by Matthew Cody
Much set the porridge down next to Will and handed him a wineskin before backing out of the tent, holding his nose as he went.
“And sorry about Rob,” he said, looking at the snoring, stinking man on the other side of the tent. “Eat something, if you can.”
Much let the tent flap close, and Will was left with the drunk’s snores and his own troubled thoughts for company. The last couple of months had been a blur. After they’d escaped from Shackley Castle, Hugo had led Will to his mother, and together they went into hiding with Hugo’s kinfolk in the village of Derby. There they waited out the worst of the winter months until it was safe enough to make for the coast. They’d planned to escape to France, to Lady Katherine’s family.
It had been Hugo’s plan to split Will and his mother up—to take separate ships and regroup when they reached the mainland. That way, they doubled their chances that one member of the Shackley family would escape. After some arguing, Will’s mother finally relented, but she insisted that Hugo accompany Will.
When the spring thaw came, Will’s mother set out for the coast by traveling south out of Derby, while Hugo and Will took the forest road. The bandits had set upon the two of them soon thereafter. Not these people, at least not from the faces Will had gotten a look at, but other men. Crueler men who were not interested in taking prisoners. And now Hugo was dead. Will had seen his father’s loyal steward catch an arrow in the throat. Bellwether bolted after that, outpacing the men on foot, and this time Will didn’t fight her. He simply held on until his own wounds overtook him. It seemed that the mare’s skittishness had saved his life.
Will wondered if his mother was waiting for him even now, across the Channel, waiting for a ship that would never come. The truth was, Will would never join her there, not even if he managed to escape from his captivity. His destiny lay back at Shackley Castle, and this time he wouldn’t run from it.
He was going to kill Sir Guy.
When he closed his eyes, he saw the faces of all his lost friends and family—Nan, Osbert, Jenny, Milo. He prayed that they’d gotten far away from that villain and his mercenaries, but he feared the worst. Life serving a man like Sir Guy would be nightmarish. But they hadn’t had a secret tunnel to escape through. They hadn’t even been given the choice of cowardice.
Geoff died protecting him. Hugo died protecting him. Even now, his shame burned hot in his chest. His mother hadn’t understood. She’d said that as the heir of Shackley House, he had a royal duty to live to fight again. She’d said that when his father returned with King Richard, all would be set right and they’d come back from their exile in France. Will had never recognized it before now, but his mother clung to false hope like it was a ship’s mast in a storm. But in that courtyard battle, Will had gotten a glimpse at the way the world truly worked. Bad men did what they liked if they were strong enough to get away with it, brothers stole their brothers’ crowns, and fathers did not come back from war.
Now Will was all that remained of the Shackley name.
That night he dreamed of dead wolves that turned to men. He awoke many times to strange sounds outside. Animal cries, some familiar and some strangely alien, some distant and some frighteningly close. He remembered the stories about Sherwood Forest—how it was said that deep in the woods was a cave leading all the way to hell and that the devil walked the woods at night looking for souls to drag back down with him.
In the morning, Will’s throat was sore and raw. He was thirsty enough to try to stomach the watered wine, but the skin was empty. The porridge, too, had been eaten, and Will’s tent mate slept contentedly on his cot. Will was sure that if he examined the man, he’d find bits of porridge in his beard, but he dared not get that close.
As rusty dawn light crept into the tent, Will examined his wounds with his fingers, gently probing their outlines. The swelling over his eye had gone down as the nasty wound became an ugly scab. He’d end up with a scar there to match the one on his cheek. His face had changed so much in just a few short months.
Will waited for Much to come to him with breakfast, but though he heard commotion outside his tent, no one bothered to look in on him. It was several long hours before Much reappeared, and when he did, he was empty-handed.
“You can walk?” the boy asked as he poked his head inside the tent.
“Yes,” said Will. “But I’m thirsty if you have—”
“Then get moving. Gilbert wants to see you. Out here.”
Much tossed Will a waterskin and left without another word.
