Hood

by Jenny Elder Moke

  Isabelle shook her head, slouching forward against the desk to stop from falling to the floor. All of the running, joining the Merry Men, it was all for naught. She could not be braver than she felt, for she felt everything and nothing at all. This man had her trapped like a fly in ointment, struggling against a foregone conclusion. She barely heard him continue over the rushing in her ears.

  “Your mother is being held prisoner in Kirklees. Bring Robert to me within seven days or I will hang her for your crimes against the crown. And then I will find you, and your father, and make sure you both stay dead this time.” He waved a hand at her, returning his attention to the letters before him. “Now you may leave. I have other business.”

  Isabelle stumbled out in a fog as the mercenaries led her back through the building. She wasn’t even sure how or when she reached the front doors, but at some point she was in the cold, the cloak of night falling over the city and shrouding it in sinister shadows. She shivered against a gust of wind, but the cold did not come from outside. It came from within, deep down in her bones.

  Betray her father to save her mother. She could not let her mother hang, not for her crimes, not for a stranger Isabelle had never known. She would do anything to save her.

  The dark made a menace of the city as she tried to find her way to the cathedral, stumbling for hours through alleys and abandoned streets until she was sure she was trapped in some lower hell as punishment for her sins. By the time she did find her way to the cathedral, she was so exhausted she slipped on the steps, slamming her elbow against the hard ground and collapsing across the stairs in sheer exhaustion, empty from the inside out. She didn’t even know who or what she would find there, if her friends had escaped the mercenaries at all. But she had nowhere else to go.

  “Well, it’s about bloody time.”

  Isabelle jerked upright as Adam approached the stairs, a deep cut over his right eyebrow and a bruise blossoming across his cheekbone, but otherwise alive and well. The sight of a friendly face, even with a scowl on it, was enough to break through the fog, and she hauled herself up, launching into him and wrapping her arms tight around his neck. He staggered back a step, catching her around the waist.

  “I am so glad you are safe,” she said, pressing her face against his shoulder to stop the tears from rising. She didn’t deserve the embrace, not for what she was contemplating, but she could not seem to pull herself away.

  “Maybe I should find myself in mortal danger more often,” Adam murmured, but he didn’t set her back. Instead he stroked her hair gently. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “I got lost,” she said, her words smothered in his tunic. “Very, very lost.”

  “I’d say, we’ve been tearing up the city looking for you.”

  Isabelle drew back. “The others are…They are not harmed?”

  Adam gave a small shrug. “Little’s got a black eye and maybe a cracked rib, and Patrick and Helena got banged up a bit, but nothing we couldn’t handle. Mercenaries are mean, but they’re not fast.” He took her chin in his hand and tilted her head up toward him. “Are you all right? You look as though someone’s tromped over your grave.”

  Not my grave, she thought, but it was too much too soon. She pushed the thought away, suddenly desperate to be anywhere but within the same city walls as Sir Roger.

  “Are we ready to leave?” she asked, stepping back.

  Adam crossed his arms, eyeing her critically. “Where’s your bow?”

  “I must have…I must have lost it when I was running away.”

  “From the mercenaries.” Adam’s expression narrowed. “Who were looking for you.”

  Isabelle swallowed hard. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “That really how you want to play this, sister?”

  “I am not playing at anything,” she said, though she could not quite meet his gaze. “Perhaps the soldier I hit was important. These are trying times, as you said. If word got out that a simple priory girl could unseat a soldier from his horse, it could cause havoc in the countryside. They need to maintain their order through the law, do they not?”

  Adam wasn’t buying a single thread of her tapestry of lies, but he did not press her for the truth, which somehow only made her feel worse. Thomas might have told her to keep the truth from them for their own protection, but the longer she kept quiet, the more it felt like a cowardly lie. She had no doubt that any of the others would swoop in, mount a gallant battle of wits and swords, and get the upper hand on the Wolf. She wasn’t fit to wear the Lincoln greens, which chafed at her skin as if they knew she was unworthy.

  “We’d better go,” Adam said finally. “The others are waiting.”

  “Will David be all right?” she asked, hurrying after him as he descended the steps and headed toward the north. “Will they not come after him, now that they know he helped us?”

  “David can look to himself,” said Adam. “Won’t be the first time he’s on the wrong end of Nicolaa de la Haye. He’ll get word to Sherwood that we made it out safe. He even managed to find us a few horses to get out ourselves.”

  “I have never ridden a horse before,” Isabelle said, chewing at the side of her lip. “We could not afford them at the priory. Will that be a problem?”

  “Only for your backside,” Adam muttered.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Helena demanded when they reached the northern gate. “We’ve been sitting out here like chickens ready for the slaughter for over an hour. If you were looking to get us all arrested, you’ve done a bang-up job of it.”

  “We had some delays,” Adam said, not looking at Isabelle. “Where are the horses?”

  “Here,” Little called, navigating around the surrounding building on a large brown stallion. “David could only scrounge up four mounts, and it nearly cost me my front teeth trying to get them out of the stables. I think you’ll like yours. She’s tied up round back.”

  “Why is she tied up round back?” Adam asked.

  “She was scaring the other horses,” Patrick said, appearing around the corner on a dappled gray mare. He led another horse by the reins, handing them over to Helena. The outlaw girl vaulted up into the saddle as if riding were second nature to her—yet another skill for Isabelle to envy.

  “Glad to see you made it out safely,” Patrick said to Isabelle with a nod.

  “Yes, you certainly disappeared quickly enough once the fighting started,” Helena said in a flat tone. Isabelle’s cheeks exploded in a blush that suffused her entire body.

  “Helena,” Patrick admonished. “Adam told her to run. She’s not trained like the rest of us.”

  “That’s all right, Patrick,” Isabelle said, keeping her eyes down. “Helena is right. I should have stayed and fought with you.”

  “You would have only been in the way,” Helena said, relenting. “You might be a decent shot, but I don’t guess you’re much use in hand-to-hand fighting.”

  Isabelle wished she had been, then perhaps she could have escaped Blade’s grasp.

  “Sister, you’ll ride with me,” Adam said as a high-pitched whinny sounded in the open streets, followed by a solid thump as if someone had knocked a wall down.

  “Perhaps I should ride with one of the others,” Isabelle said, eyeing the shaking wall of the building that hid the horse.

  Adam gave Little a dark look. “Switch with me.”

  “Not on your life, mate,” said Little, his grin widening. “After all, you’re the one always bragging about your way with the mares. Maybe you could put your touch to this one, give her the old Adam of Locksley treatment.”

  “Oh bloody hell,” Adam muttered, disappearing around the corner. The building shook with a heavy impact, followed by a grunted curse and a high-pitched whinny. Isabelle winced at the series of blows the building sustained thereafter, each one harder and stronger than the last. But after several moments Adam came around the corner, leading the roving-eyed mare on a tight rein with his teeth gritted.

&nbs
p; “I’m giving this beast to the first starving family I see,” he muttered, tugging her reins. She snuffled a nasty response as he swung into the saddle. But she didn’t rear up, nor did she try to bite him as he reached for Isabelle’s hand. “Up you go, sister.”

  Isabelle wavered beside the massive beast, caught in the circle of its black eye. “Perhaps—”

  “Now, sister,” Adam said, grabbing her arm and pulling her up. She slid in behind him, her thighs nestled so close to his that she was sure Sister Catherine was muttering a curse against her indecency right then. The horse took off at a slow walk, jostling Isabelle sideways as she slipped against the smooth leather.

  “Arms around my waist,” Adam said over his shoulder. “Otherwise she’ll throw you the first chance she gets.”

