Hood Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by Jenny Elder Moke

  Designed by Phil Buchanan

  Cover design by Phil Buchanan

  All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Buena Vista Books, Inc. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address

  Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  ISBN 978-1-368-04749-4

  Visit www.hyperionteens.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Ninteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  TO ANNA AND CHRISTINA, FOR EVERYTHING

  Isabelle took great pride in herself that she did not cry once during the whole wretched, messy ordeal. Not when the soldiers barked their orders at her to stand down; not when they grabbed her up like a common criminal and threw shackles on her wrists; not when they shoved her in this moldy makeshift prison cell that once served as a potato cellar; not even when the strips of light leaching in from outside grew longer, and thinner, and then disappeared altogether. She held her head high, gritted her teeth, and glared malevolence at the warped wooden boards of the door and the rough voices of the men beyond.

  And when even they faded away, and she began to fear they’d forgotten about her or planned to leave her behind, and fear twisted itself into panic, she would not give in. She thought of her mother in full prioress regality, stern and powerful and threaded through with iron, and wished for her strength. But as the night wore on, the cold stealing its thin fingers up her ankles and calves, she just wished for her mother.

  She’d almost forgotten the door was there by the time the heavy bolt screeched open, a stab of torchlight blinding her after hours of complete dark. She curled into herself instinctively, the shackles dragging and clanking against each other as she raised her hands to block the light. She steeled herself for another round of brutal questioning from the soldiers, summoning what little well of strength she had left. But after hours of fear, hunger, and churning panic, it only took one word to undo her.

  “Isabelle!”

  She lifted her head, her face twisting.

  “Mother?” she whispered, and promptly burst into tears.

  Marien swept across the small space, enveloping her in warmth and softness and the smooth, sharp scent of lemon verbena. “Shhh, ’tis all right, child.” She kissed the top of her head, murmuring into her hair. “Oh, my Isabelle. Oh, you willful child. Are you hurt?”

  “I am so sorry,” Isabelle said through a hiccuping sob as her mother lifted her hands to unlock the shackles around her wrists and examine the angry red welts underneath. “I am so very sorry. I can explain, I swear it. I know you forbade me from leaving the priory while everything is so tumultuous, but the people in Kirkleestown were starving, Mother. I knew we had the grain, but Sister Catherine would not let me share it. She said the sisters needed it to keep up their strength, but there was plenty to go round! She was just being greedy—I know it is an unkind thing to say, but it is true. She would rather watch these families starve than open her heart. So I thought if I could go hunting, even just for a brace of rabbits, I might be able to help feed them for the night.”

  “Hush now, child,” her mother said, not unkindly. “I know your heart, my love. I know what you meant to do. But I am afraid it is worse than that now. Something terrible has happened.”

  Isabelle shuddered, not from the cold in the air but from the chill in her mother’s voice. “What do you mean? What has happened?”

  Another light appeared at the cellar door, drawing her mother’s attention away. Isabelle knew the man holding the torch, a kindly farmer who had often come to the priory for her mother’s healing teas in the past year since they had opened their doors to the people of Kirklees. The flames threw deep shadows along the creases in his brow as his gaze flicked into the darkness behind him, his fingers worrying at the fabric of his woolen leggings.

  “Please, mistress, we don’t have much time,” he said, his voice wobbly. “They’ll be back soon, I expect. If they know I’ve helped you—”

  “Yes, of course, thank you, Frederick. The Lord shall bless you for your service.” Marien turned to Isabelle, eyes dark like an oncoming storm. “We must go. Quickly and quietly.”

  “But, Mother—”

  Her mother shook her head. “There is no time for explanations.”

  They hurried out of the cellar into the field beyond, which Isabelle now realized was part of the land Frederick tended. The farmer stayed behind, his torchlight growing dim as they ran through the freshly plowed and seeded barley fields. Her mother moved like a wraith, swift and silent, her footfalls light and instinctive. Isabelle tried to match her movements, but her own steps were clumsy and loud in comparison, the fear and fatigue dragging her down.

  Night transformed the woods into a stranger, webbed in shadows and clawing branches, tearing at the thick wool of her habit and snatching tendrils of her golden curls with sinister whispers. An owl swooped low with a keening hoot as they moved through the trees, Isabelle’s heart pumping hard at every unexpected sound. More than once she caught a toe on a root or ran a shoulder into a low-hanging branch. But her mother, if it was possible, seemed even more at home among the trees, flitting between pockets of darkness like a shadow, making it difficult for Isabelle to even keep track of her. Where had her mother learned to move like that?

  They emerged from the woods beside a wide road, the deep ruts of passing wagons glittering in the half moonlight. Isabelle took a deep breath, trying to free the knot of tension coiled in her chest from their breakneck pace through the trees. But the coil only tightened at the empty stretch of road in either direction.

