Will in Scarlet (21 page)

Emboldened, he decided to try another question.

“John said you started drinking because of a girl. Is that true?”

Rob didn’t handle this question nearly as well. The man turned around and pointed angrily at the Tilleys’ house, his voice rising as he spoke.

“Oh, is that what he said? Well, Little John has a mouth to match his giant, ignorant head!”

Will feared he’d gone too far. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “He just mentioned her in passing. He didn’t even say her name!”

“That’s because her name will not be spoken, you hear me?” Rob turned his finger to Will’s face.

Will nodded.

“And she’s a lady, not a girl,” said Rob, looking away. “And I didn’t start drinking because of
her
. Not exactly.”

“I am sorry, Rob,” said Will. “I shouldn’t have pried.…”

“It’s this place, Will,” Rob said, gesturing to the fields and trees around them. “It’s England. It’s this time we live in that makes a man drink himself dumb. It’s the simple, spiteful
unfairness
of it all! It’s the fact that if I’d been born Robert, Earl of Locksley, say, rather than plain old Rob the yeoman, then I’d have the lady I wanted. I’d have a chance at least. But that’s not to be—so, the bottle.”

Rob’s broken heart, the Walthams’ ruined pig farm, even Geoff’s murder—they were all a part of William Shackley’s England. The England where men were propped up by birth rather than deeds, where the strong took from the weak. It was an England Will Scarlet was beginning to despise.

“It’s those same forces that are after us now, you know,” Rob said. “Those with power—who said I couldn’t dare to love the woman I chose—those are the very same people who are after us now. We’ve upset the order, and that’s not likely to end well, lad.”

“You know,” said Will, taking a deep breath. “My uncle used to say that the power to rule over another man is like brittle glass. All it takes is a crack to shatter it all to pieces. I don’t know if I believed him at the time, but I’ve grown up a lot since then.”

“So what do you believe now?” asked Rob.

“I think no man should starve when another man has so much. And we can show people that. Guy and the sheriff and Prince John himself will hunt us, but if we are clever, we can show people that truth. We can crack their lie to pieces. If we’re caught, then maybe we’ll be worth a story or two. And maybe someone else will pick up the tale.”

At this, Rob broke into a huge grin, that laughing, wild-eyed grin he got, and he clasped his hand on Will’s shoulder.

“I may be a good-for-nothing drunkard and a fool, Will Scarlet, but I will say this—that’s something worth being sober for! By God it is!

“Come on,” he continued. “Let’s find some breakfast for these lazy layabouts we call friends! We’ll need our strength for the journey into Sherwood, I think. After all, if our luck holds, I fully expect someone will try to kill us today!”

In the short time Will had spent among the outlaws, he’d discovered there was a reason Sherwood Forest was a home to so many scoundrels and brigands. There were really only two decent roads through the forest; the rest was a maze of tangled paths, dark hollows, and impenetrable brush—unless you knew your way around. Many of the so-called criminals who’d fled to the forest were woodsmen and trappers who’d lost too much under Prince John’s yoke to make a decent living. It would be a stretch to call them honest men, but they were not without their own sense of honor.

With the exception of Gilbert and Stout, the Merry Men were just such men. Given the choice of robbing or earning an honest living, most of them would take the latter, if an honest living didn’t mean being a slave to your lord and master. They were not men deserving of a hangman’s noose or the sword, especially if the sword was wielded by the likes of Sir Guy. They needed to be warned about Sir Guy, at the very least.

“Think Gilbert will just have us shot on sight?” asked John as he peered into the thick brush. With only two horses remaining, they’d taken turns riding and walking most of the
way, but now the path was getting so tangled that they were all forced to go on foot.

“He would,” said Rob. “But the rest of the men love me. I’m a very popular figure among the outlaw type.”

Rob either didn’t notice or didn’t care about the look that John and Much shared with each other.

“If Guy wants to keep the respect of the Merry Men, then he’ll have to murder me fairly,” he continued. “Or at least unfairly but in spectacular fashion. Something more impressive than an arrow in the back.”

“What about an arrow in the front?” asked John.

“Shut up,” answered Rob.

“Why would he want you dead at all?” asked Will. “I’m the one Stout tried to kill.”

“Oh, he’ll kill you, too, don’t you worry,” said John. “But now you’re a small fish. More than anything, Gilbert fears competition. Someone better equipped to lead.”

