“What is he like?” Isabelle asked, unable to help herself. “Your Robin Hood. What kind of person is he?”
“Robin’s the best,” Patrick said, his voice steady and earnest. “He’s jolly when you’re in a foul mood, he’s smart as a whip crack, and he can charm the coin out of any pocket here to Dover. He’s always pulling tricks on everyone in the camp, and on the tax collectors and such. He once posed as a washerwoman for two weeks before Will Scarlett found him out.”
“He shot an apple out of my hand because I slipped it from his plate,” Little said. “And a loaf of bread. And a cheese I was really looking forward to.”
“Perhaps you should have learned after the first go,” Adam said dryly.
Little shrugged. “I was hungry.”
“Is he…kind?” Isabelle asked.
“He gave our entire store of grain to Hempstead one winter because a blight wiped out their crop,” Adam said. “Of course we had to eat old oats the rest of the winter to make up for it. If you’ve ever chewed on old boot leather, you’ll know the taste and texture.”
“He rescued my sister Camilla from drowning in the river when she was just two,” Little said. “My youngest brother convinced her she could cross the surface of the water if she ran fast enough. Luckily, Robin was out on one of his walks, heard her screaming as the river swept her away, and scooped her up before she hit the falls. Da blackened my brother’s hide for that little trick.”
“And him crying the whole time it was you convinced him to do it,” Adam said. “I believe you got your fair hiding for it as well.”
Little grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Forgot that part of the story.”
“He carried my father back from York so we could bury him proper in Sherwood,” Helena said, surprising Isabelle by speaking up. “Wouldn’t let anyone else do it. Pulled the wagon the entire way and dug the grave himself. Told my mother that my father was his greatest friend, and his death was a terrible loss to the camp.”
Helena’s voice was calm, straightforward, but Isabelle could read the tension in her shoulders and the hard set of her lips. She had seen what it was to soldier on despite devastation, and what it did to your soul anyway.
“I am so sorry for your loss,” Isabelle said softly.
Helena rolled one shoulder as if to shrug it off, but some of the tension left her lips. Isabelle glanced at the other members of their crew. “Are you all children of the outlaws?”
“Second generation,” Little said proudly. “My da came to the Merry Men after Robin helped him rescue my ma from being forced to marry an old codger. Don’t know if she found living in the woods better than living with a man twice her age, though.”
“I would imagine any number of women who might prefer it,” Isabelle said.
Little shrugged. “She seems happy enough.”
“Twelve children is more than happy enough,” Adam said.
“Thirteen, near enough,” Little said. “Ma’s due to drop any day now. Probably have a new brother or sister by the time we return.”
“And you, Patrick? Are you also a proud son of an outlaw?” Isabelle asked the young Irish boy.
“Of a sort,” he said, tilting his head to one side. “Though not the sort Robin would ever welcome with open arms. My da was a traitor to his people, tried to sell them out to the Normans and had to flee to England when they caught wind of his betrayal. His ship crashed in Liuerpul, and I was the only one to survive. There was a priest there, Father Donnell, he took me in and raised me as his own.”
“How did you happen to join the Merry Men?” Isabelle asked.
“Father Donnell died,” Patrick said with a small shrug that spoke volumes. “Nearly four years ago now. I had nothing and no one, and the people in Liuerpul were none too kind to the son of a drowned Irish traitor. I was starving my way through the countryside when Robin and Little John found me. I was like a stray animal, I suppose. They fed me once and I followed them home.”
Isabelle looked to Adam. “I hesitate to even ask your circumstances.”
He gave her a faint smile. “No one finds their way to the Merry Men easy, sister. You learned that yourself.”
All their stories were crafted from tragedy, and even though he moved with the same easy stride, there was something about the distant, shadowed look on his face that made her think his was no different. But she wanted to know his story most of all, her chest already aching in sympathy for whatever pain had driven him here. She decided to start on easier footing.
