Hood

by Jenny Elder Moke

  “We could go around Lincoln,” Helena said. “Avoid the gates altogether.”

  Adam shook his head. “If we don’t get word to David that we’re here, Allan will worry.”

  “Worry?” Little snorted. “Probably send half the bloody Merry Men after us.”

  “No, we need a way in,” Adam said, scratching at his chin as he scanned the gathered crowds. His gaze narrowed on something, his spine straightening. “Little, how much coin have you got on you?”

  “A few ha’pennies,” Little said guardedly. “Why?”

  Adam lifted a brow, turning to his friend. “A few ha’pennies?”

  “Well, all right, I might have a silver piece. But it’s from Robin, and it’s special to me.”

  “Then how about you keep the one that’s special to you and give me the other one I know you have.”

  “I don’t…” Little gave a huff, digging into a hidden pocket in his tunic and producing a dented coin. “Fine, here you are. But that’s one you owe me.”

  Adam turned back to the crowd. “Considering you stole this one from me, I think that makes us even.”

  Little threw up his hands. “I knew I couldn’t trust Patrick not to tell you. I should have told him I put it back.”

  “You did tell me you put it back,” Patrick pointed out.

  “Well, you should have trusted that I did.”

  Patrick shook his head. “Clearly not.”

  “What’s this plan of yours involve, Adam?” Helena asked. “Because I’m not putting on those beggar rags. I’ll have lice crawling all over me before we clear the gate.”

  Adam grinned. “I promise it won’t be that uncomfortable. Probably.”

  Isabelle wriggled in her hiding place, a thin slat of light from the fading sun cutting across her eyes through a break in the sides of the apple cart. There were apples everywhere—nobbled against her spine, covering her face, crowding her boots, and one overly familiar fruit pressed right against her mouth. The wheels groaned under the excess weight of their cargo, exuding the smell of harvest season at the priory with every rut they hit. From somewhere on the other side of the cart Helena gave a yelp.

  “Little, you idiot, your boot is right in my face,” she hissed.

  “It’s got nowhere else to go,” Little whispered. “I’m folded in quarters as it is.”

  “Well, fold yourself in eighths and get your boot out of my face,” Helena said.

  “Both of you shut up,” Adam said, giving the cart a jostle. “I’ll be hard-pressed to explain talking apples to the soldiers at the gate.”

  “Hurry it up, then,” Helena said. “Before I bite his toes off.”

  Patrick sighed somewhere close to Isabelle’s ear, and she would have smiled if it weren’t for the apple trying to fight its way past her teeth. The apple seller had been delighted to exchange his paltry goods for an entire silver piece, and Adam had scrunched the four of them into the cart despite loud and prolonged complaints from both Little and Helena. Isabelle’s stomach grumbled at so many ripe apples within reach, her mind setting a feast of apple tarts and preserves and a host of other dishes they would prepare during harvest season at the priory, but now was not the time to give in to temptation. Though their meager afternoon meal of cold cheese and hardened bread seemed ages ago.

  The smell of unwashed bodies filtered in through the apples, the mill of people pressing in tighter around their cart as Adam dragged it one slow step forward. The crowd at the gate only grew despite the chill evening air. Several merchants grumbled about losing market time, and even the driver of a carriage shouted about delayed trips and important occupants.

  “Move it along!” shouted a man close by whom Isabelle guessed to be one of the soldiers guarding the gate. Her toes curled tightly in her boots, one hand wrapping around the firm flesh of an apple as she tried to steady her rapid heartbeat. The guard’s tone was bored and impatient. “Keep it moving! Gates close at sundown!”

  A protest arose from the crowd, but the soldier shouted them down. The cart creaked and groaned to a stop, Adam setting it down with a huff. Isabelle held her breath, willing every muscle in her body to stay still as she sensed the guard’s scrutiny of the cart.

  “Name and purpose for visiting Lincoln this day,” came the soldier’s voice at a regular volume. Adam stepped up beside the cart, the patchwork cloak that he bought from the apple seller showing through the slat in Isabelle’s view.

