Hood

by Jenny Elder Moke

  “It is refreshing to know her habits have not changed. Now, then, let us test that slouching mettle of yours.”

  Isabelle took up her stance again, but now her hands were shaking and her eyes kept cutting back to Robin, standing so close and watching her so intently. Suddenly she was aware of every bad angle, every stray hair tickling at her nose, even the fatigue in her arm from his rescue the previous evening. Every distraction that could make her miss the shot. She chewed on the inside corner of her mouth, the tree in the distance swimming out of focus.

  “Shall I tell you how your mother and I came to be engaged?” Robin asked casually.

  Isabelle jerked her head around, her arm releasing the tension in the bow with relief. “I would very much like to hear the tale.”

  Robin gave a faint smile, his gaze drifting toward the scuttling clouds in the sky. “The first time I met your mother, she threw a knife at my ear.”

  Isabelle blinked. “What?”

  He waved his hand. “I deserved it. It only nicked me, though it bled like a wild boar. I still have the scar here.” He rubbed a small white line across his right ear fondly. “Your mother was the one who patched me up, though. I think she felt badly after all that.”

  “Perhaps that is where her gift with healing began,” Isabelle said. “Though I cannot imagine Mother harming anyone. Even if they deserved it.”

  “I was a terribly arrogant young man, as all firstborns tend to be. When her father came to my father to suggest the union, I rejected her. I said I could do better, and I would marry for my own pleasure, not for any political machination.”

  Isabelle sucked in a breath. “Oh, I do not believe Mother would have liked that.”

  “Oh, no, she did not,” Robin agreed. “She gave me my nickname, you know. Robin. She said I was just like one, puffed up with importance, brain the size of a pea, singing my own praises. I believe I told her she was like a drab little crow, plain and squawking. That is what earned me the knife.”

  Isabelle winced. “I still cannot imagine it.”

  “Your mother was a force to behold,” Robin said, smiling widely. “She told her father in no uncertain terms that she would never marry me, as I was her inferior in every way. And when her father told her she would do as she was bid…” He shook his head. “Fitzwalter is a formidable man, but I have never seen him so cowed as he was by his daughter when she told him what she would do if he tried to force her hand.”

  “What did she say?” Isabelle asked breathlessly.

  “Oh, it’s certainly not fit for tender ears such as these,” Robin said, tweaking one of her earlobes. “But I must say, I fell in love with her in that moment, watching her stand her ground with your grandfather. I knew I would never meet her like in another woman. I had to marry her. But of course she wouldn’t have me, not after I’d made such an ass of myself.”

  Isabelle leaned forward, the new bow momentarily forgotten. “What did you do?”

  Robin gave her a sly smile. “I did what I do best—I charmed my way into her heart by every means possible. I wrote her poems, brought her flowers from the farthest reaches of the forests in Huntingdon, threw feasts in her honor. She refused every single one.”

  Isabelle pressed a hand to her lips. “She would not.”

  “She most certainly did,” Robin said with a sage nod. “Once, she even returned a packet of poems eviscerated into shreds, and said they would be better served as bedding for the cows. It occurred to me then that traditional courtship rituals would not stand with Marien. I needed to employ a more ingenious means to secure her hand. So I challenged her to a competition.”

  “What kind?”

  “The kind I was sure I could win, of course. A shooting match. She could choose the location and the target. If she bested me, I would abandon my suit immediately. But if I bested her, she would accept my proposal.”

  Isabelle only knew of Robin’s prowess with the bow through his reputation, but she had witnessed her mother’s skill firsthand for years. Marien was the most challenging competitor with a bow—methodical, patient, steady, sure with her hand and her eye. She had never outshot her mother, not once.

  “I shall tell you, Isabelle love, I’ve shot in the blinding rain from atop a charging horse, through a canopy of trees at fifty paces, even once across a keep to cut through a hangman’s noose. But shooting against your mother…that was the most difficult shot of my life.”

