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Killing wolves is supposed to teach me to be a great lord of men? Aren’t there any books on the subject?   —WILLIAM SHACKLEY    
In the year 1192, while King Richard the Lionheart was on his way home from fighting in far-off Jerusalem, the lords of Shackley Castle were out hunting wolves by moonlight. Bitter cold, an aching backside, and hours of fruitless searching had made theoldest, Sir Osbert, irritable. Will Shackley, the youngest, listened patiently as the old knight passed the time by trying to scare the britches off the lad.   “It’s this bloody weather,” said Osbert, beating the crust of frost out of his enormous beard. “Drives them beasts out of Sherwood looking for something, anything, to eat. Bold enough to challenge a man on horseback, even.”   He leaned forward in his saddle and winked at Will. “Or a young lord. They wouldn’t bother with a tough piece of gristle like me when they can have a juicy young lordling. That’s why I’m not riding up there with your uncle. I’m sticking close to you, Wolfbait!”   At thirteen years old, Will was used to the old knight’s teasing. He’d been raised on it.   “Well, while the wolves are devouring me,” answered Will, “I’ll be sure to holler loud enough that you’ll know where to swing that mighty sword of yours. Wouldn’t want your old eyes to mistake a shrub for the enemy. Again.”   Osbert sat back in his saddle for a moment before snorting and breaking into a huge grin.   “No, we wouldn’t want that,” laughed the old man. “Wouldn’t want that!”   Osbert laughed himself into a coughing fit that ended in a string of curses. He spit out something wet and nasty-looking onto his sleeve. Osbert shouldn’t be out in this weather, thought Will. But the stubborn knight wouldn’t be left behind. Bold Sir Osberthad never shied away from a battle, even if it was only against a bunch of skinny, half-frozen wolves. But his best days were long past, and he’d traded in battle cries for complaints of stiff joints and damp weather.   Will couldn’t imagine the flesh-and-blood enemy who could make an end of the tough old warrior, but this night’s biting cold just might.   “I’d hoped it might snow,” said Will, looking up at the darkening sky. The clouds had hung gray and threatening all day, but the ground remained dry as dust. “We’d have an easier time following their tracks in fresh snow.”   “Ah, Geoff will track them, snow or no. He’s part hound, that uncle of yours. And the moon’s rising to light our ride home. But a blanket of Christmas white would’ve been nice, taken my mind off this freezing wind at least. I’m chattering what few teethI have left down to nubs!”   There hadn’t been so much as a snowflake in England this year, despite the terrible cold. But the trees, thick with hoarfrost, still glittered white in the moonlight. The wind blew easily through the bare branches and cut through leather and furs. Thiswas a sort of cold that settled deep in your bones, and all across England people were suffering for it.   “Weather like this’ll have those wolves knocking on the doors of your father’s own castle,” said Osbert. “That’s after they’ve eaten all the peasants, of course. Natural order of things that the peasants go first. Only fitting.”   The old man chuckled at his own joke, but his laughter sounded hollow and out of place among those dark trees.   Squinting into the woods, Osbert muttered, “Useless. Not a living thing stirring in these woods. Maybe they’ve fled back to Sherwood to hunt bandits. Nothing for them here.”   Will nodded and tried to picture these trees in the summer, green and lush. These woods belonged to his father, Lord Rodric Shackley. Lord Rodric had sailed off with King Richard to fight in the Crusades, and he’d been gone fighting overseas for over twoyears. But now the king was coming home, and Will’s father with him.   Will and his playmate, Milo, fled here to his father’s woods whenever Nan came at them with the kitchen spoon. The last time had been just a few months ago, when they’d stolen into the molasses. Over the course of a few days, the two of them had nearlyemptied the larder. It hadn’t been hard for Nan to guess the culprits—a pair of sticky boys with stomachaches were easy to spot in a castle full of knights. They’d come here to escape her spanking spoon, but the trees had looked so much friendlier then. Ona cold winter’s night like this, the branches reached for you like bony fingers, the comforting hum of crickets was replaced with the howling wind, and instead of a sack of stolen sweets, Will now wore a heavy sword.   