Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He’d wring that Will Scarlet’s scrawny neck when he found him. If he ever bloody found him. John glanced up at the sky again, and the irritation he’d tamped down all evening bubbled to the surface. It was going to rain, and if he had to wade through the mud of Nottingham, to find that boy, then—well, then Scarlet would find it hardly mattered he was half Locksley, because John would box his ears all the same.

A light was moving further down the street, its orange glow bobbing with the rhythm of a man’s step. The night watchman was coming up the way, his footsteps a muffled echo. He stopped at a corner, and his voice rang out. “One o’clock and all’s well!” The sound was faint and far away, and as if to spite his words, the heavens opened and the first few drops of rain began to fall. The watchman raised a fist to the sky—“All’s well, my arse”—and turned up his collar, trudging away into the night.

One o’clock? John felt himself flush, the blood pounding in his ears. The first hour in the new day without the Sheriff, but instead of ringing in the new age with Robin and Fanny and the others, he was wandering the sodden streets at this godforsaken hour. It had only been an offhand comment in the midst of the celebrations. Robin had frowned, suddenly aware of an absence among them. “Where’s Will?”

Not that Will’s presence had done much to brighten rooms before, surly little bugger that he was. But he meant something to Robin, which was why John had heard himself declare, “I’ll find him,” because who else would and surely Will couldn’t have gone that far.

John sighed. Fool that he was for volunteering, leaving the comfort of the Thatchers inn, its bright fire and good ale for the cold, dark courtyard, which was regrettably empty of half-brothers. So also was the alley beyond it, where someone told John that ‘this ‘ere Will Scarlet’ might’ve passed by, or he might’ve not’. And that was why John would give that boy a good drubbing when he found him, one he’d not soon forget. Knock some sense back into that thick skull of his, because—Lord knows—Will didn’t have much to begin with. John had seen him bloodied more times than he could count on two hands, always from some fight he’d picked and couldn’t win. He’d had a lot of those—followed by a mad leap into the next fray, each time recklessly outmatched.

Fanny had taken pity on him whenever he came out the other side of a scrap. Long ago, Will had been young enough to bend to her rough care with little more than a toss of his arrogant head. He had tried to look unmoved as she cleaned him up, wincing under the talking-to he deserved. “What were you thinking, Will Scarlet?” she’d say, tutting him. “What would your mother say?”

And Will had accepted all this in a kind of wilting disgrace, a wince of drooping shoulders, until the day he realized he’d rather spare himself the scolding, stalking off somewhere else to lick his wounds.

“A waste of your efforts, Fanny,” John had said, irritated by Will’s indifference to her charity. John hadn’t wanted her to take it to heart, but she had surprised him, shrugged off the petulant slight and gone outside to hang laundry, having better things to do than brood over the ungrateful injured. “Not to worry, my heart,” she’d said, giving John’s chin a meaningful tweak in the doorway, as if she’d known Will’s sulk would do more to her husband’s humour than hers.

And it had. Until then John had found Will Scarlet a lesser nuisance, an ache that made itself known now and again, like a bad knee in cold weather. The lad had come and gone over the years, a fleeting figure in the lanes, charming his way to hot meals and gifted apples and drifting from one village to the next for…what? Work? It was perhaps unkind to say, but John couldn’t imagine Will setting his mind to anything, much less his back to the burden of an honest day’s work. Granted he’d been a decent Man of the Woods under John’s charge—albeit young and brash and full of terrible ideas—but that had been a different kind of work. Thieving work. A trade John had buried with his fallen brothers in Sherwood. Now he dreamed only of Fanny and their house and the garden, the smell of summer and the curving fields of wheat and rye.

But at the moment, John was standing ankle-deep in mire, with the cold and the wet finding its way through his cloak, and the inn and the fire seemed miles away and years ago. He pulled his hood over his head to keep the rain from his eyes. Patience, he had to remind himself. Will had fought well, and though he was more hot blood than level head, it was half Robin’s blood, wasn’t it? And who else might better bleed Will of his piss and whinge than Robin Hood, and that was hope, wasn’t it? “I’ll allow it, Will Scarlet,” said John. “Just this once.”

There was a muffled shout from somewhere behind him, a burst of voices, a drunken chorus and a fit of clapping. The Hangings, more hovel than tavern, a leaky pit of moulding walls and a sour fire. Someone opened the door, hinges squealing, and a faint orange light spilled out into the street, the voices inside suddenly clear.

“I’ve always taken care of you.”

“Piss off, Munday,” was the answer, the voice slurred. “You’ve never—”

“Then what were all those years? And all those bits of bread? Communion, I thought they were. Alms for the poor boy out in the rain. Wouldn’t you call that friends?”

“No.”

A sneering laugh. “That’s gratitude for you. I should’ve known not to feed the dogs.” A raised voice, addressing the crowd. “This bitch bit my hand.”

There was a splintering crash, the door unhinged, and two figures came tumbling out into the dark. They went down in the mud, rolling over each other, scrabbling for a foothold on the slick cobbles. A confused tumult rose from the Hangings, the people lurched through the broken door, swearing. One of the brawlers swung hard, a dull thud of fist to bone—and the other man let out a hiss of pain. “Damn you, Will Scarlet!”

John stopped in disbelief, and there was a moment when the world went silent, and he thought surely he’d been mistaken, surely he’d misheard the name—and then the thin seam of John’s patience tore, like the skin over boiled milk. This was where the boy would rather spend his night? Knee-deep in the dirt of some ruined tavern?

John pushed through the cheering crowd to the fight that already over. By the light of the tavern John could see a man, Munday presumably, tall and thin and red-haired, pick himself up, and Will, on the ground, far worse, his front muddied, his hands black from where he’d stopped his fall.

Munday laughed and wiped the blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. “Better a thief than a bastard, I always say, Will.” He leered. “But then…you’re both.”

Will staggered up, snarling, and would have lunged if John hadn’t grabbed him first. Will faltered in surprise, and Munday took one look at John and clasped his hands, as if in mocking penitence. “Saints preserve us!” he cried, his voice cracking. “God’s sent me giants to keep me from harm.”

John didn’t like the look of him. “Be on your way then.”

Munday laughed. “Hear that, Will? I have the good Lord’s favour.” To John. “You’ve done an honest man a kind deed.”

The people laughed, and John had the uneasy feeling that he’d contributed to some ill-gotten gain. Munday grinned, and with a last flourish of his hand, he faded into the dark. The crowd let out a sigh, their excitement gone, and seemed to realize in their stupor that it was cold and the rain was coming down in buckets, and wasn’t it better inside by the fire? They muttered something about a ‘disappointing end’ and ducked back into the Hangings, and there was only John left, and Will, who was suddenly aware of him, the recognition working slowly through the mead. “John?”

“Is this the company you keep, boy?” said John. “Tosspots and fools? You’d rather fight with half-wits than drink with Robin?”

Will flinched and looked vaguely guilty, and John might have felt sorry for him then—the drowned rat, the miserable strop standing pale and cold before him—except that Will seemed to remember his defences in a fleeting moment of clarity. “I’m not your boy, John.”

“And thank God for that. I wouldn’t want such an ill-tempered whelp under my roof. Even Wulf has enough sense to pick a fight he can win.”

“Is that why Robin had to save him from Gisbourne?” Clearly the knocks to his head had done nothing to dull his sharp tongue.