  Robin stared at the targeted tree in the distance. “She did not make it easy on me, either. She chose a target just like this, a stubby little tree nearly a hundred paces away on a blustery day in poor light. And wouldn’t you know, your mother hit that target dead-on, straight through the eye of the tree. Didn’t even give me an inch of room. If I was going to win her hand, I would truly have to earn it.”

  He paused, watching the tree in the distance, until Isabelle could not stand the quiet any longer. “And did you? Did you earn it?”

  Robin turned to her, spreading his hands wide. “Well, you’re here, aren’t you?”

  “What did you do? How did you best her?”

  Robin grinned. “I split her arrow.”

  “Oh,” Isabelle said with a faint trace of disappointment.

  “Five times in a row.”

  “Oh,” Isabelle breathed.

  “Hardest bloody shot of my life,” he said with a chuckle. “Well, shots. But I would make them again in a heartbeat. I thought she would be furious, accuse me of showing off again, but when I landed the last shot, she only gave me a little smile and told me to publish the banns. And then I knew she’d been leading me about by the nose all along, making me think it was my own idea.”

  “She is terribly good at that,” Isabelle agreed.

  “So, shall we test out that new bow of yours now?” Robin suggested.

  This time as she turned to face the tree, the light sharpened and the trunk came into focus, her arm steady and her aim true. She pulled back as far as she could, the string creaking under the pressure she exerted on it, and when she could pull it no farther, she released, the arrow slicing through the air with a whistle. She held her breath for the second it took the arrow to reach its destination, an inkling of doubt keeping her fingers tight around the handle. But as the arrow found its mark, burying itself deep in the trunk of the tree to join the other tuft of white, the doubt exploded into a frisson of triumphant energy. She turned to Robin with suppressed glee to find he was grinning wide enough for both of them. He doffed his cap and bowed low.

  “A brilliant shot!” He swept her up in a fierce embrace before holding her out by the shoulders. “You do me proud, daughter.”

  In that moment of pure, unaffected joy, Isabelle knew the truth. She knew she would not turn this man over to the Wolf. Not after everything she had seen today, all the good he had done, the generosity he had shown her. She could not betray him.

  “I need your help,” she said, the words rushing out of her.

  “Of course, love, anything,” Robin said.

  Isabelle took a deep breath. “The Wolf will kill Mother if I do not turn you over to him. I need your help to rescue her.”

  The whole story tumbled out of her in a torrent of words, from the errant shot in Kirklees to the Wolf’s terrible ultimatum in Lincoln. Robin listened with a growing tension, a growl escaping him when she detailed her meeting with Sir Roger. He paced the small hill as she spoke, his blue eyes narrowed in concentration.

  “I should have done away with that man sixteen years ago,” he said, simmering with rage. “If he has harmed a solitary hair on Marien’s head…This time I will not make the mistake of leaving him alive.”

  “You cannot kill the king’s right hand,” Isabelle said.

  “There’s a great deal I can do, just watch,” Robin promised.

  Isabelle shook her head. “The king and the rebel barons are poised on the edge of a war. Any action could tip the balance, and they will not be the ones to pay the price of battle. It will be
people like your friends back in the hamlet and the townspeople of Kirklees.”

  He pointed a finger at her. “That kind of talk is your mother’s influence.”

  “And she is right,” Isabelle reasoned. “I have been to Lincoln. It is crawling with soldiers and mercenaries. If you could even get to Sir Roger—”

  “I could certainly get to him,” Robin scoffed.

  “Even if you could,” Isabelle continued, “it would be almost impossible to get back out without someone discovering him and capturing you. And then what good have you done? Besides which, his men still have Mother. If something were to happen to him, what would stop them from…from harming her anyway?”

  Robin nodded, resuming his pacing, head bent in deep thought.

  “If your men could pluck you from the armored bosom of the sheriff of York, surely they could steal Mother away from a mere priory? And if it is a matter of sneaking into the priory undetected, I know at least half a dozen ways in. And another half a dozen not even the sisters know about.”

