What A Scoundrel Wants (11 page)

The hamlet of Keyworth boasted no more than a few dozen haphazardly placed, rough-hewn dwellings, but its market married merchants’ wares to peasants from the surrounding wood. Women in veils and tunic gowns dulled by long use crisscrossed two dusty cart paths, stitching a pattern of footsteps between the stands as they haggled and traded. Baskets woven of reeds and straw grew fat and heavy. An occasional horse and rider kicked smoke puffs of dry earth into the air, clouding the scene like fog across a lake. Voices melded with animal grunts, the blacksmith’s clang, and forest sounds to give heady life to midday.

Beyond the town, encircling its heart like a cage of ribs, lay striped fields of oats and barley being picked clean of their annual yield. Villagers bent and broke and twisted their backs over the warbling furrows. Air painted with chill winds urged those backs, those calloused and practiced hands, to make haste.

Like long rows yet to be harvested, a peasant’s days blended together with only ale and rough pleasures to blunt the toil. Will wanted none of it, the routine and hardship. He would not be shackled to the numbing, grinding rhythm of an ordinary life, nor would he sacrifice as he had during those wretched years of outlawry in Sherwood.

Having taken employment with the sheriff to avoid that exact village scene, he imagined days of comfort, early and late. Wealth, women, and song—nothing less would be compensation enough for doing Finch’s dirty work.

But easy living and easy choices diverged like a road at a fork. The inexplicable hex of a certain woman pulled him afar of steadfast goals.

Will shut his eyes, motives blurring. In an ideal sort of daydream, he would rather bind his future to the first decent-minded liege to have him. But the only decent-minded liege he had ever known bore the name Loxley. Unless he wanted to creep back to Robin’s service, he would be better to clear his name, ensure Marian’s safety, and start again, maybe somewhere to the south.

All these delays worried him. How much time did he have before Carlisle and Finch would learn of Hendon’s demise? How many days remained before they would make good on the threats against Marian and young Robert?

While pinching a measure of sugar from the local apothecary seemed at odds with good sense, Meg had him curious. The lye, the explosions in the woods—he honestly wanted to see more, if only to know the extent of her magic and perhaps, if he was lucky, to purge his growing infatuation.

And now he carried a little magic as well. In a bag at his waist, he carried a few dozen of the tiny exploding bundles she had used against Hugo’s people. Inside pale twists of linen no bigger than the pad of his thumb, a combination of crushed rock, sawdust, and finely ground black powder gave the bundles their lumpy, nearly spherical shape. She had caught and tamed thunder.

Will would get her sugar. Come morning, he would drag her to Nottingham, if he had to, and be done with this nightmare. And Carlisle, milling among a small cluster of soldiers in the center of Keyworth, would only get in the way.

“What do you see?” Shrouded by a moth-eaten woolen cloak, Dryden met Will’s quick downward gaze. Monthemer, alongside him, crouched low and pressed into the shadow of the church wall.

“Carlisle and six soldiers,” Will said. “They stand in front of the apothecary.”

“Do they have horses? Does anything show to our advantage?”

Will edged an eye around the right angle of the church wall. Innocent villagers interspersed with cluttered terrain. Too many unknown spaces could be filled with potential enemies. Disguised as humble pilgrims, their plan had called for stealth, not an open clash with Nottingham’s soldiers—not in that unwise locale.

“Between them they have four horses and a cart pulled by a mule.”

Dryden stood carefully, joining Will to watch the commotion. He arranged his cloak to cover all but the essential features of his face and the tips of his fingers. Clasping a walking stick much like Meg’s rough branch, he rounded the corner of the church and waited against the front wall, head lowered. He almost appeared penitent.

Across the modest distance, Carlisle’s words muddled to gruff, deep tones of impatience. Metal rivets along the seams of his boiled leather armor shone like silver coins among the dirt and dun of the busy market. He directed two of his soldiers, pointing with hands the size and shape of ham hocks.

The armored soldiers, draped in the sheriff’s colors, dragged bulging linen sacks from the apothecary’s large but shabby hut, to the apparent dismay of the apothecary. The bent, aged man clutched a pouch of what might have been his payment, but his mouth pinched into a tight scowl. He argued with the nearest soldier. They exchanged a vigorous volley of words, none of which traveled intact across the clearing.

