by Matthew Cody
It was strange, but now that he knew she was a girl, he noticed things about her that he hadn’t before. Giveaways. Her eyes, for one. They were almond-shaped and pretty when she actually brushed her hair away so that you could see them. Her disguise, which had been so perfect up until yesterday, now seemed full of holes. Of course Much was a girl; it should have been obvious from the start.
“So,” she said after they’d had a chance to recover from the image of a drunken Rob bellowing outside Guy’s gate. “We won’t abandon Rob and John. But what can we do? Can we use your secret passage to smuggle them out?”
“I wouldn’t trust that way a second time,” said Will. “Stout spent too long in Guy’s custody. I’m sure he told them how we used it to get inside.”
He pulled another piece of rabbit off the skewer. The grease dripped down his fingers, and the charred meat was overdone and tough to chew, but he was so hungry nothing had ever tasted so good.
“If we can get close enough, we might be able to get in the way we left,” he said.
“The slop gate?”
Will nodded. “And that would put us near the cells. We’re both small enough to fit, but the trouble would then be getting Rob and John out. They’re too big to use the gate.”
“And that’s if we can get to the castle,” said Much. “They say the sheriff’s camped outside. We’ll have to cross his lines unseen just to get close enough.”
The Sheriff of Nottingham. Will wondered if he would find the opportunity to ask him why he’d thrown his lot in with men like Prince John and Sir Guy. Why he’d betrayed his best friend in the world, and if it was all worth it. But if he wasn’t careful, Will would be asking as a hangman fitted a noose over his own head. This plan of theirs, such as it was, was foolhardy. But what choice was there?
“And that’s it, then?” said Much. “We just march in and see what happens?”
“That’s it,” said Will. “And hope that we’re small enough that no one pays us any mind.”
Much stretched herself out on the other side of the fire and closed her eyes.
“Why do our plans always make my stomach hurt?” she said. “I think we’d have better odds with a drunken Rob at the door.”
As they crossed Nottinghamshire the next morning, they saw firsthand the devastation wrought by Tom Crooked and his band of raiders. They followed a plume of smoke to a farmhouse on the outskirts of the county. Dead livestock littered the fields, needlessly slaughtered and left to rot out in the sun. From the road, they could see the charred remains of a farmhouse, little more than a pile of smoking timbers now. A man and his weeping wife were picking through the blackened embers, but there was little left to pick through. A young girl with soot-streaked cheeks stood watching, her face expressionless. The couple looked startled at first when they spotted Will and Much riding by on Bellwether, but they relaxed when they saw they were not marauders and went back to their fruitless search.
“Do you know them?” asked Will as they rode by.
“No,” said Much. “They aren’t anyone we helped.”
Will shook his head. “These poor people probably never even heard of Rob and his Merry Men.”
As they rode the rest of the day, the signs of ruin increased. Some homes had been spared, while others were utterly destroyed. This path of brutality might have started out as targeted retribution, but it had turned into a random, senseless rampage. But only homes on the farthest outreaches of the territory had been attacked, those farthest from the village of Nottingham and the law. Perhaps Sir Guy feared the sheriff after all.
As Shackley Castle came into view, they got a glimpse of why.
The road led up a small rise, and at the top you could look down on the wood and stone castle and its surrounding countryside. The Sheriff of Nottingham had camped his men in a ring around the fortress. The open green fields that in better times were used to host tourneys and festivals were now littered with tents and campfires. They’d blockaded the roads, and scores of armed men marched in drills within full view of the castle. The sheriff had isolated Sir Guy inside his stolen castle, and now he was letting him see his force. A clear message to surrender—or else.
That message had so far fallen upon deaf ears. The castle drawbridge remained shut up tight, the windows barred. The parapets smoked with cauldrons of burning pitch just waiting to be poured on those foolish enough to try to scale the walls. Archers lined the battlements. And above it all, the Horse Knight’s silver and black stallion banner fluttered in the breeze.
Will had never seen Shackley House under siege, and never thought he would. Not since the Norman invasions of his great-grandfathers’ times had war come to Shackley Castle, but Will couldn’t help feeling some spark of satisfaction at seeing these two villains at each other’s throats. His father had always said that ex-allies made the most dangerous enemies, and therefore you never joined with someone you couldn’t trust with your whole heart. Will suspected that Guy and the sheriff were about to learn that lesson for themselves.
If not for Rob and John, Will would’ve been content to sit back and watch as Guy and the sheriff murdered each other. But his friends wouldn’t be likely to last the night, much less a long siege. Guy wanted them dead for stealing his silver, and the sheriff had come here to hang bandits. He wouldn’t discriminate between Merry Men and Crooked’s Men. There were a few hundred people down there who wanted them dead, and only two up here who wanted them alive.
“What do we do now?” asked Much as she looked out over the throngs of armored men. “Ask if we can walk up and knock?”
“That depends on the sheriff’s plans,” said Will. “If we wait for the cover of night, we might be able to sneak across the lines. They won’t be looking for people trying to get into the castle.”
Will squinted at the formations of soldiers below.
