She’d figured that he’d pass the tourney grounds and hole up in a local tavern to nurse his wounds. But he surprised her when he arrived at a large, plain tent on the outskirts of the competitors’ pavilion. This one was larger than most but also plainer, without any of the gaudy trappings or silky banners that decorated the rest. A pair of town guardsmen stopped the pardoner at the door, and after a moment of chatter, he was let inside.
If Much had one professional weakness, it was curiosity. There was absolutely no good reason for her to linger there any longer. The pardoner was about whatever business he was about, and it was high time for Much to return to her clerk. She still needed to find out when the man was leaving Nottingham and by which road.
She repeated this very logical reasoning to herself as she slipped around the back of the tent and, looking over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t in plain view, used a knife to cut a small peephole in the rear tent wall. Then she bent down and pretended to be rewrapping her foot bandages. Funny what a wide berth people gave you when you looked to be unwrapping a festering sore.
From her peephole, she had a good view of the pardoner. He was talking to another man, who was strapping himself into a suit of well-worn armor. Much recognized the man by the gold chain of office that hung about his neck—the Sheriff of Nottingham! Much only knew the man by sight, as Gilbert had had dealings with him in the past. Bribes that were paid in the form of tribute. There must have been a lull between tournament contests, because the cheering and boos had died down, and in the relative quiet the men’s voices carried well.
The pardoner was red-faced and furious.
“… all of it!” he was saying. “Every last farthing! And what good did your protection buy me? Not a bit.”
“I told you,” the sheriff answered. “These must’ve been new. Brigands stopping off along the road for a quick robbery. They’ll have moved on by morning.”
“Moved on with my silver!” The pardoner was practically spitting he was so mad. “I demand recompense! I demand—”
The man cut off the pardoner with a wave of his hand.
“You’ll demand nothing of me. You’ll go about your business of saving souls for profit, and you’ll remember to put in your daily prayers a special thank-you that the Sheriff of Nottingham hasn’t put you in the stockade just for being a horse’s ass.”
The pardoner paled. “You wouldn’t dare.…”
The sheriff laughed. “Try me. You’re a thief—no better than those highwaymen who took your coin. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a case of dogs biting dogs.
“Now,” the sheriff continued, “if these bandits don’t move on, then I will deal with them, but that’s to keep my roads safe for honest folk, not because I was threatened by a fake holy man like yourself.”
With that, the sheriff turned his back on the pardoner and resumed armoring himself.
“We’re done,” he said. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”
The pardoner backed his way out of the tent, his face a good deal paler than when he’d first come in.
As soon as the pardoner was out the door, the sheriff’s demeanor changed. He let out a long sigh and angrily swatted aside a sheaf of papers on a nearby table.
“You see?” said a new voice, strangely accented. “What did I tell you?”
Someone was in the tent with the sheriff. Someone sitting in the shadows beyond Much’s field of vision.
“He’s a panicked fool who had a bit of bad luck,” said the sheriff. “Nothing more.”
“You can tell yourself that if you want,” said the voice. “But my people tell me that these outlaws are hunting the edges of Sherwood. They aren’t going anywhere.”
“Yes? And who would your people be? Tom Crooked and his gang of murderers? How do you know that Crooked himself isn’t behind all this?”
“Don’t be so self-righteous!” said the hidden man. “I understand you’ve had dealings with him in the past. Your hands are not as clean as you like to pretend.”
The sheriff spun around and faced the man in the shadows.
“My arrangement with the bandits of Sherwood kept the greater peace. Let them hunt there so that they stay out of Nottingham. But you are giving them commissions. Making them your mercenaries and enforcers! It’s a dangerous game.”
“You don’t like my methods, look the other way,” said the man. “But I’ve gotten the peasants talking. They say these new outlaws are led by a bandit king. Gives silver to the poor. I think they’re trying to spark a rebellion.”
The sheriff laughed. “And I think it’s a story. I also have one about the Witch of the Forest, who sours milk with a gaze and gives you the pox whenever she sneezes. Peasants are full of stories. It keeps their minds off their empty bellies.”
There was the creak of leather as the man from the shadows stepped into view. He wore a terrifying suit of armor that seemed crafted from animal hide, and in his arms he held a helm shaped like a horse’s skull. He looked nothing like the shining knights of the tourney. This man looked like a barbarian.
“They stole from me,” said the man. “They came into my castle and stole from me.”
“Your castle?” said the sheriff. “It still belonged to Rodric Shackley last I checked.”
“Prince John in his wisdom has asked me to act as regent until Lord Rodric returns. It’s a shame what happened to poor Lord Geoff, killed in a traitorous brawl of his own making. But people get hurt in brawls. Even die.”
The sheriff was quiet for a moment. “Geoff was no traitor.”
“No matter,” said Sir Guy. “It’s ancient history. He’s dead. Rodric’s wife and son are fled to France, and it’s my right as the new regent to hunt down these criminals who stole from me!”
“I will catch them,” said the sheriff.
