Hood

by Jenny Elder Moke

  Someone shouted her name as she stood there by the chapel doors, rooted to the ground. She turned her head dumbly as the sound came nearer, and just caught sight of Adam dropping down several feet away, his expression a warning as someone grabbed her from behind.

  “Got you, little bitch,” Blade growled in her ear, dragging her back even as he pressed a blade to her throat with his uninjured hand. “I don’t care what the Wolf’s said now. This one’s for me. I’m going to enjoy your blood on my hands.”

  You have faced outlaws, soldiers, mercenaries, and the king’s own right hand, said a firm voice in Isabelle’s head. You will not be brought low by this pig scum.

  Isabelle grabbed his good hand with both of hers and pulled down, sinking her teeth into the meaty pad of his thumb. They ripped through layers of flesh as warm blood slicked over her tongue. Blade howled in pain as she executed the maneuver Adam had taught her, stepping behind and throwing him to the ground, her knee landing hard in his gut. She spat his blood back on him as Adam reached them, sword pointed to Blade’s throat.

  “Give me a bloody reason,” he said, eyes burning.

  “Go to hell,” Blade snarled, lurching for Isabelle again.

  “Good enough,” Adam said, driving his sword deep into Blade’s gut. Isabelle fell back with a half cry, the grunt of Blade’s last breath already embedding itself in her memory. The mercenary’s jaw went slack, his eyes rolling back in his head as he slumped back down to the ground. Adam had been so fast, so brutally efficient. Isabelle shook with the violence of it as he drew his sword out, wiping the blood on Blade’s sleeve with a grimace.

  “We need to get the men out of here,” Adam said.

  But Isabelle could not stop looking at Blade. Could not stop tasting the lingering tang of his blood on her tongue. Adam glanced back at her, taking her hand in a tight grip as he stood.

  “Isabelle?” he said, his voice gentle but insistent.

  The sound of her name on his lips brought her back to the present. “Where are Patrick and Helena?” she asked, willing the tremor out of her voice.

  Adam pointed to the roof, where a wave of outlaws descended on the open melee. Helena hurtled into the thick of the fighting, a blur of dark green as her short sword caught a mercenary’s blade in a down strike. Faster than he could regroup, she spun, her sword arcing around and slicing into his exposed armpit. He grunted at the impact, bringing his other arm down hard on her shoulder. Helena dropped to one knee, hand whipping to her belt to pull a small knife. She spun again, driving the knife up into his belly. The man crumpled in half as his hose darkened with blood.

  Patrick still crouched on the roof, his bow arm blurring as he fired shot after shot into the mercenaries, picking off one man just as he raised a cudgel over Helena’s head. She lifted her sword to Patrick in thanks before swinging it at the next man, catching him in the gut. Little fought beside his father, a head taller than everyone else on the field. The mercenaries were no match for the sword Little now wielded, his height lending a savage crunch to the sound of the blade as it drove down into the shoulder of his opponent. The man clutched at the wound and fell to the ground crying out, a spray of red coating the grass at his feet.

  Isabelle pressed forward to where Helena and Little fought, ducking under a swinging cudgel as Adam brought his sword up to meet the blow, driving the man back. “Helena!” she shouted. “Little! We need to get the men out of here!”

  “How?” Helena called back. “The pigs have the exit.”

  “There is a door behind the altar in the chapel,” Isabelle called, dodging under the blade of one mercenary even as another swung a cudgel back, knocking the first unconscious. “If Patrick and the others can pin them down from the roofs, we can escape through the door and barricade it from outside. Then we can make it to the orchard wall.”

  “We don’t know if John’s still holding it,” Little shouted.

  As if summoned by his name, the big man came barreling into the fray, wielding his staff with a great roar that rattled the priory stones. He shook off four men, knocking them senseless and giving another great battle cry. He was fearsome enough a sight that even the most scarred of the mercenaries blanched at his appearance.

  “I guess that answers that,” Little said, swinging a fist into someone.

  “Helena, get to Patrick!” Isabelle commanded, already running toward the chapel doors. “Little, get your father and fetch the men. I’ll secure the door!”

  The others nodded as she sprinted through the field, slipping on the slick grass and falling once to her knee, her hand coming up red from the grass. It was enough to turn her stomach, the crumpled bodies and metallic scent of blood, not knowing who it came from as it mixed on the sacred green of the cloister. This place, dedicated to prayer and healing, now desecrated with the base violence of man. There was no penance, no litany of prayers she could offer to make up for what had been done. Neither would her spiritual guilt help save the men still standing, so she steeled herself and kept running, crossbow bolts whizzing past her ear like wasps.

  The chapel doors stood partially open as she had left them what seemed like hours ago. The interior was dim, the orange edge of dawn spreading its long fingers down the wall from the high windows overhead. Isabelle sprinted down the length of the pews to the altar, eyes whipping to either side for any sign of hidden attackers. She leapt onto the altar with a quick sign of the cross, tearing aside the drapings to locate the door tucked into the back wall.

  “Come on,” she muttered, scraping her nails along the stone. Not even her mother knew about the door, and Isabelle had only found it by accident while taking a prolonged break from scrubbing the flagstones. What it had been used for previously she could not imagine, but it would serve her purposes well now.

  “There!” she grunted, her fingers falling into the slight grooved edge of the door. She dug her fingers in hard, her joints aching against the strain of trying to pull the stone loose. The door slid forward a few inches, scraping over the ground as the rusted hinges groaned against the intrusion.

  “Open, damn you,” she muttered, setting one boot against the wall and heaving back with all her might.

  “Such language in a church,” said a voice behind her. She nearly lost her grip whipping her head around, drawing her leg in to reach for her knife, but Adam stood behind her grinning. “How many prayers of penance will that be?”

  Six other Merry Men stood behind him, panting as they crowded around the altar. Two of the men were being carried by their friends, their heads bloodied and hanging down. Isabelle dug her fingers farther into the opening and dragged the door the rest of the way open.

  “Out this way and west to the orchard wall,” she commanded. “Did John leave it open?”

  “Aye, I’m to lead the men out and post watch,” said one of the men. “The archers have got the mercenaries pinned down outside, and we’re getting the wounded out quick as we can. Not that there’s as many of us as there are of them.”

  “What about the Wolf?” Isabelle asked. “Where is he?”

  “I’ll find him,” Adam said, already heading toward the chapel doors.

  Isabelle sucked in a breath as the men ducked out of the hidden door, more trickling in through the church entry. The fighting had died down outside, no doubt thanks to Helena and Patrick’s efforts, but she knew where the Wolf would go. “Adam, wait! The infirmary. We have to get to the infirmary.”

  “Little!” Adam called to the chapel doors, where the tall boy was just making his appearance. “Watch the door and make sure the men get to safety.”

  Little gave a wave of acknowledgment, taking up his position as another group of Merry Men filtered in through the entrance.

  “The men will be all right?” Isabelle asked, following after Adam.

  “I’ll see to them,” Little said. “You’ve done a brilliant thing here, Isabelle. You’re saving our hides tonight.”

  “Thank you,” Isabelle said to both of them,
overwhelmed for a moment.

  “No thanks needed among brothers,” Little said. “Or sisters, you know.”

  Isabelle flashed him a small smile as they passed out of the chapel into the cloister. A hail of arrows rained down from the roof just as they emerged, striking the chain mail armor of the mercenaries still left. Isabelle raced down the covered archways under the dormitory toward the far end of the cloister, Adam shielding her from the fighting. She veered to the right in the direction of the infirmary.

  “Wait,” she said, stopping before the door to the chapter house. “I need my bow. I left it here earlier.”

  “Be quick about it,” Adam said, turning toward the fighting and brandishing his sword. “I’ll guard the door.”