The apothecary shook his fist at the laden cart, his face red. The soldier smacked him across the temple. Sprawling on the ground, the elderly man clawed at his head, his shoulders shivering with fear or sobs or unrelieved rage. Townspeople avoided the happening, ducking their heads and hurrying away.

Dryden turned to Will. “What is that they load into the cart?”

Squinting across the square, he shrugged. “Something they cannot obtain in Nottingham, obviously. Makes a body wonder.”

“Is this worth the risk?”

“Of course not.” A new and more vigorous headache threatened to blur his vision. He pushed against it and fought for a clear head. “But they must have had intentions when they murdered your families, working to create confusion about the perpetrators.”

“And why does that concern you?”

“Until my name is cleared of your father’s death, I am very concerned with Carlisle’s actions. Whatever they want with those supplies may be connected.”

Monthemer’s pale face shone from within the woolen hood of his pilgrim’s cloak. “We could rush them,” he whispered.

“No,” Will and Dryden said in unison. They glared at each other, then at the young baron.

“There are but five men.” Monthemer stood hastily. Eagerness eroded his caution, threatening to expose them all. “We are three, and we have surprise to our aid.”

Will restrained him with a forceful fist. “No, I say. Carlisle’s no fool. He tucked Whitstowe’s lead guard in his pocket. Who knows how many of these poor crofters he’s bought?”

“He’s right, Stephen.” Dryden’s usually calm voice spiked with irritation.

“No cause to make a scene here.” Will pushed away from the wall and turned to the forest girding the rear of the church. He slapped the younger man on the back, urging his cooperation. “They’ll travel back to Nottingham on the road.”

Monthemer nodded, still far too enthusiastic. “What about the sugar?”

“Carlisle first. I would like to bid my former leader a good day.”

She dropped a pewter bowl and spun to face the door. “Hugo! You filthy pig. You enjoy surprising me, don’t you?”

“You know me to be a lazy man,” he said, shuffling into the cabin with his strange, roundabout grace. “I find pleasure in effortless pursuits, and nothing is easier than surprising a blind woman.”

She rubbed her upper arms. “Once I let a snake in my bed when I should have chopped it to pieces.”

Closer now, standing on the other side of the broad worktable, he laughed. “There was no bed that first night. And the only thing you let me into was your tight cunny.”

“Sweet words, Hugo.” By all accounts, his nasty remarks should have made her flinch, but she felt only annoyance. And boredom. Their sick association had lasted too long. “I cannot wait to hear more, although I won’t believe a one of them.”

“You’d rather believe Will Scarlet.”

“Hardly.”

“Yet you think he’ll help you find Ada.”

“At present, yes,” she said, rounding to the row of shelves and pressing her back into the wood. “Helping me serves his purpose. I intend to accept his aid for as long as he proves useful, but I do not trust him.”

“You’ll just take him between your legs. I understand. You have no good record of remaining objective when your body craves a man.”

She shoved a clamor of voices into a dark corner of her mind. “Say your peace, Hugo. I have work to attend.”

“Ah, yes, your precious work.” He tossed a jar or pot onto the ground. Meg flinched. The pungent reek of tar rolled through the air. “It’s nonsense, I say.”

“Or you can leave.”

“Why would I? You’re a wanted woman. Word has it the sheriff is after you, now that he knows Ada is not an alchemist.”

“Who told him? You?”

“You’re notorious here in Charnwood. You know that. Maybe someone became a bit too bored, a little too hungry, and decided to sell their story. Maybe those poor sods whose huts you set ablaze. You’ve managed to evade notice for some time, but the forest hasn’t given up its eyes and ears.” He shambled nearer, standing side by side with her against the shelves. His whisper was conspiratorial. “Or…”

“What?”

“Ada. She’s not the strongest girl in England, you know. Or the most dependable at minding your back.”

“You would know.”

“What makes you think she can resist, shall we say, rough questioning?”

