Hood

by Jenny Elder Moke

  Adam leaned forward over the pommel of his saddle, eyeing the ragtag group of men assembled. “I’ll tell you what. You move out of our way and let us pass without any trouble, and I won’t knock the last of your teeth out of your head.”

  A few of the men laughed at that, which only incensed the blond man further.

  “Don’t you be threatening me! There’s six of us and two of you lads. That don’t make for much of an advantage.”

  “Perhaps,” Adam said with a tilt of his head. “If there were only two of us.”

  Patrick and Helena appeared over the hills to the left and right, weapons drawn, flanking the men and boxing them in on the road. A few of them looked decidedly less eager, their cudgels dropping toward the dusty road. The blond man puffed his chest with a snort.

  “A girl and a boy with nothing but fuzz on his cheeks? That don’t worry us much.”

  “Then you’re not bloody paying attention,” Helena said. “Call me girl again and find out how worried you should be.”

  The man lifted his ax menacingly. “You give us those horses or I’ll cut you down. I’m not afraid of a few children playing at swords.”

  “Finally, some fighting,” Little said buoyantly, brandishing his staff. “Come on, then, show us what you’ve got. Come cut me down.”

  The man hesitated, his fatal mistake. “Let’s get what’s ours, men!”

  Isabelle ignored the pounding in her chest and drew down an arrow just as he lifted the ax, letting it fly right for the handle. It knocked the ax out of his grip, the weapon landing in the dusty road with a thud. The man gave a sharp yelp as he snatched his hand back, scanning the hills for the source of the shot. Isabelle crouched low, holding in a deep breath.

  “Looks like your advantage keeps narrowing,” Adam said in an even tone. “Perhaps you’d like to take what little remains of it and get out of our way?”

  “Get them!” the man barked, snatching up his ax just as a deep horn blast shattered the air around them. For a moment nothing happened, the highwaymen frozen in midattack, the horses’ heads down and ready to charge, and Isabelle wondered if she had imagined the sound. But then a shadow crested a hill several hundred feet away, dipping into the valley and rising on the next hill, the bulk of the shadow expanding upward and outward until she was sure it must be two men side by side or standing on each other’s shoulders.

  “God’s teeth, it’s Little John,” said a skinny boy with dung-colored hair and freckled cheeks. Isabelle had rather the same reaction to the colossal man striding toward them in the Lincoln greens.

  “Hold steady,” said their leader, though his face paled considerably, and the arrogant confidence drained out of his features as the behemoth approached. “He is only one man.”

  “Only one man who could crush our skulls together like cheap pottery,” whispered another of the men, his ax trembling in his hand. “Loudon, we’ve got to go!”

  “Hold fast!” Loudon replied.

  Isabelle watched in wonder as the man crested the last hill. In all her life she had never seen a man so large, his arms heavily muscled and thick as trees. He had a dark brown beard, giving his face the appearance of a beast that had caught the scent of his prey. He closed the long distance between the hill and the road in three strides and came to a stop before them. His bright brown eyes swept over the scene, picking apart the situation without speaking a word. He gave a short nod to Adam and let his heavy gaze settle on Loudon. The blond man seemed to shrink under the weight of that gaze.

  “Loudon,” he said with a nod, his baritone voice coming from the depths of his belly.

  “John,” said Loudon, dragging his shoulders up with an effort. His men made no such attempt at gathering their pride about them, and many had already backed up to the edge of the roadway.

  The big man took another sweeping look around the scene, and the men backed up a half step more. He leaned on his staff the size of a small sapling, chewing on some invisible cud. “What are you doing?”

  “Conducting my business, same as you,” said Loudon. “The king’s road is free territory and you know it.”

  John nodded, his jaw still working up and down slowly. Loudon’s men had now stumbled back onto the rocky knoll of the nearest hill, looking ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. “You’ve got a problem, lad. These are friends of mine.”

  Loudon bristled as a deep shadow fell over the roadway. Fat clouds rolled in, and a far rumble made several of his men jump. Isabelle had lowered her bow at the approach of the big man, but her fingers were still pressed tight against the grip, digging in farther as thunder crackled in the clouds above.

  “Friends of yours or not, they’re on the main road. Which makes them fair game.”

  Little chuckled, shaking his head. “You said the wrong thing, mate.”

  John straightened again to his full height, his chest expanding on an intake of breath that sucked the wind from the clouds. He gave his staff one whistling whirl before taking it up with both hands, his bright eyes fixed on Loudon. The other highwaymen lost all courage then, breaking formation and scattering along the hilltops until they were nothing more than distant specks. Loudon was clearly agitated by their noisy departure.

  “All right, then, Loudon,” said the big man, a hint of pleasure seeping into his tone. “Take what you want. If you can.”

  Little leapt from his horse and brandished his staff beside the big man. “Let me have a go at him before you crack his pate open, fair enough?”

  The blood drained from Loudon’s face, his ax head dropping to the ground and digging a little trench in the dirt as he stumbled back a step. It was difficult for him to try to maintain his dignity in retreat, but he gave it one last valiant effort.

  “This slight will not be forgotten,” he said, raising his ax to shake it at the big man. “You will pay someday for the disrespect you have shown me.”

  John limited himself to a grunt and another swing of the staff, the whistle cutting through the air. Loudon colored, making his sandy brows stand out on his forehead as he stalked away after his men. John spat on the ground after them.

  “Useless chuff,” he said. “And more of them every day.”

  “Perhaps a war will clear a few of them out,” Adam said, swinging one leg over to dismount. He held out a hand. “Little John, well met as always.”

  John clasped his forearm and gave it a hearty shake. “Well met, Adam. It’s been a while since I’ve seen your face round these parts.”

  “We’ve been busy with our own scourge,” said Adam. “You remember Little?”

  “Allan A’Dale’s lad,” he said with a nod, shaking Little’s hand. “You taller than him yet?”

  Little stood up a bit straighter. “Nearly.”

  Adam turned back to where Isabelle still crouched, waving an arm at her. “It’s all right now, sister. John’s one of the Merry Men.”

  Isabelle rose and picked a path back down to the road, the bulk of the man they called Little John growing with each step she took. She couldn’t imagine what it took to feed such a man each day. When he shook her hand, he nearly tore her arm from its socket.

  “Isabelle of Kirklees,” she said. “Well, formerly of Kirklees. Of nowhere at the moment, I suppose.”

  Little John rubbed at his beard. “Kirklees, you say? Seems as if I’ve heard tell of it at some point. Your mother wouldn’t happen to be a prioress there, would she?”

  Isabelle colored as Patrick and Helena drew closer, the former frowning at the big man. “How do you know about Isabelle’s mother?”

  “A prioress with a child is a rarity,” Isabelle said hastily. “No doubt he has heard of her by reputation.”

  Little John regarded her with a look that brought her close to confessing everything. She bit down on the inside of her lip to keep her mouth closed, silently pleading with the big man. But he only gave a grunt, flipping his staff over his shoulder to stow it away in its sling.

  “Aye, that must be
it,” he said, turning his attention to Adam. “What brings you round to our parts? Everything all right in Sherwood?”

  Adam nodded. “For now. The sister has urgent news for Robin. We came to find him.”

  “If all goes according to plan,” said Little John, “you can see him tonight and tell him whatever news you’ve got to share.”

  Adam crossed his arms. “The words ‘according to plan’ don’t bode well here.”

  John scratched at his beard, his hand disappearing into its depths. “Robin’s a bit tied up at the moment. In York Castle. In the dungeons.”

  Adam sighed. “And there it is.”

  “Oh, for bother’s sake,” said Helena, throwing up her hands in disgust. “Men.”

  “Brilliant,” Little said with a grin. “What was it this time?”

  “This time?” Isabelle said. “Is this a regular occurrence?”