  Isabelle nodded, slipping into the dark room. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, but enough light came through the small window that she could just see the curve of her bow propped against a far corner of the wall beside the desk. She took the bow and quiver, slinging both over her shoulder. The stacks of letters stirred as she passed, and she paused as one fluttered open, the very same letter she had picked up before Sister Catherine appeared. The wax seal was broken in half, nothing more than a colorless blob in the dim light. A fragment of the seal caught her attention and she bent down to inspect the figure stamped into the cold wax. A wolf’s head, broken clean through the middle.

  Isabelle snatched the letter up and scanned the contents, only catching bits and phrases like keep the prioress and her child ignorant of your machinations and you shall make a far greater prioress than her. Sister Catherine had been corresponding with the Wolf. She probably threw the doors open herself for the mercenaries when they arrived. But Isabelle’s heart stumbled and raced as her gaze trailed to the last paragraph of the tightly looped script.

  I thank you for the service you have done your king and your country, most especially the loyalty you have shown me. Were it not for you, my darling, Robert of Huntingdon and his brood of traitors would have gone undiscovered, left to foment their revolution in the quiet of your sacred priory.

  “It cannot be,” she breathed, the letter drifting out of her hands to the desk. Sister Catherine had betrayed them. It had not been Isabelle’s confrontation with the soldier; somehow Sister Catherine had discovered their secret, and brought the Wolf down on them.

  “Mother,” she breathed, before racing out of the chamber and tearing past a surprised Adam, willing her feet to carry her faster to the infirmary before the Wolf and Sister Catherine could reach them.

  Adam called after Isabelle, but she did not hear him as she sped up, could not hear anything but the pounding of her feet and the breath exploding from her lungs and the refrain playing like a litany. It cannot be, it cannot be.

  The passage stretched out interminably before her, and the harder she ran, the farther away the door to the infirmary became. Adam’s steps echoed distantly behind her, but she was going too fast for him to catch up. Sister Catherine could not have escaped the chapter house without anyone noticing, could she? The Wolf could not have slipped through the Merry Men’s fingers. Surely her mother and father were safe. But the rationalizations felt more like a plea, and they did nothing to settle the erratic beat of her heart or the fear hazing her thoughts.

  Her first indication that something was wrong was the slumped form lying halfway through the infirmary door keeping it propped open. She recognized the Lincoln greens with mounting dread and did not need to see his face to know it was the outlaw she had sent to take care of Robin. She stopped only long enough to check that he still had a pulse before stumbling over his legs to get through the door. A cramped stairwell spiraled up to the infirmary.

  Isabelle had the wherewithal to draw an arrow from the quiver so hastily slung over her shoulder and nock it to her bow, though she could not draw her elbow back in the narrow passage. Her ragged breathing bounced off the close stone walls, but her feet made no sound in their soft leather boots as she ascended the stairs. A clatter and crash of breaking glass tinkled down from the room above. Her heart pounded so hard it made her chest hurt, but she willed her steps to slow as she reached the top, something solid striking the ground with a curse.

  Isabelle lifted her bow as she cleared the stairwell, steeling herself for whatever scene she might find. In the far left corner Marien struggled with Sister Catherine, a knife clasped in the sister’s hand as she tried her best to strike at Marien. Isabelle’s mother deftly deflected each blow, but she followed the glistening blade with sharp eyes. Sister Catherine bumped into a healing table beside her, knocking more glass bottles onto the floor and releasing their pungent woodland aromas.

  Isabelle swung her bow from one corner to the next, where the Wolf and Robin stood only inches apart, sword blades locked together. A heavy sheen of sweat covered Robin’s face, and his skin had gone an ashy gray, the dark stain of blood across his shoulder dipping down toward his belt. He leaned forward on his sword, trying to use his body weight to force the Wolf back. But his injury limited his motion, and Sir Roger managed to sidestep Robin’s blade.

  “Stop!” Isabelle shouted, her voice ringing out as she drew back on the bowstring. She leveled the arrow tip at the Wolf’s chest. “Or I will shoot you through the heart.”

  “Shoot him, and your traitorous mother dies,” Sister Catherine called from the other side of the room, where she had finally gained the advantage, the knife pressed against Marien’s neck.

