by Matthew Cody
Two men with swords suddenly appeared in their path, and John let go of Will as he swung his staff to block their blades.
Sir Guy was shouting orders. He didn’t sound very far away. And he was wounded; Rob’s arrow had struck him in his sword hand.…
John’s attention was on the two soldiers in front of him. Will could hear the twang of Rob’s bowstring somewhere close by.
His own sword in hand, Will ran toward the sound of Guy’s voice. John called out something—it might have been Will’s name—but Will didn’t stop or look back. He couldn’t, not when Guy was this near.
Then he heard another shout. A high-pitched cry that set Will’s teeth on edge.
Much.
The call came from the opposite direction of Guy. Down a hill that led into what looked like some kind of ravine or dry creek bed.
Will could make out Sir Guy’s words now. He was close and he was calling for his men. Perhaps he’d gotten separated in the chase. Perhaps he was alone. Wounded and alone.
Much called out again, a panicked cry that ended suddenly, as if snuffed out.
With a curse, Will turned and half ran, half stumbled down into the ravine, toward the sound of Much’s last cry for help.
The ground leading down was slippery with dead leaves and crumbling soil, and Will was lucky he didn’t twist an ankle or spill over headfirst, but quickly enough he reached the bottom.
There he found Much fighting for his life against a soldier. The two of them looked as if they’d tumbled down the slope together. They were scratched and covered with dirt and leaves. They were engaged in a weaponless struggle, a wrestling match in the dirt. The bigger man had a good hold on Much, his hands reaching for the boy’s throat. But as Will ran toward them, Much threw a handful of dirt into the soldier’s eyes, momentarily blinding him.
Much tried to scramble out from underneath him, but the soldier, grasping blindly, found Much’s shirt. The soldier yanked hard and the shirt tore away in his fingers, and Much rolled out of his grasp, backing away from him on all fours.
But the boy’s shirt had torn down the front and now hung wide open. At first, Will didn’t understand what he was seeing. Around Much’s chest was a bandage, a kind of wrapping, which had been pulled loose in the struggle …
What Will saw beneath that torn wrapping was hard at first to comprehend. He stood stunned, his mind reeling.
Much was a girl. Much was a girl?
Will came to his senses in time to see the soldier, blinking with pain, pull a long knife from his boot.
Much was frantically searching for his own knives—her own knives—but they’d gone missing, lost in the fall.
With a snarl, the soldier lunged forward, his knife catching the sunlight as he brought it down toward Much’s exposed chest.
It found Will’s blade instead.
He reached the soldier just in time to parry the blow, and the sound of steel against steel rang out across the ravine.
Surprised, the soldier stumbled backward a step and turned to face Will.
It was never a good idea to pit a knife against a broadsword, and the soldier eyed Will warily as they circled each other. But in keeping all his attention on Will, he’d taken his eyes off Much.
The soldier never saw the thick tree branch until it cracked against his skull, knocking him, unconscious, to the ground.
Will stared openly at Much, who dropped the branch and wrapped the tatters of her shirt protectively around her. Will opened his mouth to speak, but she held a finger to her lips, shushing him. Then she pointed up toward the top of the ravine.
Soldiers’ voices, getting nearer.
She gestured for him to follow as she started to make her way along the ravine floor, away from the sounds of pursuit and deeper into the forest.
Still in shock, it was all Will could do to stay upright.
So he left the unconscious soldier behind and followed this girl, this sudden stranger, to wherever it was she was taking him.
TWENTY-ONE
This is about the life we choose—it’s not about you.
—MUCH THE MILLER’S DAUGHTER
Much had always thought the oak’s face looked more like an old wrinkled man’s than a crone’s. An ancient lightning strike had blasted a hole in the center of the trunk, giving it the appearance of a toothless mouth. A broken knob of a branch served as its nose. One only needed one’s imagination to find the eyes.
They’d made the journey to the tree together in silence. At first, keeping quiet was a necessity, since Guy’s men were still searching the woods. But even after it became obvious that they’d lost their pursuers, they didn’t speak. They’d stopped trying to quiet their footsteps, and they marched on, heedless of snapping branches and crunching leaves. Will had handed Much his red coat to cover her own torn shirt, and she accepted it without thanks. And still they said not a word.
They arrived at the tree and waited and rested. When Will finally did break the silence, it was with a question Much wasn’t expecting.
“So,” he said, struggling for the words, “are you all girl or …”
“Yes!” snapped Much. “I’m all girl. And you’re all idiot.”
Will’s face flushed a deep red, but whether it was out of anger or embarrassment, Much couldn’t have said. Scarlet, indeed.
“It’s not a foolish question,” said Will. “You hear stories, you know.”
Much shook her head in disgust and looked away, searching the trees for any movement. The oak was deep in the wilds of Sherwood, deeper than most had ventured. But a select few knew it. John had been the first one to show it to Much.
“They should’ve been here by now,” she said, hoping to change the subject. But Will wouldn’t let it go.
“It’s just I’m surprised you kept it a secret all this time. I mean, it had to have been hard.”
“Yes, but men are stupid, which made things easier. We’ve established that just now, haven’t we?”
