Hooded

by H. J. Mountain

2.

  By firelight my mother works. It is early morn, still dark out. I watch her from my bed in the corner. My head rests on straw pillow. Birdsong notes sound outside the thatch roof of our home. I watch her arms. Sleeved in green, rising to cast into the stove. Her hands as they work, every swift measured movement, how they flick a stray hair from her eyes. Most of all I watch my mother’s face. Her eyes dancing this way and that, her lips moving. The way deep concentration makes her seem to glow with light.

  Times she sings to herself. Soft words I do not know. Times I pretend I am asleep. But she spots me. In those moments she smiles, catches my eye in hers. Pretends she has not seen me after all. It is our game and on this morning we play it again.

  Because she is a small woman my mother does not have to lean over her table. She is near level with the spread of wooden plates and bowls that bear not food but stranger offerings. Rainwater cast with leaves and bark. Crushed pebbles and limestone. Flowers with petals fading or gone. Glinting sparks of flint. And fair mountains of brightly coloured powders, so many they appear like a field of molehills with hues that, by their variety, tease my eyes: blue-gold and silver-green and – my favourite – a purple that bleeds to red.

  My mother says she will teach me one day. I am impatient for that day to come. But I know one thing already. My mother is a good woman. Folk from far-away villages come into the woods for her help. Folk in pain. Folk whose kin suffer. They take away bags, small remedies; and they gift us bread or potatoes, whatever they may.

  This is how we live, my mother and I.

  From the straw pillow I watch as she carries a spoonful of blue powder to the end of the table. The cauldron sings above the fire. The devil’s light, my mother calls it. The pale steam twists up to the gap in the roof. Smells dance across the room – some more pleasant than others – but this is one I like fine: a bittersweet tang that makes me think of tree-sap. Of late summer.

  My mother glances over. I press my eyes shut. Pretend I am asleep.

  I think how, when I wake true, I will ask my mother again about her works. Perhaps today is the day she will tell me.

  This, I am dreaming, when the visitor calls.

  *

  “Brya. Brya.”

  Guy’s blue eyes, close, are the first things I see. Anything else and I might scream myself into madness. The sky after that: endless white clouds slide over the tree-heads. Finally, the animals: Wolf circles around us in nervous paces. Farragut stands dutifully behind him.

  It all rushes back. Beatrice and I walking in the meadow, picking flowers. The boy breaking from the woods. The clearing, and the blackish specks across the grass, across where I lie, and then…

  I scramble to my feet. My blood is lit. But my head is light. Dizzy. Guy helps me the last. I stare at the thorn-bushes. Nobody is there.

  “Brya, are you hurt?” He is half-frantic. “The blood…”

  “It isn’t mine.”

  His relief is visible but short-lived. “The boy’s sister?”

  “Sara.” I try to gather myself. Feel around me. The back of my dress clings with morning-dew. But my body is unharmed. As if it could make a difference now, I pick up my knife and tie it back around my calf. “Someone took her.”

  Guy glances at me. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”

  I wonder if he is thinking as I am. Of the day we met. In woods not so different from these. “I saw a man.”

  Vesilly…

  “Brya!” He says it sharp as a scold. “You could have been hurt! Who was he?”

  My stomach churns. “His face. It was though it were covered with…”

  “What? A mask?”

  “I don’t know!” I say it, harsh. Guy flinches. My heart tells me they are far away already but I ask, “Can we ride after? Please, Guy.”

  He nods. First he moves to where I fell. “It must have happened here. Is there another path away?”

  But there is only one. The line of quashed grasses where, I believe, Mutch ran. It leads back the way I came. There are no other paths or marks. Nothing to the edge of the clearing, at least fifty paces away. I do not know what this means. But it sends a cold tremor over me. So do the things left behind.

  “What of these?” Guy says, reading my mind. He squints down to the objects that I saw before: the things that do not belong in a meadow-wood.

  The first is a scrap of cloth. It seems of rare quality and design. Silken red it is coated in a layer of golden dust. Sewn into it is an ornate figure – a leathery symbol – the like of which I have never seen before. It resembles a creature’s face: a lion’s head. Only it is a dreadful countenance: its eyes split and blackened, its teeth exposed. Yellowish flames form a pointed halo around it.

  “The brand of an outlaw,” Guy says.

  “Perhaps,” says I, but doubtful.

  “What is it?”

  It is a thought not yet formed. Something about the lion’s head pulls at me.

  But if anything, the other remnant is worse to behold. Long and curved, it is sharp as the lion-head’s teeth and the pale-yellow of rot. A fingernail.

  Guy grimaces. “You should not have come here, Brya!”

  “You would have had me wait? I was worried for you!”

  “But you fell. You fainted…”

  Heat fills my cheeks. There is no good in arguing. Not with Guy. He will always seek to protect me. I take his hand. “Can we ride after?”

  Guy frowns and kneels. He picks up the cloth. Calls Wolf over. Sniffing the material, the hound sneezes once. He lifts his ears and snaps into a run.

  “Come on,” Guy says, and together we mount Farragut, who is quick to the chase of the hound. I am glad to be moving – to leave behind the clearing. The trees blur round us. Farragut can fly. I hold tight onto Guy. His blonde hair brushes my lips. Aware of being so close to him, like this, the broad muscles of his back: Guy who is like my kin, but who is not by blood. I wrap my arms tighter round him.

  We ride on deeper through the woods. Reaching a stream too wide and full to cross. Wolf can only circle because the scent has died and we have nowhere to go but back. My heart sinks. I cannot forget the lion’s head. Or the acrid scent that had been in the clearing: the burning sulphur that lingers in the back of my throat.

  **

  By the time we reach the gates of Gisbourne House dusk is falling. A sliver moon sits like a Saracen blade over the wall. Stepping down I feel exhausted, like I have run the whole way back.

  Beatrice races to meet us in the courtyard. With a great sigh she hugs her brother and then me. She is furious that we left her waiting there in the field. I ask of Mutch. The boy sleeps upstairs, she tells us. He has hardly spoken a word. None of the servants know his family, if even he has any beyond his sister. I long to go see him. To ask whatever he may remember. But I am loathed to wake him after this terrible day. It will wait a night.

  Other matters will not. I hurry to the main hall where Lord Anson Gisbourne is, as usual, sat by the fire with his pipe and a book. Head dozing forward towards a sleep that is cut-off by my entrance. My guardian is a large man, a lover of pheasant and ale, and before he has pushed himself up from his chair, I am across the room.

  “Sire, we must at once to the Sheriff! A young girl has been attacked in Wormsley Wood. She was taken by…someone…and we must…”

  I run out of words as they run out of me. In his soft-spoken way Lord Anson seeks to calm me. It does little good. I am pacing. Repeating myself. Guy touches my shoulder. I put a hand on a vacant chair. The fire burns too bright.

  With measure Guy speaks of the clearing and its awful relics. Beatrice listens with gaping mouth. Guy shows them the silken cloth bearing the black lion’s face. He makes no mention of my fainting. He knows me too well, and my shame. I hope that he can see my gratitude.

  “This may be heraldic,” Lord Anson says, turning over the cloth. He shakes his head with furrowed brow. “Though it is unlike any arms I know.”

  “But someone else
may know, Sire,” I say. “If we go to Sherwood now, we can–”

  “Brya!” Lady Ariel’s voice snaps whip-like from the stairwell. I feel myself shrink. “You will remember, respect and deference when speaking to your Elder and Lord!”

  “It is quite all right, Ariel,” Lord Anson says. “There is not–”

  “It is not all right.”

  A tall, slender woman, Lady Ariel appears, as always, a level beyond elegance. Tonight she wears a purple gown made of deep fabric. Beatrice has her mother’s green eyes and golden-flux hair but if Beatrice at sixteen is girlish pretty, Ariel’s beauty is strident, almost fierce. She stops close enough to touch or to strike me. She has not done either in many years. Instead she appraises my damp, scuffed dress with a kind of wearied disapproval.

  “Beatrice has told us of the poor girl,” Lady Ariel says. “It is indeed a matter of concern. But again you forget your station, Brya. Take a breath, gather yourself slowly, clearly, as you must…”

  My cheeks flush. I had been speaking plenty clear! And what are manners and tone when such a thing has happened? How can we wait here a moment longer?

