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XVI. Brewing Trouble

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This fair day The Pilgrim was doing brisk business, with whole families gathered at the tables carved out around the columns and enjoying an ale or two. The turnover on a fair day could be phenomenal. Thus, perhaps unsurprisingly, a number of doxies, identifiable by their striped caps, wandered among the crowd, sizing up the clientele, striking up conversations, offering company and more. They often had to shout their offers to be heard above both the many voices and the drone of a hurdy-gurdy being played by a swarthy young man beside the serving bench. The balding landlord looked on with a satisfied smile, ready to rent out a few chambers carved deeper in the rock behind the tavern. On a fair day his cut of the doxies’ business supplemented quite handsomely what he made selling ale.


Thomas and his group entered, their bows unstrung, and managed to requisition a back table by bribing the current occupants with a free mug of The Pilgrim’s best. Thomas and two of the others gathered at the serving bench, and he slapped down enough gold coins to cover multiple rounds. The landlord swept them out of sight with a nod of thanks.

That so many bowmen arrived together attracted attention, and it wasn’t long before “Robyn Hoode,” winner of the archery competition, had been identified and his name toasted repeatedly. This in turn brought the doxies circling in search of a generous vavasour or gentleman who’d wagered well. Scathelock leaned close and said, “Keep a tight grip on your purse. This lot can pluck the stitching off your braies without removing them.”

Thomas replied, “Good that it’s out of reach, then. I thought they dunked doxies in the pond here.”

Scathelock laughed. “Never on a fair day, unless she be caught pilfering from a client.”

Thomas barely heard. He was casting about and to his dismay finding no sign of Little John. He strained to hear, through the background noise and the hurdy-gurdy, the drone of at least one Yvag. And maybe he did, but it could have been the hurdy-gurdy, too. A glamoured Yvag might lurk anywhere in this bustling tavern, but for the moment he couldn’t pursue it. He asked, “Is there anyone here can tell us the outcome of the quarterstaff contest?”

Scathelock asked the others who in turn asked those nearby. It was only moments before the news returned that Little John had triumphed. Even as Thomas learned this, tall Geoffrey of the Waits ducked in through the doorway and, craning his neck, spotted him and hurried over. Geoffrey knelt beside him, then described how “Reynold” and Benedict had both been arrested and John’s identity as a wanted outlaw confirmed by no less a person than Isabella Birkin herself. “I came close enough to hear her ask him the whereabouts of Robert Hodde. Seems our Reynold may be someone else entirely, one of this Hodde’s men. We would have objected to his arrest, but e’en I could see ’twould just get us all taken ’longside the two of them, and maybe accused of being allied with the outlaws as well. Why, such inculpation might exterminate the Waits altogether. A few of us might have performed deeds in the past that we, ah, regret. Osbert’s gone to tell Elias.” He shook his head. “I tell you, it were all queer, what with that special guard accompanying the sheriff.”

“Special how?” Scathelock asked.

“For one thing, he must’ve hired them right under our noses. I never seen them ’afore, and us up at castle all the time.”

Thomas worried for Little John. John had participated in slaying the prelate, was the only one left alive to blame. And while no one finding that body would have concluded it had even recently been alive, the Yvag sheriff, Passelewe, wouldn’t care; he would be leading Little John somewhere that was sequestered, where he could be imprisoned and ensorcelled if not simply tortured to confess, not to mention give up Thomas, Robert Hodde, but most of all the bag of horrid little spinning tops. Probably in the end he would be beheaded, or snatched away to Ailfion . . . and all without any observers. Elias had described for Thomas the oubliettes and dungeons deep in the bowels of the enormous rock beneath the castle. It would be child’s play to make a prisoner disappear there and later claim he’d been set free and sent on his way.

He also knew from experience how skinwalkers operated independently most of the time. They were often catching up on events that had transpired, on what had changed, or even what force of their kind had come through a gateway. He and Waldroup had relied on that gap in their knowledge after killing Stroud and Baldie. Might there be a way to use Passelewe’s misidentification of him to get Little John out of the castle dungeons and the two of them far away from here? How long might they have? Sooner or later, Passelewe would confirm that Nicnevin had not sent him; he could close that gap just by sending one of his glamoured guards to Ailfion. Then the sheriff would come for his mason’s bag and its contents. And his head.

“I have a bigger problem at the moment than identifying his new soldiers,” he said. “How do I break Reynold out of that gaol?”

Geoffrey said flatly, “You don’t. Even if he’s innocent of the charges, you can’t reach those cells except by stairwells cut right into the castle rock, going up and down. The way is guarded at both ends.”

“But the Waits know the way.”

Before Geoffrey could answer, a freckled blond doxy slid in and perched on the sandstone table between him and Scathelock, but focused her attention on Thomas. “I heard it you’re the reason for this celebratin’. You got the best aim’a all these men here.” As if the comment were too subtle, she added, “I like a fella can hit my target.” Scathelock narrowly avoided spitting his ale.

Across the tavern, Isabella Birkin and two Keepers entered The Pilgrim. One was the one John had identified as her son. She looked as severe as before.

Watching them look over the customers, Thomas produced a gold penny and set it down beside the doxy. “By all means, buy yourself an ale on me. I would hate for you to go dry.” It would afford her more than one drink, eliminating her need to come back, unless of course she meant to rob him as Will had warned. She slid it off the table and bit into it with her uneven teeth. Satisfied, she stood up and walked off. One of the other bowmen joked, “Her purse is probably bigger even ’n yours, Robyn.”

Thomas was no longer listening. Birkin and her two men were threading their way straight toward him across the tavern.

She came up to Will Scathelock. “I am greatly disappointed,” she said, “that my champion was bested.” Then, turning to Thomas, she added, “But you seem to have found amity with your opponent.” She pushed back the hood of her chaperon. Her hair was plaited tightly around her head. It looked like it might reach the floor if she unspooled it. Her previously grim expression relaxed now in a smile, and although this creased her face more, it also revealed a handsomeness her scowl and headdress had hidden. “What is your name, archer?”

He’d gotten to his feet, initially to defend against whatever challenge she meant to lay. Now he relaxed. The other two Keepers gave no hint of being prepared to attack him, either.

“I’m called Robyn, m’lady.”

“Well, Robyn, you’ve defied all expectations in defeating our champion, Will, here. And with such an extraordinary shot. People will undoubtedly be talking about it for years to come.”

He glanced at Scathelock, who was blushing. He said, “I’d no idea I was competing with a Keeper, and glad I am I didn’t as it would have convinced me to stand down.”

“Then we would never have known of your skill. Tell me, are you a target shooter or do you possess martial experience as well?” Her blue eyes had focused upon the scar at his temple.

“I have some slight acquaintance with battle.”

“And modest. You do not brag on yourself. A crusader, perhaps?”

“In a sense, I suppose. In any case, might I buy the three of you a round? Will has emptied his mug and his thirst seems unquenchable.”

“I think not but thank you for your offer. We, that is, the Keepers of the Forest, can always use someone with your skills, as Will can attest. Should you ever be looking for employment.”

“I seem to be very popular with employers of late. I’ve only just served my first day among the Waits.” He nodded to Geoffrey.

Isabella seemed amused. She hitched one leg up and sat on the projecting circular table. “Poached right under our noses,” she said, mock-glaring at Geoffrey, to whom she added, “Tell Elias we have this day captured one of Hodde’s men, one of the two accused of murder on the King’s Way.”

Geoffrey and Thomas traded a worried look, which did not go unnoticed by Isabella. “What troubles you?” she asked.

Thomas said, “Have you yourself beheld the body he’s supposed to have slain?”

“I have not, what with this fair and other matters. However, I trust that Passelewe has done.”

“The Waits have done.” He gestured at Geoffrey as representing all of them. “It’s naught but a skeleton dressed up in bishop’s robes. More a corpse borrowed from a crypt than a man slain this week upon the road.”

To Geoffrey she said, “What, japery? Is that so?”

He nodded vigorously.

She reassessed Thomas. He in turn listened for further hint of Yvag communication. There was none coming from her. She asked, “Why would the sheriff lie about such a thing?”

“Why, indeed? We speculated that he might have some other cause for arresting the man.”

She spread her hands. “Oh, there is goodly cause to arrest the outlaw called Little John. Even should this murder prove false, I could provide you half a dozen reasons, beginning with hart, hind, and hare. The same for Hodde himself.”

Perplexed, Geoffrey said, “I thought he was called Greenleaf.”

Isabella shook her head. “Whatever he may call himself, Little John we’ve met before in the forests. He and Hodde and a few others. They’re gifted at eluding pursuit. I daresay they know the king’s forests better than we do, and we’re very good. Aren’t we, Adam? Maurin?”

The other two with her nodded.

“Still,” said Thomas, “this crime of which he is accused is false. Perhaps staged.”

“Then I’ll see him in irons for his poaching, instead.”

“And the Waits alongside him?”

She blinked at Thomas, confused.

“For poaching me.”

Isabella allowed herself half a smile at his teasing. She stood. “Robyn. Will.” Thomas stood, took her hand and politely kissed it. She met his gaze, a look of challenge, before she turned and led the two others out of The Pilgrim. He watched her leave, satisfied in his belief that, whatever else, she wasn’t Yvag. Nor, from what he could sense, was her son or the other who accompanied her. He hoped he was right.

“Was it not appropriate to kiss her hand?” he asked.

“Isabella Birkin fans no flames that I know of. She’s married to D’Everingham, whether he’s worthy of that allegiance or not.”

“I’m guessing not.”

“And you would be right in every way imaginable.”

Thomas appreciated how Isabella might hold to her own principles regardless of there being no reciprocity. Admirable, he supposed, if a lonely path to walk. He felt an odd affinity. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t so lonely, just a way she did not share with anyone else. And why should she? Janet, too, had been private with her thoughts. He could not help but be admiring of it.

Meanwhile, the doxy returned and glided up beside Will Scathelock with two wooden mugs. She set one before him and, holding her own, balanced on a stool close against him “’Ere now, good sir, I heard how that one there moonin’ after that forester cow split your perfect shot. Must be a bitter disappointment, but Molly’s here ta fix it. You always got a shot with me, hey?” She smiled like a temptress as she raised her mug for him to clack his against. As he had only half drained his ale, however, Will pushed aside the mug she’d brought, and raised his own. The doxy said, “But, oh . . .”

Thomas sat back down and, finding a fresh mug in front of him, lifted it to his lips. Will was clearly engaged with the same doxy who’d accosted them before, although she seemed to have eyes for him, too, if surreptitiously, while he was feeling melancholy, dwelling on Isabella Birkin, in need of a drink.

He hardly noticed at all as the elixir in the ale slowly and inexorably wiped his mind.


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