“Say one more word against my boy…”

Will bit his lip. It seemed that whatever bravado had sustained him was fading, and John was the happier for it. Will couldn’t put up much of a fight when he’d already winded himself from the first. But it was a problem, John admitted, taking in the younger man’s wretched appearance. How could John show him to Robin like this? Will looked as if he had been dragged by horse through the streets of Nottingham.

“Your boy nearly ruined our plans in the square today,” said Will.

John couldn’t believe his ears. Where was Will’s usual stunning sense of self-preservation? “Because he thought you betrayed us. Because he believed you when you said you wanted Robin dead. Because you’d tried before.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“You almost bloody did.” John seized him by the collar. “If Robin hadn’t put that arrow through your hand, where would you be? Could you have lived well knowing you’d stuck your brother in the back? You’ve been a liar and a coward all your life, because you couldn’t do better. I’ve seen your pinched fist and your high head—and I thought, forgive him, John—he knows not what he does.”

Will gritted his jaw. “I’ve never needed your forgiveness.”

“Damn you, Will Scarlet.” John shook him. “You take everything for an insult. For a moment today I thought you were more. I thought I saw…” Change? Hope? Is that what he’d seen? Had he been wrong? He couldn’t see any of that in the young man before him. John let go, giving him a hard shove in the direction of the door to the Hangings. “Go back then to your witless friends and keep their company, for you don’t deserve your brother’s.”

“I know.” Will was angry. “I’m not so blind that I can’t see that he—” He stopped abruptly, because even in the haze of his addled brain, he seemed to realize what’d he said. He glanced at John, an unclear panic in his eyes, and for a moment—before instinct pulled back over him—he lost all sharpness, and he wasn’t the churlish hellion who’d turn the best things sour, or even the angry young man who’d just yesterday confessed his soul to Robin. God help him, he looked like a boy, the fair innocent before the world had wounded him. Will swallowed. “I mean…”

John felt himself softening, despite his best intentions. “What do you know, Will Scarlet?” he asked. “That Robin would turn you away? You think that bleeding heart would turn a mouse from its hole?”

“A-and should I thank him for his mercy?” said Will. “Should I take a knee before His Grace?”

John’s lingering irritation stirred. He was tired of this—whatever lie Will was or wasn’t telling—and no one would think the less of John for leaving the sullen devil in the dark and going home. And he had just about made up his mind to. “I’ll not fetch you for Robin again.”

“Don’t tell him, John.”

“Tell him what? That you prefer your own company to his? I think he knows.”

Will had turned back to him, his eyebrows pulled down in a pleading expression. “Please.”

John studied him. This wasn’t like Will. Will never begged for anything, but now he looked so troubled John had to tell himself this wasn’t Wulf. It was Will, the pig-headed little grub who scowled at open hands, who took no man’s pity and earned no man’s trust. And Will was all those things now—mulish and sullen and woefully unprepared—but for some reason, John felt himself softening. He sighed. “I’ll not tell him. You’ve had too much to drink. Can’t hold a man to things he won’t remember.” Where was this coming from, John? Is that what he did these days, tell gentle lies to beery-eyed sots to make them feel better? John held his people to their words, drunk or sober, and gave the men a good thrashing if they deserved it. And that’s probably what Will needed now. What he needed on most days.

“Well then, Will Scarlet,” said John and reached out and took him by the shoulder, “Where will you sleep tonight? Or did you forget to think of that as well?”

Chapter Text

The fire glowed in the Thatchers’ inn, generously stoked, because no man should go cold or hungry on a night like this. The celebrations were waning, the hour late, the room emptied of guests, the people at the door bidding farewell and shouting their thanks back through the entry. “The Sheriff’s dead! Long live Robin Hood!”

Much and Allen and the others were long since abed, and even Bull had fallen asleep at the great oak table, head buried in his arms. There was only a handful of men left, among them Friar Tuck and Simon Carper, speaking over their tankards of ale, and Azeem had settled himself in a corner, along the cushioned bench at the short end of the room, where he could with some ease prop his leg up on the chair. This is where Robin found him. “Azeem, my friend,” he said, unsuccessfully mastering a smile. “Hold out your hand.”

Azeem was immediately suspicious. “Is this one of your English customs?”

Robin laughed. “No. A gift.” He held out something small wrapped in a silk handkerchief. “From the Sheriff, if one is to be precise.”

“In my country we do not accept gifts from the dead.”

“Just open it.”

Azeem weighed the gift in his hand for a moment, before he pulled apart the ends of the silk to find the bright husk of a perfectly round orange.

“From your country,” said Robin, “where the women are beautiful, and the air is warm, and no man accepts gifts from the dead.” He grinned. “I found it in the treasury. I thought you might like it. I’d seen fruits like these in your markets in Jerusalem.”

Azeem ran a finger over the stippled skin of the orange. “How did it come to be here? It would not keep on the journey to this cold land.”

“There was a tree, I think. Someone must have brought it back with them from their travels.” Robin sat down next to him and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “I thought you should have it. You must miss your country.” He grew quiet. “All my years in the Holy Land, and I could only think of England. On the hottest of your days, I longed for the winds of the shire.”

“But you saw only the battlefield and the prison,” said Azeem. “That is no way to know a country for what it really is. There are green valleys and clear rivers, and the richest bazaars of lemons and spices. If you had seen more of it, perhaps you would not have so longed for England.”

“Then perhaps it was good that I brought you with me,” said Robin with a wink, “so that you may tell me of its wonders.” He paused. “Do you think us simple?”

Azeem looked up from the orange. “Simple?”

Robin couldn’t meet his gaze. “I’ve seen your great monuments, the white fountains. You must find this land grey and flat. We do not have such things of beauty here. And I wonder, sometimes, if you do not think this place and these people too…” he gestured vaguely at the room, trying to find the right word, “…humble. I love them because they are my people, but you are—” he stopped abruptly. “You have kept your vow, Azeem. No reason keeps you here. If you should wish to leave, you go with my blessing and my protection, as far as I can give it.”

“You wonder if I am to leave.”

Robin shifted uncomfortably. “You are free to come—or go—as you please.”

“You wish me to leave?”

“No!” said Robin with a bit too much force. He grimaced and tried again. “Not at all. I need you to help me—I mean, without obligation, of course. If you were to stay, we would have great need of—use for you.”  

“It is quite pleasant to hear you so uncertain,” said Azeem, “especially for a man whose name rings throughout the city.”

“Oh? A compliment from the Great One?”

Azeem shrugged. “I have known such men before—good men whose hearts grow dark with power.” He laughed at Robin’s dismayed expression. “I am glad to see you hesitate. Sometimes a little doubt can purify the soul.”

Robin laughed softly too.

“You know, Christian," Azeem began to peel the orange, "your holy man has already involved me in his plans for a healing house."

“Has he now? And the brewery that will surely come?”

“I will have no part in making beer,” said Azeem with some finality, “but setting bones and curing fevers—that I can do with Allah’s blessing.”

“And your own injuries?” Robin nodded at his wrapped leg. He had been worried when he found Azeem in the castle hallway, tying his leg up with one of the Sheriff’s curtains.

