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Then I refused.
My father was buried on the eastern ridge of Sherwood, beneath the great oak. My grandmother had laid him to rest there in darkness, without a priest or permission, because the Crown had denied him a churchyard burial.
For six years, I'd climbed that ridge four times a year with lavender in my hands.
I knew every root along the path.
I'd sat beside his grave and told him things I couldn't tell anyone else. For six years, his marker had carried nothing but a compass rose.
No name.
The law hadn't acknowledged his death with honor, so my grandmother had left his name off the stone. I couldn't bring myself to move him.
Instead, I sent a stonecutter from Mansfield to the ridge. On the last day of that week, Guy accompanied me there.
The afternoon sunlight filtered through the thinning branches, turning the fallen leaves gold.
The great oak stood above us.
And beneath it was my father's grave.
The stone was still in the same place.
Only now, beneath the compass rose, his name had been carved deeply into the surface.
William of Locksley.
I knelt in the leaves.
I'd done this twenty-four times over the years.
Four visits each year.
Always with lavender.
Always with something I needed to tell him.
But this was the first time I could place the flowers beneath his name.
"I found it, Papa."
I rested my hand against the stone. Behind me, Guy stopped beneath the trees. He stayed far enough away to give me privacy.
"The things you left for Grandmother," I continued. "I found all of them." I swallowed. "The ledger. The warrants. The letters to the council."
I smiled through the ache in my chest. "And Crane. Papa, he's alive."
The breeze stirred the branches overhead.
"He stood in a hall in Nottingham and told everyone what happened. He said your name, and people listened."
I looked down at the carving. "They set it aside. Your conviction."
My voice trembled.
"A man stood up on Thursday morning and said the evidence against you was false. In front of everyone."
I took a breath.
