Wild Boy by Nancy Springer Page A

green-dark pool beneath his fingers, shadows moved. Deep in the oak forest all around him moved shadows of a different sort. It was as if a breeze had stirred the greenshade, nothing more, or as if trout had slipped through deep water. But watching, Rook allowed his eyes to widen. Robin Hood’s outlaws were on the hunt for something. Thehorseman? He had passed Rook by, but Rook could still hear the rustling of brush around his horse’s flanks.
    Rook did not move, did not turn his head to look. Let Robin do what he wanted.
    Ah
, Rook thought. Despite the icy water he felt a whisper of motion: trout fins fanning. Slowly, softly, Rook curled his hand, fingertips tickling the trout’s belly. To catch trout this way he had to act as if he loved them. Perhaps he did. Sweetly, sweetly he caressed the fish until it had entirely relaxed into the cup of his hand. Then he whipped it out of the water. A splash, a shining arc, and the trout flopped in the bracken, gills gasping. Rook placed it with the others, barely noticing how his hands had gone numb with cold. A stag or a wild boar or a wolf would not notice the cold. But even a wolf must beware of enemies, Rook knew. Had anyone heard him move, or seen him?
    Snap
, a branch broke, not far away. Hooves stamped. Twigs rattled.
    Flat in the bracken, Rook crawled behind the massive trunk of an ancient willow. Once in its sheltering shadow, he eased his head up, peering toward the commotion.
    He saw the horse first, at a distance between oak boles, a great, rampaging black horse seemingly at war with the green clinging forest, kicking and plunging, whacking and hacking worse than a woodcutter with an ax. And the rider’s brass helmet and breastplate made a racket like a tinker mending pans. He wore livery that made Rook glower, in the colors of Nottingham, forsooth. It was one of the Sheriff’s men, and the fool had ridden his horse into ivy. When would these high-horse braggarts learn? There he struggled, his mighty steed caught in vines as strong as a hangman’s noose, and there he could stay.
    No, it appeared that his situation would soon become even worse. Rook gave a low growl of pleasure, because now he saw the outlaws, their backs to him and their bows at the ready, waiting for Robin’s signal.
    It came—a birdlike whistle, mocking and cheery. Within a heartbeat, a dozen outlaws broke cover to confront the rider from all points of the compass, longbows drawn, ringing the man with razor-sharp steel arrow points.
    Rook stood and walked forward, silent as always on his bare feet.
    Ambushed, the horseback rider startled like a deer. A stray branch caught at his helmet and knocked it off.
    The outlaws started to laugh.
    From atop the frothing horse, the rider glared around him, his gaze raking the outlaws. Rook saw dark eyes in a thin, pale face dotted withfreckles. Narrow shoulders. Arms like sticks, skinny hands trembling on the reins.
    “By my troth, it’s a boy!” cried a voice Rook knew well. Robin Hood, the outlaw leader, stood with his bow lowered, his golden curls glinting in a shaft of sunlight and his blue eyes sparkling with fun.
    Yes, the horseback rider was a boy. A stripling no bigger or older than Rook was.
    “What are you doing on that horse, lad?” inquired the tallest outlaw, Little John.
    “I know him,” said another outlaw. “It’s the Sheriff’s son.”
    Rook felt a sudden thicket of emotion clot his chest, passions like thorns, like knives, fit to pierce him from within. His hands clenched into fists.
    “The Sheriff’s son!” A chorus of mockery burst from the outlaws.
    “It’s Little Lord Nottingham?”
    “Ooooh! On Papa’s horse?”
    “Watch out, sonny. Papa will spank.”
    “Papa will be worried if you’re not home for supper.” Smiling as if he almost meant this, Robin stepped forward and started cutting the ivy away with his long hunting knife.
    “Come on,” said Little John to the others. Several of them stepped forward to help.