Hood Read online

  The small boy turned a deep red. “Maybe I ought to practice on the arse end of a horse first, Samuel. Lend me your face, will you?”

  The other boys broke up into shouts of laughter, pounding Samuel on the back so hard he spilled some of his ale. He puffed up like a guinea hen, shouldering his way toward the smaller boy just as Isabelle tried to swagger through their ranks. The two of them bounced off each other, knocking Isabelle into the smaller boy.

  “I’ll clock the both of you,” Samuel growled, bearing down on them and curling his thick fingers into fists.

  The small boy, sensing the trouble coming his way, shoved Isabelle toward Samuel and disappeared into the flickering shadows.

  “Who the hell are you, mate, and what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Samuel demanded, getting right in her face. “They’ll be cleaning up your parts for days round here when I’m done with you.”

  Had she been full of belly or sound of mind, she might have apologized and slipped out the same way the smallest boy had gone. Had she not been running in fear for her life the past three days, she might have been cowed by the boy’s browbeating bravado. She was no stranger to the bullying ways of others; Sister Catherine had waged a campaign against her of backbreaking manual labor ever since Marien was elected prioress over her, and she loved nothing more than to punish Isabelle for the slightest infractions with a brutal caning in front of the other sisters. Isabelle knew how to grit her teeth and bear it, and had spent the last five years doing so.

  But she was not full of belly or sound of mind after the events of the last three days. And so, when a drop of spittle from the thick boy’s lips landed on her cheek, wet and warm and disgusting, it was like a key in the lock of a secret door. She could almost hear it click in her mind, feel the door swing open as a wave of red poured out of its dark recesses. The boy never even saw the punch coming as it connected with the soft flesh under his jaw, his teeth clacking together as he sprawled back into the arms of his friends.

  “I’m your worst nightmare, mate,” she gruffed, her voice low and raw with anger as she mimicked the accents of the boys around her. “Come for me again and I’ll show you where I’m from. You want a sparring dummy, go find your friend. You want someone who will put up a real fight, stand up.”

  She regretted the words as soon as she said them, for the boy was probably twice her weight and could easily flatten her out. The other boys egged him on, dragging him up and shouting for him to do all manner of unpleasant things to her face. For a moment she considered running for her life and forgetting about the Blue Boar Inn completely. But her mother’s words echoed back to her, steeling her spine and giving power to her resolve.

  Be braver than you feel.

  She would not let this red-faced, thick-necked, beardless boy get the best of her. Even if it meant she got pummeled to a pulp. Which she most certainly would. But she would do it with pride. She clenched her fists hard, bringing them up in front of her as the other boy did the same. The first punch had been lucky; she’d never punched anything in her life, and already her knuckles ached from the impact. They certainly hurt worse than the other boy looked, eyes gleaming like a wild hog’s. His friends closed in around them, yelling and shoving each other and tossing coins on the ground as bets against her.

  Yes, this had definitely been a terrible idea.

  “For the love of Saint Peter, shut up, you lot!” someone shouted, cutting across their little fighting ring with a roar. A thick man with hair the color of a first snowfall shoved through their ranks, hauling Samuel up by the collar of his shirt. “I told you last time, Samuel, I caught you stirring up trouble round here you’d be banned for life.”

  “It weren’t me, I swear it!” Samuel squeaked, his face turning even redder as he clawed at the edge of his tunic where it cut into his neck. “It’s that fellow there. He started it! Tell him, boys.”

  Some of the boys nodded their support, but most of them disappeared into the night the same way the small boy had, leaving Isabelle standing on her own, her hat dangerously askew.

  “Yeah, it’s always someone else starts it, but it’s always you I find in the middle of it.” The man gave Samuel a good shake. “That’s enough, then. You’re banned from the Boar.”

  “You can’t do that!” Samuel whined, all bravado gone. “I’ll tell my da, I will!”

  “You go on and tell him, then. See if you don’t end up with a backside blacker than a chimney stone.” The man raised his voice to the few boys still standing about. “That goes for the lot of you, you hear? I find out even one of you’s been sneaking drinks for Samuel here, the whole lot of you is banned. You understand?”