“But I’d hate to be between that army and the castle walls when the sheriff decides to attack,” he said. “They look like they’re waiting for something.”
“How can you tell?”
“Military strategy was one of my required lessons,” he told her. “And the sheriff won’t attack Shackley without siege weapons.” He pointed to a line near the back of the camp, where men were hammering away, building wooden catapults, battering rams, and siege towers. “When he begins bringing those to the front, we know the attack’s coming.”
“Then we’d better move before that happens,” said Much. “As soon as night falls. But just one thing.”
“What is it?” Will asked.
“I need you to make me a promise. I need you to promise that we’re going in there to rescue John and Rob. Not to kill Guy.”
“Much, I—”
“Promise me, Will Scarlet, or I’ll go in there alone!”
Will poked a stick into the fire, causing the coals to flame a bright orange. In the sparks and smoke, he saw Guy’s face. The Horse Knight was sitting in his father’s chair, laughing at him.
“You don’t know your way around,” Will said. “You’d walk in circles till dawn.”
“Then you’d better make the promise.”
Will looked at her for a long, hard moment. She meant it. She’d leave him right here and march in alone. The last time they’d been in that castle together, Will had risked all their lives to try to get his chance at Sir Guy. But some things had changed since then. Not his desire for revenge; that still burned, just not as hotly as before. What had changed was friendship. Those were his friends in there now, and he was done with seeing his friends die.
“I promise,” he said. “This is a rescue mission only.”
“Good,” she said. “Then you can come with me.”
“And Much?”
“Yes?”
“We’ll get them out. I promise that, too.”
TWENTY-THREE
No doubt Sir Guy wants them to stare at the hangman’s noose for a while before being fitted for it.
—WILL SCARLET
The
moon was little more than a fingernail sliver in the sky, and so their trip past the sheriff’s camp was easier than expected. The night hid them well, and the soldiers were too busy hauling the siege equipment to the front of the line to be on the lookout for a pair of children sneaking toward Shackley Castle. The sheriff looked to be planning for a siege at dawn.
Will untied Bellwether, and they set out on foot across the plain. If they didn’t return, at least she’d be free to roam. Will hoped she’d find a nice farmer somewhere who was averse to hunting, for both their sakes.
Once Will and Much had circled past the bustle of the sheriff’s lines, they had to be more cautious. Sir Guy was bound to have men on the lookout for intruders. Watch fires burned brightly all along the wall, and so Will and Much had to trust in luck as they made their approach. The shadows had covered them well thus far, but the final few feet to the wall would be a dash, and they had to pray that the soldiers there were looking the other way, busy staring at the sheriff’s army lining up against them.
Will held his breath until they reached the rocky incline that led up to the slop gate. But no alarm was raised; there were no cries in the night. As should have been expected, the climb up the slope was far harder than the climb down had been. The rocks were slick with the daily garbage, and Will thought it best not to imagine exactly what it was they were climbing through. The smell alone brought terrible pictures to mind.
They managed to scale the slope without incident, but once there they were still well out of reach of the gate. Gate was a generous word for the little wooden hatch some ten feet up the wall. It was purposefully out of reach of any man outside, and too small for most. That was where Much came in. She hiked herself on top of Will’s shoulders until she could just reach the gate. With her knife, she pried open the hatch, which swung outward. Then, in a feat of remarkable balance, she tied her knife to the rope, turning it into an improvised grappling hook. She used her free hand to swing the hook over the gate’s edge.
Again, luck played no small part in their adventure—the hall next to the slop gate was empty. Much pulled herself through the open hatch. Will followed, and after some grunting and groaning, he managed to squeeze his body through, though he landed with a rougher thud than she had. There was certainly no way that Rob, and especially John, would fit through there. They’d have to work out another means of escape.
But first things first—they needed to find their friends.
The slop gate deposited them near where they wanted to be, at the far end of a T-juncture that led upstairs at one end, down to the cells at the other. The last time, they’d been able to sneak into the cells unnoticed. Tonight, however, there was no alarm to lure the jailer away from his post, and they could already hear him down the hall, humming to himself.
Fortunately, they had devised an inspired plan for dealing with him. Much stepped into the hallway and shouted, “Hey, lard bottom!”
When the jailer came running, Will hit him with a stool. Then a crate. It took the pommel of his sword to finally knock the man unconscious. It seemed being thickheaded was a qualification for being a jailer in Guy’s castle.
There was no need for Much’s lockpicks as they now had the jailer’s keys, so they dragged him into an empty cell and locked him in there. Then they started searching for John and Rob, beginning with the next cell over. One after another, they opened the doors, only to find each as empty as the last. When they reached the last door, Will felt a keen pang of disappointment. In his heart, he’d hoped they’d find Osbert still alive, but there was nothing but an empty straw mat. Their jailer had been guarding an empty dungeon.
Will said a prayer that old Osbert’s soul was at peace.
“Where are they?” asked Will after a moment.
“We could ask the jailer when he wakes up in an hour or so,” said Much.
“We can’t wait that long.”