  “Not regular, I wouldn’t say so, no,” John said in the same steady tone as if he were discussing the wheat crop. “Every few months, maybe.”

  “Every few months?” Isabelle cried. “How is getting thrown in dungeons something one makes a habit of?”

  “For us, it’s an occupational hazard,” Adam said. “What happened?”

  John shrugged. “Well, things have been a bit tense round here, as you might expect, especially after Tuck was ousted.”

  “Who is this Tuck you all keep mentioning?” Isabelle asked.

  “An old friend of Robin’s,” said Patrick. “One of the Merry Men back in the day. Tuck is the archbishop of York now. Or was, apparently?”

  “The king never did take well to him,” conceded Little John. “Never wanted him for the position in the first place, and now, with all the goings-on with the barons, I guess he thought Tuck needed to go.”

  Isabelle pinched the bridge of her nose. “Are you saying the archbishop of York, the second most powerful man in the English Church, was once in the Merry Men?”

  “Was the archbishop,” said Little John. “As I said. Still a Merry Man.”

  Isabelle shook her head. “Next you shall tell me Robin once dined with the pope.”

  “Don’t look so impressed,” Adam said. “Tuck was just a lowly friar when Robin met him. What’s Tuck’s ouster got to do with Robin taking a turn through the dungeons?”

  Little John tapped his massive staff against the ground. “The way Tuck had tell of it, some of the castle guards got rough with him when they were delivering the letter from the king, and Robin took exception to their handling. There was a scrap, and Robin got pinched.”

  “What are we going to do?” Isabelle asked. “We cannot let them hang him.”

  “Oh, no, we’ll get him out,” said John. He turned his face up to the heavy clouds overhead. “Though this weather won’t make it easy on us.”

  “I’ll get him out,” Little said confidently. “You’ve got some armor lying about somewhere, right? I’d make a right perfect tin head.”

  “You’ve certainly got the lack of brains for it,” Helena said.

  “We’ll help whatever way we can,” Adam said. “Patrick’s the best scout in the camp, and Helena’s our best bow arm.”

  “Second best now,” Little said, grinning.

  “Test it and find out, Little,” Helena said, glaring at him.

  “We’ve got a plan,” John said. He eyed Isabelle critically. “Though you could actually be of some use, lass. If you’re willing.”

  “Me?” Isabelle asked in surprise. “Yes, of course. Whatever you need.”

  He tilted his head to the side. “Maybe you should hear what it is before you say so.”

  They followed Little John back to the York outpost of the Merry Men as a peal of thunder rippled through the sky overhead, the clouds low enough that the tops of the trees were lost in their iron weight. The men gathered here were a tenth the number of the camp in Sherwood, with no women in sight, and their beds were no more than mossy ground coverings in place of the elaborate tree houses of the other camp. But as Isabelle drew deeper into the camp, John and his men pulled at a network of hidden ropes, raising thick nets laced with leaves from the ground for camouflage, revealing deep cooking pits and stockpiles of weapons. And the men were just as merry as those from the Sherwood camp, the energy buzzing among them friendly and comfortable.

  Little John clearly ruled the camp, sending men off on various errands to prepare their evening meal and shore up their shelters against the impending rain. Isabelle trailed him as he ordered the men about, not wanting to be forgotten in the furor of activity. She had no intention of sitting out her own father’s rescue, not when he was so close at hand. The big man finally turned to her, crossing his massive arms over his chest as he surveyed her from his great height. She fought the urge to shrink into herself under the weight of his gaze.

  “You’re Robin’s daughter,” he said, no hint of a question in his tone.

  How odd, after all these days of secrecy, to have it stated so plainly by a stranger. Isabelle swallowed reflexively, nodding. “Yes. I am.”

  He tilted his head toward Adam and the others where they stood with the Merry Men, gathering supplies and discussing plans for the rescue. “And they don’t know about it?”

  “It is better for them that they do not, at least for now,” said Isabelle, trying to convince herself as much as the outlaw.