  “Yes, Thomas,” several of the boys muttered, avoiding eye contact with the older boy.

  “Now get, the lot of you,” Thomas said, shoving Samuel away. “Go on and tell your da; if he’s got a problem, he can come see me anytime.”

  As the older boy slunk away, on the verge of tears and muttering about justice, Isabelle was so relieved to not have her face smashed in that at first she didn’t register the white-haired man’s name. And when she did, he was already pushing through the door leading inside.

  “Please, sir, are you the barkeep here?” she asked, darting around several patrons to catch up to the big man. She didn’t bother keeping up the low voice or the swaggering stance. “Thomas of the Blue Boar Inn?”

  The man looked down at her with a frown. “Depends on who’s doing the asking. What’s it to you?”

  She scrabbled for a hold on his sleeve. “Please, I need your help.”

  Thomas rolled his eyes, shoving through a thick patch of men singing a bawdy song loudly and off-key. The noise inside was near deafening, the heat and press of the men nauseating. “Not another of you. Listen, lass, you’re not fooling anyone round here, least of all me. If it’s work you’re looking for, we’re full up. If it’s the Merry Men you’re thinking of joining, I don’t know them and I don’t care what your sad story is. You’re best off crawling back to whatever farm you left and giving your mum a hug and telling her you’re sorry for ever tearing off in the first place. All right?”

  “You do not understand,” Isabelle said, trailing after him determinedly. “I am not from any farm. I come from the priory of Kirklees.”

  Thomas stopped so suddenly she ran right into him, a single golden curl tumbling out of her makeshift hat into her peripheral view. She tucked it up hastily as he stared down at her, hawk eyes raking over her face. She felt exposed in the bright firelight, but she didn’t turn away. Not even when his gaze shifted and he let out a curse under his breath.

  “I knew your hands looked too soft to be a farmer’s,” he said.

  “My name is Isabelle. The prioress of Kirklees sent me.” Her voice wavered at the thought of her mother, her heart hammering away at the inside of her chest, but she cleared her throat to continue. “She said to deliver you a message of great urgency.”

  Thomas grabbed her by the arm, pulling her in close and darting a glance around the crowded tavern. He spoke low and fast to her. “Not another word, lass. There’re always ears listening. Come with me.”

  He barreled through the crowd with her in tow. From outside she had longed for the warmth and comfort of the fire, but inside the heat and stink of sweating bodies was far too overwhelming. Combined with her exhaustion and the hunger still gnawing an escape route through her stomach, it was enough to make her light-headed. When Thomas finally reached the bar and ushered her behind it to a small trapdoor below, she jumped into the cool recess gratefully. He followed more slowly, clambering down the short ladder to fit himself between barrels of ale and stacks of mugs.

  “What is it, then, lass?” Thomas said after he’d secured the trapdoor above, crossing his arms over his round chest. If he sat still enough, she might mistake him for one of the ale barrels. “What message did Marien send?”

  It was odd enough being crammed into this clandestine space, dizzy from hunger and carry
ing a secret message of grave importance. But to hear her mother’s name spoken so casually, so intimately by a complete stranger, it was almost more than Isabelle could believe. Perhaps she’d fallen into a fever dream and was even now writhing about on her pallet back in the priory while her mother squeezed cool water over her brow.

  “You said it was urgent,” Thomas said in a flat, slightly impatient tone, snapping her back to reality. However strange this reality was.

  “I…Yes, yes, it is. My mothe—the prioress said to tell you…” She took a deep breath, the rush of air making her sway on her feet. “I apologize. It has been a trying few days.”

  “No more trying than these few minutes,” Thomas muttered, but he disappeared between the barrels and reappeared wielding a long, flat loaf of bread. “Here, lass, before you expire in my storeroom.”

  “Thank you,” Isabelle breathed, biting into the loaf and nearly losing a tooth in the process. It was tough, and cold, and utterly devoid of taste, but she would have eaten a dozen of them if he had handed them over. Her jaw ached by the time she finished the first few bites, but at least her head no longer spun.

