CHAPTER THREE
As quickly as the starlings had flown, all those by the fire leapt up, reached for their weapons, then ran and vanished amid the trees. Rowan moved swiftly with them, but behind her, she heard Lionel struggling to his feet, then blundering loudly after them. She cursed silently. She and the others had a knack for disappearing like spirits in the woods, moving silently, their slim bodies in brown leggings and green jerkins almost invisible, at one with oak and blackthorn. But big Lionel in his bright yellow tunic and red hose stuck out! The sounds of him crashing like a charging boar through bracken and fallen cherry leaves were clear and distinct, and Rowan could make out hoofbeats coming near, nearer.
Even though her instincts told her to dart away and hide swiftly, she could not leave Lionel to fend for himself. She had to protect him! Turning, she rushed back and grabbed his hand. "This way." She towed him at a run into the oaks, her heart racing like the wings of a hummingbird. Had they come far enough? Well, this would have to do. The horses hoofbeats were first approaching, and Lionel must be hidden. Rowan whispered, "Down!" and shoved him flat on the ground. She threw her brown mantle over him and strewed him with leaves. She could hear Tykell close by, growling like a hive of bees. Rowan slipped behind an oak near Lionel's head, bow and arrow at the ready, motionless. From where she stood, she had a clear view of the campfire from which they had just fled. Her grip on her bow and arrows tightened as she struggled to suppress her fear. She did not want to have to shoot, but if they were threatened, she would have no other choice.
Rowan felt her heart stop as a black monster horse with two heads leapt over the fire.
Or so it seemed at first—a monster, a two-headed black horse thing, an apparition worthy of a very bad night's sleep. It was Guy of Gisborn, the kingdom's most infamous bounty hunter, on his giant black steed in his armor of black horsehide, his thin-lipped face visored by the dead horse's head, mane, ears, sunken eyes and all. Rowan had nothing but bad memories of this man, the man who had been the first one to declare her an outlaw. Her lips twitched slightly as she remembered how she had shot a poorly made arrow at him, arrows she had used before the aelfe gifted her with the strong, powerful bow and arrows she now wielded. Oh, how young she had been then, young and naive.
Broadsword in hand, Gisborn slashed at the camp-fire as if it had offended him, scattering the blazing sticks. With his other hand he curbed his lathered steed, his black-gloved fist hauling the reins. "Sirrah minstrel!" he roared to the forest, his voice booming out from under the black horse skull that shadowed his face. "Coward harp plucker!"
From a dense stand of oak and elm beyond Gisborn floated three clear, silver notes—Robin Hood's horn summoning his merry men to his aid; and letting Gisborn know that "sirrah minstrel" had help and friends. Rowan felt weak with relief at the sound, and her heart soared. Help was on the way. Perhaps this would force Gisborn to retreat.
With a snarl, Gisborn wheeled his foaming steed. "So, the cock-robin bow plucker too?" he shouted. "Bah. My curse on you and all your so-called merry men."
Rowan's blood boiled with anger at the insult, but she forced herself to remain motionless behind the oak, her bow at the ready. If Gisborn wanted a rise out of the outlaws, she was not about to give it to him.
Gisborn's prancing, frightened horse circled the fire as Gisborn glared into the forest all around him. "Sirrah so-called minstrel! Come forth and face me before I slay you and all your outlaw friends."
Face Guy of Gisborn? No one in their right mind would want to willingly do that. Rowan sensed Lionel's fear emanating from where he lay on the ground. Silently, she prayed that he would remain quiet and still. He must not be caught! Gisborn swept his eyes over the oaks, past Lionel and over the tree that hid Rowan. She felt her heart pounding with renewed fear. Lady have mercy, she prayed silently. She might be able to protect herself and her friends from Gisborn, but that did not make him any less menacing.
"Lionel." Gisborn's snarling voice made a mockery of the name. "I know you're there. I can smell your fat, craven, quaking body. Show yourself!"
