If the Wolf has returned, he’ll be coming for you.
What if the company of soldiers in Kirkleestown had been no coincidence? What if they had been sent by someone to find her? Who was this Wolf? What kind of power must he wield to have an entire company of soldiers at his command? What did he want with her? And what in the name of the Almighty did Thomas mean, she was the daughter of Robin Hood? The Robin Hood? The criminal mastermind and perpetual thorn in King John’s side? The man Sister Catherine swore to the rafters only existed in stories, to give the common wretches hope for a better life? The highwayman that she had overheard Sister Eleanor and Sister Margaret whisper about in dreamy snatches during mealtime before Sister Catherine glared them into a respectful silence?
How could she be the daughter of a man that no one was even sure existed?
Someone shouted overhead, nearly making her jump out of her skin as a heavy object slammed against the floor, and soon the whole taproom exploded in noisy ferocity that rained down dust and other, chunkier objects she’d rather not examine too closely. Thomas came thumping down the stairs into the cellar, grinning like a madman.
“That oughta keep them tied up for a bit,” he said as the floor shook with violence. “Come on, lass, follow me.”
He wound through the stacks of barrels, dragging her along as the way grew narrower and the light dimmer. More than once she caught her hip on a crate corner or stubbed a toe against a barrel, anchored to the world only by Thomas’s fingers wrapped firmly around her wrist. She’d never considered herself afraid of small spaces—there were so many wonderful, forgotten corners of the priory she could fit into and escape the soul-crushing work of scrubbing stone floors—but down here under the Blue Boar Inn, wedged tight between kegs with the ceiling threatening to cave in above, she might have to reconsider.
“Where are we going?” she huffed. “Should we not be attempting escape?”
“That’s exactly what we’re doing, lass,” Thomas said, his voice loud in the confined space. He dropped her hand. “Watch your head through here, it gets right narrow.”
Isabelle thought it already was narrow, but soon enough her forehead knocked against solid earth, forcing her into a half crouch as they continued on. The fight in the taproom receded into the distance, the light completely gone no matter how hard she strained her eyes to find it. She couldn’t imagine how Thomas could fