by Matthew Cody
But Much had her own secret, too. And if nothing else, she understood that about Will—the need for secrets. And she’d keep his for as long as she dared. That was a bond the two of them shared, whether Will knew it or not.
“Will … is free to go his own way,” said Much after a moment. “If he wants. I don’t think his path is the same as ours anyway.”
Rob started to say something, but he was interrupted by the sudden sound of someone shouting outside the barn.
“What the … Where’s Will?” John asked.
Much looked over to the doorway, but Will was nowhere to be seen. The shouting outside grew still louder.
“They’ve found us!” said Rob, leaping to his feet. “Why do they always find us?”
“Grab the silver,” said John.
Much reached for the lockbox they’d hidden under her bed of hay and discovered it wasn’t there.
“It’s gone!” said Much. “The box is gone!”
Outside, the shouting was joined by a scream. A woman screaming.
Rob drew his sword as John hefted up his long staff. The two men exchanged a grim look that Much recognized. If they’d been found, then the yard would be crawling with soldiers, but they weren’t going to stand by while the Walthams were slaughtered.
“Much, stay here and hide,” said John.
“Sod off,” she answered, drawing her knives.
With a nod, Rob threw open the door, and the three of them charged out into the yard. John took the lead, bellowing an improvised battle cry in his deep bass voice.
“Ah! Prepare to have your heads split open, you motherless sons of—Huh?”
John stopped so suddenly that Much almost tripped over the big man’s legs. She barely found her footing again, and only then did she see what had stopped the giant in his tracks. What had stunned him into silence, mouth agape, his staff nearly dropping from his limp hands.
The Waltham boys were still shouting. The wife was still crying. But these weren’t shouts of fear or tears of sadness. The tears accompanied all the laughing and hugging and dancing that was going on, careless of the mud and pig filth they were stomping around in. They clutched handfuls of silver to their chests.
And at the center of it all stood Will, the open lockbox in his hands. He was looking at the three of them, a small smile on his lips.
“I’ve decided what we do,” he called. “We robbed this silver from the rich … so now we’ll give it to the poor!”
PART III
CHARITABLE OUTLAWS
SEVENTEEN
Huzzah!
—LITTLE JOHN
The first rule of banditry that Will learned was you could lie in wait all day and not catch a single thing, which was why the really good bandits did the necessary legwork. That’s why Rob had sent Much into Nottingham to find a promising fellow—wealthy but not too well guarded. Sufficiently corrupt and deserving of a bit of a scare.
The boy had come back with the tale of the pardoner. He was due to come along the South Road around midday, riding comfortably in a cushioned cart bought and paid for by the selling of indulgences to those who could barely afford bread. He was a wicked one, rolling into town crying about sin and hellfire, scaring every last soul till they couldn’t sleep at night for fear of demons and devils. Then he’d be waiting for all those sinners in the morning, offering confession, penance, and, most important, absolution. Everything for a price, and a hefty one at that.
The churchman had done so well for himself that he could even afford the security of armed guards, reported Much. Two of the sheriff’s men, paid by the day. They must’ve made him feel safe and secure as he took the South Road through notorious Sherwood Forest.
But he was about to learn that his feeling of security was as false as the relics he peddled, as fake as the absolution he sold.
It was hard for Will to believe, but after weeks of filling the pockets of the poor, they’d finally run out of stolen silver. All except for a small sum that John insisted they keep to feed themselves. A smaller sum, he grumbled, than he would have liked.
When that silver had run out, they’d started replenishing their stock with the coin of the occasional lazy toll collector or corrupt priest. Like today’s pardoner. No one important enough to draw attention to themselves. Just a purse here or there, which they then divided up—a quarter for themselves, three-quarters for those who needed it more.
Charitable outlaws, Rob called them. And the very idea of it tickled him so much that he was in brighter spirits than any of them could remember. He took to singing so often (and so wildly out of tune) that Will found himself sniffing the man’s breath for traces of wine.
Will secretly wished they’d do more, strike at Sir Guy and the sheriff where it would hurt the most by cutting off their tax route to Prince John entirely. But to ask Rob and the others to do such a brazen thing, Will would have to confess to Much that he hadn’t given up on his quest for vengeance. He’d already put their lives at risk once, when he’d convinced them to rob the castle, and he couldn’t do it again.
Yet Will believed in their new mission as well, so much so that he surprised even himself. In just a few short weeks, they’d changed the lives of many families, and as word of their generosity spread, they’d given hope to even more. His days were filled with excitement and danger, but his nights were still haunted by his unfinished business, by the voice whispering in his ear, like a ghost calling on the wind, that Sir Guy was still alive.
Much watched him like a hawk. The boy knew Will’s secret, and he’d kept it this long. But Will had no doubt that Much would tell all if he felt that Will was putting them in danger just to sate his desire for revenge.
So they hunted the outskirts of Sherwood and the outlying roads, far from Gilbert’s Merry Men and Crooked’s Men alike. At night they slept out beneath the stars or took shelter with some grateful family. But they were careful not to stay in one place for long. All was well that ended well, sang Rob. Gilbert and Sir Guy both could go hang themselves among the trees for all he cared.
