Hood

by Jenny Elder Moke

  “You’re not the first or last to burn this place down,” Adam shouted, sweeping an arm around her shoulders and swinging her out of the way of a soldier running past. “Let’s find Robin and get the hell out.”

  The air inside the keep hung heavy with smoke and the confusion of screaming servants. Isabelle choked back a cough and ducked low, keeping her gaze narrowed on Adam’s back as he pressed through the archways leading into the heart of the keep. They reached a tight spiral staircase that was thankfully built out in stone, the smoky air speeding them along.

  “What about Patrick and Helena?” she asked.

  “They’ll be fine,” Adam said.

  “Probably,” added Little.

  “Probably?” she cried. But then they were racing up the steps and she had no more breath to ask. With horror it occurred to her that she might have set fire to the room where they were keeping Robin, and he might have had no way to escape.

  She tumbled into Adam as they reached a sudden landing. Axes lined the wall in front of them, no doubt for the castle’s defense, but here they were useless against the fire. The stairs continued up, most likely to the top of the keep, where the soldiers still battled the fire. An archway led off to the left, the air here clearer of smoke for the moment, but the floors and walls were built entirely of timber. They wouldn’t be safe for long.

  “Any idea where the sheriff is holding Robin?” Adam asked John.

  “Hell if I know,” the big man said.

  “This way!” came a voice down the hall, Patrick and Helena appearing a moment later, weapons still drawn.

  “I am so glad to see you alive,” Isabelle said as they met in the middle of the hallway. “Both of you.”

  “Save the celebration until we’re alive and out of here,” Helena said. “The sheriff’s quarters are this way.”

  “Should we not be worried about the fire?” Isabelle asked as they passed what looked like living quarters, an ornate four-poster bed taking up the center of the room. She wondered if King John slept in that bed when he visited.

  “It’s mostly burning the outer wall of the keep for now,” said Patrick, trotting along in front. “But we won’t have long until it finds its way in here. Where did the fire come from, anyhow?”

  “The sister here, in a moment of brilliance,” said Adam.

  “And to think I almost missed it freeing the prisoners,” Little added with a grin.

  “What a shame that would have been,” Helena said dryly.

  “Here,” Patrick said, stopping before a door. “Sheriff’s quarters.”

  John nodded grimly and wielded his sword, the rest following suit. Isabelle had left the bow behind on the wall, a thoughtless action for which she chided herself now. She hung back behind Adam, balling her hands into fists and readying herself for whatever she was to face. John leaned forward, pressing one ear to the slim crack between the doors before he nodded again. He threw his shoulder against it, the wood cracking and giving way.

  They stormed in, weapons brandished high and war cries rising from their throats. The room, however, was empty save for a long table at which a compact man sat, his rich clothes glittering in the soft light of a nearby fire. A plate of partially-eaten chicken sat before him, a succulent thigh lifted halfway to his mouth as he surveyed them with a raised eyebrow.

  Isabelle had never seen anyone so strikingly dressed, a turban wrapped around his head and his fingers decorated in glittering rings of gold and jewels. His clothes were soft white, pearly and studded with gleaming bits of decorative metal. His blue eyes were crystalline as frosty water and twinkling with mirth. Little John stopped midroar, sword hovering in the air as he surveyed the strange scene. He dropped the weapon a fraction, staring hard at the man. The man, for his part, raised the thigh in salute with a brilliant smile.

  “John, my good man, what a surprise,” he said in a crisp accent with only the hint of a Scottish burr. It was not what she expected out of this strange man’s mouth.

  John’s sword lowered a few inches more. “Robin?” he said dubiously. “What are you…They said in the dungeons the sheriff had you.”

  Robin, if Isabelle was to believe Little John’s incredulous introduction, waved his hand around the room. “And so he does.”

  “We thought he’d learned your true identity.”

  Robin snorted. “Hardly likely, the man is thick as a bramble bush. A gracious host, though, and his cook is to be highly commended. This chicken is excellent.”

  Little John stared long at the man, his face betraying no emotion. “So the sheriff didn’t bring you to the keep because he learned you were Robin Hood.”

  Robin shrugged one shoulder. “I should think I would have received a far less welcoming greeting were that the case. No, I thought it would rather be in my best interest if he had someone more compelling with whom to spend his time.”

  Little John sighed, dropping the tip of his sword to the ground. “He thinks you’re the bloody horse sheikh.”

  Robin gave a bow from where he sat, drawing a swath of the white cloth over the lower half of his face so only his eyes were showing. “Prince Alik of Arabia, at your service. I was just negotiating a herd of our finest stallions for my release when he was called away on urgent business. Seems someone has let his prisoners loose and set his keep on fire.”

  John shook his head. “I thought he had you on the rack.”

  “Well, he certainly had me over a barrel with his equestrian demands. The man wanted forty stallions. As if I were made of horse meat.”

  “Robin,” John said, sounding pained. “We’re in a bit of a hurry. We need to go.”

  Robin held up a hand. “Just a moment. This chicken is cooked superbly. It would be an insult to the cook not to clean the meat off the bone.”

  Little John sighed. “The bloody keep is on fire. Can you not take the leg with you?”

  “John, I never eat and run,” Robin said, sounding insulted. “It’s bad for the digestion.” He leaned forward, looking past the bulk of the big man to the others. “What in heaven’s name are you lot doing in York?”

  “Not rescuing you, apparently,” Helena said, sheathing her sword. She jerked one thumb over her shoulder. “The sister here has urgent need of you. Apparently that’s worth us nearly getting our gizzards shot out by the castle guards.”

  “Since when have we gained a sister in our ranks…” Robin began, but he trailed off as his gaze landed on Isabelle. A lump lodged painfully in her throat, and every hair on her body stood at attention as her skin prickled to life. He rose slowly, all pretense of flippancy gone.

  “Isabelle, what in God’s name are you doing here?” he asked.

  Isabelle froze. He knows me. How does he know me? The others turned to her, as shocked as Robin. Isabelle cleared her throat and clasped her hands in front of her to stop them from shaking. How many days had she practiced this? How many times had she imagined this very meeting? Perhaps not under such unusual or dire circumstances, but with the same urgency and emotion. Now that she was here, though, now that he was here, nothing she had imagined felt right. What could she possibly say to this man? Where should she even begin?

  Robin, it seemed, felt no similar sense of conflict, because he swept across the room, pulling the covering off his face and taking her by the shoulders. “What has happened, love? Where is your mother?”

  Isabelle took in a shuddering breath, her reasons for being there coming into focus. “The Wolf has her.”

  He held himself perfectly still, no expression playing out across his features to give her any indication of what he was thinking at the moment. Not that she could have read this strange man even if she tried. Only his eyes moved, flickering over her face as if she were a manuscript to be deciphered.

  “Where?” Robin asked, the word so brittle it cracked like glass against her ears.

  Isabelle hesitated. She could tell him everything, right now. He was, after all, Robin Hood. If anyone could stage a daring re
scue, it was him. But the Wolf’s cold promise still sat like a stone in the pit of her stomach, dragging her down to his murky depths with its weight. “In Kirklees. That is why I have come. To ask your help in…freeing her.”

  “Right,” Robin said, clapping his hands together with purpose. “Point me in the direction of the nearest exit that is not currently on fire.”

  “Hang on,” Helena said, holding up a hand. “How is it you know the sister? And you, sister, why have you been playing at not knowing Robin this whole time, asking us questions about him and the like? What’s going on?”

  “We can get to all that back at the camp, lass,” said Little John. “The keep’s not any less on fire the more we bicker here.”

  “No, that’s twice now we’ve put our lives in harm’s way for her, and she’s done nothing but lie this whole time.” Helena pinned Isabelle down with a cutting glare. “We deserve the truth. Why are you really here? What’s really going on?”

