Will in Scarlet

by Matthew Cody

  “I thought I wouldn’t see you again,” he said.

  “Will …,” Much began.

  He leaned close.

  “Hey!” a voice called out from behind them suddenly.

  Wat appeared out of the trees, pointing. “Will Scarlet’s alive!” he shouted. “And he’s filthy!”

  TWENTY-NINE

  We’ll never be slaves or masters again. Merry Men all!

  —WILL SCARLET

  “Up before me? That’s a break in tradition,” said Rob, yawning and stretching as he stumbled over to the edge of camp.

  Will was seated on a fallen log, watching the sun come up between the trees. He made room for the bandit leader—for that’s what he was now—and tried to take a deep breath of morning air. It ended in a painful cough.

  Rob gave him a light pat on the back. “You all right?”

  Will nodded as he rubbed at his sore chest.

  “You swallowed a good deal of smoke in the fire yesterday, I’d imagine. Your lungs will hurt for a couple of days, but you’ll feel better.”

  “I’m not up before you,” said Will, clearing his throat.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m not up before you. I just never went to sleep.”

  Will had spent part of the night tossing and turning on the hard ground. Long after the rest of the band had given over to exhaustion, Will found himself unable to sleep. At first he was frustrated, but soon he just accepted it and lay there staring up at the stars. Once the fire had burned low, he found a fallen log and spent the night there, alone with his thoughts.

  Rob scratched at his beard. “Was it John’s snoring that kept you awake? Some nights I want to plug his mouth with his socks, I swear.”

  “No, I was just thinking about everything that happened,” said Will. “You know, when I lived back at the castle, I used to begin every morning the same. Same breakfast, my clothes laid out the same way. Ever since I came to Sherwood, I don’t think I’ve woken up in the same place twice.”

  Rob looked at him. “They make it a habit of setting out clothes for steward’s sons back at Shackley?”

  Will shook his head. “I’m not a steward’s son. I’m—”

  “I know who you are,” said Rob. “I’ve known all along.”

  Will looked up at Rob. In the morning light, his eyes almost shone. So unlike the bloodshot eyes he’d first seen in that tent these many weeks ago.

  “Word travels, and I caught wind of a story that Lady Katherine and her son were on the run and that they might be traveling separately for the coast. I think Gilbert had it guessed correctly, too.”

  “Gilbert knew?” asked Will. He had been so careful in his story, and here these men knew all along.

  “You were trouble from the start, and your story about the treasure was the only thing that kept you alive.”

  Will still couldn’t believe that the secret he’d been so careful in keeping had been so useless. He felt foolish. Childish.

  Rob must’ve seen the look on his face. “Don’t go berating yourself because a few of us sussed out your secret. Truth is, in the end, it doesn’t matter. It’s not about who you were, it’s about who you proved yourself to be, Will Scarlet.”

  But that was just the problem. Will didn’t have any idea who that person was. Geoff had talked about Will someday proving his mettle, but what had he proven to be?

  “Last night, every time I closed my eyes, I just kept seeing the things I did these last few weeks. Over and over again. Decisions I’ve made. People that are gone. I feel … lost, Rob.”

  “Aren’t we all?” said Rob with a sigh. “Look around you. Much the Miller’s Son, who’s really, it turns out, a girl—and before you ask, no, I didn’t see that coming—Wat the fool, John, who’s determined to be father to the whole world, and Rob the Drunk with illusions of greatness! Aren’t we all a little lost, Will? But isn’t that why we’re all together?”

  He put a hand on Will’s shoulder. “Tell me true—do you want to go back to your old life? Do you want to go across the sea and rejoin your family there? Wait for King Richard and your father to return so that you all can rebuild? Because I can help you get there, if that’s your wish.”

  Will thought about it. But for so long he’d had one thought only—to get revenge on Sir Guy. He hadn’t seen clearly beyond that bright red revenge. He understood now just what a dangerous path he’d been on, and how close he’d come to burning away what was good in him just to get vengeance on Guy. But little by little, something else had taken the place of all that hate. Something that lived right here with these people.