The wolves had gotten overly bold this season, coming all the way from Sherwood Forest into his father’s woods and stealing into farms to threaten man and beast alike. People told stories of winters gone by when the wolves of Sherwood had been so thickthe men had to ride out to meet them on the field of battle, like an invading army. Osbert claimed the wolves had even stitched their own war banners from rabbit hides. Osbert liked to tell stories.   The women back at the castle told different stories. Will had heard them this morning as he loitered near the kitchens. These weren’t natural wolves, they whispered. These wolves were accursed, sent from the pit to punish England for her many sins. A farmer,they said, had cut off the paw of one of the beasts as it came for his hens. He wrapped the thing up in a sackcloth to bring to Lord Geoffrey, but when he delivered the bloody package, the paw had gone missing and in its place was a human hand.   Who actually saw this? Nan, Will’s nurse, had asked in her characteristic suffer-no-fools voice. No one, it turned out. But they’d all heard it was true.   “You ever seen a pack hunt?” asked Will, eyeing the trees as they passed.   “I’ve seen worse than that,” answered Osbert. “I’ve seen what they leave behind, which is precious little, I can tell you.”   “It’s the howling that chills you,” added Hugo, his family’s skinny steward. “More so than this winter’s air. A single howl gets your attention; then the chorus starts. That’s when you know they’ve got your scent. When you’ve gone from hunter to hunted.”   The men grew quiet. Will was listening for howls on the wind when Osbert loudly announced to the hunting party that he’d grown cold enough to fart snow.   The frozen men burst into laughter, their icy beards cracking with their smiles. It only grew worse when Hugo told Osbert to stop exaggerating and Osbert invited the steward to lean close and see for himself. He threatened to fart up a blizzard for him.   Will laughed until his face hurt, but it helped to unclench the fear he’d been holding in his gut ever since they’d ridden into these woods. He was wiping away the tears of laughter before they could freeze to his cheeks when his uncle Geoff’s rode upnext to him.   “Old Osbert tells the same jokes he told your father and me when we were boys,” he said. “But somehow they never get old.”   Will looked at the white-haired knight hunched over in his saddle, his hands so arthritic and curled that they could barely grasp the reins. But those big arms could still swing a sword with more strength than Will could muster.   “Just how old is he?” Will asked, and not for the first time.   “Haven’t you heard? Sir Osbert dined with the Romans, just so he could tell Caesar his roads were too bumpy.” Geoff shook his head. “Truth is, he was little more than a lad when he first rode to war with your grandfather, God rest his soul. He and Osbertwere boys together. Around about your age, I’d imagine.”   Will winced at his uncle’s reference to his being a boy. He knew that’s what the men here thought of him. The only son and heir of Lord Rodric was a boy overly fond of his play games, and of trouble in general. And who’d been shielded from manhood by anoverprotective mother while his father fought alongside good king Richard against the infidels. Will knew his father’s men were fond of him, even if they teased him mercilessly, but he also knew they feared he lacked the spine to rule.   That was why he was out here tonight. Talk was getting out of hand. Men were wondering, out loud, if Geoff might be the better choice, and Geoff would have none of it. As Rodric’s younger brother, he wasn’t officially in line, and he certainly wasn’t aman of ambition. Geoff reveled in being free to hunt and fight without worrying about the responsibilities of leadership. But while Lord Rodric was away to war, Geoff’s rule as regent had been strong and fair. He’d become more popular than ever, and if Willfailed to show his mettle . . .   “How’s the armor?” Geoff asked. Will wore a shirt of chain links beneath his thick fur-lined cloak. The shirt alone weighed thirty pounds. Add to that the plate-metal greaves on his legs and the gauntlets on his hands, and it was exhausting work just gettingon and off his horse.   “Metal’s cold,” said Will. “Even through my underclothes. Glad I don’t have to armor my arse.”   His uncle chuckled. “I meant did you have anyone check it after you strapped it on. Won’t do much good if it’s dangling open.”   Will felt his cheeks warm, despite the weather. “I know how to armor myself, Uncle. I do it whenever I train in combat lessons.”   “I didn’t mean . . . Look, I’m just keeping an eye on you, understand? Your father will be back in England by the thaw, so just try to stay alive that long? As a favor to me?”   