  Isabelle hesitated, leaning back against the lip of the saddle for stability and an inch of breathing room. She’d never been this close to anyone but her mother in her life, and certainly not a young outlaw she barely knew. The flesh is far weaker than the will, Sister Catherine would say. What would she think of Isabelle now? What fresh insults would she hurl? Some of them Isabelle might even deserve, because the truth was she wanted to slide her hands around Adam. She wanted to know where he felt soft, and where he felt strong, and if he always smelled of the forest even in the thick of the city. Sister Catherine was wrong; the will was as weak as the flesh, both parts of her leaning toward him against more rational thought.

  “Promise I won’t bite,” Adam said in a low voice, drawing her closer. She thought she detected a small vibration through his words, an imbalance to his usually steady tone, but he turned away before she could search his face.

  She shivered as she put her arms around him, trying to maintain some small distance, but it was impossible on the swaying back of the horse. She laced her fingers together, hoping that keeping them tangled in each other would stop the itching desire to lay them flat against his chest. He did smell of pine, and woodsmoke, and something else warm and comforting that made her want to bury her nose against his neck. But more than anything, the straight line of his shoulders and the slight curve of his spine made her feel safe. She knew he could not stop the might of the Wolf, but here in this moment, on this particular horse, she believed that they could outrun a galloping horde. That they could keep riding long past York, off to the distant wilds of the highlands. And she believed Adam might just be daring enough to do it.

  But the fantasy chilled along with the frosty morning, brought back to harsh reality by the needles of discomfort already working their way under her thighs. If she were to run away, where would that leave her mother? The Wolf had given her a choice that was no choice at all—betray her father or let her mother die. What else could she do? Gladly would she throw herself in the hangman’s noose to spare her mother, but it was not her neck the Wolf wanted. What kind of person would she be if she betrayed a man so many others were willing to die for? True, he had abandoned her and her mother to the priory and left her with a lonely and fatherless childhood. And he was already a wanted outlaw; how long until the king’s men caught up with him anyway?

  The Wolf’s cold voice and dispassionate eyes haunted her long after they had passed through the city gates to the freedom of the open road. Even the surrounding trees seemed shadowed with eyes watching her as they headed north, Helena and Patrick’s idle conversation easy and light in the wee morning hours. She had no doubt the Wolf could reach her anywhere in the country, no matter how far she ran or how deep she hid. And she knew with a crushing certainty that he would kill her mother without a moment of regret. She doubted he was a man given to regret. He had not become the king’s most powerful advisor by doubting his choices. He had given her a choice, however impossible, and she had made up her mind.

  She would give the Wolf what he wanted. She would give him Robin Hood.

  Sleep was the furthest thing from Isabelle’s mind when they left Lincoln, the Wolf’s gaunt cheeks and thin lips mocking her each time she closed her eyes. But the steady sway of the horse’s hooves and the solid reassurance of Adam’s back lulled her into a light, blessedly dreamless sleep. It was the most rest she had gotten in the days since leaving Kirklees, and when the horses slowed and Adam’s voice rumbled under her cheek, urging her awake, she responded by burrowing deeper into his back.

  “Much as I’d be pleased to serve as your pallet the rest of the trip, sister, I’ve got a powerful need to relieve myself,” Adam said, his voice full of amusement.

  Isabelle drew back sharply as if someone had dumped a bucket of freezing river water over her. “Oh dear,” she said. “I am terribly sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “Or dreaming,” Little said with a wink.

  “Shut up, Little,” Helena said, sliding off her horse. “Your mind is always mucking about in the latrines. Give the sister some peace.”

  Little raised his eyebrows, as surprised by Helena’s defense of Isabelle as Isabelle was herself. But he said no more, dismounting and following Helena and Patrick past the stand of trees where they had stopped. Adam swung a leg over and hopped down, holding up a hand to Isabelle.

  “You’ll want to be careful here, sister, seeing as how—”

  But Isabelle did not want his help or his touch right then, and she set her foot in the stirrup and swung her other leg over just as he had done, intent on getting down by herself. Her leg muscles seized up, though, protesting the long hours in the hard saddle, and she tumbled forward with a small yelp. Adam caught her against his chest, lowering her the rest of the way until she could stand.