  Isabelle swung the bow toward Sister Catherine. “Then I shall shoot you first.”

  “Shoot her and I will see you all burn,” rasped the Wolf. “You should have burned in that fire sixteen years ago, Huntingdon. You cannot stop the destiny of the mighty. You are but a handful against an army of thousands.”

  “We do not have to stop an army of thousands,” said Isabelle, narrowing her attention on Sister Catherine. “Just you.”

  She released her bowstring as Adam burst from the stairs, hurtling toward the Wolf. The arrow caught the sister in the shoulder, ripping her away from Marien. The dagger clattered to the ground and Isabelle rushed to her mother as Adam and Robin turned on Sir Roger. Adam had the advantage of height and youth, and with Robin’s help disarmed the nobleman, forcing him to his knees at swordpoint. Robin swayed on his feet but stayed upright.

  Isabelle pushed past the broken bottles on the floor to her mother, pulling her into a hug and drawing her away from where Sister Catherine lay on the floor moaning.

  “Are you all right, Mother?” she asked frantically.

  “Yes, of course, I am perfectly fine,” she said, drawing Isabelle in. “What a foolish, brave thing you have done. Thank goodness you have your father’s tendencies.”

  “You will never get away with this,” spat the Wolf, his black eyes coming alive with the heat of his wrath. “The barons could never hope to defeat King John. And when he quashes their petty rebellion and imprisons every last one of them for their mutiny, I will gladly pull the ropes that strangle your wife and daughter. Hanging will be a kindness compared to what I will do to you.”

  “What a terribly menacing thing to say,” Robin huffed, some color returning to his face. “Now I shall not visit you in prison. Unless the barons choose a more permanent punishment for you. Then I shall be front row with my best Lincoln greens on.”

  The Wolf’s eyes blazed. “You would not dare.”

  “I very much would.” Robin lowered himself into a crouch, unmindful of the wound pulsing in his shoulder. Isabelle made to rush over to him, but Marien held her back. “You should have let Robert of Huntingdon stay dead, Sir Roger. But now you have earned the wrath of Robin Hood, and he is a rather vengeful fellow.”

  “And yet too much of a coward to kill me himself,” the Wolf said.

  Robin smiled. “Death will be a kindness compared to what the barons will do to you.”

  He straightened up, nodding at Adam. “Find Little John. I have a feeling Sir Roger will require his considerable skills to cooperate.”


  “I will never cooperate!” Sir Roger snarled, surging up from his kneeling position with the flash of a stiletto knife drawn from the hidden folds of his tunic. He fell on Robin, both of them crashing to the ground with the knife pinned between them. Adam gave a shout, grabbing the Wolf by his collar and hauling him back, but already a sticky pool of blood glued their tunics together, dripping between them as the fabric separated.

  “Father!” Isabelle cried, crunching through broken glass to reach Robin. Her hands hovered over his chest, shaking too much to find the source of the bleeding. “Where is it? Where is the wound?”

  “Not on me,” Robin grunted, nodding toward where the Wolf slumped against Adam’s hold. The hilt of the stiletto protruded from his chest, driven up at a sharp angle into his heart. Blood leaked around the handle, staining the front of his tunic as his mouth hung slack and his eyes rolled toward the ceiling.

  “Is he…” Isabelle could not bring herself to finish the question, but Adam gave her a grim nod as he lowered the body to the ground.

  “Shame,” Robin said, his voice faint. “Fitzwalter will be disappointed he missed the opportunity to kill Sir Roger himself.”

  “Oh, Father!” Isabelle threw her arms around him, drawing back when he grunted painfully. “What is it? Are you all right?”

  “Just my shoulder, love,” he groaned, giving her a pained smile. “I should think it will require a great deal of rest and relaxation to recuperate.”

  “And a few barrelfuls of ale,” Adam added.

  A primal scream ripped through the infirmary as Sister Catherine staggered to her feet, her brown eyes slitted and glowering in her pale face. Isabelle gripped the handle of her bow, her fingers finding their way to the string as the sister dragged herself across the worktable.