Will’s father would be home by spring, if not sooner. After two years, it seemed hard to imagine, but they’d gotten word. King Richard’s crusade was over. He and his knights, Will’s father included, were sailing back to England. Will’s heart was full ofjoy at the thought of his father’s return, but also a bit of fear. What if he was a disappointment to his father? At thirteen, he was now of age, and expected to act like the heir to his father’s title. That meant he should spend his days at study, he shouldjoin his uncle on his hunts, he should learn politics and history and governance. He should stop stealing Nan’s molasses.   They rode on for a few minutes without saying much. Eventually, Geoff motioned to Will to follow him, and the two trotted to the front of the line, out of earshot of the rest. They were getting deep into the woods now. The trails here were narrow and crowdedfor a troop of men on horseback. Stinging branches whipped against exposed cheeks and necks. At least Osbert would have something else to complain about besides the cold.   “This trail is a game path,” said Geoff. “And there’s wolf spoor all along here. I’m sure we’ll find them soon.”   Will peered at the trail, but in the night one patch of fallen leaves looked like another. How his uncle could track that well in these conditions was a mystery, but Geoff had a nose for this that couldn’t be denied. A born huntsman.   “I suppose you heard me arguing with Lady Katherine earlier,” Geoff said, not taking his eyes from the trail.   Will nodded. His uncle and his mother had had disagreements before, but nothing like their row today. Voices had been raised, and his mother had reverted back to her native French to call Geoff names that would make Osbert blush.   “She thinks you’re not ready to be out here with us tonight,” said his uncle.   “She thinks I’m still a boy.”   Geoff let out a long sigh. “And she’s right. On this, your mother has right on her side. No question.”   Will looked at his uncle, but the regent of Shackley held up his hand. “She’s right as a mother, but she’s wrong as the lady of Shackley. You are the son of Rodric Shackley, and heir to his house. You must be seen as such. I’m not your father, but I oweit to him to see that you are ready to rule. When he sailed off with Richard, you were still a boy, but when he returns, you’ll be a man. Your days as young Will Scarlet, scourge of the castle servants, are over. You’ll be Lord William before you know it.”   Young Will Scarlet. Nobody but Geoff called him that. A play on his name and a tease. Whenever he’d been brought before his father for some terrible offense against Nan or the kitchen staff, he’d always blushed a bright crimson. Geoff said it was his tell,and that they always knew when he’d been up to no good by his shade of red. Will’s father would grow grave and disappointed, while Geoff smirked over his shoulder.   Young Will Scarlet’s rear will match his face after Nan’s done with her spanking spoon! Geoff would sing.   “Killing wolves is supposed to teach me to be a great lord of men?” asked Will. “Aren’t there any books on the subject?”   “No,” said Geoff. “But sharing in your men’s hardship, their danger, that’s a start. And they are your men, Will. Despite Osbert’s taunts, or even mine. We will be yours to command one day.”   Geoff put his hand on his nephew’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Still, stay near me or Hugo tonight. We’ll find the pack if Osbert’s bellyaching hasn’t scared them all back to Sherwood already. But if we do catch up with them, hold your reins tightand stay clear. Prince John’s been offering real silver for wolf pelts, and hunters have been driving them out of their woods to haunt us. Cold and hunger will make any creature desperate, Will. Add the fear of the sword, and that makes them dangerous.”   As his uncle steered his charger, Samson, over the frozen ground, Will tried to follow the same path. Samson was a destrier, a warhorse, who’d carried Geoff over many hunts, and he was sure-footed even on this icy track. But Will’s horse was a young marenamed Bellwether, and although Will loved her, she was still skittish. Not that Will blamed her. This wasn’t a fit night for any creature.   “Geoff,” he said, checking to make sure the men were still out of earshot. “In the kitchens this morning, I heard the women talking.”   “Yes, they do that. Passes the time, I’m told.”   “No, they were talking about the farmer who came to visit you the other day with a . . . hand wrapped in a sackcloth. They said that when he’d cut it off, it had belonged to a wolf.”