  “Stephen of Moorehead,” said Adam in a jolly, rounded accent. Isabelle hardly recognized his voice, and had to remind herself not to move to catch a better view of him and confirm it was actually Adam speaking. “I’ve come to town this day to sell these here apples I’ve got in my cart. Full load it is, too, sir, we’ve been blessed with a harvest this year. Trying to sell them ’fore they go bad. You ever smelled rotted apples, sir?”

  The soldier’s distaste seeped through the layers of apples. “Certainly not.”

  “Well, then blessed you’ve been, too, sir. Stinks worse than my brother rolling round in the pig slop. I can’t eat them no more on account of smelling them so much, but these lot are fresh and ripe as the day. Would you like one, sir?”

  “No,” the guard said emphatically. “Move along. You’re holding up the line.”

  “And a good day to you, sir,” Adam called out, hefting the cart up and dragging it through the city walls.

  “Hang on there, you,” shouted another soldier, and Isabelle’s heart beat an erratic rhythm she was sure would tumble the apples right off her when Adam brought the cart to a jerking stop. Any number of terrible scenarios played out in her mind in the tense seconds that passed—someone had spotted a boot among the apples, they would all be arrested and thrown in Lincoln’s dungeon, the Wolf would find her, she was doomed. They were all doomed. The smell of the apples stung her eyes and she squeezed them shut, not daring to breathe. Somewhere under the mass of fruit her bow and quiver waited, too far out of reach to bring any comfort in the moment.

  “Yes, sir, good sir?” Adam asked in his rounded accent as the soldier approached, chain mail clinking.

  “Where’s your tariff, then?” asked the soldier, his tone gruff and impatient.

  “Tariff, good sir?”

  “Your tariff, you dumb farmer. Everybody pays a tariff to come through these walls.”

  “I’ve been here many a time, good sir, and I don’t recall no tariff for certain,” Adam said. “Meaning no offense, ’course. Only, I paid my last good coin in West Chestershire for a room for the night. And that was to bunk along with the cows, good sir, who’d have liked to eat my cart here, stem to seeds.”

  “I wasn’t asking for your life story, peasant,” sneered the soldier. “If you can’t pay the tariff, you don’t pass. You lot always come in looking for alms or thieving from the markets, clogging up the city with your begging so decent folk can’t even feel safe walking the roads. You’re a burden on the rest of us.”

  A tremor rippled through the cover of apples, and Isabelle sensed the others growing uneasy in their hiding places, which did nothing to bring down the tension singing through her.

  “Well, sir, if it’s a tariff you be needing, I could pay you in these here beauties,” Adam said. “Fresh from the orchard and finest of the bushels. Take as many as you need to pay your tariff, sir. I’m a simple man with simple needs. Only, my brother’s come down with a terrible illness and we need the coin to pay the healer for a spot of salve. Horrible cut he got falling out of a tree picking these very apples. Gone green and yellow and stinks like an animal carcass, always seeping out of his hose. Might lose the leg altogether if the thing keeps festering.”

  “Enough,” the soldier barked, cutting across his words. “Bloody peasants. Always got a story. Pay the tariff on the way out, then. Hell, I’d pay the tariff for you to not hear one more word about your brother’s wound.”

  “Well, and that’s right kind of you, sir,” Adam said, relief pulsing through his words. “I’ll be hap
py to pay on my way out, I will, and my brother will be happy for his salve. Thank you for your kindness, sir.”

  “It’s not you I’m paying the kindness to,” the soldier muttered as Adam picked up the cart again, pushing it through the city gates and into Lincoln proper.

  Isabelle waited until the sounds and smells of the city magnified tenfold around them to release the breath that burned through her chest. Bustles of bright red and yellow skirts and deep purple cloaks swirled past her little peephole, and even the close proximity to the apples could not overpower the smells of wet wool, roasting meat, unwashed people, and trash that filled Lincoln. After the relative tranquility of the forest, Lincoln was like a battlefield.