  “As I was saying,” he continued dryly, “you’ll want to take it easy coming off the horse since it’s your first time. Saddle riding can be hard on the backside.”

  Hard on the backside was a gentle way of putting it. Her entire body ached, from the crick in her neck where she had slumped against him down to her sore rump and through the pads of her swollen feet. She tipped her head up, doing her best to regain a modicum of dignity.

  “I am fine,” she said, though she would have preferred to curl up in a ball on a soft patch of hay and sleep the rest of the afternoon. “’Tis no worse than a day spent scrubbing the refectory floor, and I have done more than my fair share of that.”

  Adam lifted a brow. “If you have personal needs, see to them now. We won’t stop for long.”

  Isabelle picked a trail through the denser parts of the surrounding trees until she found a quiet spot to relieve herself, her grumbling stomach reminding her it had been nearly a day since she last ate. She thought it would have adjusted to its new life of hunger by now, but it rumbled more insistently and she foraged through the undergrowth for anything she recognized as edible. If she’d had her bow, she could have picked up a hare or two, but as it was she had to console herself with edible roots and leaves. At least she hoped they were edible.

  “Are you looking to cure a sore tooth?” Adam asked, eyeing the bundle in her tunic when she returned. “Because otherwise that yarrow root won’t do you much good.”

  “Oh blast,” Isabelle said, letting the little bundle tumble out. “I thought it was a wild carrot. I always mix those two up. The healing arts were never my strong suit.”

  “A sister who can’t heal?” Adam shook his head. “No wonder you joined the outlaws.”

  Isabelle smiled faintly. “Besides my mother, Sister Catherine is our true expert, but she refused to teach me after I accidentally slightly poisoned Sister Margaret when I mixed up wild carrot and hemlock. She said I was a menace to the healing arts. Although I cannot say I blame her in this instance. I do not have the memory or the patience to be a healer. They agreed kitchen duty was a better application of my strengths.”

  “You don’t look the kind who much enjoys hauling massive pots of gruel around, either,” Adam said, pulling a few apples from his horse’s travel bags. He tossed one to her, and she bit into it gratefully.

  “It was a sight better than tending the gardens or mend
ing habits,” Isabelle said around a mouthful of apple. She took a seat on a fallen log. “Plus, I was closer to the food. Not that Sister Catherine would allow me to sneak anything when she was on duty. She would crack a wooden spoon over my hands if they strayed too close to the hearth.”

  “Sounds like most of the sisters I’ve been acquainted with,” Adam said, sitting beside her. He took a bite of his apple, wincing halfway through and stopping to rub his jaw.

  “What is it?” Isabelle asked, straightening up.

  Adam shook his head. “Nothing worth bothering over. One of those bastards caught me with a blow to the jaw when I wasn’t looking. Still smarts.”

  “Let me see,” Isabelle said, standing before him.

  “It’s not much to look at, really,” Adam said with a wave.

  “I shall judge that for myself,” Isabelle said, taking his chin firmly in her fingers and tilting his head to the side. A reddish-purple bruise covered his cheekbone, the edges spreading up toward his temple and down to his ear. She imagined it must have hurt terribly, even though Adam treated it as a minor inconvenience, and once more the guilt of knowing she was the cause of such a wound tore at her.

  She brushed her fingertips over the bruise, gently palpating and checking for any breaks in the bone beneath or cuts on the skin. A small muscle stood out along his jaw as he clenched his teeth together, and she moved her fingers away from the bruise to his hairline. His skin was smooth along his temple, growing rougher with the few days of stubble from his ear down along his jaw. Her fingertips crackled with little frissons of energy as she moved them down his jawline, the stubble playing at her sensitive skin in ways that made her heart slow and then race. Adam had gone very still beneath her hands, his chest barely rising. When he caught her gaze it was like plunging into the deepest lake, jolting her awake.

  “I have something for that,” she said, stumbling back, her fingertips prickling. She turned away, rubbing her hands against the rough wool of her tunic to stop the sensation.