  “Now, this urgent business that couldn’t wait?” Thomas prodded.

  She chewed through the tough bread hastily, wishing for a cool spot of ale to wash it down, but too scared to ask. “She sent me to tell you that the Wolf has returned.”

  For a moment Thomas did not move, not even to blink or breathe. The moment stretched out awkwardly as Isabelle chewed the last few bites of bread and darted her gaze from the barrels to Thomas and back, thinking that actually he was even wider than the casks beside him. And still he said nothing, his eyes fixed on a spot just behind her, his gaze distant. The only thing that changed was his pallor, the color draining from his features until he was almost as white as his beard.

  “Is that…Does that mean something to you?” she finally asked when she couldn’t bear the silence anymore.

  “I have to warn Robin,” he whispered to himself, as if he’d forgotten she was there.

  “Robin? Who is Robin?”

  His eyes drew back up to her as he frowned. “What more did Marien tell you? Where is the Wolf now? Is she safe?”

  Isabelle shook her head. “I do not know anything else. Who is the Wolf? Who is Robin?”

  But he was caught in his own thoughts, muttering to himself. “The child. What did she say of the child?”

  Isabelle wasn’t sure he was talking to her until his gaze landed on her. “What child?”

  “Marien’s child. Where is the child now?”

  She shook her head again. “I do not…Do you mean me?”

  Thomas’s eyes widened. “You are Marien’s child? But you’re…Has so much time really passed? How old are you, lass?”

  “Sixteen years this past spring,” Isabelle said, more confused than ever. “I do not understand. What do I have to do with this?”

  “She didn’t tell you? Your mother didn’t tell you who you are?”

  “What do you mean, who I am?”

  He stepped closer, his eyes glittering in the half-dark. “You are the daughter of Robin Hood. And if the Wolf has returned, he’ll be coming for you.”

  Isabelle could not decide which life-changing bit of information to process first, so she simply stared at the big barkeep, mouth slightly ajar, fingers turned to ice. Her heart seemed to be the only part of her responding, thumping away wildly in her chest and churning her stomach into a frenzy. Thomas took her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shake.

  “Did you hear me, lass?” he asked. “Are you all right?”

  Isabelle might have asked how anyone could be all right in this particular moment, except they were both interrupted by a crash overhead. The lively buzz of the taproom dropped into a tense quiet as heavy footfalls creaked across the floorboards, each one like a whip crack in Isabelle’s ears. She closed her eyes and imagined they were nothing more than rabbits foraging in the brush, separating each distinct pair of steps until she could mark every one with an arrow if she needed.

  “Seven,” she breathed to herself, forgetting about the barkeep until he replied.

  “And more waiting outside, no doubt,” he whispered. He shook his head. “It’ll be a mess of blood and teeth to clean up all morning for me.”

  The temporary lull in conversation erupted again in angry tones and hard thumps against the floorboards, every sound making Isabelle jump. She slid her bow off her shoulder as her other hand sought the fletching of an arrow from her quiver, her eyes fixed on the trapdoor overhead. She should have kept running. She should never have stopped, no matter what her mother told her. Now she was trapped in a cellar with a legion of soldiers overhead and only a few drunk foresters between them and her. She was doomed.

  “Wait here, lass,” Thomas said as snatches of insults and barked orders from the soldiers sifted down with the dust. He pushed at the trapdoor, and she instinctively slunk behind the nearest ale barrel. The big man moved quickly, crawling through the door and lowering it without a sound to leave Isabelle in the dark once more. From the angry buzzing overhead, it was only a matter of moments before someone threw the first punch. Maybe she could slip out in the chaos, run until she found the ocean. Or the highlands. But anywhere she thought to run, her mother’s shadowed eyes and Thomas’s tense words would follow her.

  If the Wolf has returned, he’ll be coming for you.

  What if the company of soldiers in Kirkleestown had been no coincidence? What if they had been sent by someone to find her? Who was this Wolf? What kind of power must he wield to have an entire company of soldiers at his command? What did he want with her? And what in the name of the Almighty did Thomas mean, she was the daughter of Robin Hood? The Robin Hood? The criminal mastermind and perpetual thorn in King John’s side? The man Sister Catherine swore to the rafters only existed in stories, to give the common wretches hope for a better life? The highwayman that she had overheard Sister Eleanor and Sister Margaret whisper about in dreamy snatches during mealtime before Sister Catherine glared them into a respectful silence?

  How could she be the daughter of a man that no one was even sure existed?

  Someone shouted overhead, nearly making her jump out of her skin as a heavy object slammed against the floor, and soon the whole taproom exploded in noisy ferocity that rained down dust and other, chunkier objects she’d rather not examine too closely. Thomas came thumping down the stairs into the cellar, grinning like a madman.

  “That oughta keep them tied up for a bit,” he said as the floor shook with violence. “Come on, lass, follow me.”

  He wound through the stacks of barrels, dragging her along as the way grew narrower and the light dimmer. More than once she caught her hip on a crate corner or stubbed a toe against a barrel, anchored to the world only by Thomas’s fingers wrapped firmly around her wrist. She’d never considered herself afraid of small spaces—there were so many wonderful, forgotten corners of the priory she could fit into and escape the soul-crushing work of scrubbing stone floors—but down here under the Blue Boar Inn, wedged tight between kegs with the ceiling threatening to cave in above, she might have to reconsider.

  “Where are we going?” she huffed. “Should we not be attempting escape?”

  “That’s exactly what we’re doing, lass,” Thomas said, his voice loud in the confined space. He dropped her hand. “Watch your head through here, it gets right narrow.”

  Isabelle thought it already was narrow, but soon enough her forehead knocked against solid earth, forcing her into a half crouch as they continued on. The fight in the taproom receded into the distance, the light completely gone no matter how hard she strained her eyes to find it. She couldn’t imagine how Thomas could fit in such a space, but every time she reached a tentative hand forward she met with the ties of his apron. Her heartbeat settled as they slipped farther from the soldiers.

  “Is this…Are we going to meet…him?” she whispered.

  Thomas grunted. “Of
a sort.”

  Which started her heart pounding away again. Robin Hood. Her father. Her father. She didn’t even know she had a father to wonder about. Plenty of other young women came to the priory with no father to give them a name, and she had not considered herself any different. At least not until just after her mother became prioress and Sister Catherine had sought to expend her fury on Isabelle by assigning her the worst parts of kitchen duty. She had picked up a pot of boiling water too soon after it was taken off the fire, the metal searing the flesh across both arms, and dropped it with a screech. The water spilled everywhere, soaking into the soft boots of the nearest sisters and burning their toes inside the leather.

  Sister Catherine had screamed until her face turned red, calling Isabelle all manner of heinous things, but it was the last that sent her running to her mother for answers. Treasonous bastard spawn. She hadn’t known a single one of those words, and when she asked her mother what they meant, the prioress had only asked who had spoken them, then disappeared to the kitchens. Sister Catherine was put on kettle duty after that, and Isabelle learned only later the true meaning of what she had been called. She could not imagine her mother committing any kind of treason, so Sister Catherine must have been talking about her father. But every time Isabelle attempted to ask her mother about him, Marien suddenly found pressing business in her duties as prioress that took her away, and Isabelle gave up on ever having a private moment to ask her again.

  Which she never would have done if she’d known the answer.

  “Here we are,” Thomas said just as Isabelle ran right into his backside. “Steady now, lass.”

  “Apologies,” she breathed. “I did not know we were stopping.”

  “Soldiers shouldn’t be this far out from the Boar, but keep your wits about you,” he said. “I’ll go up first. Wait for my signal and follow after.”

  She didn’t want to let him leave, considering she had no way to know how to follow him, but his ale-foam scent drifted upward, a sliver of moonlight dropping into the tunnel from above and illuminating the hard edges of a ladder. A few moments later he gave a soft whistle down into the tunnel, which she hoped meant Come along, lass and not Run for your life, lass.