Rowan clenched her teeth with rage. Don't move, don't attack him, even though you want to, she repeated to herself again and again. Oh, but at this distance she could drive an arrow right through the eyeslit of his helmet. Perhaps, if she was lucky, it would go in at the right angle to pierce his brain. But no, she mustn't. She was no killer, and was not about to become one. She stayed immobile. Only echoes and the rustling of dry leaves in the breeze answered Gisborn.
"Well," said the outlaw hunter in a softer, even nastier voice, "I think your mother was no honest woman, harp plucker."
Glancing at Lionel, Rowan saw his body tense under her mantle. Toads take him, at the mention of his mother he was ready to spring out and face Gisborn. She could not allow him to; Gisborn would crush him as easily as he would squash a gnat! In a voice no louder than the breeze in the leaves, she whispered, "Lie still."
"Therefore I title thee bastard, harp plucker," Gisborn's voice boomed, "for surely you are not your father's son. And when I find you and take you prisoner, I shall bloody your back with the flat of my sword, for you are a low-born churl, not worthy of my blade. You and any other vermin outlaw lurking in my hearing. Farewell for now, bastards all." Gisborn spurred his horse into a low rear, wheeled, and leapt over the remnants of the fire. The horse screamed as it galloped away.
Lionel let out his breath with a gasp almost like a sob.
"Stay where you are," Rowan whispered. They were not safe yet. Gisborn might be trying to lure them out into the open. His threats were by no means empty.
To her relief, Lionel obeyed her. But as if Guy of Gisborn and all his threats meant nothing, the wild boy walked out of hiding and crouched by the fire, searching the ashes with his bare hands.
Toads, what was he thinking of? Was he mad? Gisborn could come back at any moment! What if he had soldiers with him? They could be lurking anywhere. Rowan watched, then relaxed, lowering her bow. Gisborn was gone for now. But really, the wild boy should have more sense. Was his fish really worth the possibility of being caught by surprise and attacked? Aloud, she said, "Toads have mercy." It was her favored oath, and she seldom swore by anything stronger. "Toads," she complained again of the wild boy, "he wants his breakfast. Get up, Lionel. Your hair is full of leaves."
Slowly, cautiously, Lionel rose to his feet while Etty came out from the elm she had been hiding behind. "Oh, thank goodness that brute is gone!" she sighed in relief.
Rowan said nothing. Absently, she reached up to brush the leaves out of Lionel's curly hair.
"Are you all right?" Etty asked him anxiously.
He nodded shakily. "I can't believe that, that creature came here and, and," he spluttered, indignant and peevish.
The wild boy straightened up from where he had been digging through the fire, his trout in his hands. "We should go," he said flatly.
"Yes, you're right," Rowan agreed. She glanced around, looking for her father, but he had already slipped away like a shadow, probably after watching to make sure they were all safe.
Not wanting to waste any more time, the band began their trek back to the hollow that was their home.
"Your father sent him," said the wild boy, his low voice as burry as a thistle.
Safe in an oak grove on their way back, Lionel and Rowan and Ettarde had been talking of Gisborn when the wild boy forsook the fish he was gnawing and spoke. Rowan stared at him. Lionel and Etty stared. Even Tykell raised his furry head and stared. What could he mean? Rowan wondered. And how did he know that Lord Lionclaw sent Gisborn after them? Lionel, specifically. Through black hair that fell over his eyes, as shaggy as a moorland pony's forelock, the wild boy stared back, a cooked, cold, somewhat trampled trout in his hands.
"I heard," he said in answer to their stares.
They waited for more. The wild boy gulped fish.
"Heard what?" Rowan prompted after a while. "Where?" She was eager for answers.
"Fountain Dale."
"You were fishing in the stream below Fountain Dale?" That was a dangerous place. One could easily be spotted there by whoever was passing through. Rowan was suddenly anxious.
The wild boy spit out trout bones and tossed them over his shoulder before nodding. He had no manners and almost no clothing. Bare chest, bare legs, bare feet with soles almost as hard as horn. Rowan wondered distractedly if he would go thusly all winter, when the days and night were freezing and snow covered the ground.
"And?" Rowan urged, wanting to know more.
"Gisborn stopped to water his horse."
"Toads! Did he see you?" Why must the idiot fish there? It was not safe! It was a miracle he hadn't already been caught.
