by Matthew Cody
When she stepped outside, she found John waiting with Will. Rob stood off a ways, getting sick in a bush.
Spotting Much, Will gestured angrily at Rob.
“I can’t believe that drunk is coming with us!” he whispered.
“He’s quite the fighter when he sobers up,” said Much.
“But can he sober up? For longer than a few hours, I mean?”
John obviously caught the gist of their whispered conversation, because he answered with a laugh, loud enough for Rob to hear. “Rob’s a useless pain in the arse when he’s like this, but there’ll be no wine out there on the road.”
“Go bite yourself, Little John,” moaned Rob from his doubled-over position.
Much started to laugh, but John caught her eye.
“Don’t,” he warned, pointing a thick finger at Much’s face. “Don’t encourage him.”
John walked over to Rob and, ignoring the man’s curses, helped him onto his horse.
Much leaned over to Will.
“You see, John’s family name is Little,” she explained. “So Rob calls him—”
“Little John. I get it,” said Will, cutting her off. “Why haven’t we left yet?”
“We’ll be on our way soon enough.”
“Not soon enough for my taste,” Will said, folding his arms and glaring at nothing in particular.
Much recognized the look, because she’d used it often, back when she’d had the luxury of doing so. Back when she’d still been a miller’s daughter instead of a miller’s son. Will was in a pout, and he expected it to actually accomplish something here in Sherwood Forest. The boy was a spoiled fool, as well as a troublesome one.
“You do realize you’re lucky to be alive, don’t you?”
Will answered without looking at her. “I’m a prisoner.”
“Better a live prisoner than dead target practice. Which, by the way, is what you’ll become if this secret passage of yours doesn’t exist. I hope you’ve thought that far ahead.”
“Have you?” asked Will, finally looking at her.
“What? What do you mean?”
“I mean, if it turns out I am lying. If I’m more trouble than I’m worth, have you thought about how you’ll kill me?”
Much opened her mouth to protest, but no words came out. She’d never intended to do it, no matter what she’d said to Gilbert. But how had Will learned of it?
“Will you knife me in the back then and there, or will you wait until I’m sleeping and just cut my throat?” he asked.
“Neither,” said Much. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but I wouldn’t do that.”
“Never mind,” said Will, turning back away. “The passage is real enough. I’ll get you all into the castle, and you can ransack the place as long as you stay out of my way. Once my work there is done, I don’t care what you do to me.”
Much swallowed her shame, and it went down like a bitter pit that stuck in her throat. Will thought her capable of knifing him in the back, and there was no way to make him believe otherwise. And why should he? Since coming to Sherwood, he’d been attacked by bandits, then nursed back to health by even more bandits, only to learn that he was nothing more than ransom. She’d been the closest thing he had to an ally in this camp until he learned she’d been assigned to be his assassin.
It would be pointless to keep arguing, which was why Much was almost relieved to see the two men she despised most—Stout and Gilbert—approaching. Stout was wearing a smug grin (God knew why—it just made him look more like a dimwit) and carried a bright red coat in his hands.
“A change in the plan,” said Gilbert. “Stout’s going with you.”
Stout hooked his thumbs into his belt like he was a man of importance. “Better odds with Stout along, eh?”
“Stout’s more muscle, should things turn ugly,” said Gilbert.
Much started to protest. “But another man will just make it all the harder to—”
“It’s done,” said Gilbert. “Done is done. And since young master Scarlet here is wearing clothes that smell like a dead cat, we scrounged up something a bit fresher.”
Stout tossed the coat at Will. It was a gaudy thing, the garish coat of a foppish gentleman, dyed dark red. Tassels hung about the buttons, and lace cuffed the sleeves.
“Fitting, don’t you think, Scarlet?”
“I’m fine in my own clothes, thank you,” said Will.
“Wear it,” said Gilbert. “It’s not a request.”
With a sigh, Will removed his shirt and pulled on the coat. He didn’t look nearly as terrible as Gilbert had hoped. It actually fit him quite well, although the lace and tassels needed to go. And Much would be relieved not to have to smell his old shirt any longer.
Then Will surprised her by stepping forward and standing face to face with Gilbert, despite his dandy new attire. “I want my sword back.”
Gilbert frowned, his hand going to the pommel of that very same blade.
“Well, as I see it,” he said, “the Merry Men here saved you out of a sense of Christian charity and neighborly affection! Could’ve let you die out there on that road, but instead we took you in. Fed you. Sheltered you.”
Gilbert smiled as he patted the sword’s pommel. “Let’s just call this recompense, shall we?”
“Asking payment for charity is not really charity, now is it?” said Will.
“Fine!” barked Gilbert. “Then I’m just plain stealing it! And your horse, too!”
Will, to his credit, didn’t back down. He didn’t look away. He was a brave boy, Much had to give him that. Brave and bloody foolish.
“Can I have another sword, then?” asked Will finally. “If I’m to be of any help, I’ll need a blade.”
“Much is the lookout,” said Gilbert. “Rob, John, and Stout will do the fighting. Your job is to show them the secret passage and where the treasure is. Nothing more. Don’t need a sword to point.”
Gilbert laughed. “You can have your boots back, though. No one can fit in them.”
Then he turned and marched over to the gate, where he had words with John. Rob was leaning over his saddle, his head resting on his horse’s neck. He might even have been passed out.
The beginning of another grand adventure, thought Much.
Prince John was well known to be an avid hunter, and in his time as regent he had acquired, or stolen, a number of residences closest to his favorite forests. Some were true castles in their own right, while others, like this one, were little more than watchtowers. When not in use by the prince, these converted hunting lodges were usually manned by caretakers. Gilbert had recently learned of a particular tower, an ancient structure overlooking the road out of Nottingham, that was being cared for by Sir Guy of Gisborne. This was commonly known. What wasn’t common knowledge was that Guy kept a number of his men there with swift horses so that they might keep an eye on the comings and goings between Nottingham and London, and there had been many as of late. In short, Sir Guy used the prince’s hunting lodge to spy on the Sheriff of Nottingham, whom he trusted not a whit.
A useful bit of intelligence, to be sure, and one that Gilbert had stored away with no particular plan for exploiting it—until now.
It was shortly after dusk when Sir Guy’s watchtower spies heard a commotion coming from the stables. A fresh stable and a new set of kennels had been built by the prince to house his horses and hounds for the hunt, but the rest of the tower was ancient. Thick stone walls sunk deep into the soil, strong enough to defend against anything less than a real siege; it was obvious why the prince felt safe there. But while wolves weren’t a bother to men within those stone walls, their horses out in the new stables were more vulnerable.
Three of the four men stationed there had just gotten a game of dice going, and the fire was roaring nicely and hot enough to drive away the damp. So they sent the youngest of them down to check on the horses. The young guard took his crossbow and his short sword. He would’ve strapped on his helmet, bu
t he knew the other men would laugh at him.
In the dark it was hard to see anything truly amiss. They’d been lazy and allowed the courtyard and surrounding field to become overgrown. There were too many places for a wolf—or a man, for that matter—to hide out here. Too many long shadows in the moonlight.
He heard something moving near the stable. Something that was spooking the horses.
The guard stood in the gloomy courtyard, alone. A light burned in the window above, and the sounds of laughter and cursing echoed from within. After a few minutes, he sighed and stepped cautiously toward the stable, crossbow at the ready.
The horses had settled a bit after their initial outburst, but there was still a lot of nervous shuffling and stomping from within their stalls. Whatever had spooked them in the first place could still be nearby. If it was a wolf, he’d run it off. If it was a horse thief, he’d take care of that, too.
The young guard found the rear door of the stable swinging wide open, the latch unhooked. No wolf, then. He had turned to call up to the lighted window and his fellow guards when one of the dark clumps of shadow near him moved. It swung something at his head, and then stars exploded before his eyes.
He awoke with a hard knot of pain on his forehead. Someone was talking.
“You think we should skin ’em, Crooked?”
“You daft idiot! I told you not to go using my name!”
“What’s it matter if we’re going to skin ’em anyway?”
The young guard’s stomach turned at that name. He knew the bandit called Tom Crooked by reputation, and skinning was one of the more merciful ends he could hope for. As his vision cleared, he saw that he’d been stripped down to his underclothes and tied to a table leg inside the watchtower. His companions were tied up and in their underclothes as well.
Standing over them was a powerfully built man with a gray beard. It was twisted up in strange braids that were burnt off at the ends. He wore a black studded-leather jerkin and a dirty white scarf. Tom Crooked.
One of his henchmen stood nearby. Another came into the room, a man so tall he had to stoop to fit through the doorway. Both had covered their faces with white scarves—the mark of Crooked’s gang.
“We aren’t skinning them yet,” said Crooked. “Unless they try to escape.”
Crooked looked them over. “Thanks to your alert guardsman here, we have let ourselves in.” He held up the young guard’s key ring.
“You got us all captured!” one of the young guard’s companions said to him.
The man was answered with a boot to his gut as the fat one kicked him. Hard. He looked ready to do it again, but the tall one stepped in the way.
“At least he was taken while tryin’ to do his duty,” said Crooked. “You lot lost your pants in the middle of a game of dice!”
The men looked sheepishly around the room, anywhere but at each other.
“Now, here’s what we’re going to do,” said Crooked. “I’m makin’ use of those pants a’ yours for a day or so. While I’m gone, you’ll stay tied up. I’m not killin’ you yet, but I’ll most likely do so when I return, so’s if you have any prayin’ or such you need doin’, you’d best get to it!”
Hours later and a few leagues away from the watchtower keep, John and Stout measured the cut of newly stolen trousers against each other as Rob brushed wood ash out of his singed beard, returning it to its original black. Then Much used her knife to help him trim away the burnt braids. Stout, Will, and Rob would fit in the stolen uniforms well enough. John could wear the tabard and helm, but no pants fit his long legs, so he had to hope no one examined him too closely. Much gave up on trying to disguise herself in the soldiers’ gear. She looked like a boy playing soldier in his father’s clothes.
They’d made camp safely out of view of the watchtower and the road, beneath an outcropping of craggy rocks surrounded by tall poplar trees. From there, they could keep an eye on anyone coming and going.