  A lingering nausea tilted Isabelle’s insides as the cart trundled on, the assault of so many common smells buffeting her in the prison of apples. Adam found an empty pocket between stalls to park the cart, the noise simmering to a buzz as the market swirled around them. He knocked on the wooden siding and the fruit shifted around Isabelle as the others dug their way out of the cart. Isabelle found herself under a mountain of apples as Little leapt out, and for a panicked moment she feared they might leave her behind.

  The apples tumbled away from her as Adam’s face appeared in the sudden light above, a slight smirk curling the edges of his mouth. “All right, then, sister?”

  She nodded, taking his proffered hand as he dug her out and helped her over the side of the cart. His hand lingered at her waist and she half turned away, her face warming. “I believe I shall never be able to stomach the thought of another apple again.”

  “I reek of them now,” Helena said, holding her arms out and smelling the fabric.

  “There are worse things you could reek of,” Patrick pointed out.

  “Let’s find David,” Adam said. “The sun is nearly set and the guards seem rather serious about locking up after dark. If we want to make it out of here, we’ll need to leave sooner rather than later.”

  “Hang on,” Little said, stopping them as they made for the main thoroughfare. He pointed at the cart. “What about this lot?”

  “Leave them,” Adam said. “Some enterprising merchant will take care of them.”

  “Hey, I paid good coin for these!”

  Adam shrugged a shoulder. “Then sell them yourself.”

  Little glared and stuffed his pockets with as many apples as he could carry, the bulk standing out on his lean frame. Helena eyed his shape critically.

  “You look a fool, Little,” she said simply.

  “You’ll feel a fool when hunger comes for you later and I’m feasting on these beauties,” he said, tromping toward the road resolutely.

  They delved into the roiling mass of the city, the lingering scent of apples wafting from their tunics and blending with the stronger smells. Isabelle pressed in close to the others, resisting the urge to take hold of Adam’s tunic like a small child. In Kirklees the lanes were wide enough to allow a line of people to pass each other without rubbing shoulders, but here in Lincoln she could barely squeeze through without bumping someone.

  “Is it always this busy?” she asked Patrick beside her, pitching her voice to be heard over the general noise of the city.

  “This is mostly quiet,” Patrick replied, ducking the swinging hands of a fishmonger selling his wares. “You should see this place after the shearing. Lincoln is a hub for wool merchants, you couldn’t spit without hitting a skein of Lincoln wool here.”

  Everywhere there was activity, from the flying fish of the fishmongers to the swinging cleavers of the butchers to the shining beads of the jewelry carts. Isabelle could hardly keep her feet underneath her at the constant flow of foot traffic carrying her along. Adam and Little carved a path for them, pressing into the heart of the city.

  “The soldier,” Isabelle said hesitantly, her eyes tracing the confident movement of Adam’s shoulders through the throngs. “The way he spoke to Adam, the things he…Are they…Do they always treat the people so?”

  Patrick lifted a brow. “You mean poorly?”

  “Why would King John allow it?”

  “Allow it? He encourages it.” Patrick shook his head. “The only way for the nobility to hold the power is if they’ve got someone to hold it over. And John’s the biggest bully of them all. Anything he does is to line his own pockets and indulge his own whims.”

  “But he is supposed to be our…our leader! Our protector.” Isabelle knotted her fingers together, wrestling against the tide of feelings rising within her. “I am sure if he could see what is going on in Kirkleestown, how the people are starving and scared.…How could he not change his mind? He should be king for all, not for his own interests.”

  Patrick gave her a wry smile. “Try telling him that. The rebel barons did, for all the good it’s done them. Men like John Lackland don’t have a better side to appeal to.”

  “Then how can anything change?” Isabelle asked, her voice faint.

  Patrick’s expression settled into grim lines of worry. “The way it always does. War.”

