Free Will in Scarlet by Matthew Cody

for John.
    Stout scratched at a piece of flabby belly poking out between the leather seams. “Well, if Tom did make a grab for that cart, he’ll end up with a gut full of arrows.”
    John made a low noise in his throat but said nothing.
    Much counted her knives. Staffs and clubs were for grown men with the muscle to make them count. For a “boy” like Much, survival meant staying out of sight and out of reach. But if it came to a scrape, she had pretty good aim with the knives.
    “We sure it’s not one of the sheriff’s carts?” asked Stout. “Have to let ’em pass if he’s got an escort from the sheriff.”
    The Sheriff of Nottingham was the law in Nottinghamshire, and that included Sherwood Forest. But the good sheriff had a special “arrangement” with the forest bandits—for a bit of monthly bribe money, he left them alone, just as long as the bandits left his own people alone in turn. This meant that he could escort Prince John’s taxes safely through, as well as any fat merchants willing to pay for the sheriff’s escort. It was always a sad sight to see a well-furnished carriage come rolling along with a couple of the sheriff’s guards attached. But every bandit in Sherwood felt it was worth it to keep his neck free of the hangman’s noose.
    “The cart may arrive yet,” said John. “You and me can set up the trip lines, Stout. Much will stay up his tree and keep watch.”
    Stout grumbled something about everyone doing his fair share as he set about burying a thick rope across the road. When he looked up, Much smiled down at him and made a show of stretching out on a tree limb. Truth was, it was awfully uncomfortable balanced between two uneven branches, but for Stout’s benefit Much did her best to look like she was relaxing on a lord’s soft featherbed.
    As the two men hid the ropes and tied them off, Much watched the road and listened for the sound of hooves or the creak of a cart. If Tom Crooked hadn’t already taken the cart, then it should be coming this way within the hour at the latest. That was assuming they didn’t stop, and people didn’t stop in Sherwood Forest unless they had no other choice. The devil walked this forest at night, folks said, and brigands and cutthroats hunted it by day.
    Brigands like Much. And Stout, John Little, Rob, Wat, and all the rest of the Merry Men, as they laughingly called themselves. A troop of bandits that had laid claim to the southern road through Sherwood Forest. A troop of bandits led by the deadliest bowman in all of England. A man without pity or compromise—Gilbert the White Hand.
    He could split an arrow in mid-flight, it was said. Stout idolized and feared him. John tolerated him, and Much knew well enough to stay out of his way. Gilbert had taken the “boy” in because they needed someone sneaky. Someone who could scout the town and the woods without raising an alarm. After all, who feared a poor, starved beggar boy?
    Much had a place in their band as long as she was useful and for as long as she kept her secret safe. She was anothermouth to feed and another split of the loot (although her share was pathetically small). If she displeased Gilbert or became lax or lazy, he’d give her a head start before cutting her down with an arrow in the back. And he didn’t look kindly on bandits who came back empty-handed.
    John and Stout set the trap and then set about waiting. If a cart came this way, Much would whistle a signal and the two men would hoist up their ropes, both in front of and behind the cart. The rope nets wouldn’t stop a horse at full gallop, but they would box in a slow-moving cart well enough. Once the customers saw that they were trapped, they would reach for their weapons. One look at John, and they would drop them again. Then they’d do business with the Merry Men (the Merry Men’s business being the robbing-you-of-all-your-coin-and-most-likely-your-boots kind).
    The minutes crept by and there was still no sign of the