Rowan Hood Returns (4 page)

Men-at-arms on foot surrounded her, so tall that she blinked not at their faces, but at their strong chests, their tabards bound shoulder to waist with black sashes that formed an X.

“Where is Princess Ettarde?” demanded the commanding voice.

Blinking, still trying to understand what was happening, Rowan did not answer.

The captain roared, “Speak up, outlaw girl, or you'll feel the flat of my hand across your face! Where is Princess Ettarde?”

Oh. They were Lord Marcus's men. Looking for Etty. Pure stubbornness on the part of Lord Marcus, as Etty was hardly worth retaking; she was now a princess in name only. Her father's petty kingdom had indeed fallen to Lord Basil, Etty had told Ro, and her father had met death more honorably than anyone could have expected. Rather than letting his people's blood be shed, King Solon—the scholar who could barely lift a sword—had himself defied Lord Basil at the gates, and had been killed.

Thinking this, thinking of how Etty had almost cried as she had spoken of it, Rowan gawked up at her captors, wordless.

“The girl's no outlaw, dozing in the sun,” said another man's voice. “She's a simpleton. A beggar, belike, or a goose girl.”

“A goose girl with a bow and peacock-feathered arrows?” retorted the leader. “And a kirtle of Lincoln green, and deerskin boots?”

“But look at her lackwit eyes. This can't be Rowan Hood. Perhaps this simpleton stole the—”

Hooves drummed on the rocky slope above their heads. The men's hands jumped on Rowan's arms as they startled, all of them turning and kinking their necks to look.

About an arrow's flight away, a white pony trotted into sight on the crest of the rocky scarp. On the pony rode a lovely—girl, in her belted tunic unmistakably a girl, even though upon her head she wore a shining half-helm.

Rowan felt her eyes widen and her jaw drop in a manner appropriate to a lackwit. She almost shouted the girl's name out loud:
Ettarde!

“Princess!” bellowed the captain.

The runaway princess halted Dove. A grotesquely hued garment was that tunic she wore, mottled purplish-brown—the color of an engorged flea, actually. One of Beau's masterpieces. Now that Beau was no longer forced to wear “black and black and
toujours
black,” the bumptious girl “adored to
couleur”
clothing such as this unfortunate tunic. But Ettarde wore the unlovely thing with the dignity of a true princess. From her pony's saddle she scanned her uncle's men with her usual tranquility.

The captain bellowed, “Princess, I order you to—”

Etty did not await her orders. Without a word she wheeled the pony and cantered out of sight over the hilltop.

“To horse!” roared the captain. “After her!”

All the hands clutching Rowan fell away so suddenly that her arms felt curiously light, lifting like wings. She found herself standing alone while a great deal of crashing and rattling ensued in the hemlock grove to either side of her: the men-at-arms struggling to locate their concealed horses, untether them and mount them.

From somewhere close at hand a low, gruff voice said, “Rowan, come on.”

Dazedly Rowan glanced around, looking for him, but just then half a dozen men on horseback burst out of the hemlocks and galloped up the hill after Etty, with the shouting captain in the lead.

The horses lunged, hooves clawing at the steep slope, spraying dirt and gravel. But once they got to the top... These steeds were far larger, longer of leg than the pony Etty rode.

Marcus's soldiers must not catch her!

Rowan snatched for her bow.

“Cuckoo in your nest, get out of
sight,”
said the voice that sounded like Rook's, although for him “cuckoo in your nest” was overspending of speech.

Ignoring him, Rowan struggled to nock an arrow to the bowstring.

A wolfish roar made her jump, dropping the arrow. Gawking, Rowan saw a large comet of gray-brown fur fly out from between the oaks at the top of the rise, cutting off the cavalcade, launching itself toothily at the first horse's big pink nose.

The horse shrieked and reared.

“Tykell!” Rowan screamed at the same time.

Straight up in the air to save its tender nostrils, the horse dumped its rider, then fell over backward, almost on top of him. Belly floundering, hooves flailing, it struggled to regain its footing on the slope. The other horses swirled and plunged; their riders shouted, trying to control their mounts and at the same time draw their swords. Tykell lunged again—

And Rowan saw no more, for someone very large and strong picked her up, bow and arrows and all, whisking her off in the opposite direction, into the cover of the hemlocks.

“Lionel, let me go!” Once before, when the Sheriff of Nottingham's men had roped her arms to her sides, wrapping her like a bobbin, Rowan had been carried off bodily by Lionel, and that had been one time too many. “Tykell—”

“You know Ty can take care of himself.” Cradling her effortlessly in his arms, Lionel strode on.

“Put me
down!”

Lionel merely lengthened his stride.

But not in the right direction,
Rowan thought. She squirmed, fighting his grip. “Where are you going? We have to help
Etty.”

“Dolt, Etty's helping
you,”
said Rook's gritty voice from somewhere near Lionel's elbow.

“I'm right here,” said another voice, the dulcet voice of a princess. Without rustling so much as a single twig, Etty emerged from the brush to join them.

W
hy, Ettarde, my dear little princess.“Lionel halted, set Rowan on her feet and gave Etty an exaggerated bow, sweeping off an imaginary hat to greet her. ”Fancy meeting you in such an out-of-the-way—”

“Hush, buffoon.” Not even bothering to scowl at Lionel, Etty instead gave Rowan her most placid smile. She still wore her oddly colored tunic, but what had become of her helm? Her brown hair streamed down around her shoulders.

Rowan blinked and shook her head, feeling unsteady on her feet for some reason. “What's going on?”