“I’m not here to ask your help. I’m here to tell you that I’ll find them my own way. I’ve already begun. You see, I have names.…”
At that moment, a loud cheer went up from the tournament grounds, and the two men’s voices were drowned out by the noise. Whatever was being said, the sheriff looked none too happy about it. Sir Guy shoved a piece of parchment into the Sheriff’s hands, and whatever was written there just made the man angrier. When the cries finally died down, he was practically shouting.
“… don’t do anything so stupid! The peasant folk are already on the verge of open revolt, and the bandits pay to be left alone. If you go about kicking hornets’ nests, I’ll be the one to deal with it!”
“I’m not asking permission, Sheriff,” answered the man. “I’m just giving you fair warning. I’ll catch the robbers my way. You stick to tax collecting—you’re good at it.”
With that, the man turned to go. “But call me stupid one more time and I’ll knock your pate down your neck,” he added.
The sheriff called out after him. “Sir Guy, not even Prince John will be able to save you if you go too far.”
But the man didn’t stop and he didn’t look back.
Much snuck away from the tent until she was far enough away that she could run. She kept her head down as she scurried quickly through the crowds. Perhaps too quickly for a supposed sick beggar boy, but she didn’t care to dawdle here any longer. It was time to leave Nottingham behind.
Sir Guy of Gisborne. She’d finally gotten a good look at the man Will had sworn to kill, and she knew he couldn’t do it. Since joining the world of outlaws, Much had developed a sense about them. She could tell, more or less, the men who skirted or even broke the law because they had to. Because they genuinely believed they had no other choice. But she could also tell, more or less, the men who did it because they enjoyed it. Thrill seekers, some, but the real bad ones had a taste for the chaos. The violence of it all. Sir Guy was one of those men. He might have a knightly title, but he was an outlaw of the worst kind, and there was no way the skinny boy in the red coat could face that iron-cold killer and live. None.
Much hadn’t feared many things in
her life, but she feared him. And more, she feared for Will.
NINETEEN
One king’s as bad as another.
—MUCH THE MILLER’S SON
After hearing Much’s report from Nottingham, Will and his companions never made camp in the same place twice. Most nights they slept out on the windswept moors; others they sheltered beneath the leaves. But occasionally they found warm beds and hot meals with the families they’d helped.
The Horse Knight was hunting them, en force. Much was worried. John was angry and Rob was concerned. For Will’s part, the news created in him a mix of fear and pure joy. While he worried about his companions, that he’d hurt the Horse Knight, that their robbery had angered him so, made up in a small way for his own failure at revenge. If he couldn’t kill Sir Guy outright, he’d have to settle for driving him to distraction. For now.
But Much had also heard Sir Guy claim to have names, and if Tom Crooked was really in Sir Guy’s employ, then he’d have given up the name John Little for sure. He might even have told him about Rob and the Merry Men. While Gilbert and the rest would be safe in their hidden camp, they would have no idea that Sir Guy was out there somewhere waiting for them.
No one cared a bit for Gilbert’s safety, but Wat Crabstaff and the rest of the Merry Men would also be at risk, and it didn’t feel right letting them go about heedless of the danger.
Unfortunately, the weather turned sour again before they could decide what to do about it, and they were forced to hole up with the old furrier Tilley and his sons until the storms passed. They took shelter in the rear room, while the Tilleys slept in the front. After a day and a night of solid storms, the sun finally reappeared, if only briefly, and Rob and John took advantage of the break in the bad weather to do some scouting and see if they couldn’t get some information on Guy’s movements. It was agreed that if the roads were clear, they’d all leave in the morning. They’d already been in one place longer than any of them liked.
As the day turned to evening, and without anything else to do, Will decided to teach Much how to play a game. There was a decent fire going in the back room of the house to keep away the lingering damp, but nothing could drive away the boredom, so Will had taken to carving as a way to pass the hours. He’d managed to create a rather rough set of game pieces and turned a sheet of vellum (a “gift” he’d lifted from one of the tax collectors) into a game board by decorating it in rows and columns of squares, some white, some blackened with charcoal. The physical game was complete; now all he needed was someone to play it with. He just needed someone patient enough to learn the rules.
“This is a stupid game and I’m not playing it anymore,” said Much.
Will sighed. At least Much hadn’t knocked the pieces over this time. That was an improvement, surely.
“Why can’t I move this one forward and kill your man?” she asked.
“Pawns only attack on a diagonal. And they don’t kill, they capture.”
“Well, that’s stupid,” said Much. “Here’s an enemy sitting right in front of him and he won’t be bothered to do anything about it? Stupid.”
“It requires strategy,” said Will. “Let’s look at your other possible moves.”
Much sat back with his arms folded across his chest and scrunched his face up into a pout as Will reviewed, for the tenth time, each piece’s name and its capabilities.
Will could tell the boy was barely listening. “Where’d you learn this?”
“My father,” said Will. “He learned it from a traveling Moor.”
“A Moor?” said Much.
“From northern Africa and the Arab lands.”
“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 k
now 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.