The Stolen Crown Read online

  Ellie feinted back as if she were going to push Mary Ursula—as if she could really push a nun, even one as wicked as Mary Ursula—and when she flinched away, Ellie darted to her other side. Mary Ursula tried to grab Ellie, but she ran past.

  “Rush them!” she called back, feeling a hot surge of triumph as the rest of the League came tumbling along behind her, the startled nuns left behind.

  Her boots thundered on the flagstones of the passageway. It was like a bad dream, fleeing for her life through the place that had been a home to her. She felt like a deer, the hunt on its heels. “This way!” she yelled to the League, spinning around a corner and across a wide hallway, through a knot of startled nuns and toward the great front doors. She twisted the heavy metal handle: locked.

  She gave a cry of frustration. Stephen rammed the doors with his shoulder, but it only made them rattle.

  “My father and his men will be here soon,” he said, brows drawn with worry. “There’s got to be another way out.”

  “The garden door,” said Ellie. “Follow me!”

  The League sprinted after her as she took off toward a low door that led out to the orchard. A novice she didn’t recognize startled out of their path, knocking into the gardening tools stacked beside the door.

  “Ellie!”

  It was Sister Joan, running up behind them. Her kind, round face was flushed with exertion. “The garden door’s locked,” she panted. “All of the doors are. Go to the hospital—the windows there are large enough to climb out of.”

  “Sister Joan!” cried another nun angrily. “Shame on you for aiding a criminal!”

  “Do you see criminals here?” Sister Joan said starchily. “Because I don’t! Shame on you, Muriel!”

  Sister Muriel tried to throw herself into the League’s path, casting her arms out to catch at them, but she was elderly and they sprinted past easily, tearing back to the hospital. But that door was shut now too.

  “No!” cried Ellie, wrenching hopelessly at the handle. Alice beat her fist against the wood in despair.

  “The kitchen,” Ellie said.

  They were fast running out of options. If Sister Bethan knew they were here—and surely by now she must—she would do everything possible to help them escape. Ellie led the League onward once more, past old Sister Muriel again, who shook a fist at them, down a passageway, and to the kitchen. The door was open.

  Thank God and Mother Mary and all the saints, thought Ellie. The warm, familiar shape of Sister Bethan was inside, struggling to open the back door that led to the garden.

  “Locked,” she said shortly as the League tumbled into the room. Her face was full of rage. “One of the abbess’s fools has taken the key.”

  “Mind your words, Sister.” Mother Mary Ursula walked into the kitchen with her head held high, triumph written all over her face. “The baron’s men must be close. I see the criminals have brought their bows—I suppose they’ll be needing them now.”

  The sight of her triumphant, spiteful face made Ellie’s blood boil. I reckon I could shove a nun after all. . . .

  “God forgive me,” she said to Sister Bethan—and pushed Mary Ursula so hard she fell backward onto a pile of flour sacks. Mary Ursula shrieked with rage.

  Sister Bethan actually looked gleeful. “Run,” she told them.

  Run they did. But there were no more ways out to try. Ellie was instead looking for somewhere they could barricade themselves, to give them some chance of holding out against the baron’s men. She could see the fear etched into her friends’ faces, and felt it too, but she was determined to fight until the end.

  She realized they were running through the nuns’ chambers. The little bedrooms were empty—everyone in the abbey, it seemed, had rushed to hinder or help the League’s escape—but something made her falter outside the largest room. It belonged, she knew, to Mother Mary Ursula, because it had been Marian’s before. When she saw its contents, red rage ran through her: On the walls hung the few paintings the abbey still possessed, which used to be in the refectory. A seraph statue that had once stood in the chapel now presided over the new abbess’s bed. In a corner was a glitter of riches Ellie couldn’t quite make out in the dark. When Maid Marian slept there, the room had been spare and clean. Now it looked like the chambers of a greedy lord.

  Ellie tested the door. “Not strong enough,” she said, imagining the baron’s men snapping through it as easily as a hay bale. So on they went.

  “Where now?” Ralf panted.

  “The refectory,” said Ellie.

  “The refectory?” Margery looked confused. “Is there a way out there?”

  “I wish,” said Ellie as they tore down yet another passageway. “It’s the farthest place from the front doors. It’ll give us time to get ready to fight.”

  They rushed across a hallway, sending a group of nuns scattering.

  “Maybe we won’t have to fight,” said Stephen, his voice heavy. “I’ll talk to my father—I’ll convince him to show mercy.”

  “Will he listen to you?”

  Stephen shook his red hair from his eyes. “He has to. I’m his son.”

  But he didn’t sound convinced. And given what they knew of Stephen’s relationship with his father, Ellie wasn’t either. As they ran to the refectory, her heart beat with a sickly rhythm. Lord de Lays would bring as many guards as he could muster, she could count on it. He wouldn’t let Elinor Dray slip through his fingers again. The League’s chances of getting out of this were slim, she knew. And if they didn’t, she’d have let down all of them. She and her friends would be facing the gallows, perhaps even Stephen, too.

  Stop thinking like that, she told herself sharply. It’s not over yet.

  The refectory had a long wooden table where the nuns took their meals. At the far end was the pulpit, where Maid Marian had read the scripture while they ate, and behind that a window. By now darkness had fallen and moonlight shone through the stained glass, sending slivers of colored light over the large room. The image in the window depicted Saint Jude, a bearded man with hollow eyes, holding a crook. Ellie could almost have laughed.

  Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes.

  And maybe their cause wasn’t lost after all. Saint Jude was offering them a way of escape.

  She took off at a run toward the window.

  “What are you doing?” Margery cried.

  Ellie slammed her bow into the lowest panel of glass. It crazed through with cracks. With another blow the pane shattered, a rainbow of fragments tinkling to the floor.

  “I’m getting us out!”

  Her friends ran to her side, striking their own bows hard against the glass. In moments there was a gaping hole where Saint Jude had been. Stephen swaddled his fist in his cloak and knocked out the last jagged shards around the edges.

  Footsteps rang in the doorway. Ellie turned to see Mother Mary Ursula rush in, sweaty strands of hair coming loose from her wimple. “Vandalism, too!” Her voice trembled with rage. “Does your depravity have no end?”

  Ellie ignored her. “You first, Margery, you’re the shortest,” she said. “Hurry!”

  Ellie and Ralf aimed their bows at the nuns as the League scrambled through the broken window one by one, thumping to the ground below. Neither of them would ever fire on a nun, but Mary Ursula didn’t need to know that. It was clear she believed Ellie and her friends capable of anything.

  When Stephen leaped through, Ellie told Ralf to go too. He hesitated for a moment, as if reluctant to leave her alone, then climbed through. Ellie lowered her bow so she could follow—and Mary Ursula instantly flew down the refectory toward her.

  “You vile girl! You animal!” she shrieked. Ellie jumped up onto the window ledge as Mary Ursula’s fingers grasped at her arm, the nails digging into her. Ellie had never seen anyone so angry before. “You won’t escape justice,” she spat. “You won’t!”

  “You don’t know what justice even means,” Ellie said coldly. She wrenched free and dropped down in
to a crouch on the grass below. The rest of the League were waiting for her, their anxious faces peering through the darkness.

  “Thank God we’ve made it out of there,” said Alice fervently, pulling Ellie to her feet. “I never thought nuns could be so terrifying.”

  Ellie felt like they’d been trapped in the nunnery for days, but the position of the moon told her it had been an hour at most. Still, they could not afford to linger. She led them back through the orchard to the wall. All stealth forgotten, they sprinted like a pack of hounds. Over the wall they scrambled. Jacob boosted up Margery. Alice reached down to help up Ralf then Tom. When Ellie was about to vault to the other side, Stephen, crouched on top of the wall, caught her arm. He pointed toward the other side of the abbey. “We’re just in time.”

  Silhouetted against the night sky was a band of soldiers, cantering toward the abbey doors. Even at this distance Ellie could catch the glint of armor and weapons. The baron’s men, a force of at least thirty.

  “Father will be furious,” Stephen said.

  They jumped down together. Ellie’s heart was racing—from the chase through the abbey and the exhilaration of escape. But as she followed her friends into the forest, and the cool sanctuary of the trees closed around them once more, she knew that Stephen was right. The baron would be livid that Elinor Dray and her band of outlaws had escaped once more. What would he do in response?

  9

  IN THE CLEARING WHERE THE new farm and houses were being built, Jacob paced back and forth. He ran his hands through his sandy hair until it stuck out like dandelion fluff.

  “How dare he?” he ranted. “How dare he take their home?”

  Ellie could see there was no calming him—and she could hardly blame Jacob for being so upset. That morning they’d left the Greenwood Tree to come and help the villagers, and found Master and Mistress Galpin in the clearing. When Jacob had seen his parents, his face had opened into a grin, then gone fearful. Sure enough, the baron’s men had evicted them from their house the day before.

  And he did this before we escaped him at the nunnery, Ellie thought bleakly. What will he do now that he’s really angry with us?

  “They’ve lost everything because of him!” Jacob went on. He waved a hand at the tent the League had put up for the Galpins’ first night in the forest—worlds away from their fine house. “They can’t cope with this—my mum’s used to sleeping in a proper bed. And cooking over a hearth. And—”

  “Jacob,” Ralf said sharply. “Yours isn’t the first family he’s done this to. And you’ve not lost everything—you’ve just lost your house.” He glanced toward Ellie.

  Jacob’s hand flew to his mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry, Ellie,” he said. “I didn’t think. At least I’ve still got parents, haven’t I?”

  “It’s all right,” said Ellie. “I know it’s hard. Let’s help get them settled, shall we?”

  At the edge of the clearing Master Galpin was grooming his horse, Juniper. The Galpins were the first horse-owning family to join their camp and would need a stable as well as a house. Mistress Galpin stood uncertainly beside the small heap of what belongings they’d managed to bring with them, sorting and resorting what she had. From a sack she pulled out a dress—a pretty one, with embroidery on the sleeves and lace at the collar.

  Jacob smiled ruefully. “At least Mum brought her best pig-mucking dress. See, she’s all ready to be a farmer.”

  Maid Marian, who sat nearby plucking a pigeon, laughed. “They’ll get used to the outlaw life, Jacob. I promise. It’s not an easy way to live, but it’s better than the alternative. At least you’ll see a lot more of each other now.”

  Stephen emerged from the woods, a stack of firewood in his arms. When Master Galpin saw him, he put down Juniper’s brush. He stalked over to Stephen and leveled a shaking finger at him.

  “You,” he said, his voice icy. “I know you, Stephen de Lays. It’s because of your family we’re here!”

  Jacob put a hand on his father’s arm. “Father, please . . .”

  He shook him off. “Your father took everything we had! First he poisoned my business. Next he drove away my son. Then he took the roof from over our heads!”

  Stephen stood silently. His chin was lifted, his pale-blue eyes unreadable.

  “Not even going to try to deny it?” spat Master Galpin. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Stop!” Jacob shouted. “It’s not Stephen’s fault, Father. And it’s a good thing he is here. If he weren’t, I’d be dead!”

  Master Galpin turned from Stephen to his son. Mistress Galpin gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. “Dead?” she cried. “What do you mean?”

  “He saved my life,” Jacob said. “We were fighting and he stopped a man from killing me.”

  “He’s on our side, you see,” said Ellie. “He can’t help who his father is.”

  The fight went out of Master Galpin. He looked like a doll that’d lost its stuffing. “If you saved my son, then I’m grateful to you.” He touched an unsteady hand to his hair, as red-blond as Jacob’s but thinner. “I’m sorry. I’m . . . not myself today.”

  Stephen gave him a nod. “None of us are. We’re all victims of my father, aren’t we?” His tone was conciliatory, but he held himself stiffly, head tilted back. Ellie wondered if Master Galpin’s outburst had affected him more than he would let on. At least one thing had gotten easier: She clearly didn’t have to worry anymore about Jacob losing his head and shooting Stephen with an arrow.

