Outlaw Princess of Sherwood

by Nancy Springer

  “Now, wait!” Lionel peered at her. “My dear lady, why me?”

  “I’m not your dear lady. Why you? Because you’re big enough to carry him off.”

  “But—but—but—”

  “Lionel, no more buts! You know you’re going to do it.”

  Rowan said in her soft way, “Instead of rescuing your mother, we capture your father?”

  “Yes!”

  “And his ransom will be her release.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well thought!” Robin was beginning to grin, even as he coughed into his rolled jerkin sleeve. “‘Tis a worthy plan, forsooth. But does he keep no guards in his tent, lass?”

  “My father? No. He hates people.”

  “But he’ll slice us to bits!” Lionel burst out.

  “That’s your father, Lionel. My father is a scholar, not the kind who sleeps with his sword. He thinks too much to make a proper king. He’s afraid of the dark.”

  “No! Truly?” Robin exclaimed.

  “Truly. He’s noble on the outside but a coward within.” The opposite of Lionel, Etty thought. “He won’t fight us. We must see that he does not cry out, that’s all.”

  Rowan murmured, “It sounds almost too easy.”

  “And afterward?” Robin asked. “What are we to do with our good king Solon the Red, lass?”

  “I’d like to hang him up like yonder deer!” Etty sighed, blowing away her sudden anger, then spoke with the calm her mother had trained into her. “But I suppose I must somehow make him let my mother go. And let me be.”

  Six

  In the darkest mid of night an owl gave its ghostly call. A fox barked. A mouse squeaked. Etty, who was the mouse, knew that the fox (Robin Hood) and the owl (Rowan) had taken their positions. In a moment it would be time to move.

  Crouching in the shadow of a giant oak tree with Rook on one side and Lionel on the other, Etty focused just to one side of the guard she was trying to watch. Trying to see in a moonless, cloudy night was like trying to see a dim star. The guards near Mother’s cage kept fires going to warm themselves and to see intruders by, but at this end of the clearing there was only a whisper of firelight, and in the woods not even that. By not looking directly at the guard, Etty could just barely see him standing about ten paces away, yawning, at the edge of the clearing, between her and the back of her father’s pavilion.

  Father, lying asleep so near her . . . Without warning, Etty’s thoughts jolted back to when she was a child, her father’s little princess and his little scholar. Lacking any surviving sons, he had taught all his learning to her, even though girls were hardly ever educated. He would summon her to his throne and show her off before visiting lords. Had he . . . was it possible he had loved her then? Or had she been just another of his prized possessions, like his golden drinking goblet or his well-trained horse?

  It doesn’t matter, Etty told herself, jerking her thoughts back to the present. Most assuredly he did not love her now.

  And she would never be anyone’s possession again.

  Where was that guard? There. Still in the same place.

  From the far side of the clearing voices sounded. Guards calling to each other.

  “What was that?”

  “A wolf!”

  “No, a dog, fool. What would a wolf be doing—”

  “It’s a wolf, I say! Shoot it!”

  Ettarde smiled to herself, listening, knowing what would happen next. She and Rowan and the others had grown accustomed to what had once seemed almost unbelievable.

  Sure enough, the man shouted, “The brute caught my arrow!”

  “Fool, what are you talking about?”

  “He caught it in his mouth! Snatched it right out of the air.”

  “This I have to see. Shoot another.”

  The guard turned his head to see what was going on, then left his post to get a better look. It sounded as though most of the guards, if not all of them, were gathering at the far end of the clearing to watch Tykell leaping to clamp his jaws onto arrow after arrow, snagging them in midflight like a swift darting after mayflies.

  Signaling Rook and Lionel by touching their hands, Etty ran forward as silently as she could. She could hear Rook loping almost soundlessly on his bare feet and Lionel thudding along behind her—the big lout, surely the guards would hear him! But no one raised the alarm as she sprinted through the hazel bushes and across a few paces of open clearing to crouch, breathing hard, in the shadow behind her father’s pavilion. She could hear the wild boy and the oversized minstrel panting beside her.