  Isabelle’s gaze darted from Robin to Adam, but if she meant to find some measure of comfort or support, it was not there. Adam stood with his arms crossed, his legs braced wide and his gaze narrowing on her in a way that threatened to pierce her through. Even Patrick looked doubtful where he stood just behind Adam, his brows drawn down in a frown.

  “Helena has a point, sister,” Adam said with quiet intensity. “What’s going on?”

  Smoke crept into the room, stinging her eyes and drawing tears. “Please understand I never meant to…to lie, or keep the truth from you. Thomas said you would be in greater danger if you knew the truth. And I had only just learned it myself, I was not even sure it was the truth. I wanted to tell you, so many times. But I could not risk your lives.”

  “Couldn’t risk our lives?” Helena snorted. “What in bloody hell do you think we’ve been doing this whole time? Having a bit of a lark?”

  “What is it you’re not telling us?” Adam asked.

  Isabelle glanced at Robin, who watched her with a searching curiosity. No doubt finding her lacking. She pressed her eyes closed on a sigh.

  “Robin is my father.”

  Patrick drew back sharply as Helena hissed a curse. Adam’s gaze on her burned like a tongue of flame, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. Little leaned toward Adam, his face a mask of confusion.

  “I think I’ve just had a fit,” he said. “Did she say ‘father’?”

  An ominous crack rocked the floor beneath them, more smoke pouring in between the wooden beams. John rapped his fighting staff against the floor, checking the integrity of the timber. He gave Robin a look.

  “Won’t hold much longer,” he said.

  “Then neither shall we,” Robin said, his tone surprisingly jovial despite the tension in the room. “Come along, my Merry Men, before we are all as perfectly roasted as this fine fowl.”

  Robin’s white robes swirled as he strode toward the door, leading the others out of the sheriff’s chambers and into the hall beyond. Something about his movements reminded her of Patrick and Adam, each step quiet and efficient. Of course, he had probably been the one to teach them. What could she have learned, had she grown up knowing him? The others started back toward the wall of axes and the spiral staircase, but Robin waved them off, continuing down the corridor in the opposite direction.

  “I know a better way out.”

  They followed him as tendrils of smoke chased them down the hall, the smoldering scent of burning wood everywhere. Robin moved with unerring speed, turning unexpected corners and finding tucked-away staircases that led down through the keep. Isabelle had only a brief chance to wonder how he was so acquainted with the castle keep, when he stopped before another set of doors. If she had to guess, Isabelle would say they were on the ground floor, in the very heart of the building. A thick lock secured the handles together, and the others drew in a collective breath.

  “This doesn’t look like a way out,” Little John said.

  “We shall find the exit soon enough,” Robin said with twinkling eyes. They were magnetic, those eyes, drawing her in with the promise of great mischief and adventure. “Only a slight but very necessary detour that will lift all your spirits.”

  “Is this…” Little trailed off, touching the door with reverence. “How did you find it?”

  Robin gave a shrug. “As I always do. A bit of snooping, a bit of lurking, a good deal of bribing. John, if you would please?”

  Little John gave a grim smile as he lifted his sword, bringing the hilt crashing down on the metal lock. The shackle cracked in two, falling away from the door handles. Patrick and Helena pulled at each handle, the doors creaking as they revealed the room’s glittering interior. Adam sucked in another breath.

  “Bloody hell,” he breathed out. “You found it.”

  “Found what?” Isabelle asked, bewildered.

  “The Yorkshire gold stacks,” said Robin. “The entire wealth of the sheriff of York resides in this room. Quick now, Merry Men, before the whole place burns down.”

  The others flowed into the room, sweeping stacks of coins into their pockets. Little rattled like a set of cathedral bells from his various hidden pockets, and even Helena’s normally harsh expression softened and twinkled against the light of thousands of gold coins. Isabelle’s fingers twitched once, curious to feel the smooth weight of so many gold pieces, but the vow of poverty the novitiates took was instilled deeply in her, even if she had never taken the vow herself. She balled her hands into fists to stop their wandering.

