“You’re willful enough about everything else,” said Adam from behind her. He leaned against a tree, arms crossed. His gaze raked down the front of her dress in a way that set the chill night on fire. “You certainly look the part.”
“I do not feel the part,” she said. “I feel…exposed. And ridiculous.”
“You wanted to help, sister,” he said, spreading his hands. “And this is helping. If you would rather abide in the camp and keep the fires warm…”
“You will not be rid of me so easily,” Isabelle said, straightening her spine. The dress slipped precariously close to one shoulder, and she snatched at the fabric, bringing it back to a more modest angle.
“You certainly blush more than most barmaids of my acquaintance,” Adam said, the thrum of a laugh rippling through his words.
“I have better things to do than listen to you two go on,” said Helena, rolling her eyes. “If you need me, I’ll be unavailable somewhere else.”
“Helena, wait,” Isabelle called after her, twisting her hands together. “Thank you. For your help.”
Helena looked her up and down. “I’m not actually sure I did help. Good luck, sister.”
She disappeared through the trees, and for once Isabelle wished the outlaw girl back. Something about the way Adam watched her made her feel like a deer caught in an open meadow. He pushed himself up and started a slow, wide circle around her.
“It’s not completely unconvincing,” he said. “I suppose we could work with this.”
“Are you so practiced in the art of female seduction?” she asked.
He gave a half smile. “You would be surprised. Soften your shoulders and roll them forward.”
“I do not know that I would be surprised,” she said, looking away from him as she tried to do as she was told. “You are an outlaw, after all.”
“As are you now, sister,” Adam said. “That’s better. Now tilt your head as Helena said. Don’t look at them straight on; it’s too challenging. Guards are a simple breed. They prefer their women loose, dumb, and submissive.”
“I suppose all men do,” Isabelle said, trying to look up at him through her lashes without straining her eyes.
“Not all men,” Adam said, his voice a murmur as he drew closer to her. “Sway your hips when you walk, and don’t be in a hurry to get anywhere. And purse your lips a bit.”
“I feel an absolute fool,” she said.
“So long as you don’t look it.”
She stopped, facing him and putting her hands to her hips. “Will this really work?”
Adam surveyed her appraisingly, his dark eyes warming to a deep mahogany. Isabelle’s heart thudded at the look, her breath hitching in her chest. “At this rate, I’m inclined to believe it myself.”
He stood only a few inches from her now, close enough that she could see the dark shadows along his jaw forming into a beard from their days of travel. Heat radiated off his skin, drawing her a half step closer. The darkness overhead dropped low and weighty around them, blanketing them in a sacred space. Her breath came quick and shallow.
“Careful, sister,” Adam murmured, tucking a stray lock behind her ear. “There is such a thing as too convincing.”
Isabelle shuddered in a deep breath. “So long as it works, right?”
If it was possible, York stank even worse than Lincoln. The offending odors of human and animal waste mixing in the open air and putrefying in ditches and pits carried over the gentle hills as they approached the city, a sprawl of buildings cropping up like a mouth full of crooked teeth. The industry within the city flourished despite the filth, the wool and wine trade thriving since the king granted York a petition to self-govern the previous year. They set their own laws and taxes, elected their own officials, and prospered even as the rest of the country flailed under the king’s tyrannical rule.
King John’s mercenary army had not yet reached York, and so the people still moved freely about the city trading wares and raising mugs in the taverns Isabelle and Little John passed without a care for who was watching. And many watched, too many for Isabelle’s comfort. She clutched her arms around her chest as Little John guided her through the mass of the city toward the looming York Castle, the keep on a massive hill that towered above the city. She felt no less exposed than that castle keep, her dress thin and the eyes of the men they passed lascivious and searching. Somewhere in the deep shadows of the night, the others followed after them, silent sentinels.
The plan was so simple Isabelle feared it was doomed from the outset, though she would not say so to the others. She carried a full wineskin over her shoulder, drawing from her limited herbal knowledge to brew a potent concoction her mother had called dwale that would put a grown man into a deep sleep. She had mixed up hemlock, wild neep, lettuce, opium, henbane, and vinegar to lace the wine. She only hoped she had remembered the proportions correctly and would not accidentally kill someone.
“We’ll be coming up on the castle soon,” Little John said in a low voice.
Isabelle nodded, too nervous to speak. Between the carousing crowds of two rival taverns, she caught glimpses of the castle, the keep looming like a monolith on its high hill. A wide, deep moat surrounded the castle, formed by the confluence of two rivers, the only break in the glittering expanse a narrow wooden bridge stretching across the water to the castle bailey, the enclosed courtyard surrounding the keep. Figures moved along the top of the wall in rhythmic fashion, their armor winking in the firelight. Her heart hammered at the sheer size of it. How could they possibly hope to get through the main gate, much less get Robin out of there?
“Steady on, Isabelle,” murmured a voice in her ear, a solid presence suddenly at her side as Adam took her elbow. “You’ll do just fine. No need to panic.”
She wasn’t aware she had been panicking, but of course her breathing was loud and fast, her heart threatening to burst from her chest. The steadiness of his hand at her elbow released the tension from her muscles, and for a moment she wished she could curl into him and beg him to take her away from there. But she had come too far; she needed Robin too badly. She could not give in to her fear, not when it meant her mother’s life. So she pulled her elbow free with a slight tug, giving him a nod of confidence. But he was already gone, melted back into the surrounding dark.
Isabelle and Little John reached the edge of the moat, the buildings around them thinning out as the massive island of York Castle filled the skyline. The castle had been built in the middle of two rivers, a natural protection against ancient invaders. But tonight there was no army, just a handful of Merry Men and a girl dressed as a lowly barmaid. John paused under the eaves of a shop, his eyes fixed on the castle.
“We’ll part here, lass,” he said. “And meet back up outside the dungeons. Do you remember your role?”
Isabelle’s stomach knotted, squeezing the air out of her lungs. “Yes. I will tell the gate guards the mayor sent for me, and once inside, the dungeons are located to the northeast corner. I am to…incapacitate the soldiers on duty there.”
“We’ll swim the moat and find our way inside the bailey,” Little John said. “When you’ve taken care of the dungeon guards, give the signal and we’ll go in for Robin.”
Isabelle bobbed her head nervously. “Yes, I understand.”
Little John gave her a steady gaze. “You sure you want to do this, lass?”
Her father would not back down, she was sure of it. And somewhere on the other side of that castle wall, he was waiting. “I can do this. I want to do this.”
Little John nodded. “See you on the other side.”
And then the big man was gone and Isabelle was alone. Goose bumps rose on her arms as the wind cut through, the air so heavy with moisture it felt like breathing underwater. Somehow the rain had held off, though she worried their luck would not keep for long considering the ominous roll of thunder overhead.
I can do this. I must do this. For Mother, for myself. To finally meet my father. Robin Hood.
What would he think of her? What would she think of him? If this ludicrous plan succeeded, if they freed him from the dungeons, she would at last come face-to-face with the missing half of her history. Her nerves jangled as much from excitement as from fear, the weight of the Wolf’s terrible decision a distant threat for the moment.
What if he does not like me? What if he finds me a disappointment? What if Sister Catherine was right all these years, and I was born in Kirklees because there was no one left to love me outside of the priory walls? How could I live up to a legend like the infamous outlaw Robin Hood?
Time stretched out before her, stealing her nerve as the cold stole her resolve. What had possibly convinced her she could do this? March into a heavily guarded castle, trick the dungeon guards, and waltz out with their most prized prisoner? She was a fool. They all were. This plan was bound to fail. And if it failed, she failed her mother.
She could not let that happen. She might not have the cunning of her father, or the steel will of her mother, but she would use what little skill she had to make this plan work. Because she could not accept the alternative. She would not let her mother down. She would be brave, braver than she felt, and she would rescue her father.
The first step on the castle bridge was the hardest to take, a threshold she could not cross back over until the purpose of this night was done. At least the smell across the moat was better than the city itself, the natural flow of the river carrying away the most offensive of the waste dumped into it. Still, she did not envy the others swimming through its muck.