As Will gulped down the leathery-tasting water, he wondered at the boy who’d been so concerned about him yesterday and who seemed too busy to spare him more than a few words today.
Too busy, or too scared. Gilbert wants to see you.
Will sat up and waited for the dizziness to pass. His feet were bare, but he didn’t see his boots anywhere. Will didn’t want to meet this Gilbert barefooted, but there was nothing to be done about it.
He’d just gotten his feet beneath him when he noticed the drunk, Rob, was awake and watching him. The man had startlingly blue eyes despite the red bloodshot.
“Careful out there, boy,” said Rob. “How you say a thing’s as important as what you say.”
The idea of this thieving drunk offering him advice irritated Will.
“It’d be easier if I had something in my belly,” answered Will. “It’d be easier if someone hadn’t eaten my food and drunk my wine while I slept.”
Rob chuckled. “You’re complaining about being stolen from to a camp full of thieves? Hope you can do better than that.”
Now he knew why Rob’s advice irritated him so—the man was smug about offering it. Even hungover and stinking from his own vomit, the man had an air about him like he knew better.
“I’ll be on my best behavior,” said Will, turning his back on Rob and making for the tent door, albeit somewhat unsteadily.
“I’m serious. Gilbert will kill you if you answer wrong—or more like he’ll make Much do it.”
Will stopped. “What are you talking about?”
“Gilbert wanted to cut your throat the first time he saw you, but Much stood for you. Gilbert gave in then, but he’s a perverse sort, and he’s ordered that if you’re to die, it’ll be by Much’s knife.”
“I didn’t think Much was the sort.”
“He’s not,” said Rob. “But if he doesn’t do it, Gilbert will kill him, too. Just for show.”
“I see.”
“So answer smart and don’t put him in that position. You’ve got two lives in your hands now.”
“This Gilbert of yours sounds like quite the leader.”
“He’s a bloody devil that should be buried to his neck in horse dung. The men hate him.”
“Then why follow him?”
“Scared. And they’re right to be. He’s the best fighter out there. Not a man among them who could take him in a fair fight. Not even John.”
Will had caught glimpses of a giant who’d often been at Much’s side while Will was still on the mend. That must have been John.
“And that’s the pecking order among thieves, is it? Gilbert’s the best fighter in the band, so he gets made leader.”
“Didn’t say he was the best fighter in the band,” said Rob. “I said he was the best fighter out there.”
It took a moment before Will realized that Rob was referring to himself, but when he did, he nearly laughed in Rob’s face. The man could barely stand up straight. Still, if he wanted to boast a bit, Will would let him. He had no time to argue.
“Tell me something before I go,” said Will. “Why all this now? You haven’t mumbled a word the whole time I’ve been sharing your tent. Why talk to me now? Is it Much? You worried about him?”
“Gilbert cut my wine rations, but the boy gives me his,” he answered. “If you stay alive, I get to keep drinking yours, too. That’s twice the wine.”
Rob laid his head back down on his cot and closed his eyes. “Good luck to
you.”
Will had seen outlaws before. Plenty of times. Because he was a lord of men, his father was charged with keeping the peace, and Will had had ample opportunity to see criminals assembled in the courtyard, awaiting their lord’s justice.
What had struck Will then, and what struck him now, was not how dangerous the men were (some were doubtless fierce enough) but how pathetic they looked. These were hard-scrapping peasants with knives instead of plows. Desperate men who’d given up on hope.
These bandits were no different. They might call themselves the Merry Men, but their eyes were every bit as hopeless as the blank stares of his father’s condemned prisoners. And if they’d taken to a life of crime to escape poverty, then they must be terribly disappointed with what they’d found.
They were pitiful to look at, all except Gilbert.
Gilbert stood facing him, a fine chain shirt across his chest and Will’s sword at his hip. He fondled it like it was a king’s jeweled scepter. He reminded Will of the black wolf he’d killed, the leader of the pack. Like the wolf, this one had earned an extra share of the spoils.
