Will in Scarlet (20 page)

“A heathen?”

“Yes,” said Will. “But my father said the Moors were honorable people. Men of great learning.”

“Wasn’t King Richard fighting the Moors on that crusade of his?”

“Yes, but it’s possible to honor your enemies,” said Will. “If they have honor themselves. Besides, the war is over now. And he learned this game from them years ago. They came to our castle once to trade.”

“If they were trading this game of yours, then I hope you didn’t give them much in return. It’s terrible.”

Will began putting the pieces back to their original positions. Maybe if he started over, things would seem clearer.

“Don’t get too focused on each piece,” he said. “Start with the objective—to defend your king—”

“I don’t want to defend my king,” said Much. “What’s he done for me? The king can go rot for all I care.”

“I’m not talking about the real king!” said Will, losing his patience. “Fine, imagine it’s King Richard you’re defending.”

“Don’t want to,” said Much. “One king’s as bad as another.”

Will stopped setting up the pieces. “Richard is not John. John’s stealing the lands of loyal noblemen while his cronies bleed the people dry. King Richard is a good man.”

“Tell that to all those Moors he killed in that war of his,” said Much. “Those honorable men of great learning you were telling me about. I wonder if they think he’s such a great king.”

Before he’d even realized what he was doing, Will had slammed his fist down on the board, sending the pieces flying.

“My father fought with him!” Will shouted. “He’s locked up in a prison with the king somewhere, if he’s not dead already, and while my father was gone, his brother was murdered and his castle stolen! It has to mean something.”

Will stood up and stalked over to the window. He opened the shutter and let the air in to cool his blood. “What do you know about it, anyway? You’ve probably never even been out of Nottinghamshire.”

It was quiet for a while as Will breathed in the night air. When he heard the clatter of wood behind him, he turned around and saw Much picking up the pieces he’d sent flying and dropping them into the little lockbox Will stored them in. Empty now of silver, it made the perfect carrying case for his set.

“Here,” said Will, kneeling next to him. “Let me do that. I threw the tantrum, I can clean up the mess.”

“I forget sometimes,” said Much. “I forget you are … who you are. I didn’t mean it.”

“Yes, you did. And you were right.” Will scooped up the last of the fallen pieces—one of the pawns had chipped, but
he wouldn’t mind making another. He set the box on the table and sat down heavily in his chair.

“The thing is, Much, living in my father’s house was like living in two worlds. His world was one of knights and laws and countless other dull daily tasks of ruling. My world was seeing how much mischief I could get away with. Whether anyone would notice if I snuck off to see the mummers play instead of doing my Latin lesson, or if Nan would figure out I was the one who peppered Osbert’s wine.”

“Latin?” asked Much, eyes wide. “You know Latin?”

“Would’ve known more if not for the mummers. But my point is, there were only two worlds—my childhood and the royal court. But I realize now that both were false. Illusions.”

Will gestured to the little room around them, with its drafty thatch roof and soot-stained walls. “This is the real world. Where people starve because they weren’t born with the name Shackley. We were wrong—wolves don’t kill peasants, hunger does.”

Much shook his head sadly. “That’s how it is all over England, Will. You said I’ve never been out of Nottingham, but I have. I traveled lots of places before I ended up here, and I can tell you your father was no worse than any other lord. Probably better than most. I just can’t stand the whole lot of them, is all.”

Will rubbed his eyes. His father had always seemed such a hero, and in Will’s heart he still was. He missed him dearly and prayed every night for his safe return. As a man, as a father, he was still Will’s idol. But as Lord Shackley, he’d come to represent something else, a branch of a much larger rotten tree. A tree that would someday collapse under its own weight.

“And what about you, Much?” Will said. “You know all
my secrets, and yet I know next to nothing about you. Except you’re a terrible chess player.”

“My story’s not as interesting as yours,” the boy said, scooting closer to the fire. “No palace intrigue. No daring escapes.”

“Where are your parents?” Will asked. “Are they alive?”

“No. My mother died when I was little, and my father … he followed her two years back.”

“I’m sorry,” said Will.

“He was a miller. Called me Much because he said I wasn’t worth much, but he was just teasing.” Much tossed a hunk of peat into the fire. “He was a good man and he loved me.”

“So when he died, you set out on your own? Started thieving, pulling knives on people.” He’d meant that last part as a joke, but Much wasn’t smiling when he looked up.

“No, but I found out pretty quick that a young … a young boy on his own needs protection. Learned that lesson the hard way. Met a traveler on the road who offered to share his meal, his campfire. Afterward, though, he tried beating on me. But what he didn’t know was I’d pocketed the knife from dinner.”

Will didn’t say anything. He could only imagine this young boy out in these wilds by himself, trusting in strangers to survive, only to have that trust betrayed so easily.

“I learned that night that I could fight back,” said Much softly. “But I’m not big like John. The knife was all I had, so I used it. I gave him a scar to remember me by and made off with the rest of dinner.”

“No one can blame you for that,” said Will. “You did what you had to do to survive.”

“That was up near Carlisle,” said Much. “I made my way south after that.”

“You’re from the North Country?” asked Will. “I thought I knew the accent.”

Much nodded. “My mother was a Scot.”

“Do you have family up there still?”

“I do, but I don’t know them. And another mouth to feed is the last thing they need.”

Will, too, had family in a far-off land, and while he barely knew his mother’s relatives, his mother herself would be worried sick. She probably feared him dead. The thought of her made his heart ache, and it would be an easy thing to give in to that feeling and make for the coast. It wasn’t too late. Across the sea, there was safety and comfort waiting for him. As his mother’s son, he wouldn’t be heir to foreign lands, but her family would give him a home. Perhaps he could take Much with him—and Rob and John, if they’d be willing to go.

But no. To do that, Will would have to slip into another of those illusions and to turn his back on the reality he’d discovered here. To forget Guy’s villainy, and the sheriff’s betrayal. He’d made a vow to Osbert not to abandon these lands, and that was a vow he meant to keep.

“Will?” said Much. “Are you still set on killing Sir Guy?”

In part, Will had been expecting this. Much had been acting odd ever since the boy returned from Nottingham. Will would catch him staring when he thought Will wasn’t looking.

“I won’t put you all in danger, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Will.

“That’s not what I’m asking at all,” said Much. “I want to know if you still plan on killing Guy. Because I’ve seen him now, up close.”

“And?”

“And you won’t be able to do it.”

Will started to say something. He opened his mouth to tell him that he was young and foolish and that he had no idea what Will was capable of. But when he saw the look on Much’s
face, he stopped. The boy wasn’t taunting him; he wasn’t trying to hurt him. Much was scared. Scared for Will, and when he said that Will wouldn’t be able to do it, he was just being honest. And honesty, Will had learned, was something to be treasured among outlaws.

“Maybe,” said Will after a moment. “But I have to try.”

“Why?” said Much. “I mean, there are other ways—”

The boy stopped suddenly, his eyes going to the door.

“What? You hear something?” Will asked.

The boy nodded. “It’s all right. I think Rob and John are back.”

Will let out a sigh of relief. And he was thankful not to have to talk about Sir Guy any longer.

“We’ll finish our chess game later,” he said.

“Not likely,” answered Much.

The door swung open and Rob stomped in. He hadn’t even bothered to scrape the mud from his boots.

“I need a drink!” he said. “I know Tilley has a bottle of something around here!”

“Nothing, Rob,” said John, stepping into the doorway. He had to duck his head to fit inside. “The old man doesn’t touch the stuff.”

Will had actually seen Tilley with a bottle last night, but one look from John, and Will kept his mouth shut. No one wanted Rob to go back to the wine. But Will did want to know what they’d discovered that had him in such a state.

“What did you find?” he asked.

“The Waltham farm,” said John.

“Guy burned it to the ground!” said Rob. “Slaughtered the livestock and left the Walthams to starve.”

“What?” said Much. “Why?”

John sighed heavily. “It seems that Waltham decided to
share a bit of his good fortune at the pub in Nottingham. The poor fool bought everyone a round of drinks and told them a tale of the kindhearted outlaw who slept in his barn and filled his pocket with silver.”