But Azeem merely glanced at the bandage and waved it away, as if it were an irritation rather more than grievous harm. “It will heal. I do not believe my god would send me all the way to your heathen country to be struck down by an ordinary witch. When I set out to follow you, I had nothing left in my country. No family calls me back. Perhaps one day I will return, but for now I cannot leave a land when her wounds needs tending.”

“And,” Robin added, “you can set me right when my heart begins to grow dark with power.”

As always, Azeem was only mildly amused by his wit. He held out a piece of the orange to him. “You are happy, Christian?”

“The happiest man in England,” said Robin, accepting the piece. “What I thought was lost has been returned to me.”

Azeem nodded. “And what you did not know has been revealed. Do you believe him, the one who calls himself your brother?”

Robin was quiet. “The day Will defied me, no man would have spoken against me for putting an arrow through his heart.” It was months ago, but he could even now see the clearing fill with people, hear the wailing clamour of voices. His heart had sunk, and the bitter doubts settled like a knife to his throat. What had he done? How could he have asked these people to follow into the misery of a broken life in the forest? “I hated him then for a moment, for trying the rob the people of their hope.”

“He most certainly intended your death, Christian.”

“I put the arrow through his hand that the scar might remind him of the day his courage failed. But now I wonder if I wasn’t serving my own purpose.”

“And your mercy was not misplaced?”

“Misplaced?” Robin looked up, surprised and bristling at the accusation. “You saw him then. There was fear and blindness in him more than anger.  If you would sentence a man to death for these things, then I do not know you.”

Azeem was unruffled. “I once met a man who had travelled the lands of the east to collect the best remedies for man’s greatest ills, and he told me the secret to curing all injury is this: ‘The Beginning of Wisdom is to know your wounds, and the End of it is to tend them.” He hid the rest of his orange somewhere in the folds of his cloak. “Will Scarlet is a fresh wound. You flinch when you speak his name.” Azeem clapped Robin on the back and rose stiffly from his position. “Rest, Christian. Heal. Begin again tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Will’s head exploded in noise, and he thought maybe one of Azeem’s magic powders had gone off by his ear or the world had ended or the Sheriff’s axe had dropped, and he—Will Scarlet—was dead—not nearly dead like the other times, not frozen stiff or bled dry or half-starved—but really dead-as-a-doornail dead—and not his knife or wit or sharp tongue had saved him. How could he have been so careless? He’d had a lifetime of running from the Sheriff, avoiding the guards, going hungry because anything was better than being skewered by an arrow or having his insides become his outsides. And Will had managed to avoid it all—and still the Sheriff had—h-had what?

Will faltered.

The Sheriff was dead.

Dead-as-a-doornail dead.

Sword-to-the-chest dead.

Yesterday came rushing back to Will so suddenly he winced. Of course. The market square. The hangings. He was alive. He reached up ever so slowly to touch his neck. He had his head. Of course he had his head, though he couldn’t deny that he ached all over. His chest throbbed and his knuckles stung, but at least he was alive to feel them. Better than lying headless in a ditch.

But where was he?

The thought was worrying. He glanced around the room. It was small and empty; a single candle burned on a table in the corner. This couldn’t be a dream. He’d only ever had one dream, and that was of a golden hall with a roaring fire and a feast of beef stew and roast duck, apple pie, fresh bread with butter and cheese and honey. There was always a merry soul to welcome him in, a giant of a man with a great robe and a holly wreath about his head, ready to clap him heartily on the shoulder and tell him to take a seat by the fire.

Will was suddenly uneasy, the tightness stealing over his chest. He didn’t like this. It had happened on occasion that he’d woken in some strange corner of the world, having spent the night in a gully or dovecote, empty field or sheltered crook of a tree—but he’d never in all his days managed to achieve a warm bed in a stranger’s house. Not even when he was young enough and thin enough to make the driest eye water with pity for poor little Will Scarlet.

Will swung his legs over the side of the bed, head swimming, and he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. He clutched his side, feeling suddenly hot and dizzy, a horrible ache gnawing at his side like a fox in a trap. He must have banged his ribs. A token of appreciation from the Sheriff. Nothing a little time wouldn’t set right. He’d had worse, hadn't he? Not nearly as bad as being horsewhipped for stealing apples. If only Sir Giles hadn't set the dogs on him after, and if only Will hadn't turned his ankle clearing the stone boundary. Hadn't walked right for months after. But he got better. Then there had been that time with the arrow in his hand, and he'd managed that too. Azeem had helped—a little—easing the pain with his numbing paste and vile healing tea. Will shuddered. He’d barely been able to keep that green swill down the last time, but he’d drink a tub of it now if he thought it would help.

Will sat still on the edge of the bed, fighting the impulse to move. He’d need a plan. And boots. He couldn’t remember taking them off, but there they were, propped up against the wall to dry. They seemed terribly distant now. Surely miles by any honest measurement.

Will took a breath and braced himself, and this time he didn’t feel like he’d faint and that was good. He stood slowly, an eternity passing before he was upright, and even then he couldn't bring himself to unfurl completely. But still better than lying headless in a ditch. He realized he was clutching the bedpost and let go, exasperated. You'll never get anywhere at this speed, Will. The boots were a pace away, two at most. You've outlived the Sheriff. Surely you can do something so simple as cross the room and take the boots and—

“Will Scarlet.”

Will turned his head. John was in the doorway, a hand on the doorknob. Will hadn't even heard the door open. “John.” Will felt a watery irritation surge up in him. How long had he been standing there? “I…didn’t…”

John was frowning, his eyebrows drawing down over his blue eyes. “Didn’t what?”

Good question.

“You all right?” John gave him a strange look.

In a manner of speaking. “I'm fine.”

“Of course you are. What else would I expect?”

Will bristled at the tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I don’t know whether you were born daft or make it your business to practice the art.” John paused, looking him over with an expression Will didn’t understand. “I’m just here to tell you it’ll be another farthing for the sheets.”

What sheets?  

“And a penny for the room,” said John.

“What room?”

“Have you gone soft in the head?” said John, not unkindly. “This room, you half-wit. Innkeep says he’s had a better offer: a guest who’ll do more than muddy the carpets.”

“Innkeep?” Will stared at him, the realization slow. “This...is an inn?”

“The Briar Rose.”

Will’s heart began to sink. “And you brought me here?”

“Where else was I supposed to take you? Any man fool enough to drink himself senseless would be glad to wake up alive, let alone dry.” John looked him over again. “Well, damp anyway. A little gratitude wouldn’t be misplaced.”

“Misplaced?" Will made a weak gesture at the bed, the room. "I’m supposed to thank you for this?” The words were out before he could stop them. What was he doing? What was he saying? Maybe his instincts really had buggered off.

John cupped his ear with his hand, as if he couldn’t possibly have heard him right. “Come again?”

Will swallowed, wondering why on earth he couldn’t leave it be. “We’re not friends, John. We never have been. But now I’m half-noble and suddenly you do me favours. Hoping for alms, are we? A little charity from Robin’s blood?” That didn’t even make any sense. Hadn’t John been the first to swear allegiance to Robin when he had nothing?

John took one step forward into the room and snagged Will by the shirt front. “You listen here, Will Scarlet. I half-carried you through what felt like every black and dreary alley in Nottingham because you couldn’t walk two paces without falling over, and I’ll be damned before I let anyone call me heartless for leaving a cockeyed little souse like you in the gutter.” He shook him once, not very hard. “And as for favours—I haven’t done you any. I’ll be calling for what’s mine, and you’ll pay—every last farthing.”