“Does John know? Rob?”
“No and no,” said Much, turning on him. “And if you breathe a word, I’ll fill you full of knife holes, Will Scarlet, so help me I will!”
Will held up his hands in surrender and said nothing more.
The boy didn’t deserve her anger. After all, he’d discovered her secret by accident and in the process of saving her life. It wasn’t his fault, but that didn’t change the fact that the truth was out now, and though she could make him swear to never tell a soul, once a secret was spoken, it would spread. It was a rule of nature that people couldn’t keep their mouths shut. Sooner or later, he’d let the truth slip.
Which meant that Much had to leave. Once they were sure Rob and John were safe, Much would slip away quietly and disappear. But she didn’t want to run away from home yet again. Without meaning to, Will had ruined everything.
Bloody Will Scarlet.
“So,” said Will. “How old are you? Really?”
Much looked over at him. He just wouldn’t let it lie. “How old are you?” she asked.
“Thirteen.”
“I’ve got a year on you, then,” she said. “But no one would believe I’m a fourteen-year-old boy.”
“I would’ve never known, if I hadn’t seen … I mean to say … you’re a very good actor.”
His face had turned an even brighter shade of red, if such a thing were possible. She prayed that Rob and John would arrive soon, just to put the boy out of his misery.
But it was getting late in the day. The long afternoon shadows were growing steadily, and Much had no interest in spending the night next to this oak. It was eerie enough in the daylight.
Her mind made up, Much stood and dusted herself off.
“Right,” she said. “I’m going to find them.”
“What?” said Will. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Rob said to meet here, didn’t he?”
“If he’d have been able to meet us here, he would’ve done it by now. That means they’re in trouble.�
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Will came to stand next to her.
“But we might meet more soldiers out there. And you’re weaponless.”
“You’re right,” she said. Then Much walked around to the back of the oak tree, opposite its face. There was a hollow where some of the ground had eroded away from the roots. She reached inside that dark space, wincing at the feel of moist earth and crawling things.
“What are you looking for?” asked Will.
Much ignored him as she scraped away a layer of rotted leaves. Then she withdrew two bundles wrapped in leather and oilcloth.
“John told me that he put this here in case the camp was ever taken,” she said. “Only he and Rob know about it.”
She unrolled one bundle to reveal three daggers. The second contained clothes, cloaks, and a small purse of silver.
The clothes smelled vaguely of forest rot, and the blades were rusting in places, but they were sturdy and well-made weapons.
Much pulled a musty old vest over her head and handed Will back his red coat.
“Matches your cheeks today,” she said. Then she tucked two of the daggers into her belt and the third away in her boot.
“I should have thanked you,” she said. “You saved my life.”
Will looked at her.
“I did what anyone would do.”
“No, that’s not true,” said Much. “But if it was, you’d deserve a thank-you all the same.”
“You’re welcome,” said Will. “Shall we go?”
Much turned and began picking her way back through the woods, with Will behind her. While she wasn’t really angry anymore, she had still half hoped the boy would insist on waiting for her at the tree. She’d be far quieter on her own. Plus, if his presence had made her uncomfortable back when she was still a boy, it was doubly worse now that she was a girl.
As they walked through the trees, Much heard Rob’s voice in her head chiding her for making such a bad decision. A rule of banditry—when you’ve escaped the enemy, you never return. You cut your losses and run. They’d walked into Sir Guy’s trap once; it was a foolish outlaw who would walk into it a second time.
But it was that kind of thinking that Much was counting on. Surely, Sir Guy would abandon the camp once his trap had been sprung. He wouldn’t wait around for stragglers to return. Would he?
The stars were up by the time they reached the camp. If they did have to make another sudden escape, at least the dark would work to their advantage.
The woods were alive with the sounds of creatures waking, but empty of the sounds of men. The hum of insects disturbed the otherwise peaceful silence. Although patches of upturned earth spoke of fighting, no bodies remained. Guy’s soldiers must’ve taken their own with them.
As for the missing Merry Men, Much and Will found them lying in a shallow open grave dug just on the outskirts of the camp. The bodies of five or six men were heaped together in a tangle of bloody limbs. The bodies on top were at least several days old and already smelled. Despite the bloated purple faces, she recognized Gilbert the White Hand among the corpses, his eyes open and staring at nothing.
Will stood gazing at the pit for a long, long time.
“All these people,” he said at last. “I tricked you all into robbing Guy in the first place.”
“Will, you can’t blame yourself for what Sir Guy did here. The Merry Men are bandits. We steal, and we do it at the risk of our own lives. Every day. This is about the life we choose—it’s not about you.”
She’d been about to suggest searching the rest of the camp for signs of Rob or John when she heard a moan coming from the far side. Will readied his sword, and the two of them crept cautiously toward the source of the sound.
A figure lay at the foot of the Horned and Hooded God. A trail of blood led from where he’d fallen to the base of the Merry Men’s statue. Their good-luck charm. But Stout lay prostrate beneath it, as if praying.
His shirtfront was soaked through with blood. It looked almost black in the dim moonlight. As Much and Will approached, his eyes fluttered open.