“We’re glad you’re feeling better,” Gilbert was saying. “Who knew that little Much had such skill as a surgeon?”
A few of the men laughed at this—the fat one known as Stout, in particular—but most stayed quiet.
“So it’ll grieve me greatly if we have to kill you,” Gilbert said.
“That’s two of us,” said Will.
That earned a grin at least from the bandit leader. Will had guessed that these men would expect a lordling to weep and beg for his life, but Will wouldn’t give them that. His insides were all twisted up in fear, and he was wishing he’d had time to use the chamber pot first, but he did his best to appear calm. If they were going to believe his story, then he needed to remain collected.
“Much here tells me you’re named Will Scarlet,” said Gilbert. “Can’t see how the name Scarlet profits us in any way.”
“It’s not my real name,” said Will.
“Really,” answered Gilbert dryly. “What a shocking confession.”
Will took a deep breath. He could feel Much standing next to him, the tension in the boy’s body. He’d been practicing what to say all morning long.
“My father’s name is Hugo Blunt, steward in service to Lord Rodric Shackley. But that is not my name because my father never married my mother. He raised me on the grounds of Shackley Castle, but I have no claim to his property, or his name. They called me Scarlet, after my mother.”
Gilbert seemed to be considering this as he scratched his pockmarked cheek. Will had heard once that the best lie was the one closest to the truth. The man who’d told him that was Sheriff Mark Brewer, and he should know, since he turned out to be a traitor and a lying coward in the end.
“We heard what happened at Shackley Castle,” said Gilbert. “How the lord regent there was exposed in a traitorous plot to kill Prince John.”
“That’s not true!” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. It was dangerous defending his family too fiercely, but he couldn’t let Guy’s slander stand unanswered, not even before a band of thieves. “The Sheriff of Nottingham allowed Sir Guy’s thugs into the castle, and Lord Geoffrey was murdered by Guy himself because he wouldn’t support Prince John against King Richard. I saw it happen!”
Gilbert shrugged. “The way I hear it told, he was killed in a brawl in his own courtyard. Insulted the prince’s good name and started a fight he couldn’t win. Prince John’s since given the stewardship of Shackley Castle over to Sir Guy. But the truth of the matter is, I don’t care. John, Richard, or King Fart the Great, they’re all the same to us out here in the wild.
“Now,” he continued, “where’s your father? He alive or dead?”
“Dead,” answered Will, and that was partly true at least. Hugo was dead, and Will didn’t have to fake tears to mourn the man who’d served him so bravely, but Will’s real father might still be alive, somewhere.
“Dead,” said Gilbert. “Shame. Dead men don’t pay for bastard boys.”
Will could see the ice in Gilbert’s eyes. He heard the rustle of movement nearby, perhaps a knife being drawn from its sheath.
“You’re right that no one’ll pay my ransom,” Will said quickly. “But I can help you. I know how you can be rich men!”
“I know,” said Gilbert. “I’ve heard the sermons. Work hard, love and fear our good king what’s-his-name, and we can all be rich in heaven! No thank you.”
“Shackley Castle still stands, and there are real riches inside!” said Will.
“Lovely,” said Gilbert. “I’ll ask Sir Guy to show them to me the next time I pop in for supper!”
“But I know a secret passage into the castle!” Will said. “It was known only to the royal family and my father. Guy can’t have discovered it.”
Gilbert held up his hand. No one moved while the bandit leader stared at Will, judging him. Weighing his life against the trouble it was likely to cause.
“I still suspect that half of what you are telling me is pure manure,” said Gilbert at last. “And if this half turns out to be the lie, I’ll run you through myself. But if you can tell us the location of this passage, you might just live to see the morning, Will Scarlet.”
Will let out a long breath. It could have been his imagination, but he thought Much did the same.
“I’ll do better than that,” said Will. “I’ll take you there myself.”
TEN
Better a live prisoner than dead target practice.