His suggestion set her heart beating faster—not simply the idea of Sheriff Finch abusing his female captive. Meg should have been able to shut the door on Hugo and his malicious suggestion, but the festering thought remained: Ada could betray her. She had done before.

“And you would exchange me for a bounty, wouldn’t you?” she asked.

“Me? Of course not. Meg, I thought nothing of the sort. Will Scarlet, however…”

Her skin went cold. “What of him?”

He played with the end of her sleeve, the one she had singed that morning. Not touching her. Trying to intimidate her. “You didn’t hear much of the Robin Hood story when you were busy taking your very long nap.”

“No,” she said, yanking the sleeve from his fingers. “What I’ve heard since seems too outlandish to be real.”

“You’re probably right.” He walked to the table. Meg heard the slush of an ale cask as he drank with noisy swallows. He smacked his lips. “Robin of Loxley married Lady Marian DuBois. They were quite in love. When Robin went off to war, Marian stayed behind with Scarlet, her valiant protector. A few months later, he left the manor. He’s never been back.”

She frowned, fitting disparate pieces together. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Rumor has it that if Scarlet doesn’t relinquish you to the sheriff, Finch will set his men on Marian. Seems your boy would do anything to keep that woman safe.”

She had no cause to believe the worthless thief, but her heartbeat accelerated again. Her lungs worked at a furious rate. Since his rescue at the roadside, Scarlet had discovered a new excuse at every turn to stay with her. Emeralds be damned. The idea of his avarice stuck in her gut, as false as her shimmering creations.

But trudging through the forest to ensure the safety of his uncle’s wife?
That
was a purpose foolhardy enough to suit Will Scarlet.

“You didn’t answer my question, Hugo. Why tell me this?”

“I thought you would appreciate my warning, maybe reward me for being such a thoughtful fellow.”

“The Devil you say.”

He snickered. “Oh, come now. A little turn for old time’s sake? But you’ll have to keep those terrible eyes of yours closed. ’Tis daylight, after all.”

She turned to the shelves and inhaled deeply. Willing her fingers to be steady, she emptied a container and faced him. “I have something for you. Take this and go.”

He hesitated. “Is it false?”

“Of course, but in the right marketplace…”

“You’re a thief too, Meg,” he said, snatching the nugget of imitation gold. “Only a different sort.”

“I never want to hear from you again.”

He leaned over as if he was going to kiss the back of her hand. Instead he exhaled, raising goose bumps on her skin. She kicked hard and connected with his shin.

Hugo grunted, then laughed. “How fickle is woman.”

Only when he was well and truly gone did she collapse to the floor. But she did not cry.

Yes, life at the sheriff’s behest proved advantageous. For the moment.

However, Carlisle readily imagined a time when his association with Peter Finch would end. Abruptly and permanently. The man proved surprisingly timid and much too cautious, despite the macabre plan he had instigated.

Since when did amassing power involve a girl magician? Successful men bought power, and when they could not, they pried it from their betters’ grasp at the point of a sword. Chicanery and plotting ill suited him and wore at his patience.

No matter. Soon enough, and with the predictability of the morn, Finch would make a mistake. Carlisle simply awaited the moment when he might turn that mistake to his gain. Wealth. Leadership. A return to London.

Atop his mount, trailing at a casual pace behind the mule cart, he shined a bit of armor soiled by flecks of mud. He spent scant moments among those disgusting people, but the pungent stench of piss and wet loam grasped like the hand of a man in his death throes. He may as well have concluded his business in a mud hole, speaking in grunts and snorts with a herd of swine.

A sudden crack of thunder at the road’s edge startled the lead horse. The animal screeched and reared, nearly discarding its rider. Two cloaked men, one with a sword and one with a bow, jumped from their concealments. Carlisle’s mount shied and turned its neck to the rear. A third swordsman, also disguised by coarse woolen hood, strode from the foliage to complete a circle around them.

For the span of a finger snap, he awaited the petty outlaws’ demands. But the cloaked men merely readied their weapons.

Carlisle almost admired their directness.

“Get them!”

The forward swordsman thrashed at Carlisle’s paired foot soldiers—soldiers that could have been carved from oak for how promptly they responded. The assailant hacked with sure, rhythmic strokes. In a bloody, brawling rush, the procession of six dropped to four.