  His heart ached when he thought of his mother worrying about him. And he longed to see his father free again. But though they were his family, this was his home now. He’d burned his old one to the ground long before he’d set fire to Shackley Castle.

  “No,” he said, at last. “I don’t want to go back. But I’d like to get a message to my mother, if such a thing could be arranged.”

  Rob nodded. “I know a man who could deliver a message. A pirate and scoundrel, but he makes regular trips to the Continent, and he owes me a favor or two. And he’s as illiterate as a stump, so your letter would be safe with him.”

  Rob extended his hand. “Since you’ll be staying awhile, let me, officially, welcome you, Will Scarlet, to our merry band!”

  Will took Rob’s hand. “We’ll never be slaves or masters again. Merry Men all!”

  Then Rob stood and dusted off his pants. It was a useless gesture, as one layer of grime only had another beneath it.

  “Wat was right—we really are a filthy bunch,” he said, waving away the cloud of dust. “Let’s go wake the rest of those good-for-nothing outlaws. There’s work to be done, and I don’t doubt someone will try and kill us before the day is through!”

  EPILOGUE

  The sheriff stared at the stack of notices before him. How long had Leopold been waiting for his signature on these? His manservant had been hovering outside his door all morning, and if the sheriff tried to leave his office with the papers unsigned, Leopold would follow him to his rooms, quill and ink in hand. His persistence was infuriating.

  “How are the preparations coming for the new keep?” the sheriff called out.

  Leopold stepped into the room. “The stonemason’s waiting to be paid. All the labor’s in place.”

  “Why haven’t we paid the stonemason yet?”

  “Don’t have any money.”

  The sheriff looked up from the unsigned stack. “I’m bleeding Nottingham dry as it is. How can we not have any money?”

  “That’s just it,” said Leopold. “Those taxes are all going to Prince John’s war chest. Our coffers are near empty.”

  The sheriff rubbed his temple where a spike of pain threatened to split his skull in two. “Lackland’s taxes … Fine. Effective immediately, a new local surcharge on all goods and services produced within Nottinghamshire for purposes of maintaining security of the realm.”

  Leopold nodded. “How much of a surcharge?”

  “Whatever it takes to build the bloody keep! I’ll be Prince John’s enforcer, if that’s what it takes, but I won’t do it sitting inside a wooden tinderbox. I want stone walls between me and the … unsavory elements that have cropped up as of late.”

  “The people won’t love you for this.”

  “I don’t need them to love me. I need a stone castle.”

  Leopold walked over to the edge of the sheriff’s desk. He said nothing, but he drummed his hand on the table.

  “What?” asked the sheriff.

  “The notices, my lord,” answered Leopold. “They need to go out today.”

  The sheriff gestured to the papers. “You have a real interest in this one, don’t you?”

  “As should you, my lord. The people are talking. Makes you look weak.”

  With a curse, the sheriff snatched up the quill on his desk and stabbed it into the inkpot. Then he began scrawling his name across each pa
per, careless of the splatters and smudges he was leaving behind.

  “One hundred silver?” said the sheriff as he signed. “Where are we going to get one hundred silver?”

  “Surcharge for the security of the shire,” Leopold answered, with a wry grin.

  “Reward,” said the sheriff, reading the last paper aloud. “For information leading to the capture or killing of the outlaw Robin Hood.”

  “We’ll have his head by the end of the week,” said Leopold, taking up the signed notices.

  “We’ll see,” answered the sheriff.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to post rewards for the rest of his band? That Little John fellow. And the boy …”

  “Robin Hood only,” said the sheriff quickly. “We get the leader, and the rest will disappear into Sherwood with the other vermin.”

  Leopold appeared ready to argue, but a look changed his mind. The sheriff had taught him the limits of his patience, and he had reached them today.