“You … you made it,” he whispered. Much hadn’t realized a man could bleed that way and still live.
“Where’s John?” she said. “Where’s Rob?”
Stout looked around, as if momentarily surprised at his whereabouts.
“Guy took them,” he said. “Wants to hang them proper and in public … he said.”
Much let out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding in.
“They’re alive at least,” said Will.
“Huh? That you, Scarlet?” said Stout.
“Where are the others?” said Much. “We found bodies, but not everyone’s.”
“Gilbert fought back. Got himself killed. Wat and the others … got put in irons.”
“They’ll be hanged, too,” said Will.
“Please,” said Stout. “Give me a drink of water. Thirsty.”
Much leaned in close and grabbed the man by the collar. “You might as well beg the Horned God! You’d have a better chance of mercy from this statue than from me, you traitorous filth!”
Stout cried out in pain as she shook him, and then Will’s hands were on hers. Slowly, he pried her fingers from Stout’s collar.
Stout was weeping.
“Guy caught me out on the moors! Tortured me!” he was saying. “Couldn’t … had to do as he said. He set Crooked’s Men loose on the farms. He’s … he’s mad.”
Will went to one of the tents and came back with a waterskin.
“Here,” he said, putting it to Stout’s lips. “Have a drink.”
More water spilled down the man’s chin than made it into his mouth, but it seemed to calm him.
“What now?” said Will.
Much looked up at the sky. Stars blinked back at her from the heavens.
“In the morning, we finish burying the rest. We can’t leave them to the animals in the forest.”
She looked down at Stout’s pallid face. His eyes were closed, and his breath came in shallow gasps. “And we’ll make room for one more.”
Will stayed up with Stout through the night, giving the man water when he asked for it and covering him with blankets when the air turned chill. Stout died in the early morning, just a few hours before dawn.
At one point, when Stout’s cries had quieted and he’d finally drifted into unconsciousness, Much asked Will why.
“Why are you helping him?” she’d asked. “What do you owe Stout?”
“This isn’t about Stout,” Will had answered.
By the time dawn arrived, Much saw Will Scarlet as if for the first time. Before, he’d infuriated her and even fascinated her at times. Scarlet. She’d thought it such a childish name, a name chosen out of a desire for revenge. A reckless name for a boy on a dangerous quest.
But now she saw the name differently. It wasn’t about the blood he planned on spilling; it was about the blood that had already been spilled. All the deaths he felt responsible for. His name was his guilt.
She understood Will Scarlet at last, and in understanding, he broke her heart. Straight down the middle, cleaved in two.
TWENTY-TWO
Why do our plans always make my stomach hurt?
—MUCH THE MILLER’S DAUGHTER
The road out of Sherwood was a lonely trek today, and empty of even a passing farmer and his mule. But Will and Much found Bellwether just as they neared the edge of the forest. A true coward to her core, the mare had escaped the fighting back at the camp and fled along the South Road until she’d found a nice patch of thistles to munch.
Will was as happy to see her as he’d ever been. In many ways, she was all that was left of his old life, of the boy he used to be. As he scratched her neck and fed her thistles, he hid his face in her mane so that Much wouldn’t see the tears that’d welled up in his eyes.
They rode Bellwether the rest of the way out of Sherwood and into Nottinghamshire. For fear of being recognized, they covered themselves with the cloak
s from the old crone oak, and Will assured Much that at the first sign of trouble they could count on the mare to get them out of there, and fast. Whether they liked it or not.
When they got closer to civilization, they learned exactly why the road felt so barren.
They finally came across a peddler hurrying out of Nottingham, and he told a story that farmers had become refugees on their own land. Crooked’s Men had turned marauders, and they’d done it with Sir Guy’s blessing. They targeted any home that might have benefited from Guy’s stolen silver and razed it to the ground. In just a few days, they’d cut a swath of carnage across Nottinghamshire. The sheriff was furious with Sir Guy, and the Horse Knight’s actions had opened a deep rift between the two men. The sheriff set his soldiers after them, and they’d caught Guy and his bandit-mercenaries as they were marching out of Sherwood Forest, not a day back. The sheriff chased them all the way to Shackley Castle and was camped outside the castle walls even now, threatening a siege and demanding justice.
But the damage was done, and the lives of many people that Will and his companions had tried to help had been ruined.
Much and Will decided to stop along the side of the road and make camp on the far side of a hill, where their fire wouldn’t be spotted. Much had managed to bag a hare on their way out of Sherwood, and that night they dined on roast rabbit as they pondered the enormous task ahead of them—how to save Rob and John.
“Rob would want us to escape,” said Much. “Make for the North Country, maybe, and start fresh.”
“Is that what he would do for you?” asked Will. “Would Rob leave you to hang?”
“No,” said Much. “Not sober, he wouldn’t. Even blind drunk he’d try a rescue, I think, but he’d surely get himself caught.”
Will laughed. “Probably knock on the front door and challenge the whole castle to a duel.”
“But he’d forget to wear pants!” Much joined in the laughter. Will had never noticed it before, but Much covered her mouth when she laughed, almost as if she were self-conscious of her smile. He didn’t know why, but it charmed him.