“You do not understand,” Isabelle said, trailing after him determinedly. “I am not from any farm. I come from the priory of Kirklees.”
Thomas stopped so suddenly she ran right into him, a single golden curl tumbling out of her makeshift hat into her peripheral view. She tucked it up hastily as he stared down at her, hawk eyes raking over her face. She felt exposed in the bright firelight, but she didn’t turn away. Not even when his gaze shifted and he let out a curse under his breath.
“I knew your hands looked too soft to be a farmer’s,” he said.
“My name is Isabelle. The prioress of Kirklees sent me.” Her voice wavered at the thought of her mother, her heart hammering away at the inside of her chest, but she cleared her throat to continue. “She said to deliver you a message of great urgency.”
Thomas grabbed her by the arm, pulling her in close and darting a glance around the crowded tavern. He spoke low and fast to her. “Not another word, lass. There’re always ears listening. Come with me.”
He barreled through the crowd with her in tow. From outside she had longed for the warmth and comfort of the fire, but inside the heat and stink of sweating bodies was far too overwhelming. Combined with her exhaustion and the hunger still gnawing an escape route through her stomach, it was enough to make her light-headed. When Thomas finally reached the bar and ushered her behind it to a small trapdoor below, she jumped into the cool recess gratefully. He followed more slowly, clambering down the short ladder to fit himself between barrels of ale and stacks of mugs.
“What is it, then, lass?” Thomas said after he’d secured the trapdoor above, crossing his arms over his round chest. If he sat still enough, she might mistake him for one of the ale barrels. “What message did Marien send?”
It was odd enough being crammed into this clandestine space, dizzy from hunger and carrying a secret message of grave importance. But to hear her mother’s name spoken so casually, so intimately by a complete stranger, it was almost more than Isabelle could believe. Perhaps she’d fallen into a fever dream and was even now writhing about on her pallet back in the priory while her mother squeezed cool water over her brow.
“You said it was urgent,” Thomas said in a flat, slightly impatient tone, snapping her back to reality. However strange this reality was.
“I…Yes, yes, it is. My mothe—the prioress said to tell you…” She took a deep breath, the rush of air making her sway on her feet. “I apologize. It has been a trying few days.”
“No more trying than these few minutes,” Thomas muttered, but he disappeared between the barrels and reappeared wielding a long, flat loaf of bread. “Here, lass, before you expire in my storeroom.”
“Thank you,” Isabelle breathed, biting into the loaf and nearly losing a tooth in the process. It was tough, and cold, and utterly devoid of taste, but she would have eaten a dozen of them if he had handed them over. Her jaw ached by the time she finished the first few bites, but at least her head no longer spun.
“Now, this urgent business that couldn’t wait?” Thomas prodded.
She chewed through the tough bread hastily, wishing for a cool spot of ale to wash it down, but too scared to ask. “She sent me to tell you that the Wolf has returned.”
For a moment Thomas did not move, not even to blink or breathe. The moment stretched out awkwardly as Isabelle chewed the last few bites of bread and darted her gaze from the barrels to Thomas and back, thinking that actually he was even wider than the casks beside him. And still he said nothing, his eyes fixed on a spot just behind her, his gaze distant. The only thing that changed was his pallor, the color draining from his features until he was almost as white as his beard.
“Is that…Does that mean something to you?” she finally asked when she couldn’t bear the silence anymore.
“I have to warn Robin,” he whispered to himself, as if he’d forgotten she was there.
“Robin? Who is Robin?”
His eyes drew back up to her as he frowned. “What more did Marien tell you? Where is the Wolf now? Is she safe?”
Isabelle shook her head. “I do not know anything else. Who is the Wolf? Who is Robin?”
But he was caught in his own thoughts, muttering to himself. “The child. What did she say of the child?”
Isabelle wasn’t sure he was talking to her until his gaze landed on her. “What child?”
“Marien’s child. Where is the child now?”
She shook her head again. “I do not…Do you mean me?”
Thomas’s eyes widened. “You are Marien’s child? But you’re…Has so much time really passed? How old are you, lass?”
“Sixteen years this past spring,” Isabelle said, more confused than ever. “I do not understand. What do I have to do with this?”
“She didn’t tell you? Your mother didn’t tell you who you are?”
“What do you mean, who I am?”
He stepped closer, his eyes glittering in the half-dark. “You are the daughter of Robin Hood. And if the Wolf has returned, he’ll be coming for you.”
Isabelle could not decide which life-changing bit of information to process first, so she simply stared at the big barkeep, mouth slightly ajar, fingers turned to ice. Her heart seemed to be the only part of her responding, thumping away wildly in her chest and churning her stomach into a frenzy. Thomas took her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shake.
“Did you hear me, lass?” he asked. “Are you all right?”
Isabelle might have asked how anyone could be all right in this particular moment, except they were both interrupted by a crash overhead. The lively buzz of the taproom dropped into a tense quiet as heavy footfalls creaked across the floorboards, each one like a whip crack in Isabelle’s ears. She closed her eyes and imagined they were nothing more than rabbits foraging in the brush, separating each distinct pair of steps until she could mark every one with an arrow if she needed.
“Seven,” she breathed to herself, forgetting about the barkeep until he replied.
“And more waiting outside, no doubt,” he whispered. He shook his head. “It’ll be a mess of blood and teeth to clean up all morning for me.”
The temporary lull in conversation erupted again in angry tones and hard thumps against the floorboards, every sound making Isabelle jump. She slid her bow off her shoulder as her other hand sought the fletching of an arrow from her quiver, her eyes fixed on the trapdoor overhead. She should have kept running. She should never have stopped, no matter what her mother told her. Now she was trapped in a cellar with a legion of soldiers overhead and only a few drunk foresters between them and her. She was doomed.
“Wait here, lass,” Thomas said as snatches of insults and barked orders from the soldiers sifted down with the dust. He pushed at the trapdoor, and she instinctively slunk behind the nearest ale barrel. The big man moved quickly, crawling through the door and lowering it without a sound to leave Isabelle in the dark once more. From the angry buzzing overhead, it was only a matter of moments before someone threw the first punch. Maybe she could slip out in the chaos, run until she found the ocean. Or the highlands. But anywhere she thought to run, her mother’s shadowed eyes and Thomas’s tense words would follow her.