“Do you have family in the camp like Little and Helena?” she asked.
“No, my family’s back in Locksley,” Adam said.
Isabelle did not know where Locksley was, but she imagined the distance from Sherwood to Kirklees and how many times her father could have traveled it and did not. “Do you visit them often?”
Adam’s smile twisted down into a hard line. “No. I don’t.”
Isabelle glanced at the others, afraid she had made some misstep, but Patrick showed her pity. “Adam’s father does not approve of the company he keeps.”
“He doesn’t approve of anything,” Adam said, his voice hollow and bitter. “Were it up to men like him, John Lackland would have us all strung up by the neck and my da would pull the lever on himself. He’s more terrified of changing than he is of fighting to be free.”
Isabelle dropped her eyes to the ground in the silence that followed, a feeling of guilt twisting in her gut. All she had wanted since running from Kirklees was an end to the nightmare and a way back home. But these outlaws were fighting for something greater, something they were willing to sacrifice their whole lives on. What would Adam think of her if he knew the truth? Would he judge her with the same scorn he held for his own father?
“And just how is it you found your way to Sherwood, sister?” Helena asked, her suspicious tone breaking into Isabelle’s thoughts. Though Isabelle supposed she did most things suspiciously.
“She shot a soldier,” Little said gleefully.
Adam raised both eyebrows at her, lifting the shadows off his face. “Is that right?”
“It sounds far more sensational than it was,” Isabelle said, feeling silly. “They were attacking the villagers of Kirklees, and I happened to be there. I had no choice but to intervene.”
“You had a choice, sister,” Adam said gravely. “Don’t forget that. There are plenty who choose to do nothing while King John takes whatever he likes.”
For a moment Isabelle saw the true rebel in him. She had wrestled with her choices over the past days, fearing every twig snap and distant clatter of hooves; perhaps she had not done the right thing. Perhaps she should have stayed out of it, or tried to reason with the soldiers another way. But looking at Adam’s fierce expression, the resolve built into the core of him, she felt for the first time that she had done the right thing. It was like something fit together, finally, within her. She had done the right thing.
“Well, you’re a welcome member to the Merry Men,” Patrick said. “Even if you hadn’t made that shot.”
“But she did,” Little reminded him.
Helena rolled her eyes. “Would you let it go?”
Little grinned at her. “Never.”
“How far is it to Lincoln exactly?” Isabelle asked, wishing to move the conversation away from her reasons for coming to Sherwood.
“A day’s walk,” Adam said, giving Little a pointed look. “Less if we don’t have to stop every few hours to eat.”
“I’m a growing man,” Little said, patting his midsection. “I need food to sustain me.”
“The amount of food you take in could sustain an army,” said Helena.
“It’s another two days to York from Lincoln on foot,” Adam continued. “Less if we’re lucky and David can find us mounts. We’ve got a smaller camp outside York, we should find Robin there.”
“Should?” Isabelle asked, picking up on the slight emphasis.
“Robin has a way of…di
sappearing when you want him,” Patrick said ruefully. “He always reappears when you need him, though. It’s like he’s got a sixth sense about it.”
“And what’s this terribly urgent message we’re supposed to be carrying to him?” Helena asked, looking to Isabelle. “Since we’re risking our lives and all.”
Isabelle let her gaze skitter to the dappled leaves underfoot, her new boots making barely a sound as she walked. Thomas’s warning about Sir Roger vibrated through her bones, bringing a deeper chill than the morning warranted. Helena was right; they were risking their lives for her. But she would not risk theirs by putting them any further into the Wolf’s path than she already had.
“It is about the soldiers attacking the town of Kirklees,” she said, clearing her throat around the half-truth. “Their incursion is only the latest hardship the people have faced. My mother had to open the doors of the priory to serve the town because they were half-starved and begging. Many of the sisters were unhappy about the change, but she saw no better way to serve God than to help his people.”