  She looked around to say as much to Marian, but she was no longer there—she’d moved to one of the new tents, where she was kneeling beside a red-faced Tom Woodville. He was holding a hammer in his small hands and using it to drive tent pegs into the ground. His fine clothes were sweat-drenched, his cloak abandoned.

  Marian put a hand to his forehead. “Some water is what you need, child,” she said. “You’re working yourself far too hard. Won’t you stop and rest?”

  “I thank you,” said Tom in his oddly formal way. “But I’d rather be busy. I’d like some water, though.”

  Marian went over to one of the barrels they’d set up to catch rainwater, and Ellie followed. “That boy wants to forget something,” Marian murmured, dipping a tankard into the barrel to fill it. “He keeps his body busy to stop his mind from pondering.”

  Ellie looked over to where Tom was hammering again. His blond hair was stuck to his little head with sweat. He had a lot to want to forget—his father far away and unreachable, the baron on his tail, his uncle left to Sister Joan’s care. The sooner he was reunited with his father, the happier he would be. “We need to get a message to Lord Woodville,” she said.

  “Lord Woodville?”

  “Tom’s father. He’s waiting for him in London, it’s all Tom’s thinking about—well, that and his uncle, of course.”

  “Lord Woodville of York?”

  “Yes,” said Ellie. Then she caught the confusion on Marian’s face. “What is it?”

  Marian shook her head. “That can’t be right. Lord Woodville has no children. There was a lot of gossip a year or so ago about his estate being left to the Crouchback family when he dies. Friar Tuck has his ear to the ground and heard it all.”

  Ellie stared at her. Was Marian mistaken? Or was Tom lying?

  Before she could say more, Margery and Alice broke through the trees. The moment she saw Alice’s face, Ellie was running to the tree stump where she’d propped her bow.

  “The baron’s men,” she shouted. “They’re following us!”

  “What happened?”

  “We were out hunting and they saw us,” panted Margery, her face stricken with guilt. “We thought we’d shaken them before we headed back toward camp. But we were wrong.”

  “How many of them?” Ellie asked. “How close? Did you hear what they said?”

  She felt Marian standing behind her. Jacob left his parents to join them; Master and Mistress Galpin were watching Margery and Alice with frank terror. Stephen strode o
ver, his face tense.

  “Three of them, but there’ll be more,” Alice said. “And they’re nearby. They’re searching the forest—they know, Ellie. Maybe they don’t know what we’re doing, but they know we’re here. The baron will round everyone up, interrogate them. . . .”

  Panic rippled through the clearing like flame through fabric. People dropped tools, snatched up children and belongings. An old woman started to cry.

  “What can we do, Ellie—where can we hide them?” The anguish in Margery’s voice gutted Ellie. She looked around at all they’d built. The shelters, the animal pens, the bakery. The heaps of potatoes, the smell of food and fire, the bunched herbs drying in the sun. Everything here meant life or death for these people. So we’ve got to fight for it!

  “Ralf, Jacob, Alice, Margery—you stay here. Arm yourselves and arm anyone who can fight. Stephen, got your bow?” Stephen nodded, his face going hard and focused, the way it had when they were fighting Tom’s uncle on the road. “Then go and get it. We’ll hold them off as long as we can.”

  Ralf watched Stephen run to do what she’d said. “Why him?” he asked Ellie in a low voice. “Why take him and not one of us?”

  “Because the villagers trust you—they’ll follow your commands. I’m not sure they’ll take orders from Stephen de Lays.”

  When Stephen had collected his bow and slid his sword through his belt, Ellie led him in the direction from which Margery and Alice had come. Behind her Ellie could hear the League giving orders: “Hide the young and the old in the shelters,” Alice was yelling. “Everyone else, grab anything you can crack a head with and get ready to fight!”

  Soon the clamor of the frightened villagers faded. Ellie and Stephen were moving away from the Greenwood Tree, in the direction of the baron’s castle. The leaves rippled green and orange and yellow overhead, and a layer of those that had already fallen crunched under Stephen’s feet—he hadn’t yet picked up the trick of walking soundlessly through the forest.

  There came a yell in the distance and Ellie tugged on the back of Stephen’s jerkin. “Hear them?” she whispered. “Go slowly now.”