others.
Tod stood in the middle of the road with Robin Hood by his side. They waited.
Nottingham rounded the curve—and saw them.
Hand on Tod’s shoulder, Robin called, “Sir Sheriff!”
It was the signal. The outlaws stepped forward, just out of their leafy cover, presenting a score of arrows nocked to fly. Nottingham yanked his charger to a halt, his armor jangling, and his patrol stopped behind him.
“An exchange of prisoners, Sir Sheriff, if you please,” said Robin Hood.
Staring at Tod, the Sheriff barely blinked.
“Your son,” said Robin.
“For your daughter?” At first the Sheriff’s meaty face creased; then he roared with raging laughter. “You think I want my wretched runt of a son? That horse thief? Do you think I care what you do to him?”
Rook heard a strange, choked sound he could not at first understand. Had it come from Tod? Yes. The Sheriff’s son, he who had not whimpered in the man trap—now he cried out in pain.
And his father seemed not to notice at all, his narrow glittering stare on Robin Hood. “No, there’s only one head I want for your daughter’s,” he said, one hard word at a time between grinning teeth. “Or along with it. Yours!” He lifted a gauntleted hand in sudden angry command. “Kill him! Slay the wolf’s head!”
Robin lunged for the forest, taking Tod with him, crutch and all, shielding the boy with his body as the men-at-arms drew their bows. But a volley of gray goose-fletched arrows from the outlaws flew first.
“Don’t hit Rowan!” Rook tried to shout. His voice came out more like a frog’s croak. But as he spoke, Rowan ran forward to shield herself amid the horses. Or—no, she was weaving between them, winding her tether around their hocks, setting them to bucking. A man-at-arms grabbed her from behind. She twisted out of his grasp and stepped right under his horse to pop up on the other side. With a rope slithering against its belly, the horse reared, dumping the rider. Even with her arms bound tight to her sides, Rowan was keeping her head.
Rook’s terror for her gave him strength to run forward, dagger drawn, with no thought except to cut that rope away from her.
But already he knew he would never reach her. He was too small amid dust and yells and the pounding of his own heart and hooves pounding toward him and someone’s great heavy sword swishing down on him. He would die—
With a roar like that of a maddened bull, something massive charged between him and the sword, knocking it skyward and him onto the ground as it hurtled toward Rowan.
“Lionel! It’s Lionel! Save her,” someone yelled like a lunatic—Rook barely recognized the voice as his own. Struggling up, he saw an arrow
thwok
into the back of Lionel’s shoulder. It appeared to only annoy Lionel.His roar rose to a scream of rage. The mounted guardsman grasping Rowan’s tether confronted him with leveled spear, but Lionel brushed the weapon aside and ran the man down, attacking barehanded like a lion, a bear, a boar, knocking the horse off its feet as he wrenched the rope free. He didn’t give the flattened horse and rider another glance. Wasting no time, he picked up Rowan, rope and all, hugged her to his great chest and barreled off with her, leaping like an elk into Sherwood Forest.
Running in that wilderness, Lionel could outdistance any rider on horseback. Rowan was safe.
“Rook, come on!” Someone grabbed his elbow; it was Beau. “Run!” She yanked him toward the forest.
“Scatter!” Robin Hood shouted, and as if a covey of partridge had burst into flight, Sherwood Forest roiled with confusion. For a long time Rook ran alone and at random, panting, heartbeat pounding in his ears. Sore afraid, even though he knew the Sheriff’s men would not separate for fear of ambush, and could not pursue them all, and could not move amid the trees on horseback as quickly as a man on foot. As Rook ran, he could hear the Sheriff of Nottingham cursing—close behind him at
Tod stood in the middle of the road with Robin Hood by his side. They waited.
Nottingham rounded the curve—and saw them.
Hand on Tod’s shoulder, Robin called, “Sir Sheriff!”
It was the signal. The outlaws stepped forward, just out of their leafy cover, presenting a score of arrows nocked to fly. Nottingham yanked his charger to a halt, his armor jangling, and his patrol stopped behind him.
“An exchange of prisoners, Sir Sheriff, if you please,” said Robin Hood.
Staring at Tod, the Sheriff barely blinked.
“Your son,” said Robin.
“For your daughter?” At first the Sheriff’s meaty face creased; then he roared with raging laughter. “You think I want my wretched runt of a son? That horse thief? Do you think I care what you do to him?”
Rook heard a strange, choked sound he could not at first understand. Had it come from Tod? Yes. The Sheriff’s son, he who had not whimpered in the man trap—now he cried out in pain.
And his father seemed not to notice at all, his narrow glittering stare on Robin Hood. “No, there’s only one head I want for your daughter’s,” he said, one hard word at a time between grinning teeth. “Or along with it. Yours!” He lifted a gauntleted hand in sudden angry command. “Kill him! Slay the wolf’s head!”
Robin lunged for the forest, taking Tod with him, crutch and all, shielding the boy with his body as the men-at-arms drew their bows. But a volley of gray goose-fletched arrows from the outlaws flew first.
“Don’t hit Rowan!” Rook tried to shout. His voice came out more like a frog’s croak. But as he spoke, Rowan ran forward to shield herself amid the horses. Or—no, she was weaving between them, winding her tether around their hocks, setting them to bucking. A man-at-arms grabbed her from behind. She twisted out of his grasp and stepped right under his horse to pop up on the other side. With a rope slithering against its belly, the horse reared, dumping the rider. Even with her arms bound tight to her sides, Rowan was keeping her head.
Rook’s terror for her gave him strength to run forward, dagger drawn, with no thought except to cut that rope away from her.
But already he knew he would never reach her. He was too small amid dust and yells and the pounding of his own heart and hooves pounding toward him and someone’s great heavy sword swishing down on him. He would die—
With a roar like that of a maddened bull, something massive charged between him and the sword, knocking it skyward and him onto the ground as it hurtled toward Rowan.
“Lionel! It’s Lionel! Save her,” someone yelled like a lunatic—Rook barely recognized the voice as his own. Struggling up, he saw an arrow
thwok
into the back of Lionel’s shoulder. It appeared to only annoy Lionel.His roar rose to a scream of rage. The mounted guardsman grasping Rowan’s tether confronted him with leveled spear, but Lionel brushed the weapon aside and ran the man down, attacking barehanded like a lion, a bear, a boar, knocking the horse off its feet as he wrenched the rope free. He didn’t give the flattened horse and rider another glance. Wasting no time, he picked up Rowan, rope and all, hugged her to his great chest and barreled off with her, leaping like an elk into Sherwood Forest.
Running in that wilderness, Lionel could outdistance any rider on horseback. Rowan was safe.
“Rook, come on!” Someone grabbed his elbow; it was Beau. “Run!” She yanked him toward the forest.
“Scatter!” Robin Hood shouted, and as if a covey of partridge had burst into flight, Sherwood Forest roiled with confusion. For a long time Rook ran alone and at random, panting, heartbeat pounding in his ears. Sore afraid, even though he knew the Sheriff’s men would not separate for fear of ambush, and could not pursue them all, and could not move amid the trees on horseback as quickly as a man on foot. As Rook ran, he could hear the Sheriff of Nottingham cursing—close behind him at
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