  “Lady Ariel…” I cringe inside at the cowed quality of my voice. “I was saying, I was asking, that we ought at once to Sherwood Castle for aid in seeking–”

  “Nonsense!” The Lady cuts me off. I turn to Guy. His jaw flinches but he speaks not. Neither Lord Anson, who shuffles back toward his chair and his pipe. There comes a feeling I have known before in Gisbourne House. I am of this family, and yet I am not.

  “Ride for Sherwood at nightfall! Have you ever heard such a thing?” Lady Ariel’s nostrils pinch. She is staring at my neck. My scarf, I realise, has fallen loose in the ride. “Will you cover your neck, child! It is unseemly!”

  My cheeks burn. I redo the knot against my throat. Lady Ariel lifts her chin, nods. She claps her hands in the same way that she calls for a servant.

  “There is a banquet tomorrow evening in honour of Lord Mortain and the visiting nobles. Lord Gisbourne and I are, of course, attending as guests of the Sheriff…”

  “Tomorrow evening? But–”

  “Then we shall bring the distressing news about this common-girl. And aid I am sure we shall receive.”

  “I must come with you,” I say, before I know it.

  “Must you?” Lady Ariel’s lips pucker. I am fortunate for Beatrice’s intervention.

  “Oh, mother, can we?” she says, leaping up. “Let us come too! Please!”

  Lady Ariel glares at her husband, who simply purses his lips and nods, tiredly. “Fine. You may be allowed. On one condition.”

  She is looking at me.

  “What is it?”

  “You will behave. You will dress appropriately. And you will do as you are told.”

  I bite my tongue. “Yes, m’lady.”

  “Indeed, it will be a fine opportunity for you, Beatrice, to meet some young noblemen.”

  Beatrice blushes at the prospect. She thanks her mother profusely.

  I try once more. “Can we at least send word tonight?”

  Lady Ariel claps her hands again. This time she is calling for the servants. Her Ladyship has spoken. For tonight the matter is done.

  **

  Mutch is awake when I look in. At least he bears the outward signs of wakefulness. He is sat at the edge of the bed in an upstairs guestroom. Hands clasped in his lap, eyes open but fixed downward. He has been changed. Wearing now a greenish suit that falls long on him. It must have been Guy’s once upon a time.

  Stood in the doorway, I remember being Mutch’s age. My first few years in this house: the smallness of me, and the bigness of everything else. How the world rose up grand and ancient, full of strangeness and secrets I could not begin to understand.

  I am older now, of course. Yet that feeling has returned as strong as ever.

  “Mutch?” He gazes up. A kind of recognition touches his eyes. “May I?”

  I sit beside him.

  “D-did…” He pauses to inhale, as though sucking in hope: “S-sara?”

  “I’m sorry. She was not there.”

  His face goes slack. Behind him the thin hook of the moon peeks in the window, bathing the room in a pale hue. It lights upon his arm. Beatrice has applied a balm to the burn. But from the stiff way the limb hangs it is clear that it pains him tremendously. I dare not imagine what could have caused such a wound. There had been no fire in the clearing.

  Softly I place my hand on his. “Mutch, I know this will be hard. To remember. But can you try?” I feel a little ashamed. Asking him to do what I will not. “Can you tell me what happened in the forest?”

  For a long time he regards his stubby fingers. I do not think he will speak. Then, with straining focus, he tries: “W-we-were p-picking b-b-b-berries w-when…”

  He has to pause to breathe deeper.

  “S-sara…t-t-t-told m-me t-to r-r-run…”

  He quivers. He tries to lift his arm: the yellow-red skin that is speckled with the scar. I wish I could let it be. Let him be. But I cannot stop thinking of the clearing, of the blood and the sulphur-stink and the faceless man in the cowl.

  “Did you see anyone?”

  His face pinches with concentration. “B-b-branches…” He starts to cough violently. He manages one more word. “Sh-shadow…”

  I wait until he lies back. But his dreams give no respite. He tosses and gabbles, a shivering bundle under the covers. It is hard to watch, so I stare out at the waning moon. I imagine trying for Sherwood Castle. I have been before. Last summer for a tournament Guy entered and won. I could try to retrace the journey. But it would be folly. Beyond. More than four hours by horse, and at night, and alone. I can almost hear Lady Ariel: you are sixteen years, Brya. You are a girl. Know your place.

