“We’ve got you, lass,” said a voice so close she gave a yelp of surprise.
Little John appeared beside her, his hose and tunic dragging with the extra weight of river water still trapped within its weaving. He dug his fingers under the armor of both guards, hauling them off her and dragging them into the shadow of a nearby building out of sight. Isabelle scrambled up, heaving in a deep, relieved breath as she beat her hands against her skirt, knocking away the invisible weight of the men. Helena appeared from the shadows beside Little John, surveying the heap of beards and armor as she stepped around them.
“Ugly brutes, aren’t they,” she said conversationally. “Must have been a chore getting them to sleep.”
“You cannot fathom,” Isabelle muttered.
“Quick now, lads,” said John to Adam and Little, appearing behind Helena with Patrick. “Get the keys.”
Adam shuffled through Edgar’s pockets, his lip curling in disgust as the man’s mouth fell open on a snore. “You all right, Isabelle?”
She nodded, the buzz of adrenaline loosening her joints and keeping her hands constantly moving. Now that the danger of the guards had passed, her body did not know what to do with the energy flowing through it. She had done it—she played her part and disarmed the guards all alone, and now she was moments away from meeting her father.
Dressed as a barmaid.
“I am going in with you,” she said to Adam, peering over his shoulder as he sorted through the ring of keys looking for the correct fit to the dungeon gate.
“No, you’re not.” Adam grunted with impatience as another key refused to turn the lock. “You would be far too great of a distraction down there. Most of those men haven’t seen a woman in years, much less a woman looks like you.”
Isabelle did not realize until then that it was possible to be flattered and offended in the same breath. “You know I must go with you,” she said. “After all we have been through.”
“You’re too much of a risk. Wait here for us to come back up with Robin. Then we get the hell out of here before anyone else knows what’s happening. You go down there, you’re liable to cause trouble. And we’ve got enough of that already.”
Isabelle set her jaw but did not reply. She knew Adam spoke reason, but her fingers drummed against her thigh restlessly as he finally unlocked the gate and led John and Little down into the dungeon depths. Helena and Patrick waited beside her, in and out of the shadows along the adjoining walls, their eyes trained on the top of the north end of the wall for the next rotation of the guards. Isabelle could not keep still, pacing to and fro before the gate as if she could will the others to appear. Her fingers knotted together and apart, her knuckles popping loudly in the stillness punctuated only by Edgar’s snoring.
“Would you stop that?” Helena snapped at her after the tenth time she nearly stepped on the girl’s toes. “You look suspicious enough as it is, no need to draw more attention.”
“Apologies,” Isabelle said, rooting her feet to the ground. She couldn’t control her hands, though, and they wove intricate patterns around each other as the minutes stretched out.
What would she say to him? Do you remember me, Father, your long-abandoned daughter? Of course you do not. Her stomach burbled and twisted, and without realizing it she began pacing in a small path again. Hello, Father. Would you care to accompany me to Kirklees so I can sell your life to the Wolf to save Mother?
“How long exactly does it take to free someone?” she asked after what felt like hours had passed. Ned and Edgar continued their blissful snoring, but she had no idea how long the effects of the concoction would last. And she did not want to be there when they woke up. The air was heavy with the scent of the impending rain, and somewhere close by a fresh warning rumbled low through the clouds.
“Depends on what they find down there,” said Helena. “With Robin, anything’s likely.”
“Should we check on them?” Isabelle asked. “Perhaps they need our help.”
“Have faith,” said Patrick.
Isabelle paced back and forth, her gaze flicking between the sleeping guards, the gate, and the top of the wall. Time leached away, the chill of the night crawling over her skin and settling on her bones with an insistent grip. Ned gave a snort and rolled over, exposing the handle of a knife stuck in his belt. Isabelle grabbed the weapon, the weight surprising her. The hilt was wrapped in leather, and the blade was long enough to span the length of her forearm.
“I am going down there,” she said, tightening her grip on the knife. “Something is wrong. I can feel it.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Helena said as she drew her sword. “Stay here and I’ll check on them.”
“Both of you stay put,” said Patrick. “I’ll check on them.”
Before any of them could make a move, the dungeon gate swung open. They all spun, weapons at the ready, as John emerged with Little and Adam.
“Where’s Robin?” Helena demanded.
“Small problem, that,” said Little. “Apparently he’s not here, either.”
“Not here?” Isabelle asked in desperation. “Where the bloody hell is he?”
Adam lifted one brow. “The priory is well and truly behind you, isn’t it?”
She pointed the knife at him in warning. “Where is he?”
Little John scratched at his woolly beard. “It took a bit of persuading, but we learned from one of the prisoners below that he’s the private guest of the sheriff now.”
“Where?” Isabelle asked.
John nodded to the keep, towering over them on the raised hill.
“Oh bloody bother,” Helena said, throwing her hands up. “He might as well be taking tea with the queen in France.”
“What do we do now?” Isabelle asked. “If the sheriff has him, that is bad, yes?”
“It’s not good,” John agreed.
