It led outside, straight into a yard full of chickens. Well, maybe not full of chickens, but a few can seem like a lot when you charge in and ruffle their feathers. I followed a well-beaten path that led past a pen of nanny goats and their frolicking kids. I could see the vegetable garden, and the landscape beyond was green with the fragile foliage of spring.
I ignored the adorable baby goats and turned into the herb garden gate, startling a cat that was stalking something in the long grass by the low split-rail fence. The cat ran off, and I picked my way between planting beds, mindful of splinters and rocks and whatever the cat had been hunting. The air was rich with scent released by the herbs as I brushed by them.
Now that I wasn’t leaning out a window, I could see that the hut was more of a cottage. Its door was open, and I quickly slipped inside. Bunches of drying plants hung from the timber beams, something was being distilled over a low fire in a stone oven, and in the middle of the table was a giant mortar and pestle with a partially mashed paste. There were pottery jars and a few brass and copper boxes. This was either the apothecary or a wizard’s workshop.
Through a large unshuttered window I could see into the back garden, where my sweater and jeans hung on a clothesline. Score. The window was big enough that I could climb out easily, so I did, and grabbed my clothes from the line. The sweater was even more shapeless than before, its green more olive than hunter. But it was clean, and when I pulled it on over the linen shift all I smelled was a whiff of garden herbs. I pulled on my jeans next. They had turned gray, but they hadn’t shrunk. No sign of my underwear, though, so no choice but to go commando.
There was no sign of my sneakers, either. I had just gone back to the window, to look inside, when the front door of the apothecary opened. Without thinking, I dropped flat in the planting bed under the window. Then I spat out a mouthful of mint and realized hiding would just make it harder to explain what I was doing. But before I could get up, a familiar voice said a familiar name. “Isabel, I only just arrived,” said James. “I haven’t even stabled my horse. Can’t this wait?”
“No. I’m too angry with you.” She didn’t sound angry, just annoyed, the way friends can make you. “You arrive home after how many years away, leave a strange young woman like an orphan baby on the church steps, and ride away without telling me anything. About anything!”
Orphan on the church steps? Ouch.
“If you mean the matter of which you wrote to me,” James said, “I’d just arrived from York and been a little busy.”
What other matter? Isabel wrote to him about some problem in Nottingham? Now I couldn’t announce myself, or I wouldn’t find out what it was.
Wait. What if it was personal? Did I want to find that out? Did I want to find that out like this?
Isabel went on. “You could have told me what the bishop said. Did you discuss the rumors here with him?”
“I did.” There was a bearer-of-bad-news pause. “He considers them just that—rumors. And it does seem unbelievably bold that the sheriff would take from the Church’s tithe as part of his taxes, no matter how badly he wanted to curry favor with Prince John.”
“And what do you think?” asked Isabel.
“I think the bishop of York has no wish to interrupt Prince John’s revenue, no matter how it’s gotten. So I am here to see for myself.” There was a pause. James had a habit of collecting his words before he spoke. “You were right. Things are much changed here. All of England is heavily taxed to pay for King Richard’s wars, but Nottingham seems to suffer more than most.”
It was also taxing to follow this conversation, because they were speaking fast, in unfamiliar French. But the gist seemed to be the sheriff wanted to suck up to Prince John by collecting more taxes than he maybe should, and the bishop also wanted to suck up to the prince by not complaining.
“And your business at Rufford Abbey?”
There was a longer pause before James answered. “I discussed a number of things with the prior.” And that was clearly all he was going to say about that.
“How does Eleanor fit into all this?” Isabel asked.
Boy, wouldn’t I like to ask that question—of the universe, or God, or whatever cosmic lightning strike had put me here.
“I don’t know how Mistress Hudson fits into things,” said James. “I had hoped you might learn something.”
“So you didn’t take her up because you suspected her of being an agent of France or…Stop laughing, James!” It took all my willpower not to peek over the bottom of the window. Isabel lowered her voice. “She might even have been John’s spy.”
James’s silent laughter colored his voice. “Even John wouldn’t choose someone so inept at espionage.”
My skin grew so hot, the bed of mint beneath me should have crisped. How dare he say I was inept at espionage? I was espionaging that very minute and doing a fine job of it, if I did say so myself.
“Well,” said Isabel, “I hope that’s true, because I like her.”
“You’d like anyone who took the sheriff down a peg.”
“True. But she says the most extraordinary things. And look—” I heard rummaging, then Isabel spoke again. “Did you see these? Have you ever seen anything like this before?”
I froze. She’d better not be showing James my bra.
“This is some ingenious footwear,” James said, and I relaxed. “These lacings must keep it very secure. And the material is hard but flexible. If you could put foot soldiers in such shoes—”
Dammit. I had only two goals besides getting home:
One, don’t get killed.
Two, don’t change history.
I didn’t want this to turn out like some science-fiction story where Victorian London is terrorized by steampunk cyborg clones of Jack the Ripper all because someone had reverse engineered my Converse sneaker in the 1190s.
Time to move. I stood up, framed by the window. I must have looked like I’d appeared from nowhere, judging by their faces. “That’s my shoe,” I announced with dignity.
“Eleanor!” Isabel blushed, and I could see her trying to remember what she’d said about me.
James, on the other hand, took the second shoe from Isabel’s slack fingers without a bit of chagrin and then held both sneakers out to me. “Your slippers, m’lady.”
I glared at him. “Is sarcasm a knightly virtue?”
Isabel smothered a laugh. James merely raised his eyebrows, still waiting for me to claim my shoes. I climbed over the window ledge and grabbed them. Only then did I realize what he was wearing. Gone were the armor and surcoat and all that knightly stuff. He was dressed in a brown robe, a cowl over his shoulders, the folds of the hood thrown back. He still wore his boots, but without his knight’s spurs. I guessed he was supposed to be a lowly cleric, but nothing had changed about the way he stood or moved, so there was a little bit of a Jedi Knight thing going on.
“Are you in disguise?” I asked, baffled by why he was dressed the way he was, and by how he still looked sort of badass.
“Not precisely.” His tone said I wasn’t going to get any more explanation than that. He looked me over, and I was sure it wasn’t because I looked surprisingly badass. “How fares your head?” he asked.
The question spun Isabel’s dial from lady to nurse. “What are you doing out here?” She came over to the window, took my face in her hands, and pulled my head down so she could check the completely unnecessary bandage. “If you relapse into the fever, Sister Clothilde will kill us both.”
“I’m fine.” I wriggled from her grasp and glared at her. “And I was fine this morning, before you drugged me.”
“Perhaps you were more tired than you thought,” she said, with a sassy toss of her wimple and veil.
It occurred to me that both James and Isabel were good at not answering questions. I looked from one to the other. “You two aren’t related, are you?”
“No,” said James, puzzled. Isabel, though, blushed sunburn-red. I logged that reaction
and changed the subject.
“I’m looking for my longbow,” I said, making it into an accusation.
“Now?” asked Isabel in disbelief. “Have you a sudden craving for pigeon pie?”
I was so hungry that actually sounded not entirely awful. I mean, it probably tasted like chicken, right?
“Maybe,” I said.
Isabel looked at James. Before I could protest that he was not the boss of me, he raised his hands, palms up, and said, “It’s hers. If you ever see her shoot, Isabel, you’ll know it was meant for her.”
“Very well.” She went to an overhead shelf and reached up to retrieve the bow. “We weren’t hiding it from you, Eleanor. But you’re not supposed to be out of bed yet.”
She held the bow out to me. It was unstrung, with the bowstring wrapped around the smooth wood so it wouldn’t get tangled. My hand closed around the leather grip and a knot inside me loosened. I gave her a heartfelt “Thank you.”
“I don’t know what you will do for arrows,” she said.