  So instead I sit, useless, on the corner of the bed, until Mutch is finally sound. Although I fear the nightmares will soon drag him back.

  Returning to my bedroom I jump. Someone is down the corridor. I mistook him for a shadow.

  “You scared me!”

  “I’m sorry.” Guy stands from the chair. “I could not sleep.”

  “We are a pair.”

  He smiles faintly. I cross to my bedroom. Guy follows to the threshold. In the moonlight his blonde hair and azure eyes catch quicksilver.

  “Mother is…” He shakes his head. His jaw juts out. “We will to Sherwood first thing and seek the help we need.”

  “Thank you.” I try to imagine this will be enough.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Weary.”

  He nods. Lingers. His next words catch me off guard. “You know the day we met.”

  I tense. “Yes.”

  “I thought of it. Today as we rode.”

  I had thought of it too. Myself: broken, blurred, a child of four years running for a whole day and night, running from the darkness. Another dawn passed and under its glare I began to trip and to fall. To see shapes moving about me: dark, clustering figures that were there, in the shadows, in the trees. Then, delirious, I saw him: a young boy beside an oak. Playing a game. Sword-fighting with a stick for a blade. He had a dog with him, a wiry hound. Wolf’s father, long since passed on now. I was afraid. Yet I called out to him. I remember his pale blue eyes. How they lit up with worry. How beautiful they seemed. And his arms: they held me. Through the woods and the fields, back to this house I have lived in ever since, Guy of Gisbourne carried me.

  “Why?” I whisper.

  “I do not know exactly.” He speaks low to not stir the house. “The girl, I suppose. And seeing you in the clearing. Lying there, looking up. It was almost like then. After your mother’s sickness took her, and you wandered the forest and you found me. The way you kept looking up through the trees that day. At the sky. I always wondered what it was you saw.”

  It is strange, seeing myself through his eyes. Guy who has known me longer than any other living soul. Yet he knows not the truth of when we met. Mother’s sickness. It is a cage
inside of me. A beast locked within. Guy would wish only to shield me. But from this – from the fear and the shame – he will never be able. That would break his good heart.

  All I say is, “What matters is you were there, Guy. When I was lost.”

  He swallows. “The blood, today…Brya…”

  “What is it?”

  He manages to smile, though the earnestness never leaves his face. “Not tonight. Not after today. But there is something I wish to say if you will hear me.”

  “Of course.”

  “Good.” His eyes fight the dark of the hour. He has become a man, Guy. I see him so often I forget this. “Good night, Brya.”

  “Good night, Guy.”

  Long after he has gone I sit on my bed with legs bent at the knees and arms wrapped around them. What could Guy mean to say? I do not know. And I do not know what to do with myself. The book I wanted to keep reading sits like a stone on my bedside table, its history of great men and great deeds of no consequence now; the idea of knitting a scarf seems absurd. My plans are all torn asunder.

  I drift back to the day Guy spoke of. The day I fled. Was I guided through those woods? Or was it blind luck that brought me to the fair-haired boy playing beside a tree, who caught me when I fell? I cannot decide which is more frightening. If life is a play of chance and fortune, or if there is a force unseen, guiding us, moving us. Taking us at its whim.

  Sara’s basket sits empty on the floor of my bedroom. She had been gathering fruits with her brother when whatever happened to her. It feels close, like a shadow, when I finally lie down and fall into a cavern of a dream.

  I cannot see my mother’s face but she speaks to me once more.

  “Do not stop, sweet child,” she tells me. “Do not look back.”

  But I do.

  From the darkness I look back.

  3.

  Early we set off for Sherwood Castle. The northeast road curves round Wormsley village and the other hamlets of the wold, and on towards sloping fields lit by a cloud-speckled sun. Old Carter drives. I can hear his filthy ditties about tavern wenches over the rugged canter of the horses and the wheels and Wolf’s occasional barking. We five sit inside the carriage: Lady Ariel, shimmering in her gown, Lord Anson, who is soon drowsy, and Guy and I, either side of Beatrice on the rear bench. All dressed in our finest.