“Hang on,” I said, and raised a hold-everything hand while my brain caught up with my mouth. “You knew?”
He pushed himself upright, teeth clenched. “I know a pullet from a cockerel.” With a grunt he got his good leg under him. I was all sorts of shocked.
“Don’t get up! What is wrong with you?” I looked around like a first-aid kit would magically appear out of thin air.
“Why do you think I didn’t drag you straight to the sheriff that first day? I gave you every opportunity to die of a brain fever and reemerge….” He ran out of steam and used the rest of his breath to curse.
I rewound to the beginning and then zipped back through everything in between. “You knew I was a girl when you challenged me to a duel?”
“You knew you were a girl when you attacked my men.” His glare was narrow-eyed and unapologetic. “I treated you like what you were—are. I thought you’d see sense. Besides, I wouldn’t have hurt you.”
I made an indignant sound and held up my bloody fingers as proof otherwise. Through the sheen of sweat on his face, he looked more annoyed than chagrined. “That was unintentional.”
“You want to take me to the sheriff to get my head cut off.”
“You are an outlaw. And the law is—”
“Stupid. Your law is stupid and—”
He held up his hand, which was a lot bloodier than mine. “Be silent.”
It was a command, delivered in a commander’s voice, and I shut up in an instinctive reaction to it. And also a little bit because, holy crap, he was really bleeding. I’d done that to him. “Guilbert, you need a doc—”
“Quiet.” Guilt or no guilt, I was about to tell him to go to hell when I heard what he heard—at least one horse, coming fast. Guilbert listened a moment longer. “That’s not one of mine,” he said. “That’s a destrier.”
“What’s a—”
“Press here.” He grabbed my hand and put it on his outer thigh where the arrow had lodged. I applied pressure, basic first aid, not sure what he was going to do until he took hold of the shaft of the arrow with two hands and quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid, broke it off a couple of finger widths from the wound.
“Holy shit.” That was one way to get the long end out of his way. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
Guilbert was so pale he looked green in the early dusk of the forest. “Does James know what a blasphemer you are?” He wiped the sweat off his face and threw the end of the arrow aside, then nodded in the direction of the rider. “Speak of the devil…”
James cantered around the bend on that SUV of a horse of his. A destrier, I presumed. Guilbert’s sports-car ride sidled out of the way with a snort as James reined to a halt and swung down in the same motion.
I left Guilbert to deal with his bloody leg and ran to meet James. He was wearing his sword and dressed for business. “Oh my God, I’m so glad to see you,” I gushed, and grabbed his arm on my way to his horse. I didn’t want to be here when the next riders down the road turned out to be the rangers looking for their captain and, more to the point, me. I didn’t want James here, either. I’d gotten enough people almost killed today.
James caught my other arm and turned me toward him. “You’re limping.” He took me by both shoulders and bent to look at my face, into my eyes. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
“No. Well, yes, but—” My throat tightened and I raised one hand to wipe my face, because I was crying stupid tears of relief. James took one look at the blood on my hand and started checking me for injuries from the top down. “I’m just so glad to see you. Is everyone— Ouch!”
James had gotten to the slice in my tunic, and, with grim-faced efficiency, he examined my side. He got grimmer, and steelier.
He looked past me, toward Guilbert, with righteous fury brewing in his eyes. “James…” I knew the cut looked worse than it was—at home they’d just superglue it together—but tell that to a knight defender of victims of their own impetuosity. “Don’t—”
Either everything was moving fast or I was moving slowly. James set me carefully out of his path and drew his sword as he locked his gaze on Guilbert and made straight for him. I expected the captain to raise his empty hands and call a cease-fire, but instead he slid the toe of his injured side under the edge of his sword where it lay, flipped it up, and had it in his hand in time to swing at James as soon as he was in reach.
Crap. He did have moves.
James ducked it easily and countered. The sound of clashing steel rang through the woods. Guilbert moved so well, was so balanced as he took his weight on his good leg, that I didn’t think James could even tell he was injured. It was crazy impressive and totally pigheaded.
