Briar Rose

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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 and 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 dull knife or sharp wit 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, as the soldiers had threatened so many times. And Will had managed to avoid it all until now when 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 it. 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, the fire in the fireplace had burned down, the embers glowing under the ash. A single candle burned on the 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 and fresh bread with butter and cheese and honey. And 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 field—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, and he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. His side flared like struck flint. What fresh hell was this? He felt suddenly hot and dizzy, the horrible ache gnawing at his side like some animal in a trap. He must have banged his ribs. A token of appreciation from the Sheriff. Or maybe some other flesh out of sorts. Nothing a little time wouldn't set right. He'd had worse before, hadn't he? Horsewhipped for stealing apples. Hadn't been too bad. But then Sir John had set the dogs on him, and he'd turned his ankle leaping the stone hedge and he hadn't walked right for months. But still, he was alive to tell the tale. And then there was that time, not too long ago-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 on the hearth to dry. They seemed terribly far away now. Surely miles by any honest measurement.

He took a breath and braced himself, and this time he didn't feel like he'd faint, and that was good. He stood up slowly, and it was probably an eternity before he was upright, and even then it was a kind of hunch. But still better than lying headless in a ditch. He realised he was clutching the bedpost and he let go, irritated. He'd never get anywhere if he kept stopping. The boots were a pace away, two at most. He'd outlived the Sheriff. Surely he could do a little thing like crossing to the fireplace to take his boots and—

"Will Scarlet."

Will's heart leaped into his throat. John. Will turned. John was in the doorway, a hand on the doorknob. Will hadn't even heard the door open. That was disconcerting. "John." Will's voice cracked. What was he supposed to say? How long have you been standing there? "I…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."

John snorted. "Of course you are. What else would I expect?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

John was shaking his head. "It means I don't know whether you were born daft or make it your business to practice the art." He 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?" said Will.

"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 realisation slowly sliding into place. "This—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? 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?"

"N-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." Will bit his tongue. Where had that come from?

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."

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