“Pay?” Will’s voice cracked, and he pushed him off. “For what?”

“The room,” John exploded. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.” Will could feel the blush creeping up past his collar. John had paid? Why couldn’t it have been Bull or Much or Allen? Any of them would’ve been better. When Will told them to mind their own bloody business and piss off, they did. But John had never really taken to being snarled at. “You didn’t need to pay,” Will heard his own voice. “I never asked for your help. Never have.”

“And when you came stumbling into camp two years ago, I suppose you didn’t need help then either?”

“That’s not…”

“Not what?” said John.  

Not fair? That he’d had no choice? Will didn’t have a good answer to give him. “I might have stayed away had I known you’d be there.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. “You spoiling for a fight, boy?”

Truthfully Will was beginning to feel a bit sick. “You just—you shouldn’t have paid.”

John gave him a long, hard look, and Will winced, half-expecting at the very least a cuff to knock him sideways—God knows he deserved it—but for some unknowable reason, John only shook his head, muttered something unintelligible and reached for the door. “I’ll be outside. Get your things.” He paused, perfectly serious. “Or I really will have your guts for a garter.”

Chapter Text

Will stopped again to lean against the wall to catch his breath, the simple act of following John to market suddenly infinitely more difficult than it should have been. John hadn’t noticed he was lagging behind, stepping ahead through the mud of the streets with the irritatingly brisk strides of a man who hadn’t drunk himself legless the night before. Will had tried to keep up at first, but after a while it seemed inevitable that he should be left behind, and if he was perfectly honest, he was rather pleased.

This might be a good a chance as any to leave. The thought of owing John anything was…well, not good. Will felt for his coin purse and found it missing. He’d probably lost it last night. Not that it mattered. There wasn’t much to it to begin with. He might have something he could sell, some trinket he’d hidden away. A roll of expensive thread. A needlepoint he’d, uh, borrowed from a house long ago. That might do for a few groats. If only he could remember where he’d put it.

Will glanced down the street again. No sign of John. That giant had lumbered off without a glance behind him. Almost as if it were Divine Providence to slip away, and Will wasn’t one to let such luck pass him by. Especially when luck was in such short supply these days. Will pushed himself off the wall and headed down the street, back towards the Briar Rose, then onto the next street, ducking into an alley and hurrying away, following the little stream of water running along a trench in the cobbles. He came to the city gates and headed out—no one paid him any mind—and soon he was standing at the edge of Nottingham, where the land opened out into a field with a stone hedge, and the road meandered down the hill into a copse of trees. Beyond that the moors spread out flat and grey as far as the eye could see. On the best of days, the heath was a carpet of rich browns and purples, speckled with yellow heather—but today, under the grey skies and the beating rain, it looked mournful and desolate, and Will turned away from it before the misery could settle in his bones.

He pulled his hood forward to keep the rain from his eyes. Despite the weather he was feeling better already. The cold air had cleared his head, and the tight hand grip in his stomach was loosening. He hurried down the muddy road as fast as he could, which was admittedly slow, but his side hurt and he didn’t want to slip. There were many paths to camp, secret routes carefully plotted over rough ground too uneasy for horses. They had been the first defence against the Sheriff, shadow trails through an impassable forest of imagined terrors. Wind chimes and ghost stories had saved his life more than once.

Will stopped at the river’s edge.  He’d meant to ford in the shallows, but the river was swollen from the rain, hurtling past him in brown rapids. Damn. Even the usually peaceful spots were torn with eddies. He was irritated with himself. Of course he couldn’t expect to cross. Even a child knew the rivers turned from lambs to lions in the spring. He should know that. It had rained. Why didn’t he know that? He blushed and felt inordinately stupid and was only glad there was no one there to see him.

Think, Will.

He stood watching the muddy waters roll past him for some time, trying to remember the next best place to cross the river, and it took him much too long to recall the crossing upriver, where the waters were wide and slow, even in spring, and there were enough rocks and handholds to get across mostly dry. He didn’t really relish the idea of getting his feet wet, but he wanted even less to go back, so upriver it was.

The rain stopped as he moved along the riverbank, pushing half-heartedly through the undergrowth. It wasn’t difficult, only slow going. For a while the rocks were so steep they forced him back into the forest, into a little vale where he knew the wild onions grew in summer, the air filled with their pungent scent. All the other times he’d come through here he’d fill his pockets with the small, white bulbs for later. There had been that one summer—not a very good summer—when he’d lived on onions and the occasional rabbit, when he could catch one. He almost laughed at the memory. He’d been so terribly bad at catching rabbits.

He had come to the knotted grove of trees, and only a few paces after that was the river, the waters slow and brown. He found the usual footholds, but it was a bit more difficult than usual to cross when he couldn’t see his feet in the water. He finally waded through the last part, pulling himself up on the other side where the brambles hung down over the bank. He struggled up the muddy slope and pushed through the thorny bushes as carefully as he could, and he came out on the hill above camp.

He stopped. There wasn’t anything to see. It was all brown and damp and dreary, hardly different from any other part of the woods. If he hadn’t lived here himself he might not have believed that just days ago it had been a camp, even a village of sorts, alive with fathers and mothers and children. But that was all over now. The huts had burned and the woods were empty, and anyone who had any sense at all had gone back to the villages. Back to Nottingham. Back to what had been before. Because what good was a home in the forest if there was better to be had elsewhere? Will sighed, suddenly tired and uneasy and not sure why.

He trudged down the hill, hoping to shake the gloom. Why did the forest look so desolate today? It should be empty. He should be glad there was no one left, because it meant the end of the Sheriff, the end of a life in Sherwood. And what life was it, always skirting soldiers and keeping out of sight, away from roads and bridges and towns and family? He should be pleased. And he was. He really was. He wouldn’t wish that life on anyone. Would he? No, of course not. He wasn’t so selfish to think that they—no, he couldn’t.

Mustn’t think like that because…what would that mean?

His walk was getting slower.

There was nothing here to witness what had been, except for bits of charred wood and stumps of burned rope. He was standing alone in the forest, and it seemed to him that none of this had happened. Maybe it had all been a waking dream, and he was actually tucked away somewhere, warm enough and dry enough to imagine a life other than the one he had.

He was unsteady on his feet.

In what world had the Sheriff been defeated? It sounded too much like the stories Ol’ Jemma had told him when he was little. Stories of golden geese and spinning wheels and beautiful maidens in towers. Stories where the youngest and weakest of the seven brothers had won the princess’ hand and married into a life of fruit orchards and servants.

The cold air that had kept his head clear now seemed to knife him in the back, spreading like the damp in autumn. What was he doing here?

He shivered, looking up to see where he was. He had been meaning to avoid the far side of camp, but he was standing in a clearing, the smell of wet earth like a incense in the air, and not far from him, a row of crosses, a line of new graves.

Oh.

A pendant hung from one of the crossbeams. Without thinking, he reached out and picked it up. It was a small metal cross, so like the one Robin had worn, only simpler, without the blue stones. Will’s stomach knotted, and he felt a stab of guilt at the recollection. Duncan. It was his cross, in imitation of his master’s. Will remembered seeing the old man hold it in his hands, running a finger over the metal wreathing in a kind of quiet reverence.

Duncan was dead.