“James, stop,” I called. “His leg is—”
Will rode up behind me as Guilbert made a feint and then advanced with short, fast hacks that had James on the defensive but didn’t betray Guilbert’s limp. And all I could do was stand there and wring my hands like some fair maiden. Yelling did no good, I didn’t want to shoot anyone else, and I wasn’t quite foolish enough to jump between them.
“Merde,” said Will, sounding more impressed than upset. “Are they fighting over you, chérie?”
“Of course not.” At least, not in the way he meant. This had been brewing since the first day at the river, over some fire that must have been lit before James ever left Nottingham. It just needed a catalyst.
James went on the offensive and Guilbert held him off without doing more than touching his left foot to the ground. I couldn’t discern much, but Will acted as commentator. “They’re both trying to win without seriously hurting the other. We could be here all night waiting for one of them to quit first.”
Right. One or both of them needed an excuse to stop without losing face. Finally, an idea. It was clichéd, but I was freaking Robin Hood. Came with the territory.
“I don’t feel very well,” I said, more loudly than necessary. When they didn’t pay attention, I put my hand to my forehead, swayed a bit, and then collapsed onto the rutted road in a graceful faint.
“Ellie!” exclaimed Will, with genuine alarm. I heard his feet hit the ground beside me as he dismounted. “What’s wrong?”
The fighting stopped with one last steel-guitar slide of sword against sword. James dropped to a knee beside me and started checking the first-aid ABCs—airway, breathing, circulation.
With my ear on the ground, I heard the next wave of riders coming. I opened my eyes and, looking around James’s boot, I saw an ashen Guilbert had whistled his horse over so he could hang on to the saddle. Idiot.
“Those are Nottingham soldiers coming,” warned Guilbert. “You”—he pointed at Will—“get over here and help me mount.”
As Will went to do so, James looked suspiciously at the captain. “When do you ever need help getting on a horse?” he asked.
I sat up—ow ow ow—and snapped, “Because I shot him in the leg! I tried to tell you.”
James stood and faced Guilbert. “Why didn’t you say so?” he demanded, confused and angry.
Guilbert reined his horse around and looked down his nose at James. “Because I wanted to find out if I could still beat you.” He looked over the three of us dismissively and stopped on me. “And you, Robin Hood…I don’t want to ever see you again in this forest.”
He rode to head off the approaching soldiers, as incredible as that seemed. Will looked at me with a what-the-hell-just happened expression that I returned with a growing fuzziness. Everything had happened, or at least it felt that way.
I turned to James, who watched me with that composure of his, which told me nothing, especially in the darkening forest. When he fought with Guilbert, his power and control hadn’t surprised me, but his righteous ferocity had reminded me that he wasn’t just Friar Tuck, my sidekick. He was a freaking knight. And he stood there with his sword, and that stance, and those shoulders, looking me over, cataloging my injuries and calculating how much trouble I was.
“Jam
es,” I began steadily. I regretted nothing—well, almost nothing—but I was still grateful. “I know you’re probably a little upset with me for getting outlawed and all—”
With no warning, no change of expression, he closed the few feet between us and wrapped his left arm around me, holding me tightly to him, his cheek against the top of my head. Oh God. It hurt. The fire that spiked out from the cut on my ribs was nothing next to the burn that spread out from my heart. He smelled of leather and woodsmoke, of the candles from the chapel and some other scent that had faded from my century.
“You must be more careful,” he said. With my head resting on his chest, I felt the words more than heard them. “I said I’d keep you from harm. Don’t make me a liar, Eleanor.”
I sighed out the last of the fight-or-flight I had left, and my fingers tightened on his sleeve just to keep exhaustion and emotion from knocking my legs out from under me. I didn’t think about the next round or the next arrow, I just stood in the moment.
“Excusez-moi, mes amis,” said Will from atop his horse, “I hate to break up this tender moment…” Funny. He didn’t sound regretful. “But we should do as the man said and be going.”