  Robin arched a brow at her, looking every inch the marauding outlaw. “Isabelle, my darling, your devious mind does me proud. When did Sir Roger say to deliver me to Kirklees?”

  “By the end of the week,” Isabelle said.

  “Right,” Robin said with a nod. “Then we will need to make haste to beat him there.”

  By the time they returned to the camp, the clashing of swords had given way to the clanking of mugs and crackling of cooking fires. Isabelle’s stomach let out an unladylike growl at the smell of charring wood and fatty meats dripping into the flames, and Robin gave her a nod.

  “I could not have put it better myself,” he said.

  The men had laid out the feast over several large stone tables, the heaps of food making her salivate. Robin took up a spot beside a large roasted duck, waving her in to sit beside him. She sighted Helena and Patrick at the next table, Adam and Little across from them. It felt odd, sitting beside Robin instead of the others, but at the same time it felt like the most natural place for her. The Merry Men passed her dishes as if she were just another member of the crew.

  “I must see to travel arrangements with Little John,” Robin told her after he’d cleared his plate three times over. “We’ll leave at first light. Perhaps you could take the time to mend some fences?” He glanced meaningfully at the next table.

  Isabelle shook her head. “They will never forgive me. Certainly not after they learn that I intended to…to betray you.”

  “Nonsense,” Robin scoffed. “If they could not forgive you for such an understandable oversight, they would not be very good friends, would they? I do not choose my Merry Men because they hold grudges, love.”

  But as he disappeared among the men to find Little John, Isabelle could not even bring herself to look across the table. However confident Robin was that they would forgive her, Isabelle had seen their faces. She had used them, lied to them, betrayed their trust, and endangered their lives. She had been a victim of betrayal at the hands of girls loyal to Sister Catherine enough to know that the hurt often ran deeper than forgiveness could reach. She was not sure she could accept their forgiveness, even if she earned it.

  She wished she could talk to Adam, unburden herself and ask for his help as she should have done from the beginning. He was so strong and sure, so much stronger than she had been. He would know what to do, how to protect Robin and save her mother. Her gaze traced over the breadth of his shoulders and down the planes of his back, her heartbeat picking up at the thought of running her hands over those muscles and testing their strength. He was too much of a distraction, always turning her thoughts away from what they should be.

  She took her new bow and skirted the feasting tables, retreating to the fields where the men had left their weapons propped against trees or lying on the ground. Robin had given her a full quiver of arrows, but it was the swords and staffs that drew her attention. The others moved with such ease and grace, as if they’d been practicing their entire lives. And Helena had been right about her lack of knowledge in hand-to-hand combat; a bow was fine if you needed to shoot a tree at seventy paces, but it would not protect her from mercenaries like Blade.

  She picked up a nearby sword, surprised by how light and manageable it was. She tried to hold it with one hand as Adam had done, but it only took a few practice circles for her forearm to protest the movement. She gripped it with both hands then, holding it before her and darting forward with chopping motions, trying to get a feel for the weapon.

  “If you’re looking to learn swordplay, your first lesson is that’s not how you hold it.”

  Isabelle whirled around, the tip of the sword swishing past Patrick’s nose where he stood behind her. The Irish boy took a hasty step back, putting up both hands in defense.

  “Patrick!” she said, dropping the point down. “I am so sorry. Are you all right? I had no idea you were there.”

  “Yes, I’m realizing now that was my mistake,” Patrick said with a faint laugh. “Helena is always on me about not sneaking up on her, only I never mean to. It’s just how I move.”

  Isabelle nodded, setting the sword aside. “I suppose it was foolish to think I could learn to use a sword just by watching Adam and Little fight once. I should leave such fighting to those of you who are properly trained.”

  Patrick crossed his arms, a frown creasing his brow as if he were wrestling with what he wanted to say. “A knife is your best bet on account of your size. Staffs are fine for big men like John who can give you a good walloping, but the blade cuts through flesh no matter what size you are. Plus, they’re easy to tuck away in all sorts of hiding places.”