Like the others.

Will swallowed hard. Couldn’t expect an old, blind man to live through that. Will had barely come through it, and he’d had both his eyes to see him through. He cleared his throat. Couldn’t think about that now. Had to keep moving. Had to—t-to what? Why was he here? Why was that so hard to remember?

To…to find something to sell. Yes.

But why?

“Briar Rose.” Will said the words aloud, becoming steam in the cold air, and they almost surprised him, because surely it had already been years since he’d left Nottingham behind. And the Briar Rose. And John. Bugger. John had paid. Will felt suddenly queasy. Couldn’t let that stand.

“Move that.” A voice broke the stillness.

Will froze. There was someone else in the forest. The fear prickled unreasonably up his skull, and he had to tell himself there wasn’t any reason to panic. At least not yet. Keep your head, Will.

“Nothing?” A second voice.

“Nothing. I’ve already looked.”

Two men. Will heard one of them spit. “Damn Gauls must’ve taken the lot of ‘em. I’m not making a new life for myself out of nothing.”

Ever so slowly, Will dropped into a crouch. He could see two men between the tress, a little farther down the hill.

“Would you like to go back to Nottingham, try your hand at picking our late Sheriff’s lock?” said one of the men. “Hear he’s got a fortune within them walls.”

Our Sheriff? The uneasy feeling came back full force.

“Look.” The second man broke off, mumbling something. Will saw him overturn a board with his foot and squat down to pick something out of the dirt. “Finally. The first bit of good luck in this whole bloody mess.” He held it out to the other man, who took it, and Will could see it was a coin, leftover from the coffers Robin had emptied into the crowds.

“I’ll be taking this as my quittance, Sheriff,” he said, “for services rendered. May the Devil take him down below—I mean,” he cleared his throat and made the sign of the cross with the coin, “God rest his soul.”

The other man laughed, digging the through the wet leaves, finding more coins and stuffing them in his pockets, and Will felt a stab of jealousy that he hadn’t thought of it himself. All that coin lying in the leaves, free for the taking. He felt a stab of something else then, a sour taste in his mouth. What was he saying?

The man had stopped digging through the soil, satisfied he’d found the last of the coins, and he looked up—by the slimmest of chances, he glanced up the hill to where Will was crouching, and there was a moment when their eyes met, neither moving, and Will could see the man’s eyes widen in utter surprise before he shot up from his position.  “Hey! You!”

Will jerked back, slipping on the wet soil, and came down hard. It was like his chest shattered into a thousand pieces. He couldn’t breathe, and the world staggered, and he felt something cold under his chin, and he’d had enough blades levelled at him to know it was a sword. Will heard the man before he saw him.

“You peepin’ where your eyes aren’t wanted, boy?”  

The sword edge pushed up into his throat, and Will looked up and saw the blade, and the thought came to him that it was new steel and the cross guard was pretty, with a floral vine over the hilt, and it would be the last thing he saw, but at least it was new and not old and maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much as the knife he’d taken to the gut. “I-I didn’t see anything,” he stammered.

The man grinned. He had an ugly cut along his temple, still healing, and his eyes were blue, bloodshot and all the more bluer for it. “Is that so?”

He grinned, and Will knew the man didn’t believe him. Say something else, Will. Adjust the lie, keep talking because God knows it’s the only thing you’re good at.

“Well,” Will started, “I saw you find something.” He swallowed, trying to make his tongue work properly. “Silver?” he guessed, carefully not saying gold, even though he knew it was gold—gold from the mountainous piles of blood money Robin had so painstakingly acquired, stored, and guarded. Will said silver, not gold, because maybe silver wasn’t worth killing him over, hopefully, not in the daylight, but maybe dusk, and that would give him time.

“We can’t let him live,” said the other man. A dagger was hanging loosely from his hand. “He’d go back to Nottingham and tell ‘em what he’d seen. And where would we be then?”

“Gone,” said the first man. “Far from here. I’m not killing a man in cold blood.”

“You’ve done it before.”

“I know I’ve done it before,” he snapped, “but not on my way to a new life without the Sheriff. You kill him and then what? You plan on stopping for a burial? Kill him and you’ll have the new law following you to the end of your days. I’m not risking my neck for your half-arsed plans.”

The second man snarled in irritation. “Then what do you suggest we do with him? We let him run and he’ll go straight back to Nottingham and tell ‘em anyways. Better stick the pig now and give us time enough to leave. There’s no one here to see. And if it’s God you’re worried about, then I doubt even the Lord himself would mind us ridding the world of little bastards who lie in wait for their better man. Why do you think he’s out here? Noble intentions? Just look at him. He’s halfway to Hell already.”

Will swallowed. “Please, let me go.”

“And you have that much to live for, do you?” The man grinned, a smile that pulled back slowly over his crooked teeth, and Will knew then he meant to kill him.

It was like a fist had clamped down on his stomach and squeezed. Will thougth he would vomit. “I won’t tell anyone. I swear. I don’t have anyone to tell. And even if I did, they wouldn’t believe me.” That, at least, was true, and maybe it would be worth something to tell the truth now. “Please.”

“All right,” the second man spoke, seeming to relent, the hard set of his brow softening, and there was a sliver of hope in the gesture. “Kill him.”

Will went numb, and there was a moment between the order and its execution that was perfectly clear and slow, and he thought no bows, no arrows and he’d have to take the hit and it would hurt, and he’d have to run and that would hurt too and it couldn’t be helped but at least there were no bows, no arrows, and run, Will.

Run.

Will didn’t know how he avoided the sword. He saw it come down, and he felt the nick under his chin, a brief, sharp bite of pain as he rolled to the side, and he was up on his feet, running, down the hill, skidding on the muddy slope. He slid down into a gulch, where the marshy ground sucked at his ankles, and his foot caught. He stumbled, hands, knees, and his side hurt, and he couldn’t breath. His lungs were burning, but he couldn’t stop.

Not yet. Not yet.

He didn’t realize it was getting dark until he couldn’t see, and he stumbled in the half-light, legs stiff and wooden, and he lost his footing, lurching forward into a painful sprawl. He lay there gasping, and the world spun. He knew he should get up and hide away and make a fire, but his heart hammered in his chest, and there was only pain, a white knife in his side, a terrible ache in his hand.

Chapter Text

John groped for his boots in the dim light. The windows were shuttered to the ungodly hour, and the room was dark. This was Will’s fault. If that churlish little toad hadn’t strayed, John wouldn’t have been left to wonder where he’d got to, and he’d be in Insham with Fanny, not tossing on a narrow cot at the Charing.

John found his boots by the door. He wasn’t worried. Will had stormed off enough times for John to take his moods with a grain of salt. John would have understood a bad temper in the morning—Will had drunk enough—but to have that thankless whelp stand there and accuse him of—well, it hadn’t been very clear, had it? Will had been boiling mad one minute, hell-bent on a thrashing, then blushing and tongue-tied the next. He’d flinched, for pity’s sake—as if he really did think John would kick a man when he was down.

Will had unhappy brains for drinking.

He couldn’t have gone far, John had reasoned. There were only so many places Will could get to at this hour in his state, a handful of places to slink away and lick his wounds. He’d show his face again soon or later, untimely and unbidden, as he’d done so many times before.