“Halt!” someone called out from atop the gate as she approached. “You there, stop!”
“Hail and a blessed Lammas Day to you!” she called out, slurring her words as Little had told her people do when deep into their cups. She jutted a hip out, giving the soldiers a playful glance even though they were nothing more than shadows along the high wall. “And how do you gentlemen fare this fine evening?”
“Get back where you belong, wench,” called one of the soldiers down to her. “It’s not even Lammas Day.”
“Is it not?” she called, pressing her fingers against her pouting lips. “Have I missed the feast, then?”
“Bloody barmaids,” the soldier groused. “Go on back to your tavern, lass, or you can dry out in the dungeons.”
Well, that was certainly one way to get to her father, but she would prefer not to take such a drastic route. So instead she let a foolish little giggle bubble up to the surface, waving to the soldiers.
“I’m here to see the sheriff,” she said, weaving slightly to one side. “Or was it the mayor? What did he call himself again? Hardcart? Harness?”
“Harcourt?” the soldier called out in a flat, uninterested voice.
Isabelle perked up. “Yes! That was his name. Harcourt. William de Harcourt, he said it was. So handsome, too, such a gentleman. He told me to come to the castle and he would give me a personal tour.”
“Bloody Harcourt,” muttered another of the soldiers. “Only just took the office and already inviting these wenches up.”
“Just let her through,” said a third soldier. “What’s one drunken lass to us? Let her be his problem, not ours.”
“All right,” said the first soldier, raising his voice to her. “Get on, wench.”
“Blessed Lammas Day to you!” Isabelle cried out, her voice soaring with relief as she hurried across the last few boards of the bridge onto the solid ground of the castle courtyard. She slowed her steps after the shadow of the gate passed overhead, reminding herself to play the drunken barmaid, but a quick glance over her shoulder proved the soldiers had already dismissed her from their concern. They didn’t even turn from their posts to watch her go.
The interior courtyard was surprisingly large, filled with buildings much as the city had been. There were stables with teams of grooms brushing down horses and hauling hay; forges with massive kilns and men in heavy leather aprons working the bellows; a bakehouse, a brewery, and a kitchen pumping out an intoxicating stew of smells. Isabelle hurried past it all, past the harried servants and roaming soldiers, keeping her head down to draw as little attention to herself as possible. It would have been easy enough to get lost in the massive castle grounds were it not for the keep on the raised hill acting as her North Star, anchoring her and guiding her in the hectic activity of the courtyard.
Two men stood guard outside the entrance to the castle dungeons, thickset fellows so rounded in the middle that in their armor they reminded her of two fat teakettles. Out of their helmets poured the black steam of twin curly beards, their faces red and weather-beaten in the torchlight. Behind them stood a simple iron gate set into the deep stone of the castle wall, the entrance to the dungeons buried beneath the walls. Isabelle drew the wineskin from her shoulder and pulled the cork from the top.
I should have taken a drink of this for courage before we drugged it, she thought, but there was no time for regret now and she swung into the outer reaches of the torchlight with the wineskin brandished high.
“The knight so brave and gallant didst love his maiden true,” she sang, spinning about on a clumsy foot. “And for the love of such a lass he swore ’twould anything he’d do. La da, da da, da da, da da, I can’t recall the words! La da, da da, da da, da da, the gallant knight withdrew.”
She pulled up short at the sight of the guards, sloshing a bit of the wine down the front of her dress in a deep red stain. She gave a gasp that sounded halfway to a hiccup and pressed her hand to the sopping mess on her chest. The nearest guard’s eye followed the wet trail hungrily down.
“What have we here, Edgar?” asked the guard of his friend.
“Seems a lost little birdie, Ned, a lost little birdie indeed,” said Edgar.
“Good heavens, sir, do not sneak up on a poor girl in such a way!” she cried, tossing the wineskin around and sloshing more liquid on the cobblestones. She wavered unsteadily on her feet, rounding her shoulders and dropping her head to glance up at the guard through her lashes. “I frighten most easily.”