The two rear guards vied with their lone opponent. Swords flashed and clanged, an extension of arms and stretching, reaching shoulders. The lone man at Carlisle’s back held off the mounted soldiers with quick, practiced skill. Only his cloak seemed to impede his abilities. He swished the lengthy garment behind him, revealing a full coat of mail.

He was no amateur bandit.

Carlisle’s impatience burgeoned. His remaining men parried like inexperienced whelps, suddenly clumsy atop their steeds. He cared not for their fate but did not wish to squander the scant bodies between him and their adversaries.

The forward swordsman, his weapon dripping clots of red, came for him. He grunted, connecting his boot heel with his challenger’s forehead. The sick thump of wood against bone brought a smile to Carlisle’s face. The man stumbled back, then collapsed. The hood of his cloak flew away, revealing the blond head of Stephen, Baron of Monthemer. A crescent of skull and blood showed beneath the skin at his hairline.

Questions flashed as quickly as lightning. Carlisle knew Monthemer was a useless, eager madcap, but a spontaneous raid at midday was beyond the young nobleman’s capacity. He turned, intent on discovering the identities of the remaining pair.

The archer, quiver indiscriminately strapped over his cloak, flailed at his back for an arrow. He missed once, twice, then pulled one free. Clumsy hands scraped the shaft. Flecks of white goose feather caught the wind, disappearing into the woods.

Sighting the mail-clad soldier atop the mule cart, the archer may have aimed true, but without the fletching for direction, the arrow flew wide. The driver snatched his reprieve from death and whipped the mule with frantic strokes. The cart lurched forward, finding momentum enough to roll over the arm of one of the limp bodies.

The lead soldier wrestled with the reins of his horse, spooked from the sharp noise that had precipitated the attack. He yanked hard, body straining, and swiveled the animal into an offensive position. Sword drawn, he swung his weapon at the archer, slicing through nothing but cloth. A flutter of wool fell to the ground.

Unscathed, the archer jumped free on nimble feet. He rounded a tree, scampered atop a boulder, and aimed—not at his mounted opponent, charging fast, but again at the cart driver. Efficiency replaced clumsiness. At a hundred paces, his stance wide and relaxed, he smoothly slid an arrow through the thick forest air. Lethal steel punctured the base of the driver’s skull, lodging in the scant inch of space between his mail and helmet.

The archer did not watch the man slump and fall. He turned his deadly aim to the useless horseman at the front of the procession. Another arrow flew. The soldier screamed and clutched the shaft where it pierced his eye. His body thrashed in spasms. Maniac screams redoubled, becoming forest-bred echoes. The terrified horse bucked and tossed the dead man from its back, running for the forest.

Looping the longbow over his shoulder, the archer watched the horse’s undaunted flight. Sighting the target, he leapt from his rocky perch and landed astride the animal. He yanked fiercely on the reins. The steed reared and kicked, a vicious brawler, but it could not buck free of the unwanted rider.

Behind him, Carlisle heard a yelp. The other swordsman dispatched the first of two mounted foes. A gurgle of blood darkened the earth. Free of its rider, a horse ran in the direction of Keyworth. The remaining horseman swiveled his mount. Lashing hooves knocked the man to his hands and knees, his sword clattered free of his lax grip. Carlisle’s last man raised his arm back, ready to slice with a downward arc.

Across the insipid remains of the procession, the archer drew his last arrow. Carlisle could not believe what he witnessed. Archers did not, could not aim from horseback. They stood on solid ground for a reason. But the man’s arrow and uncanny aim found a chunk of vulnerable flesh beneath the soldier’s raised arm. The last guard arched his back and screamed, succumbing to the arrow’s deadly purpose. His sword clattered uselessly to the ground.

The archer, still mounted, tossed his bow aside and reached to draw a sword from under his billowing cloak.

Carlisle twirled his horse, futilely seeking aid but found none among the corpses. An unusual taste of bitter fear coated his tongue. He wasted no more time assessing the loss or the odds. Kicking hard heels into stubborn horseflesh, he raced from the scene.