John had gone back and asked if anyone had seen a young man come by, and they all shook their heads no—no, because it was pouring out and who ever heard of anyone heading out in this weather? An old man, propped up under the eaves of the Charing Inn, had pointed his pipe to the east. The lad had gone that way.

Out the gate?

Maybe. The old man couldn’t quite recall.

So John had been wrong, then. He felt a dim concern at the news. Not worry exactly—he wasn’t worried about Will—but he couldn’t shake the unease. He remembered the wounded look Will had given him last night, the fleeting glimpse of a boy troubled by things John didn’t think Will had the heart for.  On the best of days, Will was warily pleasant. On his worst, stubborn and angry, scowling at any man with a passing glance in his direction. And when drunk, he’d sink into that bog of gloomy prophecy, remembering all too well the things ale rubbed out in other men—their muddy misery under the Sheriff, the empty stomach of a hunted man.

The last time Will had disappeared, John had hoped it would be for good. The day stood out clear in John’s mind: the villagers pouring into camp—the young, the old, the weak, the unarmed. Their wails had filled the air, and in the midst of the chaos John had heard Will’s voice and he'd felt his hackles rising, because trouble followed Will as spring follows winter.  

It had happened so fast. The whistle of the arrow, the pulpy snap as the metal tip sank through flesh. Will had dropped, clutching his hand, and run. That was the last they’d see of Will Scarlet, John had thought. Surely an arrow through the hand would be evidence enough he wasn’t wanted.

But Will had come back.

A brief blessed silence, a few days of peace before Will had appeared on the edge of camp, asking for something to eat. He’d made himself scarce, shrinking back into tight-lipped obscurity, biding his time for another unguarded moment to pull his knife, and John had said as much to Robin that night, by the fire.

“You’ll not sleep easy as long as he’s here, Robin. Will Scarlet’s a bloody fool to think he could go up against you. He deserved every bit of what he got.”

Robin had frowned, staring into the flames. “Probably, but I wouldn’t want him to lose a hand on my account.”

“There’s no telling what he’ll do now.”

“He’s been disarmed, John.” Robin had gestured vaguely at the people gathered around the fire. “Everyone’s seen him for what he is. I doubt he’d try again.”

“I wouldn’t leave a viper in the garden.”

Robin had tossed a stick into the flames, not answering immediately. “How long have you known him?”

“Apparently not long enough.” John had been purposely vague, suddenly loathe to admit he’d probably known Will longer than anyone else in camp. After all, John had been the one to dismiss Will’s anger as nothing more than his usual surly resistance. “I mean, I’ve always known he’s hated the nobles—any man in this camp could tell you that—but I didn’t think he’d ever—he could have killed you, Robin.”

“What would you have me do?” Robin had turned and looked at him. “Hunt him down? Take a knife to his throat?”

“No, of course not. I didn’t mean…” John had been exasperated at not being able to make himself understood. “Just send him away.”

“To what?”

“I don’t know. Just away.”

“Send him from something into nothing,” Robin had mused. “Wouldn’t that be the best way to make him turn traitor?”

“You and your bleeding heart. Mercy’s not cured any traitor of his treason, nor any thief of his thieving.”

“No,” said Robin, “but a loaf of bread might still the hunger for stealing one.”

“Full of proverbs, are we?” John had shaken his head. “My mother used to say there’s no arguing with a mule. Just promise me one thing. Don’t go wasting any more goodwill on that ruddy little piss-pot. And don’t be forgetting it was your mercy that that put the arrow in his hand,” John had paused, relenting, “not your anger. I’d have shot him in the heart.”

Robin had laughed out loud at this. “Oh, really? I doubt even the great and powerful Little John would be so swift in judgement.”

“Bah.” John had stood up, shaking the stiffness out of his limbs, and walked away, back to his hut, away from Robin and his ideals, the bloody fool. The man was blind, John had thought then. Robin had only nicked the beast, not killed it, and there were few things more dangerous than a wounded animal. John hadn’t felt sorry for Will then. The boy had deserved every minute of disgrace that would follow, every suspicious glance in his direction. What else did he expect, pulling a knife on Robin?

John pulled the cowl over his head and sighed. But still, it wasn’t quite the same thing now, looking back. He opened the door of the inn and ducked out into the street. The world was cold and it smelled of rain.

Chapter Text

The cold was worse than the dark; it had settled in his bones, the kind of icy damp that couldn’t be wrung from clothes or driven out with fire. Everything was heavy and stiff, grey and slow. Will opened his eyes, and it took an age before he understood it was morning and that the cold had broken him in pieces. He sat up, and he seemed to come apart, like the ice cracking over the river. He groaned and sat still, aching in a way that told him it had been hours since he’d last moved.

The air was dusky and silent and smelled like every early hour he’d ever known. And rain.

His thoughts were wading through mud, and some distant, feral alarm was beating at the back of his skull. A faint panic. Something he couldn’t understand. Get up, Will.

My head hurts.

Walk.

My hand hurts.

Downhill. It’ll be easier.

Will stumbled up, and the pain splintered through his side, across his chest, burning like a beacon through the fog in his head. Oh Lord, it hurt. He winced as everything stood out clear and sharp all at once, the trees, the bare branches, the gully, damp and commonplace.

He let out a measured hiss, his breath turning to smoke in the cold air. It was always worse in the morning. At least he was standing. No turned ankles, no broken bones. A few cuts and bruises, and it hadn’t helped that he’d slept in the dirt, but there had been other mornings and other aches, and those had all been remedied.

How?

He couldn’t remember, but it didn’t help to think about.

Walk.

There was a cross on the ground.

Duncan’s cross.

Had Will brought it with him? He looked at his hand—there were bloody marks where he’d gripped it too tight. A sudden, petulant anger swiped at him. What was he supposed to do with it? Bring it back? To what? A dead man? The expectation irritated him. It was just a cross, rough metal beaten into shape over a smithy’s fire. Wouldn’t even fetch a price on the market. It didn’t mean anything to anyone, except Duncan, and he was gone, and no one would ever know the cross didn’t hang from his grave. Will put a foot over the cross, ready to grind it into the dirt. It wasn’t his place to go running after last wishes. Let it lie. Let it be forgotten, buried with the seasons like everything else.

Will swallowed.

Duncan’s cross.

My master was a kind and generous man.

Poor old fool.

Will moved his boot. He knelt, carefully picking the cross from the dirt. His fingers were numb, and he fumbled for a moment before he had it in his hand, heavier than before. He hung it from his neck, tucking the cold cross inside his tunic, and stood up again, turning abruptly away from the place. He couldn’t bring it back, but he couldn’t leave it.

He’d think of something.

Now pick a direction.

He did. It was a slow, indifferent trudge to nowhere. Water, maybe. He was thirsty. Was he still in Sherwood? He knew those woods like the inside of his pocket, but there was nothing familiar about this. Where was the knotted elm, the fallen oak? Where was the river? The hill? There wasn’t even a sound to guide him. No roar of roiling waters. Not even a bird to sing. He stopped again and listened. The silence made him uneasy. Did it mean a storm? He’d have to find shelter. If he knew where shelter was.

Maybe he’d gone north, missed the edge of Sherwood without knowing it. Maybe he’d come out somewhere close to Woolwick. That seemed a bit hopeful, and he didn’t usually have that kind of luck. How long had it been since he’d visited the Peebles? Two years? Ol’ Jemma wouldn’t have let him leave without something to eat. At least she hadn’t the last time he’d seen her.