Ned grinned, his teeth stained brown. “Well, then, there’s plenty to me would raise the hairs on that pretty little neck of yours, birdie.”
Isabelle had no idea what he meant, but Edgar gave a rotund kind of laugh and so she laughed along with him, giving a twirl that sloshed her nervous stomach. She hummed through another few bars of her song, dancing with the wineskin, and stumbled a few steps for good measure. She pictured Little’s face that first night in the forest and adopted what she hoped was the same moony, blissful expression.
“And a happy Lammas Day to you, handsome sirs!” she said, lifting her wineskin.
Edgar chuckled. “Lammas Day’s long past, pretty poppet.”
Isabelle gave him a smoldering glance over one shoulder. “All the more reason to celebrate, then, wot? Have a drink with me, and toast to the great Saint Peter!”
Ned sidled close, reaching for the wineskin with glowing eyes. “And are you the virgin, then, to be sacrificed for our pleasure?”
Isabelle curled one side of her mouth into a tiny smile, pressing her lips hard together to hide their trembling. This had been much easier with Adam. “Such bold words, good sir, and not even a toast drunk on Saint Peter’s behalf. You must drink to good health and a prosperous year, or see your crops blighted and your coffers shrivel.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want anything to shrivel,” said Ned as Edgar gave a wicked laugh.
The guard lifted the skin and drank deeply, a trickle of wine tracking down his chin into his beard. He swiped at Isabelle’s waist, but she danced just out of reach, an unsteady giggle bubbling up. Edgar grunted and snatched the wineskin from Ned’s hands, taking a deep draft himself.
“Don’t hog it all, you smell-feast,” he said, taking another drink.
Ned watched Isabelle weave in and out of the torchlight, reaching a blind hand for the wineskin. “Don’t you hog it all, neither, you pig’s ear.”
“There is
plenty to share,” Isabelle declared, dancing back toward them.
“Have a drink with us, lass,” Edgar said, holding out the wineskin toward her. “Go on, it is Lammas Day, is it not?”
Isabelle smiled nervously, moving unsteadily on her feet. She knew she should get closer, tip the wineskin higher while they drank, but she couldn’t bring herself to suffer their touch. “Methinks I’ve had a bit too much of the fine grape already this evening. Perhaps I should scurry along back home. It is much too late for a lonely girl like me.”
“Stay, birdie,” said Ned, snatching at the edges of her dress to draw her in. “We’ll celebrate the feast with you, won’t we, Ed?”
“I’m sure we could find some way to keep you entertained,” Edgar said with a boisterous laugh, his eyes following Isabelle in a way that made her want to plunge into the moat and scrub her skin raw. What if she had mixed the dwale wrong? They should have been out by now, and yet they were still scrabbling at her skirts, their fingers blunt where they grazed her skin. She shivered, grabbing the wineskin and lifting it high.
“To Lammas Day!” she declared, shoving it toward Ned and sloshing a few drops over his beard as her hands shook.
“Lammas Day awaits,” Ned said. He grabbed the wine, trapping her hands beneath his as he took a deep draft. His eyes slid closed on a sigh, and as Isabelle jerked her fingers free, he slouched forward slightly, the weight of him knocking her back and pinning her to the ground.
“Don’t hog the lass, neither, you lout,” Edgar grumbled, leaning forward and adding his weight to the pile.
“Get off me,” Isabelle breathed, panic stealing the air from her lungs as all pretense of the drunken barmaid fled under the crush of the two guards. She shoved at their shoulders, their armor cold and heavy and tearing little runs in the fabric of her skirts. Their only response was a chorus of snores that rattled their chest plates and splashed little drops of saliva on her dress.
“Help, please,” she said in a small, tight voice. She couldn’t have the castle guards finding her like this, but if she did not escape the weight of these men soon, she would scream. She needed to give the signal, but she barely had enough air in her lungs for breathing. She would not let things end this way, though, smothered to death under a pile of snoring body hair. So she shoved an elbow into Ned’s side and sucked in as much air as she could manage, blasting out the two-note whistle Little John had taught her back in the camp. It came out weaker and more off-key than when she practiced, but she could only hope it was enough.
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