“He’s right,” said Much. “Now that Rob’s sober—”

“Tragedy that may be,” said Rob.

“Now that Rob’s sober,” continued John, “he’s the man the rest’ll look to. Rob the Drunk was easy to keep in check. Ah, but now Robin—”

“Don’t say it,” interrupted Rob. “I hate that name and you know it!”

Much and John shared a laugh.

“What name?” asked Will. “What’s so funny?”

“Well, my lad,” said John. “You know that statue back at the camp? That horned and hooded monstrosity?”

“Yes. Much told me that Wat built it.”

“Oh yes!” laughed John. “But he wasn’t alone! It takes more than the dim wits of Wat Crabstaff to design such a brilliant
engine of banditry! Such a fine, original idea—
Hey, everyone! We don’t need to threaten people into giving up their coin. We’ll just build a giant hooded monster to do it for us!
”

“All right,” said Rob. “That’s enough.”

“But, Rob,” said John. “Surely an act like that is deserving of a name to remember you by? What was it again? Robin—”

“No, I mean shut up!” whispered Rob. “We’re being watched!”

No sooner had he spoken than a loud birdcall echoed through the trees. Then the call was taken up by another farther on.

“We’ve been spotted,” said Rob quietly.

“Was that the signal for friend or foe?” asked Will.

“Neither,” said Much. “That wasn’t one of our calls.”

“You think Gilbert’s had them changed?” asked John.

“I think we need to be ready for anything,” answered Rob. “Will, you still have that longbow?”

“Yes,” answered Will. “But I told you I’m no good at it.”

“It’s not for you,” answered Rob. “Hand it over.”

Will took the bow off one of the horses and handed it to Rob. As he strung it, Rob ran his hand along its curves, as if testing the wood.

“Good bow. Yew. The best, in fact.”

Next he slung a quiver of arrows onto his back.

“Shoddy bunch of arrows, though. Look like they’ve been fletched by a blind man. If things go badly with Gilbert, if he somehow manages to get the best of me, you and Much make for the trees. Deep in the forest there’s a lightning-struck oak with a face like an old crone’s. You know it, Much?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Meet there if we need to split up. Bring Will with you.”

Much started to protest, but Rob cut him off. “Do as I say.”

Much looked to John for help, but the big man just shook his head. “You heard him.”

Will didn’t say anything, though he knew he wouldn’t run. If there was fighting to be done, he would be there fighting at their sides.

When the gate came into sight, it was wide open. Men moved about in the camp beyond. A fat fellow walked toward them, waving.

“Stout!” said John. “He made it back after all!”

“Hey there, Rob!” called Stout. “John, Much. Been waiting for you.”

“I bet he has,” said Much under his breath.

“Where’s Gilbert?” said Rob.

Stout swallowed nervously. Will realized the man was scared. Terrified, even.

“He’s … he’s dead,” said Stout.

“Dead?” said John.

“It’s true,” called out a familiar voice. “But he died fighting, I’ll give him that.”

From one of the tents behind Stout stepped a tall man wearing a broadsword. He was slipping on a most unusual helmet made to look like the head of a corpse stallion. It matched his horsehide armor.

“Stout said if we punished a few peasants, you’d come running home,” he said, drawing his sword. “Good boy, Stout.”

“Sir Guy!” breathed Will.

“What?” said John. “How did he—”

But Rob didn’t wait for him to finish. There was a flash of movement, and then an arrow sang through the air. It landed with a meaty thunk in Sir Guy’s right hand. The Horse Knight cried out as he dropped his sword.

“Good shot!” said John.

“I was aiming for his face!” answered Rob. “I’m out of practice!”

Sir Guy shouted an order, and the camp was suddenly alive with soldiers. Some were dressed plainly, disguised as Merry Men, while others came rushing from the tents readied in full armor. A few were even perched in the trees with crossbows. Guy’s soldiers had been lying in wait for them to come home.

“Go!” John shouted as he hauled Will up by his shoulders and threw him into the trees to their right. But Will could barely make his legs move. There was Sir Guy of Gisborne, not thirty feet from him. The man who’d killed his uncle and stolen everything from him.

They charged through the trees as crossbow bolts landed around them, John dragging Will and shouting at the boy to run. Soldiers crashed through the brush in pursuit. Rob ran a few feet, let loose an arrow, dropped an opponent, then ran some more. He never missed. Will had lost sight of Much.

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.

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.