  Then there was a ripping sound. As planned, Lionel was cutting a way into the pavilion with his dagger. Soft yellow light spilled through the rent: candle glow. Within the tent, an expensive beeswax candle stood burning uselessly in the middle of the night. Mirthless, Etty smiled. Yes, her father still required his candle for comfort in order to sleep. Likely he still required his sleeping draughts, too.

  As Lionel cautiously spread the opening he had made in the canvas, Etty could see her father lying there with his pointed beard in the air and his hands symmetrically tucked under his chin, over the coverlet.

  Etty touched Lionel’s arm, then stepped softly inside the tent.

  The other two catfooted after her. Soft deerskin boots made little noise. Silently Etty begged the spirits of the night, Please, let him sleep like a fish under ice until we get our hands on him. He must not awaken and summon the guards.

  King Solon’s pavilion was a rich sort of tent, well hung with draperies to please the eye and to mute noises from outside. Etty could hear the guards only faintly now:

  “ ’Tis a full wondrous wolf, forsooth.”

  “Look! Yon friendly wolf wishes to greet the lady.”

  “Go ahead, my lady. Reach through the bars and pat him.”

  And then her mother’s courteous voice:

  “Welcome, Sir Wolf. Or should it be Lord Wolf? Are you the wolf ruler of this wilderness?”

  Etty’s heart beat harder as she heard her mother’s voice, harder and faster as she drifted forward silently, oh so silently, to position herself at her sleeping father’s head. Just as silently, Lionel stood at his side, and Rook at his feet. Etty met their eyes and nodded. Now!

  All three at once seized King Solon. He awoke with what would have been a shriek but was only a squeak, for Etty had clamped both her hands over his mouth. He tried to thrash, but Rook leaned on his feet and Lionel held both of his hands easily in one of his own, binding them with a thong of cured deerskin.

  Etty glanced down at her father’s face. He saw her, and his mouth squirmed and mumbled under her hands, and his pale eyes met hers with such fearsome upside-down fury that she flinched as if she had encountered a viper. Hastily she looked away from him. “Gag him,” she whispered to Lionel, although she knew he was not finished with his own task yet.

  From somewhere in back of the draperies that lined the pavilion, behind Lionel, a high-pitched, sleepy voice asked, “What passes here?”

  Etty startled so hard she almost lost her hold on her father’s mouth. And Lionel jumped even harder, losing his hold on His Majesty’s half-bound hands entirely. Rook reached over and seized the end of the thong. Lionel spun around. Etty froze. All three of them gawked at the face gawking back at them from between the draperies.

  A delicate, narrow face with great dark eyes under masses of curling hair paler than the candlelight. Never had Etty seen a human being with such black eyes and such blond hair. “It’s the page boy,” she gasped. Still in his crimson tunic, it was the dandified messenger she had seen riding in on the slender white pony. And had not thought of since.

  His mouth started to open, to scream.

  In a single giant stride Lionel was upon him, clapping one big hand over his mouth as he seized him around the arms and body. “Certainly, your father hates people,” Lionel hissed at Etty as he hauled the page boy out of the draperies to the center of the tent. “Absolutely , he always sleeps alone—”
/>
  “Shhh!” Etty had seen the page boy’s dark eyes widen. “Idiot, now he knows who I am.”

  “As if they don’t all know—”

  Rook interrupted. “Hush. Bind him. We must take him, too, or he’ll betray us.”

  Why, Etty wondered, should binding and gagging two prisoners take three times as long? But it seemed to. In fact it seemed to take forever. Rook had to sit on King Solon’s legs and finish tying his hands while he squirmed and grunted muffled threats from under Etty’s grip, while Lionel kept his hold on the page boy. Then Rook had to pull back the blankets and tie the king’s feet. Any other time Etty would have giggled at the sight of her oh-so-dignified father in his smallclothes, but now she could think only of the passing of time. “Hurry!” she whispered as Rook went to get the gag from Lionel.

  “Shhh.”

  Finally it was done. Etty’s father lay mute and furious, gagged and bound hand and foot, as Etty scrambled to help Rook and Lionel with the page boy. Hastily they bound his hands with the cross-garters from Lionel’s leggings. Even more hastily they gagged him with the same. With small ceremony Lionel slung King Solon of Auberon over his shoulder and bolted, ducking out the back door he had cut in the pavilion. Hustling the page boy between them, each with a hand under one of his arms, Etty and Rook followed.

  Dark, too dark. After candlelight, nothing but blackness out there. No time to let the eyes adjust. Etty could see nothing. The twenty paces to the cover of the forest seemed to take a year. Straining her ears, Etty could hear nothing but the roaring of her own pulse. Where were the guards? Still playing with Tykell? Or—

  “Halt!” roared a man’s voice close at hand. “Who goes there?”

  That challenge pierced Etty like an arrow. Heart pounding, she ducked behind the first big oak at the edge of the forest, hauling Rook and the page boy with her. Too much time had passed, the diversion had ceased to divert, and now the guard would sound the alarm, Robin and his men would have to come to the rescue, there would be blood—

  The guard bellowed, “Answer, or I shoot!”

  Etty sensed more than saw that her captive gave a twisting motion of his head. She jumped like a squirrel when his voice sounded, piping loud and peevish, from right beside her.

  “Mon foi, porridge-face,” he cried, “it is I, Beauregard du Fleur Noir. What mean you, bête gross odieux, to shout at me? You’ll wake the king.”

  Feeling a trifle dizzy, Etty leaned against the oak.

  “Young master? What are you doing out here?” The guard lowered his voice, but Etty could hear him walking nearer. And she could hear other voices and footsteps approaching, more guards joining the first. Biting her lip, she reached for the dagger in her belt.

  The page boy retorted, “Radish-head, what you think? I sniff the night breezes, non?”

  “The latrines are beyond the tents—”

  “Pah!” The page boy’s voice became imperious. “You think I take my breeches down for the common filth holes? Go milk yourself. I tell the king—”

  “As you will, Master Beauregard. I beg your pardon.” The guard retreated, taking the others with him.

  Etty breathed out.

  She listened to the footsteps and voices fading away. For about ten heartbeats there was blessed, utter silence. Then, from somewhere close at hand in the darkness, Lionel whispered, “Who tied that gag on him?”

  Keeping his voice very soft now, the page boy himself answered. “The princess Ettarde. I think she desire not to hurt me, oui?”

  “Oui,” Etty agreed. “I mean, yes.”

  She felt him press something into her hands in the darkness—the strips of cloth that had bound him. He had slipped right out of them. “I come with you,” he told her. “We go now, oui?”

  “Oui. Um, yes.”

  Seven

  A pretty sight, forsooth! But what is it?” Eyes twinkling like blue stars in the firelight, Robin gazed at the page boy.

  Etty smiled back at Robin Hood, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, then sat down with a sigh of relief on the ground under the huge, hollow oak tree where Robin and his men customarily made camp. Rook remained standing, and so did the page boy. Let them stand. The males could keep their useless pride. Etty was tired and she would admit to it, so tired she could have lain down right on the damp ground. It had been a long, weary nighttime trudge to Robin’s favorite hideout, but necessary to get well away from Fountain Dale.

  Ignoring Robin’s question for the moment, Etty asked, “Have you seen Lionel?”

  “Poor wee Lionel? Aye, he’s halfway between here and there with his leggings flapping.”

  “He thinks he can carry Father all this way—”

  “He can’t. But Little John is helping him.” Robin coughed and wiped his nose on the usual place, his jerkin sleeve. Feeling Etty’s disapproving glance, he gave a wry smile. “Sorry. No kerchiefs in the wildwood, barring the one that belongs to a certain pretty lady. Throw some more wood on the fire, lads,” he told the outlaws who had gathered around to survey the visitors, “and bring forth that excellent venison. So, Etty, explain.” Robin scanned the page boy with his most quizzical grin. “This is a pretty bird of unexpected feather.”

  “No salt on our tails, thanks to him,” Etty replied.

  “Beauregard du Fleur Noir, a votre service,” said the page boy in his flutelike voice, reaching for his yellow-plumed cap, which was not there. He made a deep bow anyway, sweeping the imaginary hat.

  There was a muttering among Robin’s men. “Frankish,” Etty heard someone whisper.

  “Sissy Frankish boy,” mumbled somebody else.