“Indeed,” said James, releasing me and stepping back to put his sword away. In a fog of tired, I moved to the horses, knowing from experience that I could catnap while leaned up against James’s back. He came over, picked me up easily, and placed me—behind Will.
Wait. What?
James swung up into his own saddle and Will spurred his horse. I grabbed onto his waist to keep from somersaulting over the horse’s tail. Will was shaking slightly, and I suspected he was laughing.
I was pretty sure I’d just been declared an outlaw by the sheriff of Nottingham and friend-zoned by Friar Tuck in the same day. I’ll bet that had never happened in any tale of Robin Hood.
I woke up on a surprisingly comfortable pallet in a shockingly bright cave—the morning sun came straight through the opening like nature’s alarm clock, with no freaking snooze button. Every single part of me hurt, including my head, and I had no clue where I was.
Rewind—it had been just after dark when James, Will, and I had ridden into a small camp in the shelter of a curved hill. There was a low fire going, and Little John and Much were waiting for us anxiously. John had dislocated his shoulder falling off the runaway horse; with the help of all three of us, James popped it back into place. I was surprised John’s roar of pain hadn’t brought half of Nottinghamshire to the camp to claim the bounty on our heads.
Then James—all business—field-dressed my cut, which involved excruciating scrubbing, slapping a wine-soaked bandage on it, and handing me a cup of the same to take the edge off. Little John had taken off so many edges he was round, but I didn’t drink much. I was too worried I’d say something regrettable. I had enough problems with impulse control when dead sober.
I rolled over with a groan and found someone sitting on a small stool, watching me. I jumped, immediately regretted it, and when I finally brought the brown-and-white blob into focus, I’d already worked it out that it was Sister Lady Isabel.
“Good morning, outlaw,” she said cheerfully.
“What are you doing here?” I croaked.
She smiled. “We’re not a cloistered convent, though, since we’re supposed to travel in pairs, Elsbeth the miller’s daughter came with me. Much’s sister—”
“Is a sister.” I pushed my hair out of my face. “I remember now. And he told you how to get…” I looked around, baffled by the contrast of cave with everything else. I slept on a pallet of fluffy featherbed and soft woolen blankets. There were carpets covering the dirt floor, a sort of table or desk, and a camp bed with a canopy over it. “Where are we?”
“From what I gather,” she said, with a wry lift of her brows, “your friend Master Will Scarlet does not care for…”
“Roughing it?” I finished, when she faltered for the word.
“Exactly. Outlaw or not.” She rose and went to the table. “Come over here to better light so I can see what these savages have done to you.”
I knew better than to disobey. Besides, having survived one fever, I didn’t want to tempt fate and end up dying of what was essentially a six-inch paper cut. I’d acquired a clean shirt at some point last night, and I tugged it up so she could see my ribs. “You should look at Little John—John the Smith, I mean.”
“I have. He’s mending already. James must have put a lot of shoulders back in joint while in the Holy Land.”
When I’d asked him about that, James had simply said that physicians weren’t always readily available in battle, and then changed the subject.
“You’ll live, too,” said Isabel, after she rinsed the cut with something herbal and sort of tingly, tying on a clean linen bandage with some kind of salve. “Keep this on it, and you might not even have a scar.”
“Oh my God.” I grabbed her arm as the rest of my brain woke up. “You have to get Clothilde to go to Nottingham Castle. Guilbert’s leg—” My stomach turned over. That arrow had been new, and pretty clean, but with no antibiotics…
“She set off as soon as Much arrived at first light this morning.” Isabel covered my hand with hers. “Don’t you remember giving him that message?”
Vaguely, before that half a cup of wine knocked me out.
“In any case,” said Isabel, packing up the few things she had with her, “she threatened to beat off the barracks surgeon with her wooden spoon if necessary. Henry will be in good hands.” She cast a sideways look at me. “You’re in for a lecture, though. Something about her expecting better of a sensible young woman, even if she is wearing men’s clothes.”
