A Study in Scarlett
Chapter Three
Word Count: 1,989
Rating/Disclaimer/Summary: Same as chapter 1, really
Author's Note: The movie doesn't give much information about Will's mother or any of their circumstances. I did some minor research into the various versions of him in the other legends and adaptations, but most of them don't have that information, either. Others used the name Anne, and I figured it was common and likely hers could have been that. I also chose this particular course for her and Will. For some reason, my mind is convinced he was on his own from age ten on, and I went with a darker path that took her out of his life, too.
In Death
Anne recovered, and time continued to pass. Her days stayed full of the work she did to keep them fed and clothed. Will had turned ten, by some mercy, and was a thin, scraggly thing. He'd known for some time the truth of his parentage, but he steadily refused to use it, even when the last two winters grew bad and looked to starve them. She had not made any attempts herself, still angry with Locksley, wanting to hate him for what she herself had done in selling her body and opening her home to men who had not only used her but also harmed her son.
She kept herself busy, trying to give Will no excuse to resort to thievery. She knew he was better now than in the past, his skill at both theft and blades increasing by his own stubbornness. No one aided him, and she doubted he would have let them, angry as he was. Knowing who his father was had made him more bitter, and when the other children taunted him, his words often made things worse.
"You keep your tongue as sharp as your knives."
Will gave her a sort of smile, one that pained her, for it reminded her of his father in their more gentle moments, when he had seemed loving and teased her.
"It is not a good thing, my son," Anne told him. "If you cannot hold your temper, you will only create more trouble for yourself."
"And what good has keeping yours led to?" Will demanded. "That rich man abandoned you. You keep moving us around and we starve every winter. When we're not starving, we're freezing. And if we're not, it's because you've sold yourself. What's good about that?"
"Will, don't you speak like that," Anne said. "You know I haven't done anything of the sort, not in years. I don't care what they say. They don't know us, and they don't know you. You are so much better than they think, than the names they call you."
He looked up at her. "I'm a liar and a thief. I'll never be anything but that."
"Your heart is good," she insisted, knowing that his stealing was done to help her, and he didn't lie that much—he wasn't at all good at it. His face showed too much of his emotions, and while she knew most of it was anger and it covered many things—shame, hurt, and fear—it was not the same. "Someday you will see that."
"The blacksmith, the one what fancies you, he said he'd take me on as an apprentice."
"It's good work," she said. "Honest work."
Will shook his head. "The boys said I'd never be a striker. I was too small. That I couldn't lift a hammer. That he only wants me there so he can bed you."
"Please tell me you didn't fight them."
Will looked at her. He said nothing, but that only meant he had.
"Will, please, you can't keep doing this. If you chase all good from your life because someone insults you, you'll have nothing."
"I already have nothing," he snapped. "And I don't want his charity, knowing he is using me to buy you. The only thing worse would be if he was doing it to get at me."
She winced. Will should not even know of such things, but he'd endured horrors at the hands of that trader. They'd never seen him since, though if they did, she knew Will would try to hurt him, to pay back all that damage he'd done.
"You don't have to stay on with him once you know a trade. People everywhere need smithys, and we could go any place if you had training. Think on that."
He grunted, but she knew he was when he sulked off to his side of the hut.
Anne watched from her hut as her son darted through the village, easily eluding those that chased him. She did not know what had started this fight, but she did believe he would win this fight, or at least the race.
She sighed and turned to go back inside when a man's hand caught her arm. She looked up to face him, taking in his armor with a bit of fear.
"You're the one with the boy."
"If they told you he did something wrong, they're lying," she said. "He's a good lad, and too small to do half the things they claim of him."
She was lying, but she was better at it than Will. She had to hide her pride where he was concerned, as he was more skilled at criminal acts than he should be.
"Don't care about him," the man said, reaching into a purse and holding up a coin. "I've got this, and it's plenty enough for the likes of you."
Anne spat at him. "I don't do that. Go on with you. You'll get nothing here."
"You're a lying little whore," the man said, taking hold of her arm and pushing her back into the hut. She struggled to free herself, knowing that if she called out, no one would come to her aid, not even the blacksmith that claimed to fancy her. They all said she was a harlot, probably sent this stranger to her. "I've offered you a fair price. Take it. Last chance."
"It's the bloody middle of the day," Anne said. "Even if I were such a woman, I'd not take you in now, not for all the village to see. Go. I told you already. You'll get nothing here."
