“Helena,” said Adam to the girl, not bothering to suppress his smile. “Meet Isabelle. Isabelle, this is Helena. Our best shooter. Well, second best, but Robin’s not here, is he? The sister would challenge you for a place in the Merry Men, Helena.”
Isabelle cleared her throat, the manners her mother instilled in her taking over as she stepped forward and gave a small nod. “Pleased to meet you, Helena.”
Helena looked her up and down. “Not bloody likely. Whose joke is this? If Little’s still sore about the last thrashing I gave him, this isn’t much of a punishment.”
“No.” Isabelle faltered, glancing at the others. “I do not…This is not a joke. I wish to challenge you for a place among the Men.”
Helena crossed her arms, her lips pressed thin. “Well, then, I hope you’ve got somewhere else to sleep tonight, sister. Let’s shoot.”
“One arrow per archer at each target,” Allan said, waving to the three targets set up down the range. “Helena will shoot brown, Isabelle will shoot white. Whoever’s aim is truest wins the challenge. Are the archers ready?”
Isabelle chanced a glance at Helena before nodding. The girl did not return the glance, her eyes trained on the bales down the range, the first set at ten paces, the second at twenty, and the farthest one at thirty paces. Patrick trotted to stand outside the range near the first target, giving a wave when he was in position to call the winner.
Allan raised his arms. “As our champion, Helena will shoot first.”
Helena stepped up to the line in front of the first target, nocking the arrow with brown fletching and lifting the bow without preamble. Isabelle had to admire her stance, wide and strong, not even a tremble of emotion before she loosed the arrow. Her shot flew straight to the center of the target even though she’d hardly sighted down the range. The men gave up a cheer when Patrick confirmed the hit, but Helena merely grunted. She looked at Isabelle expectantly.
“Your turn, sister,” she said, tossing the last word out like an insult.
Isabelle stepped up to the line and planted her feet resolutely. She had half a mind to take the same careless approach to her first shot, but she suspected Helena had done it to lure her into making a mistake. She would take her time and plan the shot. Her heart pounded against her chest even though she’d made such simple shots thousands of times. They’d never meant anything like this before, though. Now, as she checked the strength of the bow and ran her fingers along the fletching of her arrow, the full import of her actions hit her. She was not only shooting to prove herself worthy, she was shooting for the right to fight for her family. One false move, one moment of hesitation, would end her chances.
“For Mother,” she whispered, sighting down the range and letting the arrow fly.
The arrow hissed through the air, striking the target with a resounding thunk. A murmur rippled through the gathered onlookers as the white fletching nestled next to brown, so close it seemed they had sprung from the same shaft. Helena rolled her shoulders and straightened her spine, eyeing Isabelle guardedly.
Patrick squatted before the target, his head jerking back in surprise as he turned to the crowd. “White takes the target.”
Isabelle pressed her lips together to suppress the smile that rose up, her toes curling in her boots with the victory. Conversation rumbled through the outlaws, several of them shoving forward to get a better look at her. Isabelle met Adam’s gaze, her chin lifted high. One side of his mouth curled up and he gave her a wink that made her flush.
“I suppose that little bow has a bit of power to it after all,” he murmured.
Allan motioned to the next target. “Isabelle takes the next shot.”
She stepped up to the line in front of the second target, taking the same care and precision before letting loose her arrow. It thudded into the center straight on, raising a murmur of appreciation from several of the outlaws. The attitude toward her shifted as Allan clapped her on the back. The sisters had never treated her skill with the bow as anything other than an irritating necessity, a means of procuring meat and keeping her out of their way. But here, among the outlaws, it was a skill worthy of praise.
Helena stepped up to the line and took her stance, this time lining up her shot carefully and sighting down the range toward the target. There was no flippancy in her movements, no casual dismissal of the challenge. She was alert and focused, her hand drawing back to her ear as she stretched the bow into a deep curve. When she let go, the arrow whistled with deadly precision toward the target, hitting the center beside Isabelle’s arrow. Patrick trotted to the target to examine the results.
