“There will be no blood spilled here today!” bellowed Robin of Locksley, with startling authority. “This is my father’s land, passed on to me. These men were his servants, which by right makes them now mine. I am Lord of Locksley here. If you have need of arresting someone on my land, you will kindly bring the matter to me.”

“Your servants?” the one named Arthur nearly choked on the word.

“Robin,” Guy was careful not to acknowledge his newly claimed title, “legally speaking, your father failed to pay his taxes. He was posthumously evicted, his lands were seized, reclaimed for the Sheriff, in the name of the King. Your intent is commendable, but for now you have no official standing here.”

“Forget the weapons,” Wendenal surrendered, a master of negotiation. “But leave the forest. Find new homes. Let this pass.”

Wendenal and Locksley were amateurs here, who apparently thought they could sweep merrily into town and make everyone work together. That was a dream too fanciful even for children’s stories. A lifetime of working and running the Guard had taught Guy otherwise. He would give de Lacy’s peace one last shot, then do things his own way.

“You should take the deal,” he said, honestly. “You will never, I promise—” he made pointed contact with Wendenal, “—receive another like it. Decide quickly. Do you take peace, or do I take your men into custody?”

“I think I may take something of my own.”

A female voice, full of venom, it came from behind. Guy couldn’t react before the blade touched his throat. He jerked away by instinct but her hand was in his hair, yanking his head backward, white fear his son’s face falling snowfall on the castle walls, but the blade did not cut him.

Guy gasped to be alive. He blinked furiously at the tears that had sprung to his eyes, while his heart smashed against his ribs. He forced himself to focus, he stood as still as a statue and wrestled his attention back from the brink. A riot of noise, men screaming, the girl’s voice in his ear, black water in the hole, Murdac’s funeral, no—the pain in his scalp, metal on stone. He raised his hands, slowly. “Hold then, hold!” he sputtered, his apple brushing the sharp steel.

Glimpses of his men. Eric of Felley screaming for him. Morg desperate to grab his weapon from the ground.

“Hold, then!” Guy insisted, then she pulled his head back farther, his throat stretched, blood on his son’s lips, coughing, purple crocuses blowing off the lump of his grave. He focused on the dim charred roof of the dining hall, and the monstrous shadows. The noise settled. He could sense a hesitation in the air. Calm, he forced himself. His assailant had snuck up behind him, and there was no knowing how many others lay in wait.