  “You’re in danger, then,” John said. “Your message for Robin got something to do with it?”

  Isabelle considered feeding him the same lie she had given the others, that she was only there to warn Robin about the growing unrest in Kirklees. But there was a certain weight to his gaze, a clarity that told her he would sort out her untruths faster than she could tell them. So she told him the simplest version of the truth she could.

  “Yes. It is imperative I find him—my father.”

  The big man nodded once, as if her plight was all the proof he needed. “You’re sure you want to help?”

  She nodded firmly. “Yes.”

  He reached into a nearby trunk and pulled a bright bundle of blue-and-white cloth from within, tossing it to her. “Put this on, then.”

  She held the fabric up. “What is it?”

  “A disguise. We need someone to distract the dungeon guards.”

  “Oh,” she said with disappointment. Then, as she plucked the loose strings holding the bodice together, recognition dawned and spread like a wildfire over her face. “Oh.”

  Little John lifted one brow. “You could stay at the camp if you prefer.”

  If only her mother could see her now. If Sister Catherine could see her now. Reduced to playing the strumpet to free her outlaw father from the dungeons of York. No doubt the old crone would crow her delight to see Isabelle fill such a role. No good in you but the riddance, she always said.

  Little John left her to the privacy of a copse of trees dense enough to shield her from the camp, returning to the others to finalize their plans. She held the dress out, a loose collection of silky fabrics and a low neckline she suspected had been designed for generous tips. It would hardly protect her from the wet chill filling the air, and she already missed the warm comfort of the Lincoln greens.

  “How in the name of the Almighty do they expect me to be a…a barmaid?” she muttered, draping the dress over a nearby tree branch to stare at it critically. “How seductive am I meant to be if I am shivering? What do men find attractive about a barmaid anyhow?”

  “They’re cheap and easy,” came Helena’s voice through the trees. The girl appeared a moment later, surveying the dress as if it were an enemy soldier.

  “Little John sent me to help you into this contraption. As if I know about skirts and bodices any better than you.” She inspected the dress critically. “Not much to it, is there?”

  “I was rather thinking the same thing,” Isabelle said, chewing her bottom lip. “It’s quite possible this plan will fail spectacularly.”

  “I’m in agreement with you there. You’re too s
kinny and proper for most men I know.”

  Isabelle closed her eyes on a sigh. “That is not improving my confidence in the matter.”

  Helena grunted. “Look, whether or not I think you’re any good at this isn’t the point. The point is, we need someone to distract the dungeon guards while we slip in and get Robin. You’ll certainly do a sight better than me with those big blue eyes of yours. Men love a good damsel in distress—something about her helplessness makes them feel even manlier. Which is pathetic, frankly, because it takes a real man to handle a woman who can speak her own mind.”

  Isabelle smiled. “My mother once said a man should measure his worth not by the women he has tamed, but by the ones he has let run free.”

  “Your mother, I like. Now put this thing on before those idiots try to leave without us.”

  Between the two of them, they managed to get the dress over her head and secure the waist with a thin rope belt. The neckline plunged low enough that Isabelle turned pink at the prospect of parading about in it, and for a brief moment she wondered what Adam would think. They gathered her hair in long ringlets over one shoulder, the curls intertwining and locking into a loose knot. Helena stepped back to survey their handiwork.

  “You look enough the part, though a bit of color round your cheeks and lips wouldn’t hurt. No help for it, though. Do something…” She waved her hand vaguely. “Seductive.”

  Isabelle blushed. “What would that be? I come from a priory, not a brothel.”

  Helena threw up her hands. “How should I know? I’d just as soon shoot them an arrow as a kiss. Tilt your head down and look up through your lashes. No, not like that. You look as if you’ve been brained with a cudgel. Move your chin to your shoulder and try it. Tilt your head more. No, that’s too much, now you look like you’ve snapped your neck. There, that’s better. I suppose.”

  Isabelle sighed. “This will never work. I have no idea how to willfully attract a man.”