—MUCH THE MILLER’S SON
A fallen lord. A plot to steal the throne of England. A hidden treasure at the end of a secret passage. It sounded like one of her father’s bedtime tales. When Much had told Will to think carefully about what he could say to stay alive, she hadn’t expected this load of dung. What a soft-skulled idiot.
Much had listened quietly as Will told them all his fairy story of hidden treasure, and like children they believed it. Truth was, the camp was filled with enough desperation and frustration that they’d have believed anything. Times had never been good, but they’d been getting steadily worse, and once Gilbert discovered that there was no such passage and no hidden treasure, he’d have Will killed in the worst way he could imagine—and Gilbert the White Hand was a frighteningly imaginative man. And if, during the slow process of the boy’s dying, it was revealed that Much had encouraged him to lie to begin with, then she’d likely be next.
But for today at least, the camp was abuzz with talk of treasure. The Merry Men couldn’t care less about Will’s story of the murder of Lord Geoffrey Shackley. What mattered most now was the prospect of silver, and something else—the attack on Will and his father. The two of them had been ambushed by bandits, which was nothing remarkable in these parts. What was remarkable was where the ambush had taken place—the South Road, the Merry Men’s road.
Someone else was poaching on their territory.
There was little debate as to who it was. Crooked’s Men had threatened incursions before, and the sheer brutality of the attack was Tom Crooked’s style. The Merry Men were scum, thieves of the lowest sort and proud of it, but Crooked had assembled a band of vicious cutthroats. Crooked’s Men had a saying: “Silver glitters more sweetly when it’s painted red.”
The ambush was Crooked’s work, of that they were certain. What they should do about it was still unsettled. Few were happy about ceding territory to a rival band, but even fewer were eager to start a war with Crooked’s Men. Of those that wanted to pay Crooked back in kind, John’s voice was the loudest (in part simply because the giant’s voice boomed as a general rule). Even more than the slight against the Merry Men, John was offended at the act itself. If Sherwood became known for wanton murder, merchants would find another way around it. As it was, folks took their chances on the South Road because all they were risking was their property, and maybe a bruised pate. Often, hired guards didn’t even put up a fight, becaus
e they knew that if they simply surrendered, they would live to see their wives and mistresses again. Men were easier to deal with when they were fighting for coin instead of their lives.
For her part, Much preferred to let the matter be. The reason Crooked had started poaching on their territory in the first place was that he had more men. Meaner men. She’d come to Sherwood to thieve, not to march to war. She’d come to Sherwood because she was running away. She’d stayed because there was nowhere else to go, and in time she’d discovered things here worth staying for.
Bloody Will Scarlet. The boy was trouble.
The men in the camp wanted it both ways—they wanted Will’s promised fortune, and they wanted to send a message to Crooked. Gilbert devised a plan that would accomplish the two goals at the same time, or so he boasted. But Much had learned long ago that when men resorted to boasting, it was time to start worrying.
As Much packed up her gear, the hunting party assembled outside. In the privacy of her own tent, she changed her shirt and redressed the long bandage she wore wrapped tightly around her chest. As the months passed, it was getting increasingly uncomfortable to wear the wrapping, but she needed more than just a baggy shirt and short hair to pass for a boy these days. It hadn’t always been that way, but her body was changing and the truth was getting harder to conceal. The men knew better than to come into her tent unannounced (more than one had earned himself a shoe to the face that way), but she still changed quickly and with her back to the door.
Once properly dressed and disguised, she added two long knives to her belt, plus a smaller blade tucked into her boot. She slung a pack over her shoulder loaded with several days’ rations (hard bread and acorns boiled enough times so as to be edible, if not particularly tasty). Lastly, she brushed her bangs down over her eyes. She kept the rest of her pretty face well hidden with filth, but she’d inherited her mother’s almond-shaped bright green eyes, so fetching on any other girl her age and so dangerous for her. It was annoying to always have her hair dangling in her vision, but it couldn’t be helped—there was no way to dirty up her eyes.