His grip tightened on her arm. "I will have what I want. You can either get paid for it or not."
She hit him, twisting in his hold. She kept at it, beating with her fist against his arm. "You will get nothing. I won't give you anything. That's not for sale."
He backhanded her, knocking her to the floor. She should have learned herself to fight, but she had thought she would not need it, not after leaving behind that village and straying far from that trader's route. She'd kept her word, had never once taken money for her body since that horrible day. She would not do so now, even if it might spare her pain.
She forced herself to her feet, running for the door. He would not dare do this thing in sight of everyone.
He caught her foot and dragged her back. She cried out, but he pulled her over, covering her mouth with his hand as he held her down against the floor. She could not move her legs, and her hands proved useless against him. He ripped her dress, trying to get at her.
She knew what was to come, and she tried to make herself accept it, even as she panicked and fought harder to no purpose. She did not want this. Once she thought she did, with Locksley, but never since.
She heard a grunt, and her attacker groaned, loosening his hold on her. She looked up at him, watching in confusion as he fell back.
A small figure leapt upon him, yanking his knife from the man's back. Will put the blade to the man's throat. "I should kill you for what you tried to do."
"Will, no," Anne said, pulling her rags about her and trying to cover up her shame. "Don't do it. They'd blame you, not him."
Will glared at the man with pure hatred, but he backed off. He kept the dagger pointed at the man. "Out. Now. Don't come back."
"You think I'm afraid of you?" The man snorted. "That was only a scratch, and you know nothing of how to use those things. Oh, but I will show you, you little bastard. I'll make you feel great pain—after I finish with your mother."
He lunged for Will, and her son struck out in defense, driving the blade deep into the man's stomach as he approached. He roared in pain, but he did not stop, his hands moving not to defend himself but for Will's small neck. He caught hold of him and began to choke, knocking him down. Will pulled the blade out and stabbed it again, again and again, with less force each time as the man refused to let him go.
Anne ran over and yanked him off. Will leaned over, panting for air, and the man fell back, blood spreading from his many wounds.
Will shuddered. "I told him to go. Why didn't he go?"
The hate in that one was strong, Anne thought, and he had known nothing else, had not done the sensible thing and stopped, fled when he was first bested. He'd thought only of making them hurt.
"Will, love, give me your dagger."
"What?"
"Do as I say," Anne said, holding out her hand for the bloodied blade. He gave it to her, and she took it, holding it close. "Go out the back of the hut. You know where. That spot where the thatch is weak and you come and go when you steal."
"Mother—"
"Do as I say," she insisted. Will was only a child, but she did not think it would save him. This was the only way.
She waited for Will to leave before going to the door. She shrieked for help, knowing that what she called to her was damnation.
"They didn't want to let me in to see you," Will said, looking over at his mother behind the bars. "I don't know if it's because they know what I did—"
"Hush. Now," she ordered, coming over to him. She put her hand on his face. "Will, I am doing this for you. I could not let this be your fate. You must never tell anyone the truth."
"Mother—"
"I tried," she said. "I tried to tell them what he'd done and why he had to die, but they would not listen. It would make no difference if I told them he tried to kill a boy, too. They would condemn you as well. I will not let you hang."
Will shook his head. "I can't—"
"You are strong and brave. You taught yourself to fight, and you taught yourself to steal. You will still have a chance to grow into a fine man. You must do this for me, Will. You must survive."
He didn't want to. What would be the point?
"Mother—"
"I love you more than everything, and what I have done, I did for you," she told him. "I want your promise, Will. Promise me you will go on. You will be the man I know you can be."
He looked like he would deny her, but he whispered his promise to her all the same. She kissed his head and held on for as long as the guards let them, knowing she would be gone in the morning.
She hadn't made him promise not to go to the square.
Maybe she should have.
They had given her no leniency even though she told them of what that man had done. They saw her not as a woman who'd fought against a horrible act but as a whore who had killed a customer because he didn't pay. That, in turn, somehow made her a witch.
He didn't understand it.
No one would listen to him, though. He'd tried to tell them it wasn't like that, had even admitted to his part in it against his mother's wishes, but no one believed him. No one listened. He was just a thief and a liar.
So he stood in the square, and he watched them kill his mother for a crime he'd committed.
He hated them, all of them.
He hated the father he'd never met, the one who'd abandoned them to this.
He hated himself more.
