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Nothing about Bill’s mission had gone to plan.
True, they’d sunk the barge so "mission accomplished". But it had been a nightmare from the start. Their tip-off had been sketchy, their timetable short, no one had mentioned the archers onboard. And maybe he should have listened to Bedivere and hit the ship further downstream, but at the time, Bill had thought speed was preferable to subtlety.
Now?
Well, now… lying chained on the floor of the wagon, with the arrow wound in his arm still aching, Goosefat had ample opportunities to second guess himself.
He’d been over it all in every way since his capture days before… when he’d been handed over to the Blacklegs without even a first thought, let alone a second. That fact still pissed him off, that some jumped up low-life pimp had sold him out so casually. Fortunately, he wasn’t going to see that place again. The Red House had been useful when he'd needed to lay low, but now his face was known, he’d get the Blacklegs pounding on his door the moment he set foot in it.
But thinking realistically, Bill realised that he would probably have ended up here anyway, trussed up in this wagon, regardless of how they’d hit their target on the river and what had happened later. Ever since the Sword had revealed itself, the Blacklegs were cracking down harder.
Reluctantly, Bill pushed the thought away again. He could worry about that when he was back at the hideout. His current problem was more than enough for one evening. He knew he was running out of time.
The wagon gave a sudden, unexpected lurch, and Bill let a muffled grunt slip out.
He froze, hoping the guards would ignore him, but this time, his luck was in short supply. Instead, he heard one of the men give an unfriendly, forced laugh, before stomping over and dealing out a sharp kick to his ribs.
“Shut the fuck up,” the guard hissed.
Bill didn’t react, just lay limp and beaten-down on the floor. Each breath made his chest and sides burn. Another kick like that and a rib was going to crack. That would put him at even more of a disadvantage. Of course, having thick wrist cuffs and begin chained up was disadvantage enough, he still had to wriggle his way out of this and get back to the hideout before Bedivere sent out a search party. He still had some pride, even if getting shopped to the Blacklegs by that smug shit had dented it a little.
There was a short but unpleasant silence.
“Still can’t believe we’ve finally caught the fucker,” the guard growled. “After all this time. Given us all the run around for fucking years.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Going to be glad to get him back to the Castle. I know a lot of men looking forward to it. Got it all planned out.”
The implied threat of what was going to happen to him at Camelot hung in the air and, as Bill knew, it wasn’t going to happen quickly. He didn’t look up or try to react, nothing to antagonise them or annoy them, having long since learned that the best way to deal with the Blacklegs was to appear less than they expected.
His reputation for escaping had grown steadily over the years, but none of the guards he encountered ever thought that this man, this middle-aged, worn out, slightly shabby, meek and ineffective-looking man could possibly escape from them this time. Each set of guards always thought they were going to be the exception.
Once upon a time (a time he didn’t care to remember) Goosefat Bill had been Sir William Wilson, a trusted Knight of the English Realm; a high ranking member of the old Pendragon court; descended from Dal Riatan royalty in his own right. He’d been Leinster’s page boy and dined in the presence of kings; he’d fought the Vikings at Dublin before he’d been strong enough to wield a broadsword. Sir William Wilson had been someone with genuine power, genuine friends, and a genuine fortune all of his own. Someone who’d had no need break out of prisons, someone who had no reason to know his way around sewers and back-alleys, and someone who didn’t need to pick a lock with his eyes closed. His previous courtly credentials had been the best mis-direction he’d used. Surely a member of Uther’s Inner Circle wouldn’t betray his social class to stoop so low and go grubbing around in the gutter? A knight would not do that, not for any reason. Bedivere had held fast. But Bill had quickly discovered that he couldn’t have the luxury of principals if he wanted to stay alive as a spy.
This time, his inertia worked, lulling the guards into thinking he was going to be no trouble, and they continued to bitch and grumble, ignoring him again.
It had been four days since his capture at the brothel. Four days to go over what he’d done wrong and four days to think of a way out. And, more importantly, four days to put his capture to good use and listen to the guards gossip, and take note of any useful titbits of information.
Not that there was much luck on that front. All they’d talked about was the sword appearing at the docks beside Camelot. They talked about the men trying to pull it out and how impossible it was to move.
And if Bill had to take an educated guess, that bloody Sword was the reason this trip was so unusual. He was a connoisseur of the Blacklegs' methods by now, he knew the way they operated; he counted on knowing, and being able to leverage their weakest points. But yesterday, the guard numbers had dwindled to three. Just three! Like he was a nobody, and not the third most-wanted man in England. The lower down the list he was, the fewer the guards and the easier it was to get out. Even so, just three guards was an insult. But a decrease in the number of guards was the opposite of what usually happened. They usually became more paranoid and aggressive the closer they got to the Castle.
Not this time, it seemed. This time something was different. He could only wait and keep his ears open for news.
The wagon trundled on. The guards kept talking. Goosefat kept his head down, quiet and unthreatening.
At last, Bill heard the faraway thump of horses that gradually drew closer, and the chatter of the guards died down in anticipation. The wagon stuttered to a halt. Bill heard one of his guards jump down, and talk to the rider, but he couldn’t make out much beyond a few swear words.
More movement, and then a breathless guard spoke from the back of the wagon:
“Someone pulled the sword!”
There was a babble of words, questions, answers demanded. Then Bill heard the name “Arthur”, and the words “Red House”. Understanding dawned on Bill... that the arrogant blond fucker who’d shopped him was the same one they were talking about. He’d been taken to Camelot.
And he’d pulled the Sword.
That man (that jumped-up, low-life pimp) had pulled the Sword.
Which meant he was -
Well… fuck!
Fuck!
Bill had to stifle the urge to laugh at the idea of Uther’s son, Igraine’s son, being in charge of the most famous (or was that infamous?) brothel in Londinium.
Arthur Pendragon: Brothel owner.
And that wasn’t including all the other shady stuff the man was rumoured to be involved in. Arthur, Uther’s son, ran a protection racket in the middle of Londinium. Bill wasn’t sure if he found it funny of horrifying.
But the news added impetus to his need to escape, because he wanted to be there when Bedivere found out. And preferably, he wanted to be the one to tell Bediever. Bill swallowed hard. He had to get out. Not only did he need to save his own neck, he had to be the one to inform Bedivere that the man they were looking for ran the Red House brothel and had been under the noses of the resistance the whole time.
Seeing the look on Bedivere’s face when he found out who’d pulled the Sword was worth the dressing down Bill was going to get for getting caught in the first place.
He thought about the Arthur he had seen in Londiunium, trying to connect him to the two people he knew, and to the young blond boy he’d last seen playing beside his father’s chair. Maybe it wasn’t such a huge stretch of the imagination. The man certainly had Uther’s proud, imposing bearing and authoritative air. He had Uther’s clear gaze and inner strength. But he also had Igraine’s blue eyes and fair colouring.
And was it such a surprised that, wherever Arthur had ended up, he'd been success and risen to the top? Leading was in his blood, after all.
The guards were still talking, distracted by the excitement surrounding the news, and busy speculating on what was going to happen. It wasn’t hard to figure out Vortigen’s next move. He couldn’t let Arthur live.
So the sooner Bill got back to the resistance and Bedivere the better. Steeling himself, he worked his lockpick out from the cuff of his sleeve. It was going to be slow work, he knew.
Nevertheless, Bill gave a hidden smile, working away at the chain as the guards remained oblivious. He felt something different, something he'd not felt for a very long time: hope.
And the outraged look on Bedivere's face was just going to be a bonus.
End