Helena set her hands on her hips. “So the sheriff’s got Robin, we’ve got no way in, and we just wasted half the night on a fruitless rescue attempt. Any more good news?”
“I’ve got an idea,” Adam said slowly. “It’s ill-advised and more than a little foolhardy, but it just might work. Little, do you still have the dungeon keys?”
Little held up the ring with a jangle. “What’s this plan of yours?” he asked.
Adam grinned. “We’re going to need a distraction.”
Isabelle crouched under the eaves of the castle chapel as a crack of lightning lit the sky, a rolling boom of thunder signaling the imminent rainstorm. The chapel stood on the north end of the castle grounds, the wall of the building so close to the castle wall she could barely squeeze into the shadows.
The castle motte loomed over her like a specter, the massive hill of raised earth and rock meant to protect the castle’s most important inhabitants from invading armies. A narrow bridge patrolled by soldiers crossed the small river serving as a moat and turned into stairs that climbed up the side of the hill toward the keep at the top, a mishmash construction of partial stone foundation and thick timber walls with narrow window slits where the castle kept its weapons, gold stores, and—most recently—infamous outlaws. More soldiers patrolled the top of the keep, the curve of their longbows invisible in the dark at least fifty feet up. But Isabelle knew they were there.
“It is impossible,” Isabelle whispered, shaking her head.
“Not impossible,” Adam said, leaning against the wall beside her. “Improbable, maybe. Impractical, definitely. But not quite impossible.”
She pointed to the narrow flight of stairs leading up the hill. “Even if we were to clear the wall at the bottom, which is teeming with soldiers, by the way, we would still have to scale the hill with no cover, break into the keep, where there are likely more guards, find Robin, and do it all again to escape. And we will be surrounded on all sides by the rivers.”
Adam’s mouth curled into a smile as he leaned in close. “When you put it like that, it does sound closer to impossible. You’ll just have to have
faith, sister.”
Isabelle sighed. “We are all going to perish this evening. Those soldiers will pick us off before we make the bridge.”
“No, they won’t,” said Adam. “That’s what the distraction is for.”
“Where is this distraction, anyhow?” she asked, craning her neck just far enough out to watch the men atop the wall. “How shall we know when Little has done it?”
“Oh, we’ll know well enough,” Adam said, tracing her line of sight. “Though he is taking his blasted time.”
“What if this does not work?” Isabelle asked, her voice so much smaller than she wished. “What if we cannot free him? What will they do to us?”
Adam was just a smudge of green against the white wall of the chapel, but his eyes shone as he reached out a hand, his fingers rough with calluses but his touch gentle as he slid them along her cheek, cupping the side of her face. The air buzzed with an unspent crackle of electricity, building in the clouds and tingling across Isabelle’s skin.
“These men don’t deserve your fear, Isabelle,” he said, brushing his thumb across her cheekbone. “You’re stronger than the whole bleeding lot of them. Don’t you forget that.”
Isabelle drew in a deep breath, but before she could respond, a shout went up on the wall to the east, near the dungeons. They both spun toward the sound as the area above them exploded into action, the men clanking away from the chapel toward the source of the disturbance. Their plodding movements turned into a frenzy of activity, snatches of barked orders filtering down to their hiding place. All along the wall, there was howling and weapons waving, men running to and fro as more cries went up. She glanced back at Adam, who stood with his sword drawn behind her.
“He released all of the prisoners?” she said.
Adam rolled his eyes. “Little was never one to do things by halves. It should keep their lot busy for the next few hours trying to round up the worst of them. You see the others?”
Little John was easy enough to pick out even in the growing chaos, the big man at least a head taller than everyone around him in the courtyard as he pushed through the servants rushing out of the bakery and brewery screaming and seeking shelter. Helena and Patrick flitted among their ranks, the Irish boy and the black-haired girl already headed for the narrow bridge up to the keep.
“Godspeed them,” Isabelle whispered, watching their progress with her breath caught in her throat.
They sprinted across the bridge, the way temporarily clear of guards. For a moment they were lost to Isabelle’s sight as the castle wall blocked her view of the bottom of the motte. She curled her fingers into a fist and pressed her fingernails into her palm, every muscle tensed as she waited for them to reappear on the stairs. Lightning flashed, throwing the hill into relief and momentarily blinding her.
“Where are they?” she asked Adam when she could stand it no longer.
“Patience, sister,” Adam murmured, though his brows were drawn down.
Another crack of lightning forked through the sky, illuminating the stairs in white brilliance. Isabelle was startled to find the two figures already halfway up and rising fast. Her relief gave way to horror as a call went out from the keep, the watch fires blazing to life. The lightning had betrayed their position and made Patrick and Helena vulnerable to the keep defense. The first arrow struck the stairs behind Helena, another one following closely and landing just before Patrick’s next step.
“Damn,” Adam swore, breaking from the cover of the building and sprinting toward the gate leading to the keep. “John! They’ve spotted them!”
