Little John, standing almost seven feet tall, reached up to lift vines away from the rider, but the youngster pulled back from him.
“Get your foul hands off of me!”
The boy should have remained silent. His voice cracked and squeaked. The outlaws laughed anew. Chuckling, Robin joined Little John. “Now, be careful,” he told him, owlish. “Do be careful, Little John, lest yon fierce warrior take offense at your foul hands.”
“Ay, by my poor old body, we can’t have foul hands touching a Nottingham.”
The two of them untangled the boy and lifted him off the horse as he thrashed and windmilled and struggled against them. “I do not yield!” he cried. He wore a short sword but did not think to reach for it, just squirmed and flailed like an eel. “Let me go!” he yelled. “You let me go, or my father will kill you all!”
“Spitfire!” Robin exclaimed, grinning, as they laid the boy on the ground and took the sword away. “What are we going to do with him, merry men?”
Outlaws yelled suggestions, some of them more serious than others.
“Dance a reel on him!”
“Give him a shave with a blunt arrowhead.”
“Spank him and send him back to his papa.”
“Hold him for ransom.”
“Hold him hostage.”
“Give him a Sherwood Forest welcome.”
Then spoke a different voice, a thick panting voice Rook barely recognized as his own, although he felt it bursting like a wild boar out of the sharp, tangled wilderness in his chest. “Kill him.”
Robin Hood swung around, crouching to flee or fight, his face a pale, startled oval. The other outlaws snatched at their bows. For a heartbeat there was silence like a scream.
“Rook, lad,” Robin said almost in a gasp. “You took us unawares. Put a feather in your cap for that.” He stood tall again, and the ruddy color returned to his cheeks. “If you ever wear a cap.”
Rook paid Robin no heed. All his thoughts were for the Sheriff’s son. He felt the skinny, freckle-faced boy staring up at him from the ground, could almost hear him thinking the scornful thoughts of an aristocrat:
He’s filthy, he smells, keep him away from me
. Proud son of Nottingham. “Kill him,” Rook repeated, his voice as dark and clotted as the brambles in his heart.
“What, Rook, do you think we’d kill a child? To eat, perchance?” Robin recovered his grin. “Nay, there’ll be a feast in his honor tonight. Tell Rowan and the others, will you?”
Rook said nothing, only glared at the boy on the ground. The boy stared back at him, his narrow face white and hard. A child? Rook himself stood no taller, no older, no stronger, but he knew himself to be no child. He was an outlaw, and like a wolf he could be killed by anyone who cared to carry his severed head to Nottingham for a reward, and like a wolf he would kill. He would kill this freckled, snotty brat if he got a chance.
Two
T hat night, fresh ember-baked trout tasted like wood to Rook. Instead of eating, he leaned against the stones that formed a natural wall around the rowan hollow, watching as the others ate. Watching Rowan, who seemed to think always of the others, lay her portion aside to place more wood on the fire. Watching Lionel, the overgrown lummox, gulp his dinner, bones and all. Watching Beau, the newcomer, pick at her food and talk. Beau loved to talk. “
Mon foi
, this is a stout trout,” she declared to no one in particular. “A trout
femme, n’est-ce pas
?”
“Only you,” complained Lionel, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, “would want to know whether your dinner was a girl trout or a boy trout.”
“
Mais quel dommage
, a shame if one cannot tell,
oui
?”
Beau still wore the crimson tunic and yellow leggings of the high king’s page boy. Many had not known she was a girl. Soberly Lionel turned her joke against her. “Sometimes people just can’t tell, Belle.”
Beau straightened, her black eyes flashing. “You no call me Belle!”
“But my dear Belle,” protested Lionel
“Get your foul hands off of me!”
The boy should have remained silent. His voice cracked and squeaked. The outlaws laughed anew. Chuckling, Robin joined Little John. “Now, be careful,” he told him, owlish. “Do be careful, Little John, lest yon fierce warrior take offense at your foul hands.”
“Ay, by my poor old body, we can’t have foul hands touching a Nottingham.”
The two of them untangled the boy and lifted him off the horse as he thrashed and windmilled and struggled against them. “I do not yield!” he cried. He wore a short sword but did not think to reach for it, just squirmed and flailed like an eel. “Let me go!” he yelled. “You let me go, or my father will kill you all!”
“Spitfire!” Robin exclaimed, grinning, as they laid the boy on the ground and took the sword away. “What are we going to do with him, merry men?”
Outlaws yelled suggestions, some of them more serious than others.
“Dance a reel on him!”
“Give him a shave with a blunt arrowhead.”
“Spank him and send him back to his papa.”
“Hold him for ransom.”
“Hold him hostage.”
“Give him a Sherwood Forest welcome.”
Then spoke a different voice, a thick panting voice Rook barely recognized as his own, although he felt it bursting like a wild boar out of the sharp, tangled wilderness in his chest. “Kill him.”
Robin Hood swung around, crouching to flee or fight, his face a pale, startled oval. The other outlaws snatched at their bows. For a heartbeat there was silence like a scream.
“Rook, lad,” Robin said almost in a gasp. “You took us unawares. Put a feather in your cap for that.” He stood tall again, and the ruddy color returned to his cheeks. “If you ever wear a cap.”
Rook paid Robin no heed. All his thoughts were for the Sheriff’s son. He felt the skinny, freckle-faced boy staring up at him from the ground, could almost hear him thinking the scornful thoughts of an aristocrat:
He’s filthy, he smells, keep him away from me
. Proud son of Nottingham. “Kill him,” Rook repeated, his voice as dark and clotted as the brambles in his heart.
“What, Rook, do you think we’d kill a child? To eat, perchance?” Robin recovered his grin. “Nay, there’ll be a feast in his honor tonight. Tell Rowan and the others, will you?”
Rook said nothing, only glared at the boy on the ground. The boy stared back at him, his narrow face white and hard. A child? Rook himself stood no taller, no older, no stronger, but he knew himself to be no child. He was an outlaw, and like a wolf he could be killed by anyone who cared to carry his severed head to Nottingham for a reward, and like a wolf he would kill. He would kill this freckled, snotty brat if he got a chance.
Two
T hat night, fresh ember-baked trout tasted like wood to Rook. Instead of eating, he leaned against the stones that formed a natural wall around the rowan hollow, watching as the others ate. Watching Rowan, who seemed to think always of the others, lay her portion aside to place more wood on the fire. Watching Lionel, the overgrown lummox, gulp his dinner, bones and all. Watching Beau, the newcomer, pick at her food and talk. Beau loved to talk. “
Mon foi
, this is a stout trout,” she declared to no one in particular. “A trout
femme, n’est-ce pas
?”
“Only you,” complained Lionel, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, “would want to know whether your dinner was a girl trout or a boy trout.”
“
Mais quel dommage
, a shame if one cannot tell,
oui
?”
Beau still wore the crimson tunic and yellow leggings of the high king’s page boy. Many had not known she was a girl. Soberly Lionel turned her joke against her. “Sometimes people just can’t tell, Belle.”
Beau straightened, her black eyes flashing. “You no call me Belle!”
“But my dear Belle,” protested Lionel
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