The Ghosts of Sherwood (The Robin Hood Stories 1)

“How?”

One of the men spoke. “I don’t like this, Edmund. Nothing’s gone right, and it’s dangerous, staying the night here.”

“There’s nothing here can harm us.”

“There’s Robin Hood.”

There it was, an icy stillness, a stab of fear. The men glanced into the darkness among the trees, and fists squeezed on the grips of swords.

“Robin Hood is a myth,” Edmund said, scowling. “There were only ever thieves and cowards here. Robin of Locksley is an old man who can’t stop us.” But Robin of Locksley was Robin Hood; he all but admitted it, speaking both names together. Edmund’s men were not set at ease.

“That man who fell out of the trees—who was he, then?”

“Just some outlaw—”

“What if it was one of Robin Hood’s men? What if he’s gone to get others—”

“And if you’d bloody found him and cut his throat like you were supposed to, we’d know he hadn’t! He’s bled out in a ditch by now. He’s nobody.”

Mary looked at John out of the corner of her eye, and he was looking back at her, jaw set and eyes blazing. And on her other side, Eleanor—Eleanor was undoing the knots in the rope around her hands. Slipping right out of the bindings by some magical process. Maybe they hadn’t bothered binding her very tightly; after all, she was only a little girl. But no, she was simply escaping. As Mother had said, Eleanor didn’t get distracted.

Mary spoke very softly. “Get help. Follow the stream back to the mill and find Uncle Much, get help.”

Eleanor shook her head, glanced at the ruffians for a moment, and smiled a familiar, wicked smile.

Mary held her breath. Eleanor had always done exactly as she wished in the end. “Be careful.”

Eleanor dropped the ropes and crept behind the oak, into the dark.

“What’s she doing?” John whispered.

“Shh.” They couldn’t talk. They couldn’t draw attention. Eleanor had a plan, God knew what and how stupid it would be. The men would notice she was gone sooner rather than later, and she needed to be well away—

Unless they didn’t notice. Bow and arrow had never been their father’s only weapon.

Bracing her shoulder against the trunk, Mary got her feet under her and levered herself to standing. Took some doing, with her hands bound, but she managed to stand straight, as if she had some measure of control.

“Hey there, what’re you doing?” one of the men called, and the rest looked.

“You’re risking much, making your camp here,” she said. “These woods are haunted.”

“Then why aren’t you afraid?” Edmund asked, chuckling.

“Sherwood knows who we are. It knows our blood, and we have its sap in our bones. We’re safe.” She smiled. Her father’s wicked smile. “But you’re outsiders, and you know the stories.”

A silent moment followed; the fire crackled, popped.

Edmund laughed nervously. “Silly brat, thinking you can frighten us.”

She went on; she couldn’t not. “You should be frightened.”

Happily, wonderfully, a fox cried, a sound like a man being strangled. One of the men gasped; they all jumped, even Edmund. This drove him to a rage, and he marched across the camp and grabbed her by the throat to pin her against the tree. It happened so quickly, she hardly knew what to think, just that her vision swam and her breath suddenly stopped up.

John shouted a defense, tried to throw himself bodily at their attacker, who simply kicked him away.

Edmund’s smiling voice held a vicious edge. “You’re a pretty one under all that provincial dirt, aren’t you? Maybe we could sell you off. Marry you to some loyal baron’s son, keep you under our thumb that way, hm?”

She would spit at him but her mouth was too dry and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath.