Free Will in Scarlet by Matthew Cody Page A

cart, so they sat and passed the time, each in his own fashion. Stout picked the lint from his hairy belly button; John cut a sapling into useless strips of green wood, tied them into knots, and then started in on another. And up in the tree, away from the prying eyes of her companions, Much carved pictures into the bark. She’d never learned her letters, but she’d gotten good at carving the sun and the moon, for father and daughter. She’d marked countless trees throughout Sherwood Forest this way, a hidden tribute to a dead girl named Marianna and her father.
    It was another hour before she saw the horse. It came into sight at a slow trot, its rider slumped over the saddle. The creature was breathing heavily, foaming at the mouth and lathered in sweat. The rider must’ve ridden the poor beast hard before collapsing himself. The pair seemed alone, rider and horse.
    Much gave the warning signal, two quick birdcalls in succession, to her companions below.
    “Is it the cart?” answered a harsh whisper from the trees. Much held her breath, but the rider did not stir. He was most likely unconscious or dead.
    The horse kept coming. Much slowly eased herself down from the branches until she could see John standing there with his huge hand over Stout’s mouth. The fat bandit’s eyes were indignant.
    Much used hand signals to communicate with John.
    A single rider
, she signed.
Wounded or dead
.
    Faking?
mouthed John.
    Much shrugged. How was she to know?
    John let Stout free and hefted his long staff. Stout spit and mumbled something about John’s hands tasting like vinegar as he readied his club and took his position. The two men pulled up the rope lines, trapping the horse and rider between them.
    If the horse was at all spooked by the sudden appearance of tall John in its path, it was too tired to do anything about it. It just kept on coming. The rider didn’t stir.
    Stout stepped out onto the road behind it, mace in hand.
    “Ho there,” John called to the rider. “Are you in need of aid, my friend?”
    “We’ll happily aid you in lessening your purse!” said Stout, grinning.
    “Shut up,” answered John. He called back to the rider, “Are you hurt?”
    Still there was no answer.
    John motioned to Much, and she stepped out of the trees and cautiously took the horse’s reins in one hand, her knife in the other. The beast didn’t resist. The rider’s face was hidden by a cloak, but there was an ugly wet spot visible on the hood where blood had soaked through.
    John came around the other side and gave the rider a poke with his staff. He slid a bit in the saddle but didn’t react.
    “Hey, you alive or dead?” John asked as he poked again. This time John put his arm into it, and the rider rolled off the saddle and onto Much.
    Much could’ve dodged out of the way, but she’d hesitated a second too long, afraid to release the horse’s reins, and the rider tumbled on top of her, knocking her to the ground beneath him.
    She panicked at first and tried to wiggle her hand free to fetch her fallen knife. But she soon realized that this was no ploy, no clever trap. The rider was deadweight.
    Her alarm quickly turned to embarrassment. He wasn’t a big man; in fact, he was slightly built and not very tall, but he was still far too heavy for Much to budge. She was pinned, helpless beneath a dead body in the middle of the road.
    Stout was already snickering. “Wait, Much. Leave a little fight for us! You don’t need to hog all the glory for yourself!”
    “Go stuff … your head … up your backside, Stout,” gasped Much as she struggled to free herself from the corpse.
    “Stout, look in the saddlebags,” said John. “Much, while you’re down there, why don’t you see if our fallen friend has any coin in his pockets? The horse is nice, but I’d like some silver to brighten my day.”
    “Where’s the blasted cart?” asked Stout as he began rummaging through the horse’s pack.
    John shook his head.