  Leopold left with the reward notices tucked under his arm, and the sheriff sighed and sat back in his chair. Such a nice chair. It was once his favorite thing about his chamber. He’d gotten it from a true craftsman, an Italian woodworker who’d tried to set up shop in Nottingham. Fine cherrywood base, a supple leather cushion and headrest. The man had worked olive oil into the leather to make it as soft as cloth. In the end, he’d been forced to move on from Nottingham because the locals couldn’t afford his goods. He’d traveled south to sell his kingly wares to more kingly folk.

  The sheriff doubted that even the most well-born lords had such an exquisite piece of furniture. But what once had been a symbol of luxury and achievement now felt like a prison bench.

  When he was sure Leopold was gone, the sheriff opened his desk drawer and removed two items. The first was a piece of paper, sealed with Sir Guy’s own signet ring. It was a confession, made by a prisoner called Stout. In it, he named the names of his band of outlaws, the ones who’d stolen into Shackley Castle and made off with Guy’s silver. The sheriff began reading the names to himself.

  Robin Hood and his Merry Men …

  The second item had arrived only yesterday. It was a plainly wrapped package, and there was no note or mark of any sort. The man who’d delivered it had been paid a halfpenny by a stranger to see it safely to the sheriff himself.

  Intrigued, the sheriff had opened it, but seeing the contents, he’d put it in his drawer. He hadn’t touched it since.

  Little John … Much the Miller’s Son …

  He opened the package and looked down at it. A golden sheriff’s badge of office, mud-covered and broken. It stank of charred wood.

  … and Will Scarlet.

  A grand royal carriage rolled through Sherwood on a fine spring day. The sun baked the earth by midday, as summer was near, but the cool shade of the tall poplar trees spared travelers from the worst of it. It was an odd sight for these times, such a lavish carriage using these dangerous roads. The ivory lace curtains drawn across the windows would fetch a tidy sum by themselves. And the ornate door handles (could they be real silver?) were freshly polished. With such ostentatious wealth on the outside, one could only imagine what riches were hidden within.

  All the stranger to see such a carriage with only a pair of guards riding up top for protection.

  As they passed beneath an overhang of leafy branches, the quiet stillness of the forest was broken by a shrill birdcall echoing from the trees above. Within a few seconds, another call seemed to answer it. But the second birdcall sounded, if such a thing were possible, to be in the form of a question. Then the first call repeated itself, only it sounded louder and even sterner than before.

  As the guards riding on the carriage listened to this curious exchange of bird argument, they tightened their grips on their weapons and scanned the trees. One of them knocked lightly on the carriage door and was answered by the sounds of rustling and whispered voices within.

  By the fourth birdcall, the outlaws appeared. Two men stepped out of the trees several yards ahead of the carriage. One was tall, taller than most, and hefted a long quarterstaff in his hands. The black-bearded other fellow had a sturdy English longbow at the ready.

  “Good afternoon!” called the bowman. “I don’t suppose you gentlemen have seen the notorious outlaw Robin Hood on your travels? I hear there’s quite a reward for the man’s capture.”

  The carriage slowed to a stop. The older of the two guards drew his broadsword.

  “Aye, I’ve heard that, too,” he said, grinning. “And I’m looking forward to my share!”

  With that, the guard knocked once more on the carriage, and the sounds of movement increased. But they quickly gave way to curses, and when the guard glanced back at the doors, he saw that someone had slid two wooden poles through the handles, barring them closed from the outside. Whoever was within the carriage was trapped.

  The guard quickly spotted the culprits, a short-haired girl and a boy in a scarlet coat. The young man’s coat of red seemed particularly out of place among the greens and browns of these bandits, but he wore it with pride. In one hand, he held a sword; in the other, an unlit torch. While the guards’ attention had been on the men, he and his companion had snuck up from behind, barring the doors tight.

  “It would’ve been awfully disappointing to open up that carriage and find five or six armed men waiting for us inside,” said the boy in scarlet.

