Hood

by Jenny Elder Moke

  “Why are you here?” She’d forgotten how tall he was, and had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.

  “To see you.”

  “To see me? Why?”

  “Well, because it’s been two months and you haven’t been to see us, and the others were starting to get the impression you’d forgotten all about us, or that you didn’t care anymore. So I thought I’d come and remind you.”

  Isabelle let her gaze travel toward the bank of candles. “I did not forget you.”

  “So it’s that you don’t care?”

  Isabelle frowned at him. “Of course not.”

  Adam leveled her with a look. “Then what is it keeping you away?”

  “I have been busy.”

  “Yeah, so have we. But one of us still made the time to come see the other, didn’t I?”

  She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I see your manners have not improved with time.”

  He crooked one side of his mouth in a grin. “Time was never a factor in my manners.”

  Her blood started a dangerous race at the curve of that grin, and she turned to hide the flush crossing her face. In the sacred chapel, no less. She blew out the candle she had lit, busying her hands to keep them from reaching for him.

  “I appreciate the great distance you have traveled to come see me, but I cannot return to Sherwood at the moment,” she said, sounding far less convinced than she intended. “Perhaps later, when things have settled.”

  “Things aren’t likely to settle anytime soon,” Adam said, crossing his arms and watching her. “King John’s finally taken Rochester Castle after spending the last month nearly tearing the thing apart stone by stone to get it. And we’ve got word from Tuck that Prince Louis is sailing toward England’s shores with an invading army. Things are likely to get far worse before they settle.”

  “All the more reason I must remain here, and vigilant,” said Isabelle. “The country is at war and there are enemies everywhere. Just because Robin is gone does not mean I am safe. Robert Fitzwalter is still my grandfather. And King John’s closest advisor is dead because of me.”

  Adam waved a hand. “John doesn’t know you had anything to do with the Wolf’s death. Not after the Merry Men got done setting him up to look like his carriage took an unfortunate detour into a deep lake.” Adam shook his head, clicking his tongue. “Poor bastard, got to watch out for those ruts after a rainstorm. And anyone who could have said otherwise is halfway across the continent now with a pocket full of coin.”

  He was dismantling her conviction one piece at a time, pulling apart the walls she had constructed to keep herself contained these past two months. The hopeful part of her that she’d pressed into the far corners of her mind surged forward, practically begging to be let free. But it hurt so much to hope, too much to let it overcome her again. She turned away from him.

  “I cannot return,” she said, sadness weighing down each word. “I am sorry.”

  “We need you, Isabelle,” Adam said, his voice rough. “We need your clever brain and your wicked shot and your passion for helping people.”

  “You are talking about Robin,” she whispered.

  “No, I’m not,” he said forcefully. “I’m talking about you. The girl that stood up to a camp of outlaws and challenged for her place among them. The girl who took on the most powerful man in the country and beat him. The girl who stared down a soldier of the king to protect innocent people. We’ve got our hands full helping the rebel barons and protecting the people of Sherwood. No one knows about Robin’s death besides the Men, and we can’t let anyone find out. The people need something to believe in now more than ever. We need Robin Hood to live on, even if the man himself is gone. But I’m too tall and Little’s a terrible shot. Helena’s the only one with a bow arm good enough to pretend to be Robin, and she won’t let any of us hear the end of it. We need you.” He cleared his throat. “I need you.”

  Tears pressed against her closed eyelids, and her throat filled with a surge of emotion so powerful it made her hands shake. She opened her mouth to speak, but it was too much. She was too overcome.

  “And if that’s still not enough to convince you to come along, then I’ll challenge you for it,” Adam said after a moment.

  She turned, finding her voice through her surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I, Adam of Locksley, challenge you, Isabelle of Kirklees, to a shooting competition. I make the best shot, you come back to Sherwood. You make the best shot, you can stay and do whatever it is you love doing here.” He glanced about. “Scrubbing floors, I guess.”

  “But I do not even have my bow with me,” she said, spreading her empty hands wide.

  “Lucky for you, I always come prepared.” He motioned to the open door of the chapel as a voice floated in from outside.

  “Tell her to hurry up ’cause we’re freezing our toes off out here,” Little called out. “And other vital parts not needing to be mentioned.”

  Adam cast his eyes up. “Thank you, as always, Little. I was handling it.”

  “Well, handle it faster,” Little called back. “You could snap my nose right off my face at the moment.”

  “Let me know if you want me to,” Helena said.

  Patrick appeared in the door, his expression chagrined. “Apologies, Isabelle.” He cast his eyes up at the altar. “And to you, Lord. I tried to keep them quiet. We didn’t want to pressure you.”

  “Yes, we did,” Helena said, stepping in beside him. She wore heavy furs wrapped around her legs and across her shoulders. “Come on, then, sister, we haven’t got all day. And I’m tired of carrying this about.”

  The girl unslung a longbow from across her shoulder, striding into the chapel to hand it to Isabelle. Patrick followed along after her, still looking slightly guilty.

  “Don’t forget to kneel,” he murmured to Helena.

  “Why would I do that?”

  The Irish boy looked horrified as he bowed his head. “She doesn’t mean that, Lord.”

