Sherwood Rogue

Chapter Twenty

We sat in Nottingham Castle's formal garden in the fading twilight, lounging on the stone benches, quite stuffed from the evening's feasting. John had stretched out on the grass, gazing up at the stars. Much propped his feet on a bench, paring his fingernails with a knife, the prim garden behind him.

I thought they looked ridiculously out of place, but Will and I, leaning against each other on the same bench, didn't cut the picture of grand nobility ourselves.

"So, I take it Berkeley wasn't a pleasant place," said Much.

"Oh, it was perfectly nasty," I said, having just related our harsh stay there. We had been accosted on the street after sundown and thieves had tried to take our money. They had chosen the wrong victims. Will and I weren't about to give up without a fight. In the end, we bested them. "But that wasn't the worst place."

"Really?" asked John, his voice rising from the ground. We could hardly see him now because of the shadows.

"Really. There was Cardiff."

"Aye," agreed Will, nodding.

My voice was bitter with the memory as I spoke. "Cardiff was worse because it was beautiful on the outside. The people were fair to look at, the streets were clean, the houses in good repair, there was tasty food to eat. The dogs didn't even bark at people."

"Sounds nice. So what was wrong with it?" asked John.

"It was rotten at the heart," I said, almost able to hear again the sound of feet pounding down the cobbled street, the voices shouting.

"Those fair people turned to hunters, the clean streets became a dangerous trap, the nice houses a last escape for a terrified quarry."

I turned around on the bench and looked up at a sky full of stars—as full as I was with bitter anger at the memory of Cardiff.

"What happened?" asked Much. I couldn't see him, but it sounded like he had sat up or moved.

"There was a riot," answered Will. "They were after a witch, and Kay tried to stop them."

"Stop a riot? Kay, you're mad!" said Much, closer.

I didn't turn or say anything. I was remembering the jostling crowd, the sharp smell of fear. The group of men who turned on me as the girl momentarily slipped from their grasp.

"Was she hurt?" Much asked Will.

"She was knifed in the leg." I could tell Will was keeping him at a distance. I heard Much hiss in appreciation of my wound.

"It wasn't that," I said, not turning. "The knife was nothing. I don't even feel it. It was the fire . . . ." I trailed off. I hadn't gotten over it yet.

Will finished for me. "They burned the witch."

"Oh," said Much in relief. "Is that all?"

"Is that all?!" I repeated, turning on him. "She was no witch! Just a frightened girl! They burned her, damn it, and I couldn't stop them!" The horror of it was etched into my mind. I hadn't seen it, but I had smelled the smoke, the burning flesh, and my imagination did the rest for me. When I closed my eyes, I pictured the flames curling up, the girl's mouth open in a silent scream. The girl! I knew there was no such thing as a witch.

Will held me while I stared at Much, silhouetted in the lantern light from the hall.

"Which hurts worse?" John asked from the ground. "That they burned her, or that you couldn't stop them?"

"Which do you think?" I retorted angrily, surprised that it was still so close to my thoughts, still a tender subject. Then the fire of anger cooled. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be angry at you two. It has nothing to do with you. It's just my own guilt at my shortcomings."