“She’s just nudged out white,” he called out. “Right down the center. Point goes to brown!”
Helena smirked, drawing another arrow and casually checking the fletching. Isabelle let out the breath she was holding with a deflated sigh, the confidence once again leaching out of her. In any other situation, she would have admired the outlaw girl’s prowess with the bow, might have even asked her for insight into her technique. But now she only wished the girl were not so much better than her at her only useful skill.
“The score stands one to one,” Allan declared. “This is our final shot, for the win. Helena shoots first.”
Helena stepped up to the line, sighting down to the final target thirty paces away. Even in the pinkening light of dawn the target was no more than a suggestion of an outline, a patch of red and white in the deep shadows. Isabelle stared hard at Helena’s rigid shoulders, willing her to miss. The outlaw girl took care, bending the bow in a narrow arc as far back as her arm would allow. The arrow flew straight and true, sinking several inches into the red center of the target. The outlaws gave a rousing cheer of support for their champion. It seemed a foregone conclusion to them that the battle was won.
Helena leveled her gaze at Isabelle. “Beat that, sister.”
Isabelle stepped up to the line, holding her bow down while she considered her options. From where she stood, the arrow looked dead-on, and she could do no more than hope to hit the same shot. Even if she split the arrow, it wasn’t enough. She needed not just to win, but to win them over. She needed something more dramatic, something to play to their theatrical tastes. A shot to best all other shots.
She studied the target for several moments, anchoring its location in her mind. The wind blew gently, tickling a stray curl against her face. In that moment her senses stilled, weeding out the distractions of the outlaws’ reveling and her thudding heart until there was nothing but the target and her bow.
“A blindfold,” she called out, loud enough to silence those closest to her. She turned her gaze to Adam. “If you would be so kind as to provide one.”
Adam looked incredulous, but Isabelle did not waver. A murmur passed among the Merry Men, sounding their doubt and surprise and begrudging respect that she would attempt such a feat, even if they did not believe it possible she could complete it. She kept her gaze locked on Adam, a challenge passing between them. Finally he shrugged one shoulder, waving to the Merry Men.
“A blindfold for the challenger!” he called out.
Someone brought forth a long strip of cloth. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he murmured, securing the blindfold over her eyes. He was close enough that she could smell the crushed pine needles and fresh earth on his clothes, his fingers brushing the back of her neck as he tied the knot.
“As do I,” she replied with a small shiver, but the cloth was secured and she could not turn back.
The foresters dropped into a silence so full it weighed on Isabelle’s bones, and it took all her effort just to lift the bow. She reached for the quiver on her back but fumbled the arrows, the wood clacking together as she struggled to grab one. Helena snorted next to her, several isolated snickers peppering the crowd behind her, but Isabelle did not heed them.
In her mind’s eye, she reconstructed the shooting range, the milky target with a drop of red swimming into view. The wind rustled again, adding definition to t
he trees in her mental picture and pinpointing the target before her. She set her feet in the spongy earth, her rib cage settling low and grounding her. She nocked the arrow and drew the string back, the creak loud and close. She drew in one deep breath before releasing the tension in her fingers, the arrow whistling away to seal her fate.
She couldn’t bear to remove the blindfold, but she didn’t have to. A collective gasp sounded behind her, followed by a roar. She lifted one corner of the blindfold, squinting down the range even as Little swooped in and lifted her up on his shoulders. All she could see was white fletching against the red.
“You split her arrow!” Little shouted, dragging her into the thick of the welcoming outlaws. “You split her bloody arrow blindfolded! Welcome to the Merry Men of Sherwood!”