“It sounds like your mother would make a fine addition to the Merry Men,” said Patrick with a slight smile. “We’ve tried to do much the same thing around here, taking from those who have too much and sharing it with those who would starve without it.”
A small frown line crinkled the bridge of Isabelle’s nose as she spoke. “But that is stealing.”
“And what do you call it when these people break their backs to earn their coin and men like King John come take it out of their pockets in the name of taxes, all so they can pay to fight their losing wars or fill their tables to excess?” Adam asked. “You only think it’s stealing because they’ve told you so. They put themselves in charge and set all the rules, and now we’re the ones breaking the law just to keep our families from starving.”
Isabelle had no argument against that, despite the twist of moral guilt in her gut. Stealing was wrong, but so was letting people starve when you could help them. Her mother had opened the priory to the community because they had food enough to share; but what about those who did not? What were they meant to do?
Little spat to the side, his mouth twisted in a scowl. “The high sheriff here is the worst of them, bloody Phillip Marc, treating all of Nottinghamshire as his personal pillaging grounds. Taking whatever he wants from whoever he wants. The barons think they’ll stop him with this charter they made the king sign, as if he’ll honor some piece of parchment.”
“What charter is this?” Isabelle asked.
“They’re calling it the Magna Carta,” Adam said. “The Great Charter. From what I’ve heard, it’s basically a list of demands from the rebel barons for John to stop bleeding their coffers dry and losing their lands in France.”
“I don’t know why he keeps picking battles with the French,” Little said, shaking his head. “The man couldn’t fight his way out of an empty sack of grain, much less command a whole army. The barons ought to just declare war on him—losing is the only thing he’s good at.”
“And if the barons go to war, what about everyone who gets caught in between?” Patrick asked quietly. “What about the poor farmers and villagers who have already lost their homes, their families, their very lives, because of the king? Do they not matter?”
“’Course they matter,” Little said. “But their lives aren’t getting any better under John Lackland, are they?”
“Fighting is not always the answer just because it’s what you like best, Little,” Helena said. “I’m not any more in favor of John remaining king, but if the barons think they can stop John’s worst impulses with this charter, then I say we give them a chance. Anything is better than war.”
“Not anything,” Adam said firmly. “Not the way things are going round here. Not if it means starving and dying so men like John and Phillip Marc can build another castle.”
“So are you in favor of war, then?” Isabelle asked. “You see no chance for peace?”
Adam took a deep breath, staring straight through the trees around them as if he could see his way to a clear answer. The others walked ahead, but Adam slowed his pace to match hers. “We have to do all we can to protect the people who can’t protect themselves. That’s why Robin founded the Merry Men. I don’t want a war, but I think that’s what it will take to stop King John. He’s a beast, and he’ll crush everyone who opposes him under his boot.”
Isabelle shivered, the panic gripping her until she was afraid she would cry out from the tide of rising fear. Adam glanced at her as if he could sense the waves rolling off her.
“You all right, sister?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, shaking her head as if she could rid it of these clawing thoughts. “It is only that I did not…I could not have imagined what it was like for the rest of the country. For you. I had no idea things could be so bad. That they might get worse.”
For the country and for her, though she could not say so to Adam. But she did not have to, because something in the dark depths of his gaze seemed to look right into the heart of her and find all she lacked. She might have confessed everything right then, under the scrutiny of that searching look, were it not for Patrick and Little calling for them to catch up. But the feeling stayed with her as they continued through the forest toward Lincoln. The feeling of the hangman’s noose tightening around her neck, dragging her toward an inevitable fate.
Late-afternoon sunlight stretched out in long rays of orange when the trees began to thin, the road showing in patches to the east as they approached Lincoln. Isabelle had never been outside of Kirklees, much less to a major city like Lincoln, and the growing volume of traffic along the road was easily more people than she had met in her entire life. She only hoped it was a large enough city for them to slip in unnoticed by any prying eyes.