Today they set up to ambush the pardoner near a bend in the South Road that wound around a tall hillock, just outside the forest. It was a favorite spot of theirs, bordered on one side by a lone fir tree, which provided excellent cover for a lookout. The two guards traveling with him were the only concern. These men must’ve cost the priest a pretty penny. They were a signal, a sign to the local outlaws who had an arrangement with the sheriff, that this man was not to be touched. As long as they accompanied him, he had nothing to fear from the Merry Men or Crooked’s Men or any of the thugs who paid the sheriff’s bribes. That was how the arrangement worked—for a fee, the outlaws could rob with impunity so long as they left the sheriff’s men alone.
But Will and his companions no longer played by the sheriff’s rules.
For today’s work, Will was put on point with a bow. He warned them about his poor aim with the weapon, but Rob explained that it didn’t matter whether he could hit anything with it, just that the guards saw it. A strong English longbow could pierce armor, and those guards wouldn’t know if he could use it or not, but they wouldn’t risk finding out.
Will was about to suggest that Rob take the bow instead when he caught a warning look from John. Rob might be sober, but he wasn’t yet ready to be the longbowman he once was.
And so the plan was for Rob and John to emerge from their hiding places on either side of the road, weapons drawn, and calmly explain the lethality of the situation. Then they’d encourage the guards to drop their swords and the pardoner to hand over his coin purse. Much would stay up in his tree, eyes and ears open as he watched their backs.
The plan was all a cleverly orchestrated show meant to threaten terrible violence while aiming to avoid it entirely. But even the best plans go awry.
“Hello there, my good men,” called Rob as the pardoner’s cart rattled up the road. He stepped out of the bushes, his sword twirling in his hand and a smile on his lips. Will
had noticed something about Rob since he sobered up—the man liked to show off.
John then appeared on the opposite side of the road, his long quarterstaff in hand. The guards reached for their swords at once as the pardoner threw himself onto the floor of his cart.
“Eh, eh,” said Rob.
That was Will’s cue. He appeared atop the hill, his red coat standing out against the verdant hillside. He had the arrow cocked and the bow drawn, and he hoped he looked fearsome enough.
“My friend there’s an expert marksman,” said Rob. “And—”
But he didn’t finish, because that was when their plan fell to pieces. The pardoner, besides being a cheating fiend, was also apparently a wily fighter. One moment he was cowering beneath his seat, the next he had a crossbow aimed straight at Rob.
All Will saw was a feathered flash fly through the air and suddenly Rob was on the ground. The following moments were a blur. Will returned fire with the bow, but the arrow went wide, snapping uselessly against a rock. He’d had lessons as a boy, but his eyes were just not that sharp this far away. He really was useless with a bow.
With Rob down, the guards found their courage and attacked John. Two mounted men were more than a match for any fighter on foot, but John stood his ground and swung his long staff in a powerful arc, catching one of the soldiers square in the head. Unfortunately, that left John open to the second rider, and Will heard his shouted curses as the second rider tried to run him down beneath the horse’s hooves.
Meanwhile, the pardoner, who’d shot at Rob, was getting away. He whipped his horse and drove the cart forward, careless of whom he ran over in the process. That unlucky person turned out to be the soldier John had struck on the head. He’d fallen from his horse and into the path of the carriage. But the pardoner didn’t stop. He kept on without slowing down for the sickening, crunching bump beneath his wheels.
They hadn’t rigged a catch line, since the threat of Will’s bow was supposed to keep the cart from trying to escape, and if the pardoner made it past the bend onto the straight open road, they’d lose him for sure.
That’s when Much jumped. Just as the cart passed under the boy’s tree, he dropped from his perch and landed in the back of the cart. The horse had been whipped into a panic by now and was galloping onward regardless, so the pardoner, seeing the new threat, threw down the reins and drew his dagger.
He came for the boy just as they were clearing the bend in the road and passing out of the shadow of the hill. Will’s bow was useless, but he wasn’t about to let Much fight the pardoner alone. Tossing the bow aside, Will took a running leap off the hill and landed on the edge of the cart. He just managed to grab the railing and avoid being trampled beneath the spinning wheels.
The cart barreled on. Much was crouched near the back, squaring off against the pardoner. Will dangled off the side, barely managing to hold on. In the next instant, just as the pardoner looked ready to attack, the cart struck a dip in the road and lurched to the side. The pardoner’s dagger went flying, and he was left swinging his arms wildly just to keep his balance on the edge of the cart. He looked like a man desperately imitating a bird, hands flapping uselessly in the air.
Will saw his chance, and holding on to the cart’s railing with one hand for dear life, he used his other to grab the hem of the pardoner’s robe. Then he yanked it as hard as he could. The pardoner screamed as he somersaulted over the side to land face-first on the dirt road.
It took Will and Much quite a while to get the runaway cart back under control, to calm the poor horse and then convince it to turn around and go back the way they’d come (Much turned out to be very bad with horses. Will suggested that the boy might be part mule and therefore victim to a natural rivalry.) But together they did manage to bring the cart around eventually and make it back to the ambush site, where their friends were waiting. Rob, thankfully, was standing. He had a nasty cut along his temple where the pardoner’s crossbow bolt had grazed him, and half his beard was still slick with blood, but he was grinning.