“It was a good plan,” Stout was saying. “When those men tell Sir Guy it was Crooked’s Men that robbed them, old Crooked’s going to be up to his neck in trouble!”
“You didn’t need to go kicking them,” said Much. “They were already tied up and helpless, if you didn’t notice.”
“We’re supposed to be Crooked’s Men, right? Crooked’s Men don’t care whether you’re tied up or sleeping! I still say we should’ve killed three and left one to tell the tale. Crooked wouldn’t leave all four tied up and still breathing.”
“Knock it off,” said Rob. “If Gilbert’s information is right and they keep to schedule, then a rider with provisions will arrive at the watchtower tomorrow. They’ll stay tied up till then, which means we’ve got until dawn to make it to Shackley Castle and Master Will’s secret passage. So get those uniforms on and let’s get moving!”
Stout and Will did as they were told, and soon four of them were dressed in the armor of Sir Guy’s mercenaries, the black and silver stallion insignia across their tunics. Much would pass herself off as a servant if need be.
As they packed up for the ride to Shackley, Will leaned close to Much’s ear.
“What’s with Rob?” he asked. “He’s giving orders and …”
“What?” she said.
“He just sounds … different.”
“He’s sober,” Much answered, and she steered her horse out onto the road. They had a long night ahead of them, and the most dangerous part was still to come. Bloody Will Scarlet was to lead them all to fortune and glory. God help them.
ELEVEN
All right, where’s the treasure?
—STOUT
Will thought he’d prepared himself to see Shackley Castle again, but even in the dark, the familiar silhouette brought back too many memories, too fast. There was his home, and inside those wooden walls were the yards where he had played and practiced swordsmanship and the herb garden where he’d stolen mint leaves. Beyond that was the main tower window, where Nan had kept an eye on him. It was a clear night, and even at a distance he could see the glow of a fire within. But it wasn’t Nan keeping watch up there anymore.
In the months they’d spent in hiding, Will and his mother had heard rumors that many of the old family servants had been let go or fled from Guy’s service. The Horse Knight was suspicious of any who’d been loyal to the Shackley family, and with good reason. The latest tale was that when Guy asked the family surgeon for a headache remedy, he’d been given a constipation cure instead. The surgeon delivered the medicine, then snuck away during the night before the cure had a chance to work. It was said that Guy’s shouts of rage could be heard coming from the privy for days afterward.
If Nan was lucky, she’d have been dismissed from Guy’s service without having to flee in the night. After all, what use did the Horse Knight have for a nurse? This castle, Will’s family home for so many generations, was now by royal decree the property of Sir Guy of Gisborne, and he wasn’t one to have children running about the halls.
Sir Guy, who would be dead by morning.
Much had been quiet during the ride from the watchtower to Shackley House, but more than once Will caught the boy staring at him. Perhaps he meant it when he said that he’d no plans to kill him. The boy didn’t seem a cold-blooded killer, but there was a hardness in him—something that he was protecting and something he would fight for. Maybe kill for, if pressed.
Will resolved not to let himself get too comfortable with these men. Rob was a drunk, Stout was stupid and cruel, and John might seem a man of honor but in the end was just a bandit like the rest of them. They were using Will because he promised to make them rich, but what they didn’t know was that Will was using them, too. He could get them into the castle, but no treasure was waiting there. What was there was Sir Guy of Gisborne, and Will would need these men and their swords if he was going to get close enough to the Horse Knight to kill him.
Much was his only concern. Try as he might, Will was unable to justify leading the boy into danger under fals
e pretenses. True, he was only a few years younger than Will, but Will’s childhood was over and it’d died a quick death. Starting with the wolves, and ending with Geoff’s murder. Will Scarlet was left with a need for vengeance as red as his name.
If he could, he’d spare the boy. If he couldn’t … well, revenge was a bloody business, old Osbert used to say.
The towering presence of Shackley House brought up thoughts of his parents. What would his father think of his only son turned assassin? But he hadn’t been there when Geoff died. He hadn’t seen the look in his brother’s eyes as the life left them. And if Will’s father was truly alive out there somewhere with King Richard, and if they were coming back to England, then Will would be counted among the loyal patriots who’d stood up to Prince Lackland and his cronies.
Guy would die, and by Will’s hand. Others could judge him as they might.
He found the entrance to the secret passage easily. The copse of trees that disguised it was far enough away from the castle that they could tie their horses there and not be noticed from the walls. Much watched with a strange look on his face as Will rolled away the brush that revealed the hidden grate and dark hole beneath. Was Much surprised that he’d told the truth about the passage? Suspicious? The boy’s face was hard to read.
Stout’s, on the other hand, wasn’t. The fat man was already drooling.
“That there the tunnel to the treasure?”
Will ignored him and turned to John.
“I don’t have a key.”
Wordlessly, John reached down and put both hands on the grate. It was rusted, and the metal cried out in protest as the big man strained, the veins in his neck bulging with the effort. Then it came loose with a sudden wrenching sound, and the way was open. A short ladder descended into a passage beneath, disappearing into darkness.