Isabelle squatted, pulling at the thick woolen hose that clung to her calves and thighs, the material scratchy and rough against her skin. The tunic wasn’t much better, though she was used to such coarse material under her arms and across her shoulders. Her limbs were light, no longer weighed down by the heavy skirts, but somehow she was still warm in the cool dawn. The boots were wondrous, soft and molded to the pads of her feet. She bounced on the balls of her feet, luxuriating in the freedom of movement.
“I must say, Isabelle, the Lincoln greens do favor you,” Patrick said, hauling a knapsack full of supplies to the edge of the camp.
Isabelle preened at the compliment, squaring her shoulders and adjusting her meager bag of supplies across her chest, a few slices of bread and the healing salve from her mother tucked away in a new burlap sack. Her bow hung over her shoulder, nestled beside a quiver fully stocked with arrows courtesy of the Merry Men. Adam appeared with a bundle of weapons, tossing a pair of daggers to Patrick while looking her up and down with a faint smile.
“Certainly a sight better than what you were wearing before,” he said.
Isabelle flushed, but refused to let him take away from her victory. “A prize well-earned is worth its weight in gold, even if it is fashioned from scratchy wool.”
Adam tilted his head in concession. “Just do yourself a favor and try not to look so smug about winning when Helena gets here. She’s a bit sore.”
“She’ll get over it,” Patrick said, patting Isabelle on the arm. “No one’s ever beaten her. You were quite the shock to her confidence.”
“It was bloody brilliant,” Little said, appearing through the trees with a wide grin. “You smashed it.”
“It was a lucky shot,” Helena snapped behind him, her expression harsh in the early morning light. She glanced at Isabelle. “And she only won because my arrow was already dead-on in the center.”
“Come, now, Helena,” Patrick said in a conciliatory tone. “It was a brilliant shot. Doesn’t mean yours wasn’t, too.”
Helena grunted a nonresponse, dropping her pack on the ground to check through its contents once more before they left. Isabelle’s hopes that they might make friends were quickly dwindling in the shade of the other girl’s dismissal. It would not be the first time she had been shunned by another of her gender, but somehow this stung worse than any new arrival at the priory avoiding her company once Sister Catherine got hold of them. The easy welcome of the Merry Men had made her feel on the edge of being a part of something for the first time, but Helena’s reserve reminded her of what she truly was—an outsider. Could she find no place where she fit in the world?
Allan A’Dale appeared with Thomas, both men grim and resolute in the early morning light. Thomas gave Isabelle a long look, huffing a breath at the sight of her in the Lincoln greens, but he did not try to talk her out of going. She figured it was the closest she would get to his approval.
“Cut through Sherwood up to Lincoln and follow the king’s road north to York,” Allan told Adam, before landing a meaningful look on his son. “No taverns, no towns, keep to the trees and move quickly. Last we heard from Tuck, the soldiers are thick through those parts. Check in with David at the Wounded Lion in Lincoln. He’ll get you food and supplies to get you up to York. But no drinking.”
“Well, if you’re gonna make it a bloody chore,” Little muttered, but he didn’t meet his father’s eye.
“Little,” Allan warned.
“Yeah, all right, Da, no drinking,” he said, rolling his eyes skyward. Patrick and Adam shook their heads.
“We’re overlooking the obvious here,” Helena said. “Just leave him behind.”
“Oi, don’t you start on me,” Little said. “If anyone’s getting left behind, it’s the one just lost a shooting match to a bloody sister.”
Helena turned an impressive shade of crimson, her fists balling up as she started for Little. Only Patrick’s intervening stopped them from falling into a brawl. Allan shook his head.
“What a fool’s errand this is,” he said. “I ought to keep the lot of you here.”
Adam clapped a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll be fine, Allan.” He glanced back at his crew. “Probably.”
“Go on, then,” Allan said, resigned. “You’re losing the day.”
Thomas took Isabelle by the shoulders as the others hefted their packs and prepared for the journey through the woods. “Know this, lass—the man you’re up against, he is capable of any evil, and he has eyes and ears everywhere. For your safety, for Robin’s safety, no one can know who you are, or who Robin really is. Not even these lads here. The more they know, the more he can use them against you.”