  Isabelle ran her fingers in wonder along the string of her father’s bow. Little hurried into the chapel after them, huddling near the bank of recently extinguished candles as if their smoke would bring some small warmth. He rattled a quiver of white-tipped arrows at her.

  “Made them myself, with a bit of help,” he said, passing the quiver.

  “More than a bit,” Helena said.

  “It’s the thought that counts,” Little replied.

  “So what is it to be, then, sister?” Adam asked. “Do you accept the challenge?”

  Isabelle looked to each of their expectant faces, exhilaration burning the cold from her cheeks and racing through her veins. A lightness she hadn’t felt in months lifted her chin and drew her shoulders back as she looped the quiver over her chest. She pressed her lips together to keep a straight face even though a smile pulled at every other part of her.

  “I suppose I have no other choice,” she said. “I have a reputation to uphold, after all.”

  Adam gave her the bow, matching her expression. “This way, then, champion.”

  They left the chapel, giving the dormitory a wide berth as they headed toward the orchard. Adam nodded to a tree on the far edge, taking up his stance.

  “Closest to hitting that knot dead in the center wins the challenge,” he said, drawing an arrow and pulling back on his bowstring. “And you’ll understand if I don’t wish you luck.”

  His arrow struck true to the center, the fletching rippling from the impact. Little grinned and slapped him on the back as Patrick murmured his quiet praise. Only Helena kept her arms crossed and looked to Isabelle expectantly. It was a different sort of challenge, but Isabelle recognized it immediately. And as she stepped up to take her own shot, drawing back on the string that had launched a hundred legends, the call of the challenge sang like a chorus in her mind.

  “I have missed wearing a truly good pair of hose,” she murmured to Adam as she let the arrow fly, splitting his i
n two. She took a deep breath, admiring her handiwork as the others waited behind her. She turned to them with an expectant look.

  “What was it you said about a high sheriff terrorizing the people of Nottinghamshire?” She shook her head. “That will not hold. Not for Robin Hood.”

  Adam’s eyes gleamed. “No, it won’t.”

  She cocked her head at the four of them. “Shall we see about setting this brute to rights, then?”

  “Oh, I think I’m going to like this Hood,” said Little with a grin.

  Isabelle matched her grin to his. “I think I am, too. To Sherwood, my Merry Men.”

  The journey of a book is a strange one. I spent eight years crafting a story I hope you’ll devour in a single afternoon. So many people touched and shaped that story along the way, cutting and digging and honing it into something I’m wholeheartedly proud of. For a perfectionist like me, it’s been a surprising and delightful discovery.

  My thanks, first and foremost, to my critique partners—Anna Sargeant, Christina Johnson, Bryn Schulke, and Lindsay Funkhouser. You ladies have kept me sane, encouraged me when I thought I couldn’t go on, and made this story what it is today.

  To my agent, Elizabeth Bewley, thank you for taking the dream I thought long dead and giving it new life. Your championing of this book helped me rediscover my love for it, and you brought it to my absolute dream home. My thanks to everyone at Sterling Lord Literistic.

  To my editor, Kieran Viola, I have enjoyed literally every step of this process and I know that’s thanks to you. Your suggestions were deep and thoughtful, and took the baton and carried it over the finish line. You have made this process a dream, and I know how rare that is. I’m so grateful to work with you.

  To the rest of the team at Hyperion, especially editorial assistants Mary Mudd and Vanessa Moody, cover designer Phil Buchanan, publisher Emily Meehan, editor Laura Schreiber, and copy chief Guy Cunningham—thank you all so much for your kind, loving handling of this story. You have all helped turn a little story from my mind into a book that exists out in the world.

  My thanks to Michelle Hauck and Amy Trueblood for connecting me with my agent through their Sun vs. Snow contest. These women work tirelessly to support the community, and I only hope to be able to give back as much as they have given me.

  To my fellow writers, my friends through the Austin SCBWI, the Roaring Twenties debut group, and especially Shannon Doleski and Prerna Pickett, thank you. It’s been an unexpected gift to find communities that love the craft of storytelling as much as me.

  I owe a debt to my family that can never be repaid, but I’m hoping seeing their names in a Disney book will at least be a decent down payment. To my mom, Linda, who shared stories with me early on and is basically to blame for this whole thing. To my dad, Vincent, who taught me a love of discovery and adventure that finds its way into my stories no matter how much they terrify me. To my brother, Matt, for being my biggest hype man and keeping me humble. To Granny B, who always made quiet spaces for me to dream; and to Grandpa B, who was first in the family to know about this book but never got to read it. To Gigi and Pop, for always being willing to watch my little heathens when I need the help.

  To those two little heathens, Max and Lily, this book also couldn’t have existed without you. I didn’t know how to write a mother until I was one. Papa and I were happy, but we weren’t whole until you.

  And finally to Joe, who I always swore wouldn’t get a dedication because I’m a stubborn Taurus. But of course you do, because where would I be without you? This world was a lonelier place before you. It’s you and me, kid.

  Jenny Elder Moke writes young adult fiction in an attempt to recapture the shining infinity of youth. She worked for several years at an independent publisher in Austin before realizing she would rather write the manuscripts than read them. When she is not writing, she’s gathering story ideas from her daily adventures with her two rapscallions and honing her ninja skills as a black belt in Tae Kwon Do. Jenny lives in Austin, Texas.