I thought about it, then turned to James. “Where is Much? He must know a fletcher.”
James actually laughed. “He’s probably related to one. He is to everyone else.”
“Are you staying in Nottingham, or…” I trailed off, leaving room for an answer. When James didn’t take the hint, I gestured to his outfit. “I mean, you must be dressed that way for a reason.”
“Ah.” He seemed surprisingly uncomfortable, and ran one hand over the back of his neck. “I will be nearby. There’s a hermitage just at the edge of Mapperley. Much and I will be staying there.”
“You’re going to be a hermit?” I asked. “Sir James the hermit? How does that work?”
Isabel’s eyebrows had climbed as well. “Yes, Sir James. How does that work? Aren’t there lands your father is expecting you to come home and manage?”
James reddened a bit but remained calm and evasive. “I need some time and seclusion to reflect and pray for guidance about my next step, now that I’m home. Father Anselm could use some assistance with repairs on the church. So for the moment I will be Brother James”—he gestured to his robe and cowl—“humble friar.”
“Oh.” Steepling my fingers, I said melodramatically, “A clever ruse.”
James raised one hand in a gesture of innocence. “I said nothing that wasn’t true. The roof on the Mapperley chapel is in terrible shape.”
“Fine, don’t tell me,” I said.
He had a knowing sort of half smile when he met my eye, admitting something and nothing at the same time. Fair was fair, said that look. I wasn’t telling him my secrets either. “I’ll see if Much wants to come over with some hunting blunts later this afternoon. He can show you what’s fair game. I don’t hold out much hope that he’ll keep you out of trouble.”
Isabel studied me with her hands on her hips. “If you’re determined to be up and out of the sickroom like that,” she said, gesturing to my clothes, “then two things you need to know.”
“What are they?” I asked, warily.
“One, you have to persuade Sister Clothilde not to manacle you to the bed.”
I winced. It wasn’t the nun’s fault she didn’t understand my resilient twenty-first-century constitution. But it was her fault she was so mean about it. “What’s the other thing?”
“You may wish to make a few adjustments to your attire.”
I looked down. The shift I was wearing reached my knees, too long for an undershirt. That wasn’t what she meant, but it gave me an idea. “Do you have a pair of shears?”
“Here.” James pulled a knife from his boot and I indicated where I wanted to cut, just below the hem of my sweater, about mid-thigh. Rather than giving me the knife, he started the tear himself, then ripped the even-weave fabric in a neat, straight edge.
“Um, thanks.” That was efficient. I shouldn’t be blushing. I stepped out of the remnant and tore off a six-inch-wide strip long enough to wrap tightly around my chest several times. Isabel watched with one hand covering her mouth, her eyes laughing.
“What is that for?” asked James, and I was glad he didn’t know everything.
“Mind your own business.” One thing Sir—no, Brother James, humble friar, did not need to know was the details of my medieval sports bra.
“How can you be such a good archer,” asked Much, genuinely baffled, “and such a bad hunter?”
I’d just missed my third shot in a row. It was tough to endure the scorn of a ten-year-old, especially one who’d thought you were the bee’s knees a few hours ago. But try to explain in Old English that the yips are a real thing.
I went after the blunt-tipped arrow that had come close enough to ruffle the fluff of a rabbit’s tail. Simulated hunting with a feather-covered lure had given me the skills I needed, but not the constitution.
Much had shown up at the priory just as the sisters were finishing Morning Prayer. He had a sister who was a sister—as he put it, with his gap-toothed grin—and their father sent flour from the mill when he could spare it, so Much came and went from the priory regularly enough to be unremarkable. I’d kept to myself, and whatever story Clothilde had told the nuns must have satisfied their curiosity.
Much and I had hiked out into the pasture where the sisters grazed their sheep, when they had sheep. First bird, first shot, I’d brought down a big, fat grouse with an arrow through its neck. The bird dropped from the sky, and by the time Much and I reached it, it had almost stopped flopping around. I couldn’t watch as Much finished it off with a merciful wringing of its neck.