John was limping and sported a fat lip, but his two opponents had fared worse. The poor guard who’d been run over by the fleeing pardoner had a broken leg, and his companion had taken a beating with John’s staff and lay moaning on the ground, calling out for his mother. Apparently, two mounted soldiers were no match for one Little John.
The pardoner was alive, but tied to a tree. His nose was a swollen mess from his dive to the ground, and both eyes had deep purple bruises underneath. But that didn’t stop him from cursing when he saw Will and Much approaching with his purse of ill-gotten gains.
In all, Will’s companions looked only slightly better off than the men they’d just defeated. They waved when they saw him, and when Much held up the heavy purse, they all cheered.
John let out a bellowing “Huzzah!” before spitting out a bloody tooth.
They loaded the guard with the broken leg into the cart along with the pardoner and let the other guard drive the three of them back to Nottingham. Besides the coin purse, they kept the soldiers’ horses and weapons, and they urged them to find better employment.
That night, after supper and a bit of bandaging, they visited the Tilley family. Jean Tilley had been a somewhat successful furrier until a fever robbed him of his sight. A widower with no one but his two young sons to take care of him, Jean was now in dire need. His older boy, Gerard, tried to keep up his father’s work and put food on the table for his baby brother, but the harsh winter had made game scarce. And if he was caught hunting deer in the king’s forest, he’d be hanged.
Will smiled in spite of himself as he pressed the silver into Jean’s hand. It was a look of shock at first as the old man traced the outlines of the coins and realized what they were. Then tears welled up in his sightless eyes as he realized what they meant. The pardoner’s stolen silver would keep the family fed, Gerard’s neck clear of the hangman’s noose, and old Jean from dying of grief.
It was a good day to be an outlaw.
EIGHTEEN
Peasants are full of stories. It keeps their minds off their empty bellies.
—THE SHERIFF OF NOTTINGHAM
Much hated towns, all those bodies squeezed together in a pushing, pulling mess. Towns made it hard to breathe, and Much counted every step she had to take before she was free to make for the open road. Nottingham was unbearable on a good day, but Much had never seen it like this. Every foot of open space was taken up by people shouting their wares or by heavy-booted soldiers marching by. Beyond the town walls, tents fluttered in the breeze and a massive crowd sat on benches along a makeshift causeway, cheering on the stampeding of horses and the clang of metal against metal.
The Sheriff of Nottingham was hosting a tournament for nearby lords. Games, sword and shield combat, and the always-popular joust. All of which meant that the population of Nottingham had swelled to half again its size in the span of a few days as knights arrived with their courtiers, entourages, and hangers-on. Peasants from local villages swarmed the area, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lord So-and-So beating the snot out of Sir What’s-His-Name. Then, their bloodlust sated, they’d return to the village to drink themselves numb.
And it was in this stew of humanity that Much was to do her scouting.
Fishing, Rob called it. He’d told Much to simply think of herself as casting about for the fattest fish in a pool of fat fishes. All she had to do was point to it, and they’d snatch him up. Just as they’d done with the pardoner.
Problem was, the fat fishes stank. And they stepped on your feet without so much as a “Beg your pardon.”
God, but did Much hate towns.
Still, it did her no good to mope. The sooner she found a new target, the sooner she could get out of there. Thus far today, she’d eyed a spice merchant who whipped his servant something awful just for daring to loiter near the bread stand and a petty clerk collecting fees for the sheriff. She’d watched the clerk collect fees from the tourney lords all day long—a fee to pitch a
tent, a fee to tie up a horse, a fee to empty a chamber pot. Most of the coin went straight into a heavy lockbox guarded by a trio of stern-faced soldiers, but a little (she noticed) went slyly into his own substantial coin purse. Should he leave Nottingham, that purse would be a tempting target indeed.
As Much waited for the clerk to make his rounds, she decided to pass the time by watching a knight lay his armored head across a blacksmith’s anvil—the man must’ve fared poorly in the competition, because the blacksmith was forced to beat the dents out of his helmet just so the knight could take it off. Men really entertained themselves in the most foolish of ways. She’d just settled back with a handful of roasted pine nuts to see the knight struggle to free himself from his own armor when a fast-moving shape in the crowd caught her attention. A cleric walking deliberately, cursing those who didn’t get out of his way fast enough and kicking at stray dogs in the street. This by itself wasn’t remarkable, since as far as Much could tell, this sort of behavior was what the residents of Nottingham called “being civil.” But what caught Much’s attention was the man’s two black eyes and nose swollen to the size of a round ripe plum.
The pardoner was back in Nottingham and making his way toward a gathering of tents near the tournament grounds. Much decided to shadow the pardoner, following him from a safe distance so as not to be recognized. And if he did catch a glimpse, she wasn’t overly worried. Today she was disguised as a sickly beggar boy, complete with bandaged hands and feet. He’d need a really good look at her face to recognize her. Still, better to keep him in view so they didn’t accidentally cross paths up close.