  “Mother,” she whispered, her voice feeling large in the quiet night. “Where are we? Where is Kirklees?”

  “We cannot return to the priory,” her mother said, searching through the limbs of a nearby tree and pulling down a tidy bundle made of Isabelle’s cloak, which had been secreted away in its branches. A cascade of orange-and-yellow leaves scattered to the ground, their edges curling and brown.

  “Why can we not return?” Isabelle asked. “Where would we go instead?”

  Her mother did not answer as she loosened the cloak and withdrew Isabelle’s quiver and bow, the polished wood gleaming gray in the moonlight. She removed a burlap sack with a small tin from the folds of the cloak, the earthy fragrance of the salve within the tin stirring Isabelle’s senses. Marien rubbed the remed
y into Isabelle’s raw wrists with quick, gentle strokes.

  “Comfrey?” Isabelle said hopefully, trying to distract herself from the twisting in her gut with an attempt at their old game.

  Her mother gave a patient smile. “Yarrow root, dearest. Comfrey has a much more floral scent.”

  Isabelle shook her head. “Of course. I should have remembered that.”

  “God calls us all in our own ways, dearest,” Marien said as she worked, reciting the maxim that had framed Isabelle’s childhood. “This will help the pain. The wounds are thankfully superficial. You should have enough salve to last you until you reach your destination.”

  The simmering dread that had been souring Isabelle’s stomach all day turned to a full boil. “What destination?”

  “I cannot keep you safe in Kirklees any longer,” her mother said, quickly wrapping Isabelle’s wrists in white linen. “There is no one here we can trust, not now. The truth will come out soon, and I cannot protect you from it.”

  She tucked the rest of the salve and more linens in the burlap sack before sweeping the cloak around Isabelle’s shoulders. She cinched it tight against the chill night air, Isabelle following her motions perfunctorily, slinging her bow and quiver over her shoulder in a daze. Her mother hesitated, taking Isabelle’s face in her hands.

  “You are in grave danger,” her mother said, white puffs of breath obscuring her face. “You must leave Kirklees tonight.”

  Isabelle’s voice pitched up in protest. “All this because I…embarrassed some lowly soldier? I know what I did was wrong, but he was no better. Those people were no threat to them. It was rusty threshers and makeshift cudgels against broadswords and crossbows. They never would have stood a chance. I know the people attacked those soldiers, and the soldiers must defend themselves, but the villagers were only hungry! I cannot imagine if King John knew the true state of his people starving here that he would approve of such brutality. Surely, if we speak to someone in charge, perhaps if I promise to apologize—”

  “It is far beyond that,” her mother said with a firm shake of her head. “I wish I had more time to explain, but they will be after you as soon as they realize you are gone. You must leave now, immediately. Cover your tracks, leave no trace. Just as I taught you.”

  “For hunting, not for…being hunted,” Isabelle said, numbness settling over her despite the rapid pace of her heart. “Mother, these are soldiers! Not rabbits or poachers. I could not possibly outwit them, even with your help.”

  A quiet breath slipped out of Marien. “I cannot go with you. You must go alone.”

  Isabelle’s jaw sagged. “What? I cannot go on my own. I have never even been outside Kirkleestown!”

  “If there were another way, any other possible way, I would do it,” her mother said, stroking her cheek. Isabelle wished she could curl up and take refuge from this nightmare in her mother’s even tone and sure hands.

  “But why can you not go with me?” Isabelle begged.

  Marien would not meet her gaze. “Because I have other business here. I cannot leave, and you cannot stay. You will have to be strong, my child, even when the worst comes for you. You will have to be braver than you feel.”

  “What do I have to do?” Isabelle whispered, her voice trembling on the edge of exhaustion.

  Her mother gestured down the main road out of Kirklees. “Go south until you reach the town of Huntingdon, three days’ journey from here. Stay to the woods and keep out of sight. Do not seek help from the towns or travelers you pass along the way. Find the Blue Boar Inn at the split in the road, and ask for Thomas. Tell him that I sent you. He is an old family friend and you can trust him. He will know where to take you.” She hesitated again, a tremor going through her hands. “Tell him the Wolf has returned.”

  Something in her mother’s tone and the crease of fear deepening between her eyebrows chilled Isabelle more than anything else that had happened that day. She clung to her mother’s hands, all pretense of bravery abandoning her.

  “Mother, please—”

  But a solitary shout went up from the direction of Frederick’s farm, slicing between them and severing their conversation. They cut their gazes to the impenetrable darkness of the woods, but nothing emerged from the shadows. Yet. Isabelle held her breath, willing herself into quiet stillness as they waited. Another shout rose, and then another, drawing closer.

  “You have to run, Isabelle,” her mother whispered, her voice vibrating.

  Isabelle tried to move her feet, but they wouldn’t obey. Her chest fluttered with little breaths, her head spinning. The next shout came close enough that she could make out the words clearly.