  Frankish, yes. Sissy? Etty recalled that they had all once thought Lionel a sissy.

  “Should have been a girl,” grumbled another outlaw.

  They scorn him because he’s beautiful, Etty thought, noticing how the firelight played on Beauregard’s silvery skin, outlining his profile in gold. A classical Grecian profile, worthy of a cameo, with its elegant brow flowing straight into an aristocratic nose. Beautiful, those sloe-black glowing eyes under curls even fairer than Robin Hood’s. This Beauregard was worthy of a ballad.

  “Enchanté to you encounter, Robin of the Hood,” he said as he completed his bow. “Quel plaisir. I—”

  “The pleasure is mine.” Robin anticipated fun, Etty could tell by the glint in his blue eyes. “Just so long as you don’t call me porridge-face or bête gross odieux.”

  Etty sat bolt upright with a gasp. “You heard!”

  Robin just grinned.

  “We wondered what was taking you so long.” With Tykell at her heels, Rowan appeared beside Robin. “We came to see.”

  Beauregard acknowledged Rowan at once. “Enchanté, mademoiselle.” He bowed so deeply that Tykell sniffed his nose. Beauregard straightened. Tykell wagged his bushy tail as Beauregard asked Rowan, “Vous êtes the handmaiden of the princess Ettarde?”

  “No!” said Ettarde.

  “Yes,” said Rowan. Despite this outrageous fib, she faced Beauregard with her usual grave, level gaze. “They found you in the pavilion?”

  “He found us,” Etty put in. “Caught us in the act.”

  Beauregard said, “The big Lionel, he grab me, oui, but not hurt.”

  Robin Hood asked, “But why were you there, lad?”

  “Sleeping! The fools did not wish it, but mon foi, I would not let them put me with the common soldiers. Brrr!” Beauregard shuddered expressively, and Etty heard a muttering go around the outlaws again. Rook growled as Tykell had not, and turned away.

  “Well,” Robin said with sobriety worthy of an owl, “you’ll be pleased to know there are no common fellows here. This is Prince William of Scathelock—” Robin gave a ladylike wave of the hand toward one of the outlaws standing at his back, then the next. “—and Lord Much of Millerson, and His Highness Emperor Rafe—”

  Beauregard interrupted. “I understand, mine prince of outlaws.” He drew himself up to his full height, such as it was, so that his head
almost reached the level of Robin’s chin. “You joke me, but sacre bleu, it is yet true, the woodland freedom make royalty of you all.”

  Watching the page boy’s beautiful face, Etty lifted her head in interest. Was that a glimmer of mischief in Beauregard’s black eyes? Robin thought he was playing with the boy, but who was playing with whom?

  Will Scathelock was not amused by anyone’s foolery. “I’m no prince,” he growled at Beauregard. “We’re all yeomen here. If you scorn common—”

  Robin turned his head, saying quietly, “Let it go, Will. Get him something to eat. Remember what he did earlier tonight.”

  For the matter of that . . . “Beauregard,” Etty demanded, “why did you help us?”

  In one easy move he swiveled to kneel before her, yellow tights and tall boots and all. He had worn his boots to sleep in?

  “Quel dommage. A shame,” he said quite softly. “It is a great shame to King Solon, my princess, that he has put the sweet lady in the cage.”

  But how many men, or boys either, would take such a risk just because they thought something was a shame? This Beauregard had aided outlaws, and would very likely be outlawed in his turn. Did he not realize what he was doing? Etty stared into the shadowy midnight pools that were the page boy’s eyes, frowning.

  “Mon foi,” he protested against her silence, “I adore to be outlaw like you, Princess Ettarde.”

  He knew, then. Who she was. But he was, or had been, the high king’s messenger. Was he also the high king’s spy?

  His courtesy felt false, overdone, excessive even by the standards to which Etty had been raised. It felt like mockery.

  “Don’t call me princess,” she told him. “Do I look like a princess to you?” Certainly she had all her teeth and no pockmarks on her skin, but if that made her a princess, then he was a prince, for he could say the same. But how could he call her princess when she had fleabites all over her arms, when her head itched with lice, when she was sitting there in deerskin boots and a green kirtle with a deerskin belt, with her hair pulled back in a thong?