerkin. “Bad. If he’s to have any chance at all, he’ll need stitches.”

  “You said you’d help me,” Tom said shrilly. “You swore it. You said you were like the Merry Men, that you want to help everybody. So help him. Please . . .”

  Ellie looked at Margery, who shook her head. She knew a bit of herb lore and didn’t mind cleaning a wound, but stitches were beyond her. Maid Marian knew a fair amount of doctoring, but when anyone had been brought to the abbey hospital as badly injured as the man in green, there had been only one nun who could mend the wounds.

  “Sister Joan,” Ellie said. “If anyone can save him, it’s her.”

  Tom sagged with relief. Now they just had to get his uncle to the abbey alive—and into the hospital without Mother Mary Ursula catching them.

  The sun was setting over the abbey’s crumbling stone walls. The fermented scent of late-season apples wafted over from the orchard, and the familiar, falling-water call of the nightingales rang from the eaves. At times Ellie had felt trapped inside the abbey, and she had certainly escaped it to hunt in the forest almost every night. But she’d felt safe there too. Under Marian’s loving guidance the abbey had been her home. Now, with Mary Ursula as mother abbess, the walls of the abbey didn’t so much look protective as resemble a prison.

  Ellie, the League, and Tom were waiting for their chance to break in. Tom’s uncle lay on the ground at their feet. They’d carried him here using his own green cloak as a stretcher, his wound packed with yarrow by Margery. She’d said the leaves would slow the bleeding, and had bound the wound shut as best she could with a strip of her tunic. The man groaned, but his eyes hadn’t opened at all. He needed Sister Joan’s skill, and fast.

  A bell tolled. The sun lowered to an orange slice above the trees. Inside the abbey, Ellie knew, the sisters would be leaving their tasks and making their way to the chapel for compline, the day’s final prayer. The way to the hospital wing would be empty.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  It took all seven of them to get Tom’s uncle over the wall without jostling him too much, and even so he groaned in pain as they set him on the grass on the other side. “Sorry,” whispered Margery, adjusting his bandage. “Not far to go now.”

  It wasn’t far at all, but their heavy burden made the stretch from the wall to the kitchen door seem like miles. They hurried toward it through the apple trees and lengthening shadows.

  The door was unbolted. Ellie let them in, giving thanks for Sister Bethan’s forgetfulness. Stephen, Tom, Margery, and Jacob carried the man, and Alice and Ralf flanked Ellie with their bows ready.

  As Ellie expected, the kitchen was empty. The wooden table was swept clean; the dough for the next day’s bread sat resting on the sideboard, draped in a cloth. Ralf ran his fingers over the barrels of grain lined up against the wall. “Is all this food?” he whispered, his eyes wide.

  Ellie nodded. “Oats and barley,” she remembered. She’d been surprised too when she first came to the abbey. Living in the village, she hadn’t imagined so much food existing in the world. The rest of the League were staring about in wonder too, at the sacks of flour and metal flagons of milk. Ellie realized anew that although life in the abbey had hardly been perfect, in many ways she’d been far more fortunate than her friends.

  Stephen alone seemed oblivious to the array of plenty. He was at the door, peering into the corridor beyond. “All clear,” he whispered.

  They carried the wounded man into a dark hallway, shuffling along until Ellie pointed them toward the passage leading to the hospital wing. The sounds of compline carried faintly toward them—the nuns’ voices chorusing the prayers, snatches of hymns—but they met no one on their way. Ellie sent up her own prayer that their luck would hold.

  She hurried ahead to open the heavy hospital door. The air in the stone-walled room was close, thick with the scent of dried herbs and illness. The walls were stained with smoke, lighter in the places where paintings and illuminated scriptures had once hung, before Marian, when she was mother abbess, sold them to raise funds for the villagers. Shutters were pulled close over the windows, and the only light came from a fire burning in the hearth, illuminating the twenty or so narrow wooden beds.

  Ellie had worried that there wouldn’t be a free bed for the wounded man. Now she saw that only four held patients, huddled under white sheets.

  There should be far more than this, she thought. When Marian was the abbess, there had almost never been an empty bed. Life in Kirklees was hard, and cold winters, fevers, and long hours working on the farms took their toll. These empty beds didn’t mean there were fewer sick and injured villagers, Ellie knew.

  It’s Mary Ursula, she thought furiously. She’s not taking them in.

  The few patients who were at the hospital lay still. In the dim light Ellie couldn’t tell if they were sleeping or just watching quietly. She led the others toward one of the empty beds, and they eased Tom’s uncle down as softly as they could. His face tightened and his eyes fluttered. “God save the king,” he mumbled.

  “He’s no idea where he is,” Ralf whispered, shaking his head.

  Pain skittered over the man’s face. “The king,” he murmured again. His skin was terribly pale, his hair damp with sweat. “God save him.”

  “I need to find Sister Joan,” Ellie whispered. “He can’t go on like this much longer. You can find your way out, can’t you? I’ll meet you just over the wall.”

  As Stephen began leading the rest of the League away, a voice cried out from one of the beds. “Who’s there?” It was a man with a bandage around the top of his head. He pushed himself up on his elbows. “Sister?”

  His voice roused the other patients. In the bed nearest Ellie a woman sat up, a withered thing with hair like strands of hay. She clutched a hand to her throat. “Good Lord. It’s the League of Archers!”

  Ellie and her friends exchanged horrified looks.

  “I recognize your faces from the ‘Wanted’ posters,” the woman went on. “The baron’s men have been nailing them all over the village. Bless you, I can’t believe you’re here!”

  Ellie saw Ralf smile and Jacob stand a little straighter. “Please don’t tell anyone,” she said.

  “After you rescued Maid Marian?” said another man, who had a straggly beard. “After the help you’ve given to Kirklees? Not for a pot of gold and the baron’s head on a plate.”

  The woman reached out and clasped Ellie’s fingers. “You’re doing us proud, girl. It’s like we’ve got Robin Hood back.”

  Ellie was too pleased to speak.

  One by one the patients insisted on shaking the League’s hands. After pressing the last frail palm, Ellie pointed toward Tom’s uncle. “He’s a friend of ours,” she explained. “He’s badly wounded. Help watch over him, will you?”

  “A friend of the League is a friend of ours,” the woman said.

  “Thank you,” said Ellie. She turned to the others. “We really must go.”

  Margery tucked the sheets around Tom’s uncle, and they all hurried out into the dark passageway. Now to find somewhere to wait for Sister Joan, Ellie thought—and her heart leaped into her throat.

  Sweeping toward them was a group of nuns—and in the center, her features sharp with candlelight, was Mother Mary Ursula.

  8

  “MERCIFUL FATHER!” CRIED A SHORT, round nun named Sister Hilda. “It’s the outlaw!”

  Despite the panic pumping through her, Ellie had the urge to roll her eyes. Hilda was barely older than her, a newly ordained nun with a tendency to cry when she read her favorite psalms. She knew El
lie’s name good and well.

  Mother Mary Ursula thrust her candle before her. “You!” she gasped. “Elinor Dray! How dare you set foot in this holy place?”

  Ellie stepped in front of the others. “Let us pass, Mother. We’re not here to make trouble—we’ve only brought a patient to Sister Joan. We’ll leave now, and we won’t come back.”

  “You think I believe that?” Mary Ursula’s laugh was high and edged with hysteria. “The days of this nunnery being run by outlaws and degenerates are done. I’m no Maid Marian—”

  “No, you’re not,” Ellie said.

  The abbess continued in a growl. “I’m no Maid Marian, thanks be to God. I don’t care if you rot in a cell or if you hang, but you won’t be setting foot in my abbey again. Sister Hilda!”

  Sister Hilda’s eyes went wide; she already looked a blink away from weeping.

  “Send word to the baron’s castle. Tell him I’ve got Elinor Dray and a pack of outlaws for him to arrest.” Her eyes shone with glee. “Hurry!”

  The younger nun bobbed a curtsy and took off at a run.

  Ellie and the League began to follow in Hilda’s wake, but another nun—Sister Matilda, who was as broad and strong as a blacksmith—moved to block their path.

  “Will you fight nuns?” Mother Mary Ursula asked acidly. “I’d think that was too ungodly even for the League of Archers. Bar the doors!” Two of the sisters behind her rushed to do her bidding.

  Ellie gave a snort of disgust. “Is it godly to hand us over to be hanged?”

  Mother Mary Ursula slapped her, sending her head ringing. Alice yelped in outrage.

  “Enough!” growled Stephen. Ralf tried to step protectively in front of Ellie.

  Mary Ursula ignored them all. She shoved her face so close to Ellie’s that Ellie could see the red veins that blotched the abbess’s cheeks. “Marian always had too gentle a hand with you,” she hissed.

  “Maid Marian is ten times the woman you are, and every sister here knows it,” Ellie shot back.

  “I wonder if you’ll remain so willful when you’re in the baron’s dungeons. Or at the end of the hangman’s rope.”