  The others suffered no such moral qualms, taking gold by the handful. Isabelle watched it all with a growing sense of dread, as the world burned around her. A week ago her greatest sin was nodding off during midnight prayers; now she had set a castle keep on fire and helped a gang of outlaws rob the gold stores of the sheriff of York. After freeing all the prisoners from the dungeon. Did she even understand what was right anymore? Perhaps the Wolf was right, and Robin needed to be stopped. After all, this man was a stranger. A very strange stranger.

  Who spoke to her as if he knew her.

  “Isabelle, love, would you be a lamb and fetch me that sack over there?” he asked, sweeping an armful of coins into the loose folds of his robes.

  She crossed the room perfunctorily, sure that the smoke had done more damage to her mental faculties than she realized, and retrieved the bag for him. He dumped the coins into the sack with a great clatter, giving her a wink.

  “That should do the trick quite nicely.” He raised his voice. “Let us make haste, Merry Men, before we are smelted along with the rest of this gold.”

  The others refused to meet her eyes as they filed out after Robin, all of them clinking with each passing step. Only Adam glanced at her, but as her eyes met his, she wished he hadn’t. It gutted her worse than their avoidance. Little John dropped a heavy hand on her shoulder in what she thought was meant to be sympathy, shaking his shaggy head.

  “Come on, then, lass,” he said, guiding her out of the room.

  They passed through more abandoned chambers and corridors, the smoke getting thicker the closer to the outside they came. Isabelle feared they would never find their way out and would indeed go down with the keep, but then they turned a corner and were standing before the main doors. The smoke was so heavy here she could hardly breathe, and they all crouched low to make their escape.

  Outside was chaos, the entire front of the keep burning and throwing down chunks of hot charcoal. Robin led them through it all like a ghost in his white robes, skirting around the outside of the keep toward the unguarded backside. It was difficult for Isabelle to keep her footing along the steep grassy motte, and more than once her heart jolted as her foot slipped, threatening to tumble her a hundred feet down into the river. But she managed to follow the others until they were on the backside of the keep, the water glittering below. Robin tilted his head up, frowning at the plumes obscuring the night sky.

  “You could have shown a bit of discretion, John,” he said.


  Isabelle bit her lip, studiously avoiding the gaze of the others as Robin crouched on the grass, studying the river spread out below them. He moved to the right a few steps and then doubled back, muttering to himself as he walked, tilting his head and tapping at his chin.

  “What is he doing?” Isabelle whispered.

  “I hope he’s not doing what I think he’s doing,” Adam said pointedly to Little John, glancing back at the smoking keep. “I think I’d rather brave the fire and gate guards.”

  Isabelle sank into herself at the cut, feeling invisible as Robin snapped his fingers and raised his index finger triumphantly.

  “Here is best,” he announced, rejoining their small group. “We will need a bit of a running start, no doubt, but the motte is steepest here.”

  Adam groaned. “I’ll try my luck with the sheriff’s men.”

  “Nonsense,” Robin proclaimed. “You will almost assuredly clear the rocks below.”

  “Almost is not the same as definitely,” said Helena, peering over the steep edge into the water below. “How do you know it’s even deep enough to jump here?”

  “Because I’ve jumped it before,” Robin said. “If you’re feeling squeamish, John can give you a little push.”

  “Do you mean for us to jump off this cliff?” Isabelle asked.

  “It does seem a bit ludicrous, Robin,” said John. “That’s at least fifty feet down, maybe more. And if we hit those rocks, we’ll drown.”

  Robin shrugged. “Then the answer is simple, my good man. Do not hit the rocks.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” John said, but Robin had already taken off at a run, sailing over the edge and disappearing into the darkness below. Isabelle rushed forward as Robin hit the surface with a plunking sound, the waters billowing out in waves. She held her breath waiting for him to reappear, and he eventually bobbed up to the surface, a white speck against the black surface, waving his arms over his head.

  “Well, damned if it didn’t work,” John mused.

  “I’ll go next,” Little said with an eager look in his eyes, letting out a whoop as he sailed over the edge.