“And word got back to Guy,” said Will. “This is all my fault.”

“No!” said Rob, striding over to him. “This is the doing of Sir Guy of Gisborne and his thugs. You tried to help Waltham.”

“But he won’t stop there,” said Will. “He knows we’re helping these people with his silver, and he’ll keep taking his revenge on them.”

“You’re right,” said Rob. “We’re putting Tilley and his sons in danger just being here. They’ll be searching every outlying farm and homestead now.”

“So what do we do?” asked Much. “Where do we go?”

Rob and John exchanged a look, but Will knew what they were thinking. They’d stayed out here among the farms and villages for too long. But it was no longer just their lives they were putting at risk—it was the life of every single person they helped. Will couldn’t put them all in danger.

“We go where any outlaw goes who’s on the run,” said Will. “We go back to Sherwood.”

Rob scratched at his beard thoughtfully for a few minutes.

“I think the lad’s right,” he said. “No use putting it off any longer. I think it’s past time I had a conversation with Gilbert the White Hand.”

“And it’s about bloody time,” added John, smiling.

That morning Will awoke to find the sky outside their window still the blue-gray of predawn, and the frenzied chirping of birds told him that the sun was ready to rise. They’d been given beds, while John lay sprawled out in the corner—the floor seemed to be the only thing that could accommodate his massive size. Much slept contentedly in the bed next to Will’s, burrowed under the covers like a mole, but Rob’s was empty.

Will slipped on his boots, took his coat down from its tack on the wall, and snuck out the door, careful not to let it squeak as it closed. The Tilleys had taken the floor in the front room, and Will had to step carefully so as not to crush exposed fingers or toes.

He found Rob outside near the fence, wrapped in his cloak and staring at the pink glow in the east.

“Well met, Master Will,” said Rob.

“Do you mind some company?” asked Will.

“Not at all. Pull up a piece of fence.”

Will leaned against the post and looked up at the sky.

“If you wait a bit,” said Rob, “you can see bats hunting. You can tell them by the way they fly—not straight like a bird, but more erratic.”

Will squinted up where the sky was growing light. After a moment, he did start to pick out dark shapes fluttering about, their flight paths like cracks in a glass.

“I see them,” said Will.

“Did you know John’s afraid of bats? Hates them. That’s why he sleeps with his boots on. Says they go for your toes.”

“Do they?”

“Nah. But don’t tell him that. The more he keeps those gargantuan feet of his covered, the better it is for the rest of us.”

Will watched the bats swoop and dive for their breakfast. Or was this their bedtime snack? Bats were night creatures and would soon hide away to sleep as the sun appeared over the horizon.

“I used to get up at first light to steal sweets from the kitchen,” said Will. “The staff would unpack the sweet cream and honey first, and I’d try to grab handfuls while they weren’t looking. Nan would examine my fingers at breakfast for any traces of the stuff, but I learned to keep my fingernails short.…”

Will trailed off as he realized what he was saying. This was the most he’d spoken about his old life in months, and he’d just come very close to saying too much.

Rob was watching him, those sharp eyes of his hawklike and his face expressionless.

“Well, I was always an early riser, too,” Rob said after a moment. “That is, when I wasn’t sleeping off a barrel of wine.”

Will smiled at this, but even as Rob made light of his drinking, it made Will worry. In spite of himself, Will liked this Rob. He respected him, even. But the drunken braggart he’d met
those weeks ago was a frightening, sad creature, and Will now lived his days afraid that he’d look and find that creature had returned.

Maybe he was still foggy-headed from sleep, or maybe experience had made him bold, but somehow that morning Will found the courage to ask a question that had been haunting him for weeks.

“Rob, are you going to go back to drinking?”

Will had been afraid that the question would earn him a tongue-lashing, but Rob just sighed and wrapped his cloak tighter around him.

“Do you mean today?” Rob said. “No, I think not.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“Honestly, lad? I don’t know. I hope not.”

Will nodded. Rob’s honesty surprised him, and made him feel good in a way. If Rob had said he’d sworn off wine forever, Will didn’t think he would’ve believed him. But he could take him at his word day by day.