“What sort of township is Lincoln?” Isabelle asked, her nerves doing little somersaults through her stomach.
“It’s a cesspool of mercenaries and beggars,” Adam said.
“Oh.” Not quite the response she expected.
Adam glanced at her. “Not all townships are, mind you. York’s quite nice. But the castellan of Lincoln is good friends with King John and overly fond of hangings. You would think having a lady in charge would soften things up, but Nicholaa de la Haye is a dragon of an old lady. Got a first-rate dungeon, though.”
“The floors could be cleaner,” said Little. “And the food tastes like sawdust.”
“Probably is sawdust,” Adam replied. “When they bother to feed you.”
“You have been in the dungeons at Lincoln?” Isabelle asked in surprise.
“Oh, aye,” Little said, scratching at the back of his head. “A few times. Fighting and the like, mostly. The castellan’s a real stickler for no fighting, thinks it brings a…What’s she call it?”
Adam gave a small smile. “An unsavory element. Never mind that the fighting is started by all these mercenaries King John keeps hiring to fight his wars. The fool can’t build his own army, so he finds the filthiest pigs the trade has to offer. They’d cut up their own grandmothers for a few coin, and Lincoln is crawling with their like.”
What she had considered the worst moment in her life, being trapped in that potato cellar, these outlaws spoke of as nothing more than an inconvenient night out. Perhaps she had made a mistake, insisting on joining their ranks. She was not made for tavern brawls and dungeons. Isabelle swallowed against the bile rising in her throat. “And we think it wise to travel to a city crawling with these men?”
“It’s not so bad as they’re saying,” Patrick said with a stern look at Adam and Little. “If you know to stay out of the taverns and the black markets.”
“What’s the point in that?” Little asked.
“You’re scaring the sister,” Patrick said under his breath.
“She ought to be scared,” said Helena, nodding toward the road. “We all ought to be. Something’s going on at the gates.”
Isabelle had been so engrossed
in their talk of dungeons that she had not even noted their approach to the city itself. The city wall rose high and imposing against the slender trees around Isabelle and her party, awash in the deep orange of the setting sun, the far edges tinged in red. The mass of people crowding the roadway at the main gates could have easily encompassed the entire population of Kirkleestown. Carriages trundled past farmers’ carts loaded with vegetables, peddlers pushed their wares forward with a clanking of pans, children ran wild and screaming around the legs of the crowds, and everywhere there were people on foot pressing forward toward the gates.
“I’ve never seen so many people in my life,” Isabelle said, instinctively pressing closer to Adam as the hordes of people milled about and shouted complaints. Beggars gathered on the grassy edges with their hands out, their skin so filthy it was difficult to tell where their rags stopped and their flesh began. “Lincoln must be enormous.”
“It’s not that enormous,” Adam muttered. “Patrick?”
The Irish boy nodded, disappearing into the press of the crowd. Isabelle went up on her toes but could not see past the crush of people to the gates themselves. Little followed her motion, shielding his eyes with his hand to get a better look.
“Can you see anything?” Isabelle asked.
“I can see plenty of things, sister. Just not what’s taking so long. Seems like they’re stopped up at the gate. Maybe a cart overturned or some such thing.”
Patrick returned a few moments later, his face grave. “It’s not good news.”
Adam frowned. “What is it?”
“Soldiers. They’re questioning everyone coming through.”
Isabelle’s heart began to pound as Adam spat an impressive curse. “Bloody Nicholaa de la Haye. How many are there?”
“Too many to slip past,” Patrick said. “And from the talk I heard, more on every gate into the city. Might just be Nicholaa putting on a show of power, or it might be something else.”
It could not be the Wolf, Isabelle assured herself even as her stomach turned and her heart pounded, prickles of panic biting at the flesh on her arms. It was not possible he knew which direction they traveled, or where they meant to go. Still, she shrank back farther into the protective shadow that Adam and Little cast, wishing she could make herself invisible.
Hood Page 7