The wild boy answered only with a look that said of course not. He threw aside the mangled spine of one trout and reached for another. He said, "On the Nottingham Way came Lionclaw in a rage, his men shaking."
Rowan could imagine the lord's fury as Robin's men sent him away with much jesting and mockery: how his clawed hands had gripped his horses reins, and how he had probably lashed out at his terrified soldiers.
"I listened," said the wild boy, and he turned to Lionel, looking at him with his strange eyes, dark and hot, like the coals of a fire. He gazed but did not speak.
With his best pout Lionel simpered, "Well, tell me what they said, my dear fellow."
"Don't call me that."
"Then say your name!" Lionel spoke with such force and anger that it shocked Rowan, along with everyone else. He leaned toward the wild boy. "You are a member of the band." On the wild boy's skinny, naked chest, suspended on a thong of deerhide, gleamed the silver circle that said so. "You know our names; tell us yours!"
They were all silent, so silent that the sound of acorns falling, crows calling, and a chill autumn wind hissing through the oaks could clearly be heard. Lionel's sudden anger had changed his voice, making it deeper and surer.
What is happening? Rowan thought uneasily. This was very unlike Lionel, and it felt wrong. She watched him curiously, wondering what he would do next. He suddenly pulled his big bony knees to his chest, curling himself up as if he were trying to hide and protect himself.
Still staring at him with eyes like black embers, the wild boy said a single word: "Rook."
"Rook?" Lionel repeated, sounding nonplussed.
"Yes."
"That's your name?"
"Yes."
Lionel had his whine back now. "But a rook's a bird, my'" He broke off abruptly.
"Yes," said the wild boy, "and a lion is a beast."
Rook. She liked it, Rowan decided. It suited the wild boy. Quietly she said, "Rook. That's a guardian bird. It's a good name."
"The rook is a cousin of the crow and the jackdaw," said Etty with a quirk in her voice, mocking her own scholarly knowledge. She put aside her portion of fish, placing it tidily upon a dock leaf, and wiped her hands on a muslin kerchief she kept tucked in her sleeve for that purpose.
Rowan would never stop wondering at Ettarde's ladylike mannerisms, especially in such a rugged setting as Sherwood Forest. She was an outlaw, for goodness sake!
Meanwhile, Etty held forth with a smile. "The word rook also signifies a watchtower and the chess piece more commonly known as a castle."
Rowan turned to Etty, bright-eyed. "Lion," she urged. "What do you know about lions? Are they real?" Perhaps hearing more about the animal that was his father's device would give Lionel strength and fortitude.
"Of course not," Lionel complained before Ettarde could answer. "Who has ever seen a lion? They're like unicorns. I'd rather be named after anything else."
As if he had not spoken, Etty reported to Rowan, "According to Pliny the Elder in his Natural History, the lion sleeps with his eyes open, roams barren wilderness, fears nothing but scorpions, and charms his prey by drawing a circle in the sand with his barbed tail."
Rowan exclaimed, "He has those great teeth and great claws, yet he charms his prey?" She was astounded by such strange, unusual behavior. The lion was quite an extraordinary creature, forsooth.
"Somebody tell that to my father," Lionel grumbled. "There's nothing charming about him."
He was certainly right about Lord Lionclaw, but there was something charming about Lionel, in a surprising and unexpected way.
Turning to the wild boy, Lionel said, "Rook. You said my father sent Gisborn to frighten me."
Rowan picked up a stick of kindling wood and pulled her hunting knife from its deerhide sheath at her belt. Automatically, she started to whittle, thinking hard. She was not worried, exactly, but she certainly felt uneasy. If Lord Roderick had sent Guy of Gisborn to hunt down Lionel, there had to be more to it than just frightening him. Gisborn could frighten someone just by being in his presence. No, there had to be more going on here. What was Lionel's father trying to accomplish?
Without missing a bite, Rook looked up at Lionel, the whites of his eyes flashing under his dark brows. "No."
"No? But you said'"
"No, not frighten you. Kill you."
Rowan felt her heart stop as the blood drained from her face.
A/N: Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please just click that little button that is waving at you… it is calling your name…
