cutting her off. “Why haven’t we left yet?”
“We’ll be on our way soon enough.”
“Not soon enough for my taste,” Will said, folding his arms and glaring at nothing in particular.
Much recognized the look, because she’d used it often, back when she’d had the luxury of doing so. Back when she’d still been a miller’s daughter instead of a miller’s son. Will was in a pout, and he expected it to actually accomplish something here in Sherwood Forest. The boy was a spoiled fool, as well as a troublesome one.
“You do realize you’re lucky to be alive, don’t you?”
Will answered without looking at her. “I’m a prisoner.”
“Better a live prisoner than dead target practice. Which, by the way, is what you’ll become if this secret passage of yours doesn’t exist. I hope you’ve thought that far ahead.”
“Have
you
?” asked Will, finally looking at her.
“What? What do you mean?”
“I mean, if it turns out I am lying. If I’m more trouble than I’m worth, have you thought about how you’ll kill me?”
Much opened her mouth to protest, but no words came out. She’d never intended to do it, no matter what she’d said to Gilbert. But how had Will learned of it?
“Will you knife me in the back then and there, or will you wait until I’m sleeping and just cut my throat?” he asked.
“Neither,” said Much. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but I wouldn’t do that.”
“Never mind,” said Will, turning back away. “The passage is real enough. I’ll get you all into the castle, and you can ransack the place as long as you stay out of my way. Once my work there is done, I don’t care what you do to me.”
Much swallowed her shame, and it went down like a bitter pit that stuck in her throat. Will thought her capable of knifing him in the back, and there was no way to make him believe otherwise. And why should he? Since coming to Sherwood, he’d been attacked by bandits, then nursed back to health by even more bandits, only to learn that he was nothing more than ransom. She’d been the closest thing he had to an ally in this camp until he learned she’d been assigned to be his assassin.
It would be pointless to keep arguing, which was why Much was almost relieved to see the two men she despised most—Stout and Gilbert—approaching. Stout was wearing a smuggrin (God knew why—it just made him look more like a dimwit) and carried a bright red coat in his hands.
“A change in the plan,” said Gilbert. “Stout’s going with you.”
Stout hooked his thumbs into his belt like he was a man of importance. “Better odds with Stout along, eh?”
“Stout’s more muscle, should things turn ugly,” said Gilbert.
Much started to protest. “But another man will just make it all the harder to—”
“It’s done,” said Gilbert. “Done is done. And since young master Scarlet here is wearing clothes that smell like a dead cat, we scrounged up something a bit fresher.”
Stout tossed the coat at Will. It was a gaudy thing, the garish coat of a foppish gentleman, dyed dark red. Tassels hung about the buttons, and lace cuffed the sleeves.
“Fitting, don’t you think,
Scarlet
?”
“I’m fine in my own clothes, thank you,” said Will.
“Wear it,” said Gilbert. “It’s not a request.”
With a sigh, Will removed his shirt and pulled on the coat. He didn’t look nearly as terrible as Gilbert had hoped. It actually fit him quite well, although the lace and tassels needed to go. And Much would be relieved not to have to smell his old shirt any longer.
Then Will surprised her by stepping forward and standing face to face with Gilbert, despite his dandy new attire. “I want my sword back.”
Gilbert frowned, his hand going to the pommel of that very same blade.
“Well, as I see it,” he said, “the Merry Men here saved you out of a sense of Christian charity and neighborly affection! Could’ve let you die out there on that road, but instead
“We’ll be on our way soon enough.”
“Not soon enough for my taste,” Will said, folding his arms and glaring at nothing in particular.
Much recognized the look, because she’d used it often, back when she’d had the luxury of doing so. Back when she’d still been a miller’s daughter instead of a miller’s son. Will was in a pout, and he expected it to actually accomplish something here in Sherwood Forest. The boy was a spoiled fool, as well as a troublesome one.
“You do realize you’re lucky to be alive, don’t you?”
Will answered without looking at her. “I’m a prisoner.”
“Better a live prisoner than dead target practice. Which, by the way, is what you’ll become if this secret passage of yours doesn’t exist. I hope you’ve thought that far ahead.”
“Have
you
?” asked Will, finally looking at her.
“What? What do you mean?”
“I mean, if it turns out I am lying. If I’m more trouble than I’m worth, have you thought about how you’ll kill me?”
Much opened her mouth to protest, but no words came out. She’d never intended to do it, no matter what she’d said to Gilbert. But how had Will learned of it?
“Will you knife me in the back then and there, or will you wait until I’m sleeping and just cut my throat?” he asked.
“Neither,” said Much. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but I wouldn’t do that.”
“Never mind,” said Will, turning back away. “The passage is real enough. I’ll get you all into the castle, and you can ransack the place as long as you stay out of my way. Once my work there is done, I don’t care what you do to me.”
Much swallowed her shame, and it went down like a bitter pit that stuck in her throat. Will thought her capable of knifing him in the back, and there was no way to make him believe otherwise. And why should he? Since coming to Sherwood, he’d been attacked by bandits, then nursed back to health by even more bandits, only to learn that he was nothing more than ransom. She’d been the closest thing he had to an ally in this camp until he learned she’d been assigned to be his assassin.
It would be pointless to keep arguing, which was why Much was almost relieved to see the two men she despised most—Stout and Gilbert—approaching. Stout was wearing a smuggrin (God knew why—it just made him look more like a dimwit) and carried a bright red coat in his hands.
“A change in the plan,” said Gilbert. “Stout’s going with you.”
Stout hooked his thumbs into his belt like he was a man of importance. “Better odds with Stout along, eh?”
“Stout’s more muscle, should things turn ugly,” said Gilbert.
Much started to protest. “But another man will just make it all the harder to—”
“It’s done,” said Gilbert. “Done is done. And since young master Scarlet here is wearing clothes that smell like a dead cat, we scrounged up something a bit fresher.”
Stout tossed the coat at Will. It was a gaudy thing, the garish coat of a foppish gentleman, dyed dark red. Tassels hung about the buttons, and lace cuffed the sleeves.
“Fitting, don’t you think,
Scarlet
?”
“I’m fine in my own clothes, thank you,” said Will.
“Wear it,” said Gilbert. “It’s not a request.”
With a sigh, Will removed his shirt and pulled on the coat. He didn’t look nearly as terrible as Gilbert had hoped. It actually fit him quite well, although the lace and tassels needed to go. And Much would be relieved not to have to smell his old shirt any longer.
Then Will surprised her by stepping forward and standing face to face with Gilbert, despite his dandy new attire. “I want my sword back.”
Gilbert frowned, his hand going to the pommel of that very same blade.
“Well, as I see it,” he said, “the Merry Men here saved you out of a sense of Christian charity and neighborly affection! Could’ve let you die out there on that road, but instead
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