“Well done, Ellie!” he’d crowed, and handed me the bloody arrow he’d wrenched from the dead bird’s throat.
That had also been the last thing I’d managed to hit all morning. The sack slung over Much’s back held the grouse and two rabbits he’d taken out with his slingshot. It was worse than embarrassing.
We took a break to snack on the bread and goat cheese Much had brought with him, and I silently berated myself while Much chattered on about his family. He seemed to be related to all of greater Nottingham and was happy to tell me all about each one of them.
How is this getting you home? The question came in Dad’s voice, but no suggestions came with it.
How is it hurting? said the Rob that lived in my head. These people need food. You can provide it.
God, he was such a freaking Goody Two-shoes.
Nobody needs a gold medal.
Shut up, Mental Rob.
My parents had already lost one child to uncertainty. I had a vision of them sitting in a police station, cardboard cups of tea pressed into their hands by a constable with pitying eyes. Or waiting for days in their hotel room for word about their vanished daughter while the news ran my picture next to Rob’s: Double tragedy strikes American family.
“What’s the matter?”
It took me a moment to realize that a real voice had asked the question. Much watched me with concern.
“Nothing,” I lied. He didn’t look convinced, so it must have been a really bad attempt. “I’m just missing my family.”
He nodded his understanding. “Are they waiting for you at your home?”
“Yes.” I pictured Rob there with our parents. “But I don’t know how to get there.”
Much’s laugh rang out like the noon chapel bell echoing over the hill. “How do you not know how to get home?”
I didn’t try to explain, just lightened my tone and rerouted the conversation. “I’m hopeless, I guess. I can’t even shoot a rabbit.”
“You could if you was hungry enough,” he pointed out, very pragmatically.
Target panic was not that simple, but Much had a good point. Maybe I just wasn’t hungry enough to shoot anything that cute. “All right,” I grumbled. I stood and dusted the bread crumbs off my front and the grass off my backside. “Let’s try something else. I did better with the bird.”
“Okay.” Much had adopted my word, and it suited his agreeable personality. He jumped to his feet
and put the sack over his shoulder. “I’ll go ahead and see if I can flush some out.”
While I nocked arrow number umpteen, Much picked up a stick and high-stepped through the long grass, sweeping the branch through it to scare any birds into flight.
I stood ready, two arrows in hand. When I heard the rustle and coo of a startled covey, I lifted and drew the bow. A small cloud of pigeons broke cover, and I shot like I had something to prove. The first shaft was low, but the second, let off a heartbeat later, took down a plump wood pigeon in a clean hit. The bird dropped fast and hit heavy. It was decidedly dead, thank God.
“Ha!” cried Much, running to where the bird had landed. “What a shot!”
Not really. If I’d hit it with the first arrow, maybe. A miss counted for nothing.
“Is the blunt nearby?” I called, heading toward Much. A hunting blunt is an impact weapon, so the bird and the arrow hadn’t necessarily fallen together. Much looked around, and I saw him pick up one arrow. “Did you see where the other went?” I shouted.
He pointed to the trees. “Into the woods.”
Nuts. I’d shot the first shaft at nearly a full draw, so until it hit a tree, it was going to keep going a good ways. There was no question of just leaving it. I wouldn’t have left behind a cheap arrow, and what Much had handed me that morning—bright-red fletching, straight shafts, and well-balanced tips—were nice. Like, really nice. I slung my longbow over my shoulder and into the woods I went.
“Be careful!” Much shouted, when he saw me set off. “There’s robbers in the woods. And the foresters won’t be happy to see you either.”
I didn’t thank him for the reminder.
—
Stepping into the dappled shadow of Sherwood Forest was like stepping through a curtain to another world. The meadow smelled of warm grass and fresh clover, with the occasional whiff of sheep shit. The woods were cooler, the scent both sweeter and darker—green and woodsy and rich with damp earth and decaying leaves.
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