  Isabelle had thought the incident in Kirkleestown an isolated one, a clash of emotions between the scared townspeople and the soldiers. She never imagined the fear was so widespread and the violence so endemic to the system of nobility. Her mother oversaw the priory with compassion and fairness, and Isabelle had assumed the rest of the country was no different. She realized with a sickening start that King John sounded far more like Sister Catherine than he did like her mother. Capricious, vindictive, and mean. How much worse would her life have been if Sister Catherine had been in charge of the priory? How much worse were the lives of ordinary folk at the hands of King John?

  The flavor of the crowd shifted as they reached the taprooms located deep in the city’s twisted center. Clustered around the eastern edge of the market were buildings with discreet signs advertising rooms upstairs, entire alleyways that smelled of stale ale, and what was surely a black market of goods stolen from the real market.

  Leery-eyed men stomped between the taprooms, their scars marking them as mercenary fighters, the only crown they pledged their loyalty to stamped on a coin. There were others, disconsolate drunks and women in scandalous attire, but they mostly kept to themselves in the dark corners between buildings. Isabelle edged closer to Adam, eyeing a drunk slumped over in a corner singing a sea shanty that made her ears burn.

  “This is where your friend resides?” she asked. A stout man with rounded shoulders and a bandage over one eye swooned close to her, and Adam put a hand protectively at her back. A spark of awareness tingled along her skin at the contact, her spine straightening. Adam seemed to sense it, for he drew his hand back quickly and cleared his throat.

  “David is a good man,” he assured her. “And a loyal friend of the camp.”

  He led them to a bar with a sign bearing the image of a lion in the throes of death, roaring as a myriad of arrows protruded from its mane. Isabelle had acquaintance with only one other tavern in her life, and the inside of this one was in direct contrast to that vivid memory. It was easily twice as large and only half as full, and a distinct lack of windows plunged them into darkness when first entering. It still smelled of sweat and sour beer and metal, but there were no cheery undertones of crackling wood to warm the place up.

  Whereas the Blue Boar had seemed alive with masculine energy, the mood of the Wounded Lion slunk in the shadows like a vulture waiting for its prey to die. The men looked desperate and edgy in their drunken states, leaving large gaps between their seats at the bar. It was quiet enough to hear the clack of the mugs as the barkeep stowed them away beside the barrel of ale. Several men hunched around a table in the corner, their eyes cutting over Isabelle and the others with a practiced precision that made Isabelle wish she still had her cloak to cover her face. Their weapons were chipped but sharp, their faces and hauberks showing an intimate knowledge of battle.

  “This place does not seem very…friendly,” she whispered to Adam.

  “The sist
er’s right,” Little said, his eyes sliding around. “I don’t see a friendly face in sight. It’s not usual in the Lion.”

  “We’re not here for the company,” Adam replied. “We’re here for the barkeep.”

  The barkeep, a stoop-shouldered man with thinning hair and enormous forearms, broke out in a wide grin at the sight of them. He gave a laugh, loud and ringing in the relative quiet, and several drunks lifted their heads in wary confusion.

  “Adam of Locksley, as I live and breathe,” he said, dropping a heavy hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “And Little Allan A’Dale as well. How fares your da?”

  “Still a pain in my arse,” Little said. “How fares it with you, David?”

  The barkeep spread his arms wide, encompassing the full length of the bar. “I could complain, but what a bore that’d be. What brings you good-for-nothings to Lincoln?”

  “Just passing through,” Adam said, giving David a meaningful look. “Could use a spot of stew for dinner and supplies for the road.”

  Little leaned in beside him. “And a mug or two of ale.”

  “No ale,” Helena and Patrick said at the same time.

  “One little pint won’t hurt nothing,” Little said in a wheedling tone.

  “It’s never one little pint with you, though, is it?” Helena asked.

  Isabelle glanced back at the table of mercenaries as Little tried again to negotiate for his ale. She knew she shouldn’t look, shouldn’t give them a reason to look back, but she couldn’t help herself. There was something about them, something so menacing, like a cloud of intent hanging over their table. She suppressed a gasp when she met the eyes of one of the men, already staring at her. He smiled, though it was more like a feral animal baring its teeth than any kind of greeting. She whipped her head around, pushing closer to the bar.