  The guard spat at the ground, but he lowered his sword and motioned for his companion to do the same. The men inside began hacking away at the doors, trying in vain to free themselves.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” called the girl. She produced a flint from her pocket and struck it next to her companion’s oil-soaked torch. It flared to life at once.

  “Tell the men inside to stop their fussing or we’ll set fire to the carriage,” said the bowman. “Cook them alive.”

  The guard eyed them suspiciously. “If you are Robin Hood, there are tales about him. They say he treats men mercifully. He wouldn’t do such a thing.”

  “Who’s to say I’m the real Robin Hood?” asked the bowman as he nocked an arrow. “And who’s to say all the tales are true?”

  The guard banged once more on the carriage. “Hey, knock it off in there!” he shouted.

  The sounds of struggle quieted down.

  “That’s better,” the bowman began, but before he could finish, the guard grabbed the reins and gave the horses the lash. The carriage suddenly lurched forward and began barreling toward the bowman and his big companion. The two managed to jump out of the path and narrowly escaped the hooves of the charging horses.

  As the carriage careened down the road, the bowman turned to his two young companions.

  “I told you to block the wheels!” he shouted.

  “No you didn’t,” answered the girl.

  “Yes I did! I whistled the call for Block their wheels!”

  “No,” answered the girl, folding her arms across her chest. “You gave the call for Let’s call it a day and eat lunch.”

  “What?” asked the bowman.

  “You really need to learn the calls, Rob,” said the boy in scarlet.

  The bowman looked to his big companion for help, but the man only shook his head.

  “Learn the calls.” The big man shrugged.

  “Bah,” answered the bowman. “I know the calls. It’s all of you that need to practice—”

  The bowman was interrupted once again, this time by the sound of something large crashing.

  They looked up to see that the fleeing carriage had come loose from the buckboard and turned over in the dirt road. The two guards glanced over their shoulders but didn’t stop. They kept whipping their horses and disappeared down the road in their newly converted two-wheel wagon.

  Moans and groans of pain came from within the wrecked carriage.

  The bowman gave the two young outlaws a curious look.

  “We did pull the carriage pin,” the boy in
scarlet said as the girl held up a long wooden pin.

  The bowman grinned, and the big man laughed.

  “Well, then,” said the bowman. “Let’s go relieve some of the sheriff’s finest of their coin purses!”

  Then the four of them walked over to the ruined carriage. One began singing a raucous song, and the other three quickly joined in. The lyrics were coarse and not fit for proper ears, but mostly they had to do with the Sheriff of Nottingham being kin to a braying ass.

  By the end of the afternoon, they’d taught the captured guards every verse.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A finished book is always the work of a team, a group of Merry Persons, if you will. Despite the fear that I will leave out far too many, the following thank-yous are due:

  To my amazing editor, Michele Burke, for all of her insights, her patience, and her constant support.

  To assistant editor Jeremy Medina, who helped us immensely before heading off on adventures of his own (good luck, sir!).

  To my longtime friend and agent, Kate Schafer Testerman, who’s always there to talk it out, no matter how neurotic and writerly the question is.

  To publicists Mary Van Akin and Dominique Cimina, who work tirelessly to get good books into the hands of good people, and to all the folks at Knopf who’ve made me feel at home for the last six years.

  To the terrific Random House sales-rep team for having such faith in Will and his dastardly compatriots.

  To my son, Willem, the real Will in my life and the reason I do all this.

  And lastly to my first-reader and wife, Alisha, who didn’t know she was getting an author when she married me but, I think, has adjusted nicely regardless.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  THE REAL ROBIN HOOD

  A question that some of you may be asking yourselves at the end of this tale is “But is this the real Robin Hood story?”

  Well, as it reads on the copyright page, this is a work of fiction. What’s more, this is a work of fiction based upon a legend, which is itself a work of fiction. And while there is some evidence that there may have indeed once been a bandit named Robin Hood, I’m just not all that interested in that guy. I’m interested in Robin Hood the legend. So much so that I decided to write a book about him.