“Yes,” I said, chewing on that fact. “We probably need to make a plan.”
“Here is my thought,” said Will, like he’d been considering it for a while. “The bride’s father will be expecting someone to try to spirit her away. Perhaps we can switch out the groom instead.”
Much peered over at Alan, then leaned into our circle and whispered the obvious, “Not meaning anything by it, but Master-a-Dale doesn’t look much like the baron of Leas.”
“Yes, we’ll have to replace the officiant as well,” said Will, staring pointedly at James.
It took James a moment to realize he was being volunteered. “You can’t be serious.”
“Why not?” asked Will. “Can’t you just—” He made a quick sign of the cross.
“It’s not just a matter of blessing the union,” James said. “It needs to be witnessed. By people who can attest to it publicly. Which does not include outlaws.”
“You’re not an outlaw,” I said. “Neither is Isabel. And you’re both from noble families. Much’s family is practically the infrastructure of Nottinghamshire.” I looked at Much and asked, “Do you have some relatives who would like to come to a wedding?”
“Do I!” he said excitedly.
“Hold on,” said James. “We haven’t discussed how you plan to do away with…a bishop, didn’t he say?”
“We don’t have to do away with him,” I said. “Or with the groom. Or the bride’s family. We just need to keep them out of the way until the knot is tied, right?”
“That’s the idea,” said Will. I glanced around our tight circle. They all—even James—seemed to be waiting for me to say something.
“All right,” I said. It was a lot harder jumping off figurative bridges when you were taking your friends with you. “It’s settled. Will, you’re in charge of planning Operation Wedding Hijack. Much, your job is to get the intel—whatever details Will needs to know. James will find out what he can from the clerical side of things.”
James stood with his arms folded, looking…bemused. Especially when Will and Much nodded decisively at my instructions. “And what will you do, Captain Hudson?” he asked.
“Little John and I will be assigned to…procurement of resources.”
James started to ask the obvious question, then stopped. “Never mind. Better I don’t know what that means.”
“Probably,” I agreed.
Will and Much had moved back to the fire, leaving James and me standing alone in a thickening mist, close enough to touch. “You will be careful, though,” he said, making it an instruction, not a request.
“Of course,” I said. I always intended to be careful.
James gave me a look like he’d heard that silent caveat; then he nodded toward the fire. “Come along, General,” he said, promoting me. “Your troops are waiting.”
—
Since I was thinking about assassination and kidnapping, I was already on edge as I waited to get going on Operation Wedding Hijack, and not at all prepared for a complete stranger to suddenly appear at the hideout.
I jumped off my seat by the last of the fire and nearly fell into the cinders trying to get to my bow—then I realized I was looking at Little John with a haircut and his beard trimmed to look less lumberjack-like.
“What do you think?” asked Will, coming out of the cave behind Little John and brushing some invisible speck from the big man’s shoulder. “I am a master of all I set my hand to.”
“Eh,” I said. “You two will do.”
It didn’t entirely surprise me that a plan of Will Scarlet’s involved his cohorts dressing up rather than dressing down. Will would certainly fit in as a wedding guest, and John would fit in his role, too.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Little John said, a common refrain over the past two days.
We’d been busy, and not just because of the wedding heist. With the royal visit and the big feast that Prince John was holding on Saint Egbert’s day, the quantity and quality of the traffic on the roads through Sherwood Forest had increased. Some well-heeled travelers had contributed their horses and clothing to our cause, as well as some jewelry to a poor box here or there.
Meanwhile, we hadn’t—or at least James and I hadn’t—dismissed Alan’s melodramatic poison story, but really, between the prince coming to Nottingham, along with bishops and nobles and God knew who else, it would seem far-fetched if there wasn’t an assassin.
So, first things first. The three of us headed down the path to get our horses from the cave that served as a stable, and I took the time to deliver some last-minute clarification. “Listen, Will. If for some reason the girl doesn’t want to marry Alan—she’s changed her mind, or Alan is mistaken, or he’s been lying to us—but she does want to escape de Corsey—”
“I will spirit her away to the nearest nunnery,” he said, completing my thought. “Sir Templar and I will have things handled at the chapel. You and Much and John do your bit on the road and don’t worry about the bride. In fact, don’t worry about anything. Look how lucky we’ve been so far.”
That was what worried me. A lot of things had gone our way. The wedding would be in the nearby town of Papplewick, not Nottingham town proper, which meant less chance of the sheriff’s soldiers being present. And as for the road, the injured chief forester was conveniently on bed rest thanks to Sister Clothilde’s orders.
I didn’t mention it to the others, but I also considered it good fortune that Guilbert was, by all reports from the priory, recovering just fine. I didn’t want to be responsible for his death.
Will put an encouraging hand on my shoulder. “Relax, Lady Robin. Everything will go the way we’ve planned.”
Right. Because everything had gone totally as expected ever since I’d followed that white monk down the rabbit hole to Wonderland.
—
“They’re coming,” said Much from his lookout.
I glanced to my right and Little John gave me the all-ready wave. Some riders had passed, and a wagon or two, but after a long time lying impatiently in wait, we finally heard the creak and groan of a much heavier carriage. There was no stealth mode on Middle Ages transport.
The coach that came into view was basically a big box on wheels, pulled by two draft horses. The windows had bars on them and the shades were drawn. Four outriders accompanied the coach, and it was followed by a wagon full of baggage.
We’d picked a spot in the road where only two horses could pass at a time, which meant the outriders had to fall back or go ahead of the coach. I waited until the carriage had reached Little John’s position and then I loosed my first arrow into the door and under the latch so it couldn’t be opened from the inside. Much nailed the first outrider with his slingshot, and I clipped the next one in the shoulder so he couldn’t lift a weapon. Guard one hit the ground, followed quickly by guard two. I heard Little John drop from the overhanging tree limb and take out the pair of coach drivers with two thunks of his staff.
The guards in the back spurred their horses forward, and I loosed a flurry of arrows—Legolas-style—into the ground right in front of the horses’ hooves. Once the horses reared and panicked, bolting with their riders, it was all over except for the crying and the yelling.
The yelling was coming from the coach, but I ignored that for the moment. Little John jumped down and ran back to help Much drag the unconscious guards off the road before any other travelers came along. He intimidated the wounded into joining their comrades. I leapt into action and ran toward the baggage wagon, not expecting any trouble from the pair of wide-eyed, slack-jawed monks who were driving it.
“Over there,” I ordered the one with the reins in his hands. “Through that gap. Get off the road—”
I hadn’t thought anything weird about two white-robed monks accompanying a bishop’s wagon. The first was horse-faced and sallow, and his big Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped. The other, I’d seen in Nottingham Castle.
His surprise at the ambush shifted to
a different kind of bafflement the longer I stared at him. “Who are you?” I wanted to hear him speak so I could know I wasn’t seeing things. Still. Or again.
His nervous companion was even more confused, looking from me to him before asking, “Brother Thaddeus? What’s this bandit talking about?”
Well, that was a relief. If Brother Thaddeus was imaginary, Brother Adam’s Apple was seeing him, too.
Brother Adam turned back to face me, and I had almost managed to reconnect my synapses, when Brother Thaddeus coshed his buddy on the back of the head. I stared like an idiot as Brother Adam’s eyes crossed and he slithered off the wagon’s bench.
What the hell had just happened?
In a pale blur, Brother Thaddeus grabbed something from behind the seat and jumped off the wagon, sprinting back the way they’d come. I ran after him, just like I’d done the last time I’d seen him. He outdistanced me, even in sandals, even while he was wrestling with the bundle in his hands. He reached a break in the trees, and as soon as he hit sunlight, there was a sound like a wood grouse breaking from cover, and then a flurry of blue gray came at me.
I ducked and stumbled, and by the time I got my bearings again, the monk was down the road and the pigeon he’d released was gaining altitude. It would be hidden by the treetops in seconds. I pulled an arrow, nocked, drew, and loosed almost straight vertical. I held my breath as the shaft arced up and speared the pigeon through the heart. It plummeted, hit the top tier of tree limbs, and dropped in the middle of the clearing.
Much reached me. “What are you doing? That’s not the plan. Why did you shoot that pigeon?”
I looked at him, not sure what to say. “It seemed important.” Brother Thaddeus, or whoever he was, had vanished, but he’d wanted to get rid of something, and now I had it. That was good, right? Much followed me as I picked up the pigeon and examined it.
“What’s that on its leg?” he asked, peering over my arm. “A message?”
“I can’t think what else it would be. Messenger pigeon, right?” I handed the pigeon to Much to hold while I untied the little slip of paper from around its leg, then held my breath as I unrolled it. Please, God, let it contain the secrets of the universe. Or of this parallel universe, if that was how it worked.
Apparently, the universe wrote in code.
“What does it say?”
“I don’t know.”
“I thought you could read?”
The side-eye I gave him was not quite a glare but was close to it. “It’s not a language, it’s jumbled-up letters. A code.”
He nodded in understanding, then lit up with a thought. “The assassin!”
“Alan heard them in Nottingham town. These men were coming from Leeds.” But it was hard to argue with a secret-agent-ish code and a last-ditch effort to get rid of the message when discovered. Why else run instead of simply staying in character—if a monk wasn’t his real character.
Much nudged me back to the task at hand. “Come on. We can talk about it later. John is doing all the work.”
I left the pigeon but took my arrow. The message rolled itself back up in my open palm, and I hid it under my tunic, tucking it into the binding that served as my sports bra. It could wait, but it was a concrete lead I could follow, to home or to anywhere.
John had already driven the coach to the turnoff we’d scouted, far enough off the road that a passerby wouldn’t stumble across it immediately, but it wouldn’t be impossible to find, either. Much and I scooted Brother Adam’s Apple into the back of the baggage wagon, and John drove it off the road, too.
Inside the coach, the bishop of Leeds was still yelling, condemning us to hell and other pestilences. Reaching the carriage, I looked in the window. The man was older, but not old, and he definitely wasn’t keeping any vow of poverty, judging by his clothes, jewelry, and girth.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded when he saw me.
“That monk with you, m’lord. The one called Thaddeus,” I asked, trying to sound courteous, because catching flies with honey and all that. “Do you know him?”
