Robber's Ward

A Mirror, Mirror (1995) meets Snow Queen (2002) fanfiction

"Let me go!" squealed Jo as Campbell dragged her, kicking and flailing, through a cove of trees and into the robber encampment.

It didn't do any good in the end – the man had the strength of a bloody gorilla.

She'd thought, when he first grabbed her, Campbell himself – in his mishmash collection of old patches over once-fine clothing – was the leader of these autumn-forest robbers, but apparently he wasn't.

There was no mistaking Sir Ivor Creevey-Thorne, the man who stood in the middle of the camp in a waistcoat that looked too clean for his surroundings, for anything but their leader when she saw him, however. It was so obvious all these other men deferred to him. This didn't strike her as lucky, even if he was less goonish and posher – more the so-called gentleman – than the others, because he had hard, glittering eyes and an insincere smile displaying far too many teeth.

"What have you got there, Campbell?"

"Joshua Iredale's daughter – found'er wandering about in our part of the forest."

Ivor stepped closer, eyes narrowing. His smile vanished, replaced by a scowl.

Jo scowled right back.

There was something wadded in her clenched hand. Ivor reached out and pried her fingers open, forcing her to give it to him. It turned out to be nothing more impressive than a handkerchief.

"She's not Miss Iredale," he said flatly, taking in her short hair and slight slouch. He'd met Joshua's brat once – her name was Lucy or else something similar enough – and she was pale with long hair and a haughty bearing to match her father's.

Campbell looked from his master to his captive, flummoxed. "She must be. She's wearing the girl's pinafore. Have a look at the handkerchief, Sir Ivor – that'll be the initials, L.I., sure as anythin'. She'll fetch a handsome bit of ransom money and no mistake."

"He's right," Jo blurted. "I'm not Louisa Iredale – my name's Jo. Jo Tiegan. Nobody's gonna pay anything for me."

About here, someone was edging between the robbers – someone younger (perhaps only sixteen) and dressed in clothes which were probably cast-offs from Ivor's wardrobe, because they were good quality but fitted him rather ill – and peering at Jo with obvious curiosity. The loot the robbers had brought in hadn't warranted much of his attention – it consisted entirely of things he'd seen dragged through the camp many times before – but he was interested in seeing what happened with her.

Ivor's nostrils twitched. "Might as well toss you in the cooking pot, then. The men need to eat."

Blanching, Jo squeaked, "Hang on – the Iredales could pay something. You never know."

Ignoring this, he snapped his fingers at Campbell. "Oh, and make certain you add garlic and onion when the water's to the boil, there's a good fellow – she smells off. But I suppose she'll do nicely as an entree for the underlings."

The boy who'd been watching them walked out in front of Campbell, standing between him and the pot.

"You are not cooking her!"

"Nicholas," sighed Ivor, rolling his eyes. "Do get out of the way."

Campbell frowned. "That's my dinner, your highness."

"No," Nicholas protested, his blue eyes flitting to where she was nearly crushed under Campbell's beefy arm. "I require a friend. There is no one my own age to play with."

"Come now. Did your parents never teach you," Ivor simpered, "not to play with your food?"

"I command you to let me have a peer group."

Command me? He almost laughed. "She's not a peer group; she's soup for my lackeys."

Nicholas reached over and pushed at Campbell's arm imperiously. "Let her go, I say."

"Nicholas!" Ivor snapped.

"May I keep her or not?" His eyebrows lifted.

He sighed mightily, as if his patience were being tested beyond any reasonable point. "You'd try a saint, my boy."

"I am not your boy, and you are not a saint."

Sucking his teeth, Ivor muttered that he supposed, if there were any rabbits in the traps, the servants could do without the girl for now. Perhaps they could do a curry. The men would enjoy that.

"You heard him, Campbell, let her go – she'll accompany me."

Jo sagged with relief and mouthed, "Thanks."

To her chilling dismay, however, as she tossed her head back and made to follow Nicholas, Sir Ivor caught her by the elbow. "I didn't let them kill you because my ward required a distraction. If you cross me, don't for a minute imagine I won't do it myself."

Nicholas snagged her other arm and gave it a gentle tug. "This way."

She followed him to a tent a little ways off from the others. It was a nice tent, if you ignored the fact that all the nice things in it were stolen from others who might not have been substituted for a rabbit as she'd just been.

"Your dad must have robbed a lot of people," Jo mused aloud, sitting on a cushion and picking anxiously at a loose tassel.

"Sir Ivor isn't my father," said Nicholas, and he dropped something onto her head.

It was a hat with a wide brim and golden embroidery around the edge. Too big for her, it slid over her eyes, and she pushed it back to regard him from underneath it. "Oh, yeah, that's right – he said ward." She blinked, adjusting the hat so it didn't fall forward again and block her view. "Who are you?"

He wouldn't tell her. Instead, he shook his head, smiled, and said, "That hat suits you."