  “I have never used a knife for anything other than kitchen work,” Isabelle said.

  Patrick took a deep breath before pulling a knife from the top of his boot. He handed it to Isabelle, and she turned it over to survey the double-edged blade. It was heavier than the one she used at home, the hilt wrapped in leather and studded in iron at the end. The blade was a few inches longer than the span of her hand. She touched the pad of one finger to the tip and drew it back quickly, the edge already shearing into her tender skin. It sent a surge through her, a powerful and respectful fear. This was an instrument intended for damage. Patrick watched her as she familiarized herself with the weapon, clearing his throat politely.

  “Lesson number two, you’re not holding the knife right, either.”

  Isabelle frowned, moving her wrist. “What is wrong with how I am holding it?”

  “Well, nothing, if you’re cutting a chicken. But to cut a man, you need to keep your wrist straight, like this.” He adjusted the position of the blade in her hand, holding up his own weapon in the same fashion. “And bring your left foot back. Make yourself a smaller target.”

  Isabelle did as he said, moving her hips so that she faced him at an offset angle. She held the knife out before her as he matched her stance, starting in a slow circle around her.

  “There are two ways to attack with a knife,” he said, mimicking each movement as he spoke. “You can stab straight forward, or you can slash. If you’re going to stab, go for the soft parts below the ribs. You don’t want to hit a bone.”

  He poked at her stomach below her ribs in example, the cool tip of the knife scratching at her through the wool. The contact prickled her skin in warning, and she took an involuntary step back. Patrick waited patiently as she caught her breath, eyeing his weapon warily. He moved through more combat positions, showing her how to turn the blade and change her grip with each attack to strike at all angles. The blade grew heavier and heavier in her hand as they worked, her arm and shoulder aching.

  “Don’t leave your back exposed,” Patrick warned after sidestepping one of her attacks.

  Isabelle huffed, lowering the knife. “Perhaps this was a mistake.”

  Patrick shook his head, taking up his stance again. “The Merry Men never quit, Isabelle. Let’s go again.”

  They sparred for several minu
tes more, and gradually, Isabelle came to anticipate Patrick’s moves before the knife could reach her, letting his blade graze her only a few times as she learned to watch for the flickering of his eyes, the ripple in his shoulder before he drove the knife forward. At last she found an opening in his defenses, smiling as the tip of her knife found its target in the hollow of his neck.

  “Very good,” Patrick said, his eyes rounded in surprise. “This might be the weapon for you after all.”

  Isabelle stepped back with a smile, holding the knife out to him. Patrick shook his head.

  “Keep it,” he said. “I’ve got a dozen others like it.”

  “Thank you,” she said, tucking it into the top of her boot as he had done. She straightened, lacing her fingers together nervously. “Patrick, I am so terribly sorry for not telling you the truth. All of you. It was cowardly.”

  “Nobody thinks you were a coward, sister,” Patrick said. “We were only hurt you never trusted us enough to tell us the truth.”

  Isabelle nodded, studying the ground at his feet. “Trust is not an easy thing for me. I have never belonged to anything like the Merry Men. You would lay down your lives for each other, all of you. And you accept each other, regardless of your past. Regardless of who or where you came from. I have never…I have never imagined I could be part of such a thing.”

  “The others will forgive you,” Patrick said, echoing Robin’s words from earlier in the evening. “I forgive you, for what it’s worth.”

  Isabelle looked up to him gratefully. “It is worth a great deal.”

  Patrick smiled. “Give them time. They’ll come around.”

  “Even Helena?”

  Patrick’s smile widened. “Even Helena. For all her prickly talk, she’s really quite soft once you get to know her.”

  Isabelle twisted up her mouth, trying to imagine it. “Forgive me again if I do not entirely believe you.”

  “Well, maybe ‘soft’ isn’t the right word,” Patrick conceded. “But she’s loyal, and caring, and she’d throw her sword down for any of us. Including you. And not just because you’re Robin’s daughter. Because you’re one of us now. The Merry Men take care of their own.”