“I’ll walk you home,” she’d said. “You’ll be a great deal safer with me by your side.”

Will had been amused. “You’ll walk me home?”

“Oh, hush, child. Respect your elders. And let them lean on you when they need it.” She’d given him her basket of dyed wool and hooked her spindly arm into his, resting against him as they walked along the road. “My leg,” she’d said, by way of conversation and not because Will had asked. “It has its days. They’re fewer now, but every now and then they remember their old spirit.” Sighing, she’d looked out over the field they were passing, the green just beginning to prick the earth. “Spring in the air and a handsome young man at my side. What more could an old woman want?”

“Better knees?”

Ol’ Jemma had tweaked his ear. “Don’t you give me any of that cheek, boy. What have you been doing with yourself these days?”

“What do you mean?”

She had stopped to look at him. “Someone set the dog on you again?”

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.” She had pushed the hair out of his face. “Lor’, look at those eyes. Too honest for this world. Your mother was the same way. Eyes as clear as a summer morning. Oh, don’t look at me like that, boy. If you didn’t have her eyes, how else would I remember her?” Ol’ Jemma had cleared her throat, trying to be sharper. “You’re coming with me today. You’ll help fetch some herbs, and then you’ll be staying for supper. You’re so thin I’ve been half-afraid the breeze’d blow you away.”

“I’ve not blown away yet,” Will had countered. “Though maybe one of these days I’ll go where the wind takes me.”

“You have something in mind?”

“Not really.” Will hadn’t met her gaze, only looked away, over the field, following the line of hills in the distance. “Just not sure there’s much reason to stay.” Truth be told, he’d probably filched one too many clean tunics off someone’s line.

He’d meant to go back to Woolwick again, to visit, to see how Ol’ Jemma had fared when the Sheriff’s men were like wolves in the forest. But he hadn’t.

The same disquiet came stealing over him, settling like a heat behind his eyes, and he blinked.

A rustle distracted him in the distance, low and faint. He moved slowly, two more steps, and there, just ahead—a rabbit caught in a snare, a loop of cord wrapped around its foot. Will knelt to see it. The rabbit was wet from the rain, its fur bunching in little tufts. It had tried to run, the cord tangling in the stem of a slender sapling.

Will didn’t feel sorry for rabbits. They were all heart and no head, mindlessly starting at noises and running from danger that hadn’t happened. He reached out and took hold of the snare, drawing it slowly towards him, winding the leather cord around his hand to keep it taut. The rabbit shrank back, thrashing about, and Will waited until it had tired itself out, panting on its side. He wound the cord one more time around his hand and flashed out, grabbing the rabbit by the scruff of the neck, pulling it close to his chest, tight, tight. It tried to struggle, and he gripped even tighter. He could feel it tremble, its rabbit heart drumming wildly against him. He worked on the snare with his other hand, picking until it finally loosened. Then—and he didn’t know why—he let go. The rabbit burst from his hands, leaping across the wet earth, a flash of white tail against the dark.

“Just what in the name of the good Lord’s mother do you think you’re doing?”

Will started at the voice and would have fallen if someone hadn’t grabbed him by the collar. “That’s my rabbit. When I set a trap, I’m not expecting to guard it from thieves. I’ll ask again, and you’ll answer, plain as day—what do you think you’ve done with my rabbit?”

John? thought Will in the confusion because it sounded like something he would say, and Will was immediately sour, because who was John to come and find fault when he hadn’t been the one to spend the night in a damp hole? “Your rabbit?” Will hissed. “Are you king of the forest now to tell me what to do with rabbits?”

Will felt the grip on his collar tighten. “Are you mad, boy?” Because it wasn’t John at all, though the stranger was clearly just as unhappy to be snubbed so early in the morning. “Nothing to say for yourself? Sheriff got your tongue?”

“N-no,” Will stammered out, trying to think of something to say. “But he very nearly did.”

“Well, he very nearly did mine too, but that’s no excuse for stealing a man’s rabbit right out of his trap.”

“I wasn’t stealing.”

“Caught you red-handed and you have the cheek to tell me you’re not nippin’ off with my rabbit under your arm.”

“I know how to steal a rabbit without letting it slip through my fingers.” Will grimaced. How did that help?

“Then what were you doing? I have a wife and three daughters to feed. And what’ll they say when I come home with nothing to show? ‘I’m sorry, me loves. There’ll be nothing for supper tonight because I came across the only thief in the world who stole from the poor and gave to the forest.’”

Will blushed. “I…I’ll pay you back.”

“With what?”

Yes, with what? “Robin Hood will pay you back.”

“And why would the great Robin Hood pay for your transgression?”

“Because…” he’s my brother. “I know him.”

“And I’m personal friend to the Archbishop,” the man scoffed. “That’s what I’ll tell ‘em back home—that everything is all right because I met one of the Merry men, and Robin Hood himself owes us for the price of a rabbit pelt, and that he’ll be coming around any day now with his arms full of gold coins.”

Right. Will flushed. He didn’t look the part. Not after a night in the woods. Maybe not ever. He didn’t know what to say. “But…I really do know him.”

The man didn’t believe him, and Will knew then he had to run, had to try, because otherwise it meant the stocks again, or worse, and—he didn’t deserve this, did he? Other things, maybe, but damned for a rabbit he didn’t steal?

But instead tightening, the grip on Will’s collar loosened, and something in the man’s expression softened. “A lad like you ranging the woods and stealing what little there is from those who should have it?” The man let go of him completely. “There’s the road. Go on then.”

Will didn’t even look where the man pointed. “What?”

“Back to Nottingham with you.”

“What?”

The man sighed and took the leather snare from Will’s hand, nudging him half a step down the slope. “Go down this hill. Keep right and stay on the road, and you’ll come to Nottingham. You might find some solace in the church,” he paused, regarding Will again with a mild pity, “while you wait for your…Robin Hood.” The man clapped him on the shoulder, gave him one last, long look and walked away, shaking his head. “Hard times’ve taken the youngest of us.”

The man was halfway across the clearing before Will understood what he’d meant: the man thought Will had lost his senses, a mind cracked under the misery of the Sheriff.

“Hey!” Will shouted after him. “I’m not…” But the man was already out of earshot, and Will didn’t feel like trying to convince him he wasn’t some wild man roaming the woods with no intentions at all of stealing another’s man rabbit. Will wasn’t even entirely sure he could explain it to himself.

The man was gone. Will was alone again.

It began to rain, the sound loud in the still forest.

He looked down the hill, and he saw the road, and the world slotted back into its usual place. He knew where he was. This was the road to Shropshire. If he went left there was Beckett, and beyond that Strindon and the mills, eventually Shrewsbury. He’d gone there before.

No reason he couldn’t go there again.

If he went right, he’d go back to Nottingham. It seemed small now, when he stood by himself in the forest, far from the walls and market and streets. What did it have that he couldn’t find elsewhere? Besides, it wasn’t like him to stay. Nothing good ever came from staying. He’d known where to go before, what house would spare him a bit of bread. He could do it again.

Will’s throat felt tight, and he hated himself for it.

It’s not like you, Will, to hesitate.