  “Find the girl!”

  “Run, Isabelle,” her mother whispered harshly, pushing her toward the road. “Run!”

  And so she ran.

  This couldn’t be the place her mother meant. Three days of running for her life, half starving and living off foraged berries because she couldn’t risk a fire to cook any meat, sleeping in snatches and waking up soaked in terror sweats, her legs already moving to run, to bring her to…a tavern?

  The Blue Boar Inn—if it even was an inn, she thought it must be of the most unsavory kind—shone like a sweaty, foamy, frothy beacon of male indulgence. If she had imagined the opposite of the priory in Kirklees, this was the kind of place she would have envisioned. Woodsmen the size of plow oxen crowded around tables made from felled tree stumps, their beards hanging down over their tunics like fur, and their legs thicker than tree trunks in their rough woolen hose. The low-slung building behind them vibrated with calls for ale and off-key singing of songs that would make even the most worldly of the sisters turn red with shock. The only door into the inn, as far as she could tell, was on a direct path through the men, swinging open and shut like a curtain caught in a wind, stuffing so much humanity inside she thought the building would burst.

  All this Isabelle watched from a stand of trees down the road, hunkered among the sparse brush, shivering and starving and on the verge of tears. Her skirts were splattered with mud and torn along the hems, her hair snarled and peppered with leaves and branches that made her scalp itch something terrible. The fine linen her mother had wrapped around her wrists had long ago disintegrated into black tatters. No doubt these men would cry ghost if they saw her emerge from the woods in such a state, a haunted soul denied the afterlife.

  Now all those times she’d sworn to leave the rocky walls of Kirklees to seek the outside world struck her as exactly what they were—the foolish, naive fantasies of a child. Oh, how Sister Catherine would crow if she could see her, the old shrew. No doubt she was even now lording Isabelle’s arrest over Marien, as if it proved that her impulsive choices had finally got the better of her. A pang of guilt stabbed her gut at the idea that Sister Catherine might, for once in her miserable miserly life, be right.

  She couldn’t do it. Even though the luscious aroma of stew slipping in between the smell of pine and dirt made her stomach beg for just a small spoonful, and her feet ached for a chair and her back for a soft bed, she couldn’t scrape together the courage to march through all those men just to find this Thomas.

  “Maybe it will be easier in the morning,” she whispered to herself, running her fingers over the fletching of an arrow for the hundredth time that night. “Surely they must have…trees to chop, or boars to wrestle, or…whatever it is these men do.”

  But she knew better. She knew she would have no more courage come sunrise and she didn’t have the time to wait. She’d heard the hooves up and down the road as she hid in the trees, light on the balls of her feet and sticking to the heavier parts of the underbrush as her mother taught her. She might even be too late now, and the soldiers might have already made their way here and were even now lying in wait for her inside. Though she did not think these foresters would take kindly to a contingent of soldiers in their midst, so perhaps she still had time. Not much, though.

  A crowd of young men half the height and size of the
other foresters approached the front door as she watched, many of them with cheeks and jaws still soft and chubby. Not that they acted like it. It seemed the smaller they were, the bigger their voices and bravado, so that even the youngest among them swaggered around like the only cock in the henhouse. The others mostly ignored him, but it gave Isabelle an idea.

  She tore into the burlap fabric of the knapsack her mother had given her, a few crumbs from her last precious meal two days ago spilling on the ground as she twisted the fabric into the rough shape of a hat. She piled her hair into a thick knot on top of her head and scrunched the hat down over it. The burlap itched and slid around with the weight of her hair whenever she moved, but it covered what it needed to cover.

  Changing her clothes was a challenge on another level. She still had her cloak, which covered much of the habit she wore underneath, but the bottom edge of the skirt swished out with every step she took. It pained her to lose the warming layers, but the skirt had to go. She took an arrow from her quiver and used the sharp edge of the head to cut into the fabric with a ripping determination, tearing the hem up to the knee and slitting through the middle to form wide, loose legs. It wouldn’t fool anyone in the light of day, but hopefully it wouldn’t attract the attention of a few drunkards by firelight. She tucked her mother’s salve into a fold of her habit and slung her bow and quiver over her shoulder as if preparing for battle.

  The young boys were still gathered around the entrance, shouting down their insecurities with a swaggering bravado that was easy for her to adopt. The older and wiser of the foresters had long since turned their backs on the boys, but that only seemed to rile up the young men even more. They elbowed into one another, pummeling shoulders and knocking heads and swigging back mugs of ale like they’d never catch up. They reminded Isabelle of the herd of goats Sister Margaret tended in the back fields of the priory, locking horns over the slightest transgressions. She headed straight for them and the entrance beyond.

  “Oi, you couldn’t land a slap on the broad side of a pig,” one of the boys called, as thick as he was tall. He smacked the smallest of them on the back, the boy Isabelle first noticed when they arrived.