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“The Sheriff of Nottingham most recently, because he believes Sir George is at the crux of what led to your parents’ deaths.”
I flared my nostrils and tried to imagine what he meant, but I simply couldn’t.
“You may be too young to remember,” he said. “If your mother’s esteem with the gentry had not declined, Robert may never have left Nottingham. He would have had no reason to.”
“Nonsense,” I said, shaking my head. “He has always sought glory.”
“True,” Gregory said with a low chuckle, “but there is glory in success, too. Once the Wilford estate saw that success dwindling, with the steep taxes posed on my sister and Thomas’ estate? Robert went to the Holy Land for more than just reputation, lass. He went for the promise of riches, too. Which he could then bring back to his family, you see.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek and narrowly avoided running into a tree trunk from listening to my uncle wax poetic about Robert’s virtues and faults.
Skittering around the trunk, I rejoined him on the other side. “I didn’t know that. And because of the taxes, my father became desperate . . . and because he was already a jealous prick . . . it led him to desperate measures. Evil ones. Like poisoning Mama Joan.”
Gregory’s graying eyes flared dark at the mention of his sister’s death. We still hadn’t properly grieved that loss, either alone or together, and the chance of us ever doing that was becoming less and less likely. We both simply had too many things to do—too many people to care for—and we were sleeping in different camps.
There has to be a time when Uncle Gregory and I can properly honor Mama Joan. There just has to be.
“Aye, lass,” he muttered, bringing my attention to his beard. “However convoluted it may seem, it’s all connected. At least in Robert’s eyes.”
I tried connecting the points together, mulling over Uncle Gregory’s words. When it came to me a few minutes later, I let out a sharp hiss. “That means Robert is going above the Sheriff, too, doesn’t it? To . . .”
“King Richard and his brother, Prince John. Aye, it’s as I said before: Robert is nothing if not stubborn like his sister. He believes his group is a revolution, and with enough support, he can topple the monarchy.”
I didn’t want to scoff at Robert’s ambition, because I’d had similar thoughts. But when my older, wiser, more experienced uncle put it in such hopeless terms, I understood how ridiculous it sounded: A ragtag band of outlaws, ne’er-do-wells, and poor peasants . . . bringing down a kingdom? It didn’t matter if you had two or ten likeminded groups. It would never be enough.
“That’s where you come in, I assume,” I said with a small smirk, trying to bring some levity to the situation.
He nodded. “I wish to guide my nephew as best as possible. I’m growing old, though, Robin. I’m not sure how much more pain my heart can take. Every robbery, every attack on Nottingham, results in more loss of life.”
“Aye. It’s the same with the Merry Men. It’s what got me ousted from my short-lived role as leader—being unable to stanch the bleeding.”
“And while our numbers struggle to stay steady,” he continued, “the Sheriff and his ilk are constantly building. Using our actions as a way to enlist more help, more money, and more death. It’s a vicious cycle that can’t be sustained.” His frown deepened. “As much as it pains me to say, I don’t believe I have enough sunrises in me to see the fruits of Robert’s endeavor play out. And if he fails and we’re squashed, then I suppose my death will be a blessing, so I won’t have to see the grim outcome.”
I put hand on his arm, squeezing. “Please don’t say that, Uncle Gregory. You still have so much to offer.”
He gave me a kind, weak smile, and then stared ahead. His shoulders had started sagging the more we walked and talked. I wondered if I was the one bringing everyone down.
I hated the idea of Uncle Gregory growing old, yet I knew I had to think of those things. I wasn’t a child living a fantasy any longer. Robert had grown up, I had grown up, and my parents were dead. One of them was dead from my hand.
The truth was there on Gregory’s face. The deep lines, the scars, the gray beard. The tiredness in his eyes. He moved slower than he used to. The man who was once a proud soldier and captain in the king’s army was now vying with the inescapable march of age, and he was scuffling with his own mortality.
Gulping in a lungful of air, I tried to change the subject, to give him respite from his inner turmoil. “And here I thought King Richard was the good guy in all this.”
Gregory’s lips curled, and the sight made me smile, too. “Oh, he is the ‘good guy,’” he said, “when you compare him to the alternative. He may be just as culpable as the rest of them, in your brother’s mind, but it was Prince John who enacted such harsh penalties on the citizens of this country. Now that John Lackland’s coffers are filled, where does that money go? Certainly not to the front lines of the Kings’ Crusade, with his brother. I fear it’s the Great Revolt all over again, except this time it’s brothers colluding for power against one another, rather than against the father.”
I was reminded of the Great Revolt—the story my parents had told me when I was a whelp and Gregory served in the army—when King Henry’s sons tried to dethrone him. Richard included. John had been too young.
Gregory said, “Prince John is the culprit we must focus on, and I’ve told Robert as much.”
I glanced at my uncle peculiarly. “So you’re supporting Robert’s revolution, then?”
He tossed his arms out, exasperation clear in his gesture. “I can only guide the lad so far, dear niece. At a certain point, I’ve had to accept his stubbornness and either agree to help, or abandon him for the sake of my own sanity. I chose the former.”
My lips firmed. I felt like I had something scratching my eyes. With a sniff and another squeeze of his arm, I said, “You’re a good man, Uncle Gregory. You always have been.”
The look he gave me when he stared into my eyes was one of the saddest I’d ever seen.
“Unfortunately, being good is not good enough for this world, Robin.”
