Will in Scarlet (19 page)

And it was in this stew of humanity that Much was to do her scouting.

Fishing, Rob called it. He’d told Much to simply think of herself as casting about for the fattest fish in a pool of fat fishes. All she had to do was point to it, and they’d snatch him up. Just as they’d done with the pardoner.

Problem was, the fat fishes stank. And they stepped on your feet without so much as a “Beg your pardon.”

God, but did Much hate towns.

Still, it did her no good to mope. The sooner she found a new target, the sooner she could get out of there. Thus far today, she’d eyed a spice merchant who whipped his servant something awful just for daring to loiter near the bread stand and a petty clerk collecting fees for the sheriff. She’d watched the clerk collect fees from the tourney lords all day long—a fee to pitch a tent, a fee to tie up a horse, a fee to empty a chamber pot. Most of the coin went straight into a heavy lockbox guarded by a trio of stern-faced soldiers, but a little (she noticed) went slyly into his own substantial coin purse. Should he leave Nottingham, that purse would be a tempting target indeed.

As Much waited for the clerk to make his rounds, she decided to pass the time by watching a knight lay his armored head across a blacksmith’s anvil—the man must’ve fared poorly in the competition, because the blacksmith was forced to beat the dents out of his helmet just so the knight could take it off. Men really entertained themselves in the most foolish of ways. She’d just settled back with a handful of roasted pine nuts to see the knight struggle to free himself from his own armor when a fast-moving shape in the crowd caught her attention.
A cleric walking deliberately, cursing those who didn’t get out of his way fast enough and kicking at stray dogs in the street. This by itself wasn’t remarkable, since as far as Much could tell, this sort of behavior was what the residents of Nottingham called “being civil.” But what caught Much’s attention was the man’s two black eyes and nose swollen to the size of a round ripe plum.

The pardoner was back in Nottingham and making his way toward a gathering of tents near the tournament grounds. Much decided to shadow the pardoner, following him from a safe distance so as not to be recognized. And if he did catch a glimpse, she wasn’t overly worried. Today she was disguised as a sickly beggar boy, complete with bandaged hands and feet. He’d need a really good look at her face to recognize her. Still, better to keep him in view so they didn’t accidentally cross paths up close.

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.

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.”