I resigned myself to that fate. If Clothilde fixed it so Guilbert didn’t die because of me, it would be worth it. “So…” I needed some gossip, but only so I knew what I was dealing with. “Guilbert and James. What’s their story?”
“What’s the bad blood between them, you mean?” At my nod, Isabel picked up her little medieval medical bag and tucked it under one arm. “Come along. Elsbeth and I brought breakfast.”
We went out to the fire. The space in front of the cave—or rather, caves—was protected on three sides by the hill. On the fourth side, the slope continued down past the natural ledge, but there was a screen of seriously thick forest. Not only was the hideout well hidden, but there was barely a deer track going through all that green. Nothing bigger than Bambi was going to get here without making a racket.
“Rob!” shouted Little John as soon as he saw me. Speaking of making a racket. He jumped off the stone seat he’d taken at the fire circle, and reached me in one giant stride. His left arm was bound to his chest, so his shoulder wouldn’t move, but his right arm was free to catch me up in a hug that lifted me clear off the ground. I laughed through the pain until he squeezed tighter. “John…Can’t…breathe…”
He let me down immediately, and then placed his big hand on my shoulder. “Sorry. It’s just, you saved my boy’s life.”
Discomfort made me restless. I wasn’t sure I hadn’t indirectly gotten his son in trouble in the first place. “You saved his life, John. I just did some trick shooting.”
“Well…,” he said, packing a whole speech into that word. Then he clapped me on the shoulder almost hard enough to knock me over. “My thanks.”
“No worries,” I managed. I had been fine until his gravelly voice broke; then I felt my throat tighten, too. I missed my parents and I knew they’d do the same for me as John had done for his kid.
I changed the subject. “This isn’t the same camp where Much and I found you.”
“Oh no. Those bandits would turn in their own grannies for five silver coins.” He jerked his thumb toward the cave. “Will’s been working on this place for a while.”
“I can tell.”
Little John suddenly noticed Isabel, and gestured for her to take his stone seat. “M’lady, you should sit. You too, Rob. I’m going to keep watch for the others. They’re stocki
ng up in case we have to stay low for a while.”
Well, that answered the question of where everyone was. John took himself downhill, and I sat on one of the stones by the fire circle. I recognized Elsbeth from the priory; she was definitely related to Much, but she’d fared better in the eyebrow department. She grinned shyly as she handed me a bowl of something she’d spooned out of the pot suspended on a tripod over the fire. “Thanks,” I said.
Isabel had a bowl too, and took John’s seat. The breakfast was some kind of porridge full of honey and dried apples; it was seriously the best thing I’d eaten since I’d been there.
While we ate, Isabel answered my question from the cave. “When they were young boys at my uncle’s estate at Huntingdon, James and Henry talked constantly of being knights—planning, practicing, playacting. They only tolerated my company if I consented to be rescued over and over. Anyplace we went, if there was a tower, I had to be rescued from it.” She rolled her eyes. “Then, when my uncle left for the Crusade, of course James went too, as a squire.”
“Of course,” I echoed. My mind boggled trying to picture an eight-year-old Henry or James playing at all, let alone with each other. “But Henry didn’t go?”
She swallowed a bite of porridge before continuing. “James has family in the Templars, so that was his way in. Henry’s family has money, but no noble connections. So his father sent him to squire school in Normandy.”
“Wait, squire school?” I’d followed everything up to that. “Like, pay tuition and your kid gets knight training?”
“Exactly. For families like Henry’s that have money but no titles or connections. In any case, Henry came back and won every tournament worth winning, which got him noble patronage, which is how he came to his position as the reeve’s deputy.” She took a huge breath at the end of all that. “And now you know their history.”
I knew the facts, but I had to wrap my head around the twelfth-century psychology of it. “So Henry has a chip on his shoulder because his dad essentially bought his knighthood, and James thinks Henry sold out on their dream, especially since he now works for the devil.”
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