Will tried to brush away the fear that they were too late. What if their friends had already been hanged? From the look on Much’s face, she feared the same thing. Will had been forced to leave one friend to die in Sir Guy’s custody; there was no way he was leaving two more.
Will examined the jailer’s station for any clue as to their missing prisoners. The table was filthy with chicken scraps and dried puddles of spilled wine. But among the refuse was a piece of fresh parchment.
“Give me some light, will you?”
Much took a torch from its sconce and held it over the paper.
“What’s it say?” she asked. Will didn’t suppose she’d ever been taught to read. He made a note to himself to correct that if they both survived the night.
The paper was an official order stamped with Sir Guy’s own signet ring. In lieu of a court trial, the Horse Knight had proclaimed the following criminals guilty of theft. Below the list, the jailer had made his own mark, a thick black X.
Will read on. After all the flowery legal wording was done, it came to the final, crushing judgment.
“The prisoners were moved into the courtyard stockades today, where they were to be given twenty lashes,” he said. “They’ll remain there tonight, and they’ll be hanged at dawn. No doubt Sir Guy wants them to stare at the hangman’s noose for a while before being fitted for it.”
“How are we going to save them now?” asked Much.
Will crumpled up the paper and tossed it away. Rob and John had been whipped and beaten, but, worse, they were being kept in the courtyard, out in the open, under lock and key. It would take more than stealth to rescue them now.
They’d all been through too many struggles in such a short time to give up. And now Much was looking to Will for the next move. She had the same look in her eyes that Will had seen in Osbert’s, the same look he sometimes saw in Rob’s—like they were expecting something of him. She’d come all this way with him, and now she was waiting for him to devise something brilliant, as if he were the clever one of the pair. This orphan, a lost girl who’d so cleverly disguised herself all along …
A lost girl.
He had an idea, but it was one that relied heavily on luck and sheer bravado. Rob would love it, but he’d be the only one.
Will turned to Much. “We’re going to save them, Much, and I know how. So here’s what we are going to do, but I want to warn you, you’re going to hate it. You’re really going to hate it.…”
PART IV
FINALE
TWENTY-FOUR
One hanged man looks as good as another.
—SIR GUY OF GISBORNE
The easiest way to go unnoticed, Much had learned, was to act like you belonged. It took guts to look a courtyard guard in the eye and tell him that you were there to empty the prisoners’ chamber pots. It took more than guts to tell him he could do the job himself if he didn’t believe you. But perhaps unsurprisingly, this part of the plan didn’t worry Much. She’d faced worse, and she had guts aplenty.
What was harder, more frightening, and, yes, infuriating was the dress.
Boys created suspicion, Will had said. Even serving boys, if they were caught skulking around the castle at night, would be detained and questioned. But a serving girl—a young kitchen maid, say, who’d drawn the unlucky straw of having to clean the privies late at night—well, she’d be allowed to pass without so much as a second thought.
Bloody Will Scarlet.
They’d found some dresses in a servants’ closet just off the kitchen. Will said they kept them there in case one of the girls made a mess of herself during the dinner service. Can’t have filthy servants at a royal feast. Finding one that fit her skinny little frame was more difficult, but in time they found one that wasn’t too baggy, and they belted her in tight. A kerchief to cover her short-cut hair, and as they wiped the grime from her face, they revealed a fetching sprinkle of freckles across her cheeks and nose. Much the Miller’s Son was suddenly transformed into a pretty young manor girl.
If anything, Will mused, he was worried that she might be a touch too pretty,
and he hoped she didn’t attract unwanted attention.
Too pretty? Much thought. Bloody stupid Will Scarlet.
But in the end, he’d been right. They borrowed the jailer’s chamber pot (a particularly nasty piece of work), and with it Much strode defiantly into the courtyard, past the castle guards. An advantage of Guy using mercenaries as his guard was that there were always new men about, and they didn’t have time to learn the faces of all the household staff. Another stroke of luck.
Much took a deep breath as she walked, and she took a moment to smooth down her skirt before she nearly tripped over it into the mud. Much the miller’s daughter was so long forgotten she barely remembered how to even walk in these garments. Across the courtyard, Guy had erected a hangman’s gallows, and in front of that was the stockade. John’s and Rob’s hands and heads were locked in tight, and their faces looked misshapen in the torchlight. At least, Much hoped it was just the torchlight. She knew they’d been whipped and beaten, but she was counting on them being well enough to still walk out of here. There would be no carrying Little John.
Chained against the wall behind them were the rest of the Merry Men—Wat and those who’d surrendered rather than fight. Not that Much blamed them. If they’d chosen to discover a bit of bravery during Guy’s attack, they’d have ended up in that pit with Gilbert. Though doubtless they’d seen what Much now saw—there were enough nooses on those gallows for them all.
Much took a deep, calming breath. If she and Will succeeded, if they managed by this foolhardy plan of Will’s to free the Merry Men and make it out of here alive, then her secret would be ruined forever. No one could look at Much in this dress and ever believe again that she was just a boy. It was nearly as terrifying a thought as facing Sir Guy himself, and walking through the courtyard dressed like that, she might as well have been naked.
