couldn’t win. Prince John’s since given the stewardship of Shackley Castle over to Sir Guy. But the truth of the matter is, I don’t care. John, Richard, or King Fart the Great, they’re all the same to us out here in the wild.
“Now,” he continued, “where’s your father? He alive or dead?”
“Dead,” answered Will, and that was partly true at least. Hugo was dead, and Will didn’t have to fake tears to mourn the man who’d served him so bravely, but Will’s real father might still be alive, somewhere.
“Dead,” said Gilbert. “Shame. Dead men don’t pay for bastard boys.”
Will could see the ice in Gilbert’s eyes. He heard the rustle of movement nearby, perhaps a knife being drawn from its sheath.
“You’re right that no one’ll pay my ransom,” Will said quickly. “But I can help you. I know how you can be rich men!”
“I know,” said Gilbert. “I’ve heard the sermons. Work hard, love and fear our good king what’s-his-name, and we can all be rich in heaven! No thank you.”
“Shackley Castle still stands, and there are real riches inside!” said Will.
“Lovely,” said Gilbert. “I’ll ask Sir Guy to show them to me the next time I pop in for supper!”
“But I know a secret passage into the castle!” Will said. “It was known only to the royal family and my father. Guy can’t have discovered it.”
Gilbert held up his hand. No one moved while the bandit leader stared at Will, judging him. Weighing his life against the trouble it was likely to cause.
“I still suspect that half of what you are telling me is puremanure,” said Gilbert at last. “And if this half turns out to be the lie, I’ll run you through myself. But if you can tell us the location of this passage, you might just live to see the morning, Will Scarlet.”
Will let out a long breath. It could have been his imagination, but he thought Much did the same.
“I’ll do better than that,” said Will. “I’ll take you there myself.”
TEN
Better a live prisoner than dead target practice
.
—M UCH THE M ILLER ’ S S ON
A fallen lord. A plot to steal the throne of England. A hidden treasure at the end of a secret passage. It sounded like one of her father’s bedtime tales. When Much had told Will to think carefully about what he could say to stay alive, she hadn’t expected this load of dung. What a soft-skulled idiot.
Much had listened quietly as Will told them all his fairy story of hidden treasure, and like children they believed it. Truth was, the camp was filled with enough desperation and frustration that they’d have believed anything. Times had never been good, but they’d been getting steadily worse, and once Gilbert discovered that there was no such passage and no hidden treasure, he’d have Will killed in the worst way he could imagine—and Gilbert the White Hand was a frighteningly imaginative man. And if, during the slow process of the boy’s dying, it was revealed that Much had encouraged him to lie to begin with, then she’d likely be next.
But for today at least, the camp was abuzz with talk of treasure. The Merry Men couldn’t care less about Will’s story of the murder of Lord Geoffrey Shackley. What mattered mostnow was the prospect of silver, and something else—the attack on Will and his father. The two of them had been ambushed by bandits, which was nothing remarkable in these parts. What was remarkable was where the ambush had taken place—the South Road, the Merry Men’s road.
Someone else was poaching on their territory.
There was little debate as to who it was. Crooked’s Men had threatened incursions before, and the sheer brutality of the attack was Tom Crooked’s style. The Merry Men were scum, thieves of the lowest sort and proud of it, but Crooked had assembled a band of vicious cutthroats. Crooked’s Men had a saying: “Silver glitters more sweetly when it’s painted red.”
The ambush was Crooked’s work, of that they were certain. What
“Now,” he continued, “where’s your father? He alive or dead?”
“Dead,” answered Will, and that was partly true at least. Hugo was dead, and Will didn’t have to fake tears to mourn the man who’d served him so bravely, but Will’s real father might still be alive, somewhere.
“Dead,” said Gilbert. “Shame. Dead men don’t pay for bastard boys.”
Will could see the ice in Gilbert’s eyes. He heard the rustle of movement nearby, perhaps a knife being drawn from its sheath.
“You’re right that no one’ll pay my ransom,” Will said quickly. “But I can help you. I know how you can be rich men!”
“I know,” said Gilbert. “I’ve heard the sermons. Work hard, love and fear our good king what’s-his-name, and we can all be rich in heaven! No thank you.”
“Shackley Castle still stands, and there are real riches inside!” said Will.
“Lovely,” said Gilbert. “I’ll ask Sir Guy to show them to me the next time I pop in for supper!”
“But I know a secret passage into the castle!” Will said. “It was known only to the royal family and my father. Guy can’t have discovered it.”
Gilbert held up his hand. No one moved while the bandit leader stared at Will, judging him. Weighing his life against the trouble it was likely to cause.
“I still suspect that half of what you are telling me is puremanure,” said Gilbert at last. “And if this half turns out to be the lie, I’ll run you through myself. But if you can tell us the location of this passage, you might just live to see the morning, Will Scarlet.”
Will let out a long breath. It could have been his imagination, but he thought Much did the same.
“I’ll do better than that,” said Will. “I’ll take you there myself.”
TEN
Better a live prisoner than dead target practice
.
—M UCH THE M ILLER ’ S S ON
A fallen lord. A plot to steal the throne of England. A hidden treasure at the end of a secret passage. It sounded like one of her father’s bedtime tales. When Much had told Will to think carefully about what he could say to stay alive, she hadn’t expected this load of dung. What a soft-skulled idiot.
Much had listened quietly as Will told them all his fairy story of hidden treasure, and like children they believed it. Truth was, the camp was filled with enough desperation and frustration that they’d have believed anything. Times had never been good, but they’d been getting steadily worse, and once Gilbert discovered that there was no such passage and no hidden treasure, he’d have Will killed in the worst way he could imagine—and Gilbert the White Hand was a frighteningly imaginative man. And if, during the slow process of the boy’s dying, it was revealed that Much had encouraged him to lie to begin with, then she’d likely be next.
But for today at least, the camp was abuzz with talk of treasure. The Merry Men couldn’t care less about Will’s story of the murder of Lord Geoffrey Shackley. What mattered mostnow was the prospect of silver, and something else—the attack on Will and his father. The two of them had been ambushed by bandits, which was nothing remarkable in these parts. What was remarkable was where the ambush had taken place—the South Road, the Merry Men’s road.
Someone else was poaching on their territory.
There was little debate as to who it was. Crooked’s Men had threatened incursions before, and the sheer brutality of the attack was Tom Crooked’s style. The Merry Men were scum, thieves of the lowest sort and proud of it, but Crooked had assembled a band of vicious cutthroats. Crooked’s Men had a saying: “Silver glitters more sweetly when it’s painted red.”
The ambush was Crooked’s work, of that they were certain. What
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