Little John barreled through the remaining crowd as Adam raised his sword, both shouting to call the attention of the guards away from Patrick and Helena. The arrows halted for a moment, the guards temporarily confused by which of the approaching attacks posed more danger. But Isabelle knew their time was short. She could hardly help by running after Adam, but if she did not do something they would all end up dead.
She gazed about, desperate for anything to aid their cause, when her eyes fell on the watch fires on the wall overhead. The guards had not returned to their posts, and the shouting from the direction of the dungeons indicated it would be some time before they did. This section of the wall, at least, was clear.
She ran around the chapel until she found a stack of empty crates piled against the chapel wall. Scrambling over the moldy wood, mindless of the tearing at her skirts and the scratches across her arms and legs, she scaled the small pile until she caught hold of the edge of the chapel’s roof. She hauled herself up, running toward the castle wall. The gap was only a foot or two, a daring jump with her skirts hampering her, but she had no time to second-guess herself now. She grasped her skirts in one hand and jumped, sailing through the open air.
She hit the top of the wall with a tumble, knocking her head against the stones. A buzzing started in her ears, but Adam’s shouts below brought her around. She stumbled to her feet, listing dangerously close to the crackling fire. Adam and John had made it across the bridge, their progress stopped short by another hail of arrows.
“Adam!” Isabelle shouted, the word snatched away on the rising wind and smothered by the thick air. She ran along the wall until she was just below the keep, the arrows thudding inches deep into the rocky side of the motte. She kept running until she found what she was looking for, a discarded bow and a scattering of arrows stuck into a wooden stand beside it.
“Come on,” she muttered to herself, crouching beside the bow and ripping at the hem of her skirts. She chanced a look over the wall. An outpouring of guards filled the mouth of the keep, spilling out toward the top of the stairs, where her friends waited. Time was running out.
She growled and set her teeth along the thickest edge of the hem, wincing at the mud that filled her mouth. The fabric tore away in a long strip, leaving a ragged gap along the bottom of the dress. They will never have use of this dress again, she thought with a momentary satisfaction. She tore another strip for good measure and wrapped the strips around the arrowheads, knotting each piece tight into a bundle. She ran to the closest watch fire, nocking the arrow to the bow and dipping the bundle into the flames.
“Please work,” she begged as the fabric sputtered and hissed, clods of dirt dropping into the fire as the threads danced in the heat. The small tongue of fire gutted out, and for a moment Isabelle feared her plan was ruined. But the fabric caught in little orange ridges, the flame licking hungrily into the depths of the wadded bundle.
She raised the bow and drew back the string as far as it would reach, aiming the arrow high above her head toward the keep. She could not see Helena or Patrick, no longer heard Adam or Little John as she waited for the shot to come clear. She thought back to the last time she had shot like this, blindfolded and desperate in Sherwood. She was guided by a primal instinct now, just as she had been then. The flame hissed and crackled as she released the arrow, speeding it along with a blind prayer.
At first it looked as if the flame had died out, or that the arrow had fallen short of its target, and her heart sank. Soldiers swarmed the stairs leading down the side of the hill, and no doubt they would soon reach the wall where she stood. She had only a handful of arrows left; it wouldn’t be enough to make her escape. Not that she would have anywhere to run.
But then a long tongue of orange fire crawled up the side of the keep, just at the base where the new timber construction met the stone foundation. The fire raced up the length of the first floor, branching out and covering a patch of the lower keep in flames in a shockingly short time. Isabelle took up the other arrow, dipping it into the watch fire. This arrow she loosed with only a brief sighting, the flame slicing through the dark night and thudding into the other side of the tower near the top. The fire caught immediately.
The shouted commands broke into a confusion of voices as the first of the soldiers spotted the flames crawling their way up the wall with the vicious intent of an invading army. The hail of arrows stopped as the men turne
d their attention to beating back the fire. Flaming bits of timber rained onto the dewy grass like the wrath of God, distracting the soldiers crowding the stairs.
“Isabelle!” Adam shouted from below, grinning up at her. “You beautiful fool! Hurry up, before the whole thing burns down!”
Isabelle spotted a stairwell several feet away and raced toward it, her stomach turning over with excitement. She flew down the stairs, unmindful of the wind beating against her tattered skirts. All along the motte was chaos, the fire eating away at the exterior of the keep with a ferocious determination. Soldiers atop the keep rained down buckets of water, kept there for just such an emergency, and though it sliced through some parts of the fire, the wind helped pick up the flames and carry them across the blackened patches. Patrick and Helena were nowhere to be seen, but Adam and John had survived the onslaught of arrows, and even Little had somehow found his way to the fight. All three were now taking the steps at a run on the heels of the fleeing soldiers.
“You might have waited to burn the place down until we were leaving,” John said, his breathing steady even at the steep upward pitch of the motte. He shouldered several guards out of the way as they barreled forward, the men tumbling down the steep hill.
Isabelle sucked in a breath as she tried to match his pace, too winded to answer. The heat of the fire blasted her chill skin as they reached the top of the stairs. She pressed a hand to her mouth.
“I did not mean…” she said, trailing off as the fire nearly scorched her face.
Hood Page 14