Isabelle nodded, heart thudding. “I understand. Thank you, Thomas. For everything you have done.”
He nodded. “Good luck and God speed you, lass.”
Adam quirked a brow at her as she stepped back. “You ready, sister?”
She gave a nod, lifting her chin. “Let us go.”
They followed the eastern road to Lincoln under the cover of the trees, tracking along its dusty curves at a safe distance. The sky lightened to drifts of white clouds against a cerulean backdrop as they traveled, the sun bringing the warm tones of autumn to the trees. Isabelle’s step lightened with the sky, the full splendor of day warming her bones and lifting her spirit.
“Where did you learn such a crack shot, sister?” asked Little after they had cleared the outlaw camp.
“Yes, tell us where you learned such a dramatic and useless shot,” muttered Helena.
“Don’t be sore because she beat you square,” said Little.
“I didn’t need a blindfold to hit my target,” Helena said hotly.
“I imagine if you’d had one you would have won,” Adam said mildly. He turned to Isabelle, his gaze warm and curious. “Where does a sister learn to shoot like that?”
“My mother taught me,” Isabelle said, running her fingers fondly over the bowstring as she had many times while wandering through the woods outside of Kirklees. “There is an old peddler that comes through the priory every few months, always giving me little gifts of figurines or sweets. He gave me this bow when I was five and said a girl with knees as scraped as mine should know how to use one.”
“My da said as much to my little sister Camilla when she was that age,” Little said, tilting his head. “Though I suppose he regretted it when her first shot went wild and caught him in the leg. A dulled tip, but I bet it bloody hurt. Ma was fit to blacken his backside when he came limping home.”
Isabelle smiled. “I do not think my mother was any more pleased than yours that he gifted me a weapon as a child, but she taught me how to hunt, and how to track animals through the woods. I would sneak out to practice and get lost, and she would inevitably have to send the sisters to search the woods and bring me home. They used to get so cross with me, until they realized I could supply the entire priory with meat from my hunting. Then I think they were relieved to send me out. At least until recently, when the hunger among the people in town began to grow to violence. Then Mother forbade me leaving the grounds alone.”
“How is it you ended up in a priory anyhow?” Little asked.
“I was born
there,” Isabelle said. “My mother came to the sisters before I was born, and Prioress Rosamund had compassion on her and took her in.”
Of course, now she knew the simple explanation her mother gave her as a child was no longer so simple. What had Prioress Rosamund known of her mother’s past? What had she known of Robin? Had Marien really just appeared at the gates of the priory, heavy with child and seeking refuge, for Rosamund to take her in with unquestioning generosity? Or had the prioress known more than she ever let on to Isabelle? A deep seed of doubt and anger took root in her chest, blossoming into the realization that everyone she had trusted had lied to her.
“And what about the bastard that left you a bastard?” Little asked, tugging at that root of doubt and anger in his offhand manner.
“Little,” Patrick said, shocked. “You can’t ask her questions like that.”
“What?” Little asked, spreading his hands wide. “I’m just making conversation.”
“You’re not making conversation,” Patrick said. “You’re prying. And insulting Isabelle in the process.”
“’Tis all right,” Isabelle said, not wanting to draw any more attention to the question than necessary. “The truth is I never knew my father. My mother never said.”
Until now.
Little smiled. “Well, you don’t need him. To hit that target’s hard enough, but blindfolded? Bloody brilliant. You’re the best shot I’ve ever seen.”
Helena kicked one booted foot at his shin. “Don’t let Robin hear you say that,” she warned.
Little hopped on one leg a few paces, moving out of kicking range. “I’m including Robin in that, and I don’t doubt he would agree with me.”
“There’s none like Robin,” Patrick said. He bowed his head to Isabelle. “Not to take away from your well-earned victory. But he could shoot a fly off a horse at a hundred paces.”
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