He’d gone soft. He’d grown too familiar with a bed and a fire. Why hadn’t he braced himself for the end? It always came. He’d never been stupid enough to think things could go on forever. But he’d thought the end wouldn’t be much different from the other days, just a quiet disbanding of John’s company when the Sheriff pulled too close. And Will would go his own way again.

Not this.

Not Robin Hood.

The knot in his throat hardened. There was no going back, not when everything had changed. Not when Will had changed them. Why had he said it? Why had he confessed? It was the last of his secrets. What good had the truth ever done him? Will felt suddenly cold, and the cross burned even colder on his skin. He pulled it out, staring at the shape, his fingers closing over the metal bars until their ends fitted back into the bloody marks they’d left behind, and he squeezed.

Chapter Text

The garden wall was mossy and broken in one spot, a ruined corner overgrown with sharp holly, probably the reason no one had been in a hurry to bring the mortar and patch the hole. Will scratched himself getting through it, for a moment pinned and wriggling between the stonework, and panic told him he would be stuck there forever, a figure in the abbey garden to remind the pious of what happened to those who trespassed in the house of God. But in the next moment, his tunic ripped and he was free, and he tipped neatly into an empty vegetable bed at the end of the garden.

Will stood up, brushing off his knees.

It was quiet here. He breathed out, breath turning to frost in the morning air. It was the kind of quiet that came with early spring, when things of the earth had not yet begun to stir or even begun to contemplate the world above. A stillness, like winter still hanging about like a dream; or a quiet waiting for the signal to begin and send the first green tendrils of life through the soil. He could imagine it now—the way things would look soon, how the sun would come through the trees—the dappled shadows—the air warm and sweet with rosemary, thick with the steady hum of bees.

Will listened, gingerly making his way down a path between the rows. Empty, of course, because he wasn’t lucky enough to find carrots just waiting to be plucked. Or garlic to clear the head. Potatoes to thicken a stew. He plucked a few needles from the rosemary bush, rubbing it between his fingers. He knew his herbs well enough—Ol’ Jemma had asked him enough times to come ‘round to pick through the weedy little patch she liked to call a garden.

There was a stool sitting by the vegetable bed, a set of shears across the top, and a spade stuck into the ground. A roll of twine. Someone had been here, and not too long ago, judging by the overturned earth, dark and wet.

He could hear voices now from somewhere deeper in the garden, muffled by so many brambles.

“Honestly, Brother Victus—is this all you would have me do?”

A long pause. “Are you not pleased I’ve asked you to come?”

“For a garden?” The second voice was clear, brisk but not unhappy. “A task you could easily do yourself. Or have one of your novices do for you, if you were so inclined.”

“Yes, but I’ve heard good things about your abbey.”

“Oh?”

“The divine qualities of your garden.”

“I doubt anyone would make pilgrimages to Shrewsbury for our cabbage patch.”

A coughing sort of laugh. “I did not mean to insult you, Brother Cadfael. I just meant—I didn’t suppose it was terribly wrong of me to want to see an old friend.”

“You should have said so from the beginning, Brother Victus.”

“I suppose it borders on small deception,” a clearing of the throat, “but all done with good intentions.” Another bark of laughter, which ended in a wheeze. “I suppose I’ll be an old reprobate soon enough, full of selfish desire.”

“Old, yes,” there was a cheerful sort of pause, “but reprobate? I’ve seen enough of the world to know it far from you. And as for the desire—I’m afraid we all share the same affliction.”

“Suppose that’s why we need to Lord’s great mercies,” said Brother Victus, not at all put off by the gentle barb. “Suppose we can go about our soul’s work if we have a bit of breakfast first.”

“Haven’t you already had one?”

“Yes, but you haven’t. I saw you leaving for the garden at first light—”

“Only to marvel at the work you would have me do.”

“—and it would only be Christian of me to sit with you as you partake in God’s blessings. I could possibly even commit the great sacrifice of supping with you. A bit of bread and cheese, you see? To remember the fellowship of the apostles?”

Brother Cadfael laughed at this, loudly, without any careful. “If that is what your wish, old friend.” Will heard the sound of someone being clapped on the back, quite hard. “Far be it from me to reject such a generous offer.”

Their voices were already fading, and Will was alone again in the garden, the mists curling about the edges.

Bread and cheese.

Best idea he’d had all morning. It hadn’t strictly been his idea, but now that breakfast had come up, it wasn’t something he could ignore. Especially when there was probably a storehouse nearby stuffed to the brim with sharp cheeses and fresh loaves of rye bread, vats of milks and lakes of honey. Maybe even a tub of butter that could be…repurposed. To serve a worthier cause. Which wasn’t too different from what he’d done before with John and the others, waylaying the Sheriff’s men and their hoards of gold. Will would simply be redistributing the wealth, so to speak. The monks had enough to fill their stomachs twice over, so surely a vanished loaf would hardly raise an eyebrow.

Yes, Will decided, heading down the flagstone path. That was it. Charity. It all came around in the end, didn’t it? The monks—if they were the better sort—they might come down to the village anyways, filling the palms of any beggar on their knees or at the gate—so, really Will was just simplifying things for them.

Bringing the beggar to their door.

Or kitchen window, as it were, because he’d come to the end of the garden track, and there was a window in the wall, shutters thrown open to the air, and through it he could see a kitchen, invitingly empty, and a table with a basket of bread, loaves half-covered in a white cloth.

He stood by the window for a long time, pressed up against the brick wall, listening. No voices. No sound of footsteps. There must be another kitchen the monks preferred to this one. He couldn’t hear anything, save for the birds who’d begun to sing in the garden, a blackbird in the brambles, a pair of woodlarks chirping from between the glossy leaves.

Satisfied he was well and truly alone, he took hold of the broad window sill and pulled himself up, getting a leg over the edge. He was a bit rusty at this. The years in Sherwood hadn’t fattened him up any, but they had softened his instincts for climbing through windows. He wasn’t twelve anymore.

He pulled himself through, dropping onto the floor in a wincing half-crouch, anticipating immediate discovery. But nothing happened and no one came. Almost as if Will was meant to be here, a divine sympathy for the lowly traveler. Really, the monks had only themselves to blame for leaving good bread out in the open, unguarded.

The fire crackled, embers glowing under a blanket of snowy ash. It was burning low, in need of stoking. Good. If no one had bothered to keep the fire burning, it meant he really was alone. Divine providence, again. Bless the saints. Bless Mother Mary, Joseph and all the prophets too. Will crept over to the table, lifting the  bread from its basket, cradling it in his hands. The round crust was snowy with flour, yeasty, like a memory from long ago, another kitchen from another time.  

He glanced around the kitchen, finding an empty bag hanging on the wall by the fire. He lifted it off the hook and crammed the bread inside. There. And now for the cheese. This was an abbey, and monks made good cheese, and it would akin to insult if he didn’t attempt to find some.

Will searched through the kitchen before finding the pantry door at the back and pulled it open. He nearly cried. Rows upon rows of clay pots of jams and honeys—wheels of cheese, barrels of ale, crates of sweet apples. His stomach gnawed at him suddenly, a sickening lurch and he could feel his stomach drop away, and he was a hole, black and bottomless. He reached for the cheese, hands shaking, carefully peeling back the fine cheese cloth to find a smaller piece had been cut from its mother—the taste was already on his tongue—the sharp, crumbly, peppery tang of—

A floorboard creaked behind him.