Mother Margarite smiled to show every broken, crooked tooth. “I want you to murder King Richard.”
LAUREL
When I finally became conscious, I wished I could slip back into painless oblivion. The agony was indescribable. It felt as though every inch of my body had been beaten with clubs, left in the sun for days, then been run over by a team of horses. My head throbbed, my throat felt like acid had been boiled inside it, and I wondered if all the skin from my abdomen had been ripped away while I slept. I could not even gather enough air to properly cry out.
I tried to move, but a hand pressed against my shoulder, keeping me down. My eyes fluttered open, and Baron’s concerned face swam into view.
“Ow,” I croaked.
Baron opened a jar and began gently dabbing paste onto my exposed middle. “Take it easy.”
“Ow,” I repeated, trying to look down at my body, but I couldn’t so much as contract my muscles enough to lift my head. It flopped uselessly to the side. “Ow.”
Baron’s mouth twitched as though he might smile, but the expression didn’t last. He looked terrible. Not in the wounded, nearly dead sort of way I probably did, but as though he hadn’tslept for several days. His eyes were shadowed, his jaw tight, and dark stubble covered his chin and cheeks.
How long had I been unconscious? My last clear memory was shortly after stealing the papers. A few vague recollections floated through my mind. James had transported me back to Sherwood Forest and Sybil had told me I was going to die. Baron took me somewhere… a village. He had argued with a physician, but then I could only remember darkness. The memories were like bits of dream, slipping away faster than I could hold on to them.
“Am I…” my voice rasped, “alive?”
“You are.” Baron gave me a half-hearted grin. “I found someone who could heal you.”
“Who?”
“The village physician tried,” Baron said. “But he wanted to bleed out the infection, and that would’ve killed you. You’d already lost too much blood.”
“Pompous prat,” I groaned. “I blacked his eye when he tried to put leeches on me when I was twelve, and he swore he’d never treat anyone from the forest again.”
Baron should have laughed; most people did when I recounted that story. But he only nodded solemnly and continued smoothing the paste over my skin with careful fingers. Perhaps my storytelling abilities hadn’t yet returned to their usual level.
“So who was it?” I persisted.
Baron sighed. “There was an old woman in the woods.”
I gasped, which was a mistake. Pain flared through my middle, and I had to wait several breaths before I could speak again.
“Not the Old Crone of the Woods?”
“I’ve never heard that name before.”
“It’s a story we tell children,” I groaned, trying again to sit up, but Baron’s hand kept me pressed down. “Like…like a wicked witch sort of person.”
“I don’t know about her being a wicked witch.” Baron’s voice was low. “But she healed you.”
I had never seen the woman myself, but I had heard ghost story after ghost story about her as a child. She was supposedly an ancient old crone who lived in the dark part of the woods and preyed upon the souls of anyone desperate enough to seek her help. The stories claimed she could change forms, transform people and things, cast spells, and never die. But anyone who requested her services had to pay a terrible price. Many were exaggerated, I was sure, but as a little girl, I had been far more afraid of those tales than of any of Prince John’s henchmen.
“Did she ask you for anything in return?” I asked.
Baron looked up sharply. “What makes you say that?”
His suspicion took me aback. “Nothing. I only heard stories about her, that is all. She always expects payment in the tales—favors and things. But I’ve only ever heard rumors. I didn’t know anyone who’s actually met her.”
Baron’s face relaxed slightly, but his gaze remained distant. “Yes,” he said. “She asked for something.” He didn’t elaborate.
“What was she like?” I asked, painfully curious. All the haunting tales from my childhood suddenly seemed much closer and more realistic.
Baron considered for so long that I wondered if he would answer at all. At last, he half glanced at me and said, almost casually, “She’s just a very old woman with a lot of experience. She knew an herbal remedy no one else did. She made some sort of potion or salve thing that helped.”
“What did she ask for in return?” I pestered. Baron’s jaw shifted as if he were chewing on his tongue before he responded.