The bishop suddenly disappeared from view, and I was looking through the window at a red-faced, spittle-spewing Lord de Corsey. “You! I recognize your voice! You will regret this infamy, you cretin!”
I was still blinking in surprise at his appearance when the bishop came back to the window, his ringed fingers gripping the bars meant to protect him from bandits. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
“I know who you are, Robin Hood,” said the bishop. “I will tell you whatever you want, give you whatever you want, if you will only, please, not leave me in here with this man.”
That was unexpected. He meant it, too. I could see the whites of his eyes. “Why is he even with you?” I asked.
“He asked for conveyance. To his own wedding,” the bishop said. His Excellency came all the way up to the bars and whispered, “De Corsey never pays for his own travel. And no one rejects his request because he has the ear of the prince.” Inside the carriage, the baron was working up to a real frothing tirade. “Please,” begged the bishop. “They say you’re compassionate, Master Hood.”
I gave him a suspicious look and tested him. “How about you give me one of those big rings to put in the poor box at Saint Mary’s?”
He immediately took off the biggest one and handed it through the bars as if it were some loose change he was dropping into a tip jar. Since I still didn’t open the door, he tried information next. “The friar you asked after—he came from the abbey in Leeds. I do not know who he is. They often send friars who have business where I’m going, to serve as my attendants in exchange for the protection of my entourage.” Although pleading, he couldn’t resist a pointed “From bandits and the like.”
I stepped back and glanced at Much. He jerked his thumb at where we’d hidden the wagon. “The other brother says the same. Doesn’t know the man. He was of the same order, so he trusted him.”
I looked back at the bishop, who really did look miserable as de Corsey let off a litany of French profanity about England, the parentage of all of us, and the particular tortures we were going to endure in hell for this. I almost felt sorry for the bishop. But James and Isabel had both told me not to trust him. Whatever ecclesiastic favors the prince needed, the bishop of Leeds was his guy.
“I’ll send someone to get you out when we reach Nottingham,” I said, untying the leather flap over the window and letting it drop to cover the pair of royal court cronies.
Little John was looking awfully morose, considering the plan had gone off well. “Now comes the hard part,” he said.
Much reached up to pat his arm. “I know how it feels. But you have to get back on the horse.”
—
Despite the fact that John and I were both pretty bad riders, we made it to Papplewick without anything disastrous happening. Which was a minor miracle, because I could have ridden off a cliff, let alone into an ambush, I was that distracted. I’d stopped thinking I was crazy a while ago, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t. While getting home still dominated my thoughts every night when I tried to sleep, not dying and not changing history were hot on my front burners. But I wasn’t going to lie—it had occurred to me that rescuing a damsel was a very Robin Hood thing to do, and if filling this role in any way contributed to getting back to my own time—
The monk—Thaddeus—had not recognized me. He’d seemed confused as to how I knew him. Obviously, he was guilty of something, but not of purposefully luring me into the end of the twelfth century for God-knows-what reason. Not to make everything about me, but I was the one who was eight hundred years from home. Did I see him because I was about to come back in time, or did I come back in time because I’d seen him?
Correlation does not equal causation, Dad would say.
Mom would counter with “What we call ‘chance’ is often the instrument of Providence.”
I was kind of relieved when we reached the edges of the village. It was a lot calmer th
an I had expected—but only because the residents seemed to have gathered in the middle of the town. “Is it all over?”
Much pointed to a big sturdy barn. The doors were closed and barred, but they rattled from someone—a bunch of someones—pounding on them. The shouting was hard to miss, too. “I guess Will and Sir James got all the family guards locked up.”
“Come on.” I nudged my horse to head toward the church, easy to locate by its tower.
I’d been worried about a disguise, but Little John had gotten a haircut for nothing. No one in the village paid us any attention. There was a loud commotion happening near the church, though. People were crowded around the chapel doors and stretching up to peer in the windows.
I got my leg over the horse and slid down its side to my feet. I lost track of Much and John as I elbowed my way through the crowd and squeezed through the chapel’s side door, then through the sacristy, before stopping in the arched doorway.
Apparently, we’d missed more than the fighting. In the middle of the church, the troubadour Alan-a-Dale was kissing a girl in a gorgeous fur-trimmed gown of pale orange silk.
When they came up for air, I saw that he hadn’t exaggerated much about how beautiful she was. Like all the women, her hair was covered, but her face was striking and classic, like she’d gotten the very best of her mixed bloodlines. And she was young—probably younger than me. But then, once Alan had shaved his mustache, I pegged him at about my age, too. James had been at war for ten years, and he was maybe twenty-two; Henry Guilbert, the same age as James, was deputy to the sheriff and captain of the forest rangers, or whatever they were really called. No wonder they treated me as an adult. I was one here.
James stood a little to the side of the couple, arms folded. Isabel and Elsbeth were near the wall, looking conspicuous in their brown wool habits and plain veils among the guests in bright-colored clothes. Will stood against the wall nearest to me, watching the obviously flummoxed wedding guests, who didn’t seem to know how to respond to the lovebirds. A few clapped, but were shushed by others.
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