“And if you are anything like your father, I suppose you already have a plan for that,” Marien said.
Isabelle grinned, picking up an apple and running her thumb over its knobbly surface. “I suppose I do.”
Isabelle dragged a heavy-bottomed cooking pot into position behind a stack of crates nearest to the cellarium door, rusty patches of metal flaking to the ground from the cracked rim. She gripped the handles and hefted it to waist height, reassuring herself she could wield it when the time came. Satisfied that it would do as a makeshift weapon, she set it back down and skirted around the boxes toward the center of the cellarium, where her mother waited.
“Are you ready?” she whispered.
“Isabelle, I understand your time among the outlaws has given you a glimpse into their audacious ways, but this is perhaps a tad reckless,” her mother said, doubt threaded through her tone. Isabelle did not need any more light to know there was a small crease of worry between her mother’s eyebrows. “This is our entire harvest for the priory. If we destroy these apples—”
“We will not destroy them,” Isabelle whispered, trying to infuse her voice with enough confidence that it left no room for her mother’s doubts. “We will only destroy the crates to make them think we are destroying the harvest.”
“But if the stores are damaged in the attempt—”
“They will not be,” Isabelle said, growing exasperated. “Please, Mother. You trusted me enough to send me to Sherwood. Trust me now.”
Her mother took in a slow breath, no doubt pursing her lips as she always did when considering important priory decisions. But then she let it out on a sigh. “Very well, Isabelle. But do please try and be careful.”
“I shall try,” Isabelle muttered, before picking up the nearest empty crate and smashing it on the ground. It landed with a terrific crack, the wood splintering and launching in several directions. She slammed it down once more for effect, the impact vibrating up her arms.
“If they will not release me, I will make them regret it!” she screamed, pitching her voice toward the door. She waited a moment before reaching for another crate, smashing it over the remains of its predecessor. “I shall make mash of their harvest until they all starve! They cannot do this to me!”
She handed the crate over to her mother, who hesitated only a moment before demolishing it against the earth. Isabelle gave another wild scream, running around the crates to where her cooking pot waited in the deep shadows. She had left one more empty crate beside the pot, and she lifted it over her head and hurled it at the cellarium doors with all her might. It crashed against the doors, tumbling down the few steps and landing off to the side. She waited for any sign of life from the other side of the door, her hands reaching down to grip the pot handles as her mother laid waste to another crate with impressive force.
The lock jangled and the door burst open, flooding the underground room with light. Isabelle winced against the fresh source of light as she hunkered lower, peering at the man through the gaps in the crates. She could not see her mother from where she crouched, but she could imagine her straightening up at the sight of the scowling mercenary, the wreckage of crates piled at her feet.
“What in hell is going on down here?” he demanded, charging down the three short steps into the cellarium. The toe of his boot hit a loose apple, sending it rolling forward. “You, quit that! What are you doing?”
“Destroying the fall harvest, obviously,” Marien said in her best prioress tone, cool and dismissive.
“Don’t you give me cheek,” the man growled, taking another few steps forward. He was now in line with Isabelle’s hiding place, the thick smell of leather and unwashed skin drifting between the apple crates. “You can’t go destroying all that food.”
“And why not?” Marien asked, as if it were the most foolish question in the world.
“Because it’s our bloody food, too!” the mercenary groused, glaring about suspiciously. His gaze narrowed. “Hang on, where’s the girl?”
“What girl?” Marien asked.
“The sister, came down here for the harvesting,” he said. “The one the Wolf told us to lock up. Where is she?”
“Oh, you mean my daughter,” Marien said. “She is not here, obviously. Perhaps you should have done a better job securing her.”
The man charged toward Marien, taking her by the shoulders and dragging her toward him. “If that girl’s gone missing, it’s your head that will roll, not mine.”
Isabelle hefted the pot and stepped out from her hiding place, lunging the few steps across the cellarium to where the man stood with his back to her and using the momentum to raise the pot over her head and bring it down directly on the back of his skull. It connected with a slick crunch before thudding to the ground, a piece of the rim cracking apart at the impact. The man pitched forward, and Marien had just enough time to step out of the way before he collapsed in a heap. She held her fingers before his nose.
“He is breathing,” Marien said. Isabelle was surprised at the rush of relief that ran through her. She did not want to add murder to her list of skills acquired in recent days. “That will be quite the goose egg you gave him when he comes around, though.”
“I would wager he deserved it,” Isabelle replied.
“I hope for everyone’s sake we do not run across any other guards,” Marien said, pulling his sword belt loose before straightening up, carrying a dagger from his tunic in her other hand. “I do not think your pot could handle it.”
“What are you going to do with his blades?” Isabelle asked.
“Hopefully nothing,” Marien said. She fastened the belt around her waist. “But if required I shall use them as they were intended. In any case, he no longer has need of them.”
“What do you know about wielding a sword?” Isabelle asked incredulously.
Marien lifted one brow. “Apparently you did not receive the full history lesson,” she said. “Time enough for that later.”
They crept up the cellar stairs into the abandoned kitchen, locking the cellarium door behind them. Isabelle cracked the door to check the walkway beyond. She counted five mercenaries making their patrols through the cloister, their attention focused away from the kitchen doors. She drew it shut again, leaning against it as she gathered her thoughts.
“We need to get to the dormitory and find my friends,” she said. “Then we can slip out my window and get back to the wall where Little John waits.”
Marien watched her curiously before comprehension lightened her features. “I always wondered how you managed to sneak past my room without awakening me.”
Isabelle’s heart gave a guilty lurch. “What makes you think I snuck out?”
Marien gave her a level look. “Darling, I was Robert’s wife long before I was your mother. I am not ignorant of his or your penchant for late-night wanderings.”
“Why did you never stop me?”
Marien shrugged. “I thought you needed your privacy as he did. Besides, the guilt of sneaking out made you exceptionally devoted to your chores the next day.”
Isabelle sucked in a breath before realizing she had nothing to say, so she closed her mouth. She cracked the door once more, waiting for the closest guard to complete his circuit before darting to the cover of the nearest pillar. This trek through the arches proved easier than the first, as she knew when to move and where to stand to avoid being seen. Marien moved without a whisper beside her, as silent and quick as Patrick ever was. Not even the white of her habit gave her away as they advanced toward the dormitory stairs. Once they reached the shadowy alcove Isabelle let out a pent-up breath and leaned against the wall.
“Mother,” she whispered, shaking her head as Marien appeared beside her a moment later. “You move just like the…I had no idea…”
“I know, dear,” her mother said, giving her a distracted kiss on her brow. “I can be quite impressive when the situation calls for it. But where are your friends? I thought you said you left them here
.”
“I did,” Isabelle replied with a frown. She searched the shadows of the dark corridor leading up to the dormitory but could pick out no distinct shapes. “Perhaps they already returned to the orchard wall.”
Even as she said it, though, she knew it couldn’t be true. They wouldn’t abandon her. What if they learned she had been captured, and had been taken themselves trying to rescue her? A dozen scenarios ran through her mind, none of them doing anything to set her nerves at ease.
“We need to check the priory,” she said. “I cannot leave here without them.”
Marien nodded. “I will check the dormitory, you check the chapel, and we shall meet back at your room.” She kissed Isabelle again on the forehead. “Be more than careful, dearest.”
And then she was gone, floating up the stairs into the dormitory above. Isabelle suddenly felt very alone, the thud of boots and someone’s distant snoring the only sounds within the priory. But then she thought of Adam and the others, possibly in danger or searching for her as well, and she squared her shoulders. She would not let fear guide her, not anymore.
Quickly as she could, she made her way toward the chapel entrance, heart pounding as she nearly stepped into the path of a passing mercenary. She made it to the doors and darted in, pressing herself against the wall, out of sight. The recently extinguished wicks still smoldered in the bank of candles by the door, cool gray tendrils of smoke rising toward the high ceiling. The pews stood empty, rows of sentinels stretching toward the altar at the far end of the room. A preternatural stillness reigned within the sacred space until someone grabbed her from behind, clamping a hand over her mouth and dragging her back into the shadows.
She waited just until her feet gained purchase before biting down hard on the fingers pressed to her mouth, stepping behind her attacker and sweeping her arm back as Adam had taught her. The man fell with a grunt, his grip on her arm dragging her down on top of him. But this time she was prepared, drawing up her leg and whipping the knife from her boot to press it to his throat.
“Isabelle, it’s me!” her attacker hissed as she leaned forward on the blade. “I never would have taught you that move if I’d known you would use it exclusively on me.”
She let her breath out in one great whoosh, pulling the knife away from Adam’s throat. “Are you mad? I thought you were one of the Wolf’s men. I nearly sliced your throat open.”
“I didn’t want you screaming and drawing them down on us,” Adam said as he sat up. “But clearly I should have been more worried about my own neck. Where in bloody hell have you been?”
“It is a long story,” she said. “I shall explain later, but right now we need to get out of the priory as quickly as possible. The Wolf has set a trap for Robin and we need to warn him. Where are the others?”
“Hiding,” Adam said with a general wave. “After you disappeared the sisters returned and we had to move. We’ve been waiting over an hour for you to come back. Little wanted to go in swinging, of course, and Helena only just stopped him by threatening to bash his head in. I’ve searched nearly every nook of this blasted place looking for you, which wasn’t easy with the mercenaries thick as ticks on a doe out there. Did you at least find your mother?”
Isabelle nodded. “She is waiting for us. We can slip out the way we came in. Get the others and meet us back in my room.”
Isabelle rose to retreat to the chapel doors, when Adam took her by the wrist, pulling her close. He buried the fingers of his other hand in her curls and pulled her forward, wrapping an arm around her waist as he lowered his mouth to hers. At first it was only warmth and wetness, and she wasn’t quite sure what to do with her mouth, but then he tipped her head up, parting her lips with his and starting a fire that burned away any lingering thoughts in her head. It simmered low in her belly and sent her fingers sliding up the rigid planes of his back, the chill of the night set alight with the need to keep his mouth against hers forever. Warm breaths filled the space between them as he drew back, resting his forehead against hers.
“With your habit of getting in trouble, I wasn’t sure I would have another opportunity,” he said, a slight pant to his whisper. “For heaven’s sake, Isabelle, be more careful this time.”
“I am…I will…” Her thoughts scattered and collided as the heady memory of the fit of his mouth over hers and the warmth of his chest still filled her mind. Adam seemed to sense her disorientation, for he pulled back with a grin.
“I see I’ve finally discovered something to render you speechless.”
She gave a huff, scowling as a litany of words rushed to fill the empty space in her mind. But before she could give shape to her thoughts, a voice rang out from the cloister, filtering in through the chapel door.
“Well, well, little sweetling, I found you again,” it called.
Isabelle’s hands tightened around Adam’s shoulders, her fingers digging into the muscle as panic flooded her system.
“Blade,” she whispered. “The mercenary from Lincoln who attacked us in the Wounded Lion. He is here.”
“I know you’re about somewhere,” Blade continued, his voice taunting. “Come out, or your mother loses her pretty face.”
Isabelle bolted for the chapel door, but Adam caught her, hauling her back before she could throw it open and reveal herself. Through the crack she glimpsed a dozen mercenaries surrounding Blade, though that was not what drove a shard of ice into her heart. Blade held Marien by the throat, the tip of a dagger pressed into the soft hollow beneath one eye.
“Don’t be daft,” Adam hissed. “He’s goading you.”
“He has my mother!” she said.
“And he’ll have you, too, if you just go rushing out there like a fool,” Adam said. “We need a plan.”
“I’m waiting,” Blade called from beyond the door. “What should go first, do you think? An ear or an eye? She’s got a spare one of both. You’ll hardly miss it.”
“Isabelle, you must run,” her mother’s voice called out. “He cannot kill me. You know what you must do. I will be fine.”
“Kill you, no,” Blade mused. “But maim you, well, I suppose that’s up for debate.”
“We have to do something,” Isabelle said, struggling against Adam and her own realization that he was right. She couldn’t just rush out there heedlessly; she would be playing right into Blade’s hands. But what could she do? They had only the dagger Patrick had given her and Adam’s sword. She did not even have her bow to make a stand; not that she could have stopped all of them before they overwhelmed her.
Think, Isabelle, think, she chided herself, running through a dozen scenarios. What would Father do?
“Where are the others?” she asked.
Adam gestured outside. “Hiding about the cloister.”
“Can you get to the roof without Blade and his men seeing you?” she asked. Adam nodded. “Good, find Helena and take her with you. Be ready for my signal.”
Adam frowned but nodded again, slipping silently into the shadows. Isabelle set her hands on the door handle, her breath coming fast and short. She was either going to save her mother or doom them all.
You can do this, she thought, taking a deep breath. Be braver than you feel.
“I am coming out,” she called, before pushing open the door. She took a few steps forward, her gaze darting over the assembled mercenaries. There were more than there had been when she first entered the chapel, and they flanked the square walkway.
Blade gloated as he jerked his head to the men standing on either side of her. They stepped forward, grabbing her roughly by the arms and holding her fast. She didn’t fight them, willing her gaze to stay on Blade. She was pleased to see he had at least suffered a deep cut across one cheek, no doubt Marien’s handiwork. She wasn’t sure how much time Adam needed to reach Helena and get to the roof, but she hoped it would be sooner rather than later.
“Well, well, little dove,” said Blade, moving forward a few feet and dragging Marien along. He lowered the
knife but kept a firm grip on her neck. “You’re in quite a lot of trouble, trying to fly your coop. See, you cost me a good man on watch, and my men aren’t pleased having to roust you out like this.”
“Isabelle, run,” her mother said, voice low and gravelly. Isabelle didn’t meet her gaze, afraid she would lose all resolve at the terror threaded through her voice.
Blade shook Marien roughly. “Nothing out of you. You’re not safe yourself.”
“Take your hands off her,” Isabelle hissed.
Blade met her gaze, deliberately squeezing his fingers tighter. “I will do what I damn well please with this one, and you besides. You’re not the one calling the shots here. The Wolf’s got you right where he wants you, and your dear da, too. His head will be on a pike before you break your next fast. But that will be the least of your problems when I get done with you. Huntingdon won’t be coming to save you now. You’re all alone.”
“Well, then, it seems we both have a problem,” Isabelle said, pushing her voice to the highest corners of the cloister. “Because I did not come alone.”
A single arrow sliced through the air, grazing Blade’s ear before thudding deep into the grass behind him. He cursed, releasing his grip on Marien to clutch at his injured ear. The prioress took advantage of the momentary distraction and elbowed him hard in the gut, springing toward Isabelle.
Isabelle dropped to the ground, dragging the two guards with her. Their heads met with a crunch, and she rolled out of their grip, whipping the dagger from her boot as she came to her feet. Marien had drawn her own dagger from somewhere in the folds of her habit, and they pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, as the men closed around them in a threatening circle.
“You little bitch,” Blade snarled, still holding his ear. A fine trickle of blood ran between two fingers. “I will flay you and your friends alive.”
He lurched toward her as another arrow bit into the earth at his feet. Isabelle pressed closer to Marien, flashing her dagger at an approaching mercenary.
Hood Page 23