“I jumped off Dove and gave Beau my helm,” Etty explained with quiet enjoyment. “She—”

“Keep moving,” growled Rook, several paces ahead of the rest of them, looking back over his shoulder. There was no fear that Lord Marcus's men-at-arms would hear them talking; the soldiers were making a great deal of noise on their own account, and that commotion was already fading far behind. Still, Rook looked not nearly as tranquil as Etty.

“Goodness gracious, my dear little lad...” Lionel strode forward to join Rook. Rowan hitched herself into motion and walked, feeling stiff, limping.

Strolling beside Rowan, Etty continued her tale. “Beau jammed my helm onto her head, jumped onto Dove and galloped off while I slipped into the bushes. She'll lead my uncle's men in a merry chase. If they catch sight of her whatsoever, all they'll see is her white pony and her shiny helm and her tunic, and they'll think she's me. She was wearing another of these dreadful archil tunics—”

Trust Etty to know the correct name for the purplish color made with dye from lichens. And trust her to remember it even now.

Even though Beau was in peril.

Rowan blurted, “But what if they
catch
her?”

“They won't.” Yet, like a roe deer testing the air for the scent or sound of danger, Ettarde lifted her elegant head and turned it from side to side, hearkening.

Rowan listened also, with dread in her heart. But she heard no one screaming, no one crying out. Only soft forest sounds. Only wagtail birds twittering, and a west wind soughing in the tall oak trees.

“Beau rides like a spirit of the wind,” Etty added.

Rowan trudged on without answering.

“At the very worst,” Etty said, “she will let Dove gallop onward while she climbs a tree. You know Beau climbs like a squirrel.”

For one who sounded not at all concerned, Rowan thought, Etty was talking a great deal.

“Beau thought out the plan,” Etty chatted on. “She told us where to meet her.”

But what had happened to send them scheming and scrambling to help her, Rowan, while she slept? All of them Beau, Etty, Lionel, Rook, putting themselves in harm's way for her sake? Rowan felt—

From farther ahead Rook called, “Rowan.” In his low voice, worry spoke plainer than it did in Etty's. “Rowan, can you walk faster?”

“Yes.” Quickening her pace, Rowan managed a painful trot for a few moments, struggling to catch up with the others.

“My dear little lass,” Lionel offered in his most cheerfully annoying courtly tone, “let me give you a lift.”

Rowan felt like a useless fool. “Stop it, Lionel,” she told him between clenched teeth. “I can
walk.”

But she couldn't.

Within the short span of what was left of the morning, she learned that she couldn't accomplish even such a simple thing as walking.

The sun bloomed like a golden flower never bowed by the wind, straight up in the apex of the sky; day had not even passed into afternoon, yet Rowan staggered as if battling her way through a stormy night. Perhaps for her sake, Rook and Lionel had led the way to the easiest ground in Sherwood, a grassy forest path made by deer along the soft bottom of a valley. And they had slowed the pace almost to a shuffle, glancing back over their shoulders at her. Yet Rowan could barely keep up.

With a “Wuff!” of greeting, Tykell trotted out of a thorn thicket to join Rowan, nosing her hand. Rowan felt something tighten like a bowstring inside her throat. Placing her hand on the wolf-dog's thickly furred back, she leaned sideward, resting her weight on Ty for a moment. Her aching legs—they had never felt this weak before.

Her friends stopped and watched her, waiting for her to move on, their silence bespeaking their worry for her more plainly than words.

Letting go of Ty, Rowan focused all the force of her mind and will upon making her faltering legs move and walk. With her gaze fixed on the ground under her next step, then her next, then her next, she plodded on. If it had been just her legs that hurt—but it was more. Every inward fiber of her ached.
Mother. Dead. While those who had killed her still lived.
And it was even more than that.
There's something wrong with me.
Rowan's heart felt like a black hollow of misery.

Her toe caught on—nothing at all, nothing but flat grassy ground—and she fell sprawling, facedown, her breath knocked out.

Biting her lip to keep from crying like an overgrown baby, Rowan lay still for a moment too long. Before she could struggle to her feet, strong arms lifted her up, but did not set her on her feet. The big lummox was carrying her again.

“Lionel,” ordered Rowan wearily, “put me down.”

Without a word he strode onward, cradling her in his arms. Without a word Rook trotted by Lionel's left elbow, and Etty by his right. Tykell swished away into the brush on some errand of his own.

“I can walk,” Rowan insisted.

“But I beg to differ. It's quite evident that you can't,” said Lionel with none of his usual petulance. His low voice sounded almost grim. “What's wrong, Rowan?”

“I ...” She had to close her eyes. “I don't know.”

“But you must have
some
idea,” he said, annoying as usual again, “my dear little girl—”

A blaze of anger jolted Rowan with welcome strength. She squirmed, trying to free herself from Lionel's arms; he was forced to slow down a bit to keep hold of her. “If you
ever
call me ‘dear little girl' again,” she told him between clenched teeth, “I will shave every curly hair off your parlous fat head with Etty's sword.”

With an odd catch in his voice, Lionel told her, “May that day come soon. My dear little girl.”

 

Rowan lost track of the passing of time. Joggling along in Lionel's giant grip made her feel dizzy. She closed her eyes again and kept them closed. Perhaps she slept. When she opened her eyes again and looked around, day had moved on toward late afternoon, and Rowan recognized the familiar slope down which Lionel was carrying her. They were entering the hollow folk called Robin Hood's Dell.

“What are we going here for?” Rowan demanded.

“For my hands to cramp and my arms to ache from hauling you,” Lionel retorted in his best babyish whine, although he strode along as easily as ever.

“No, I mean, why
here?”
This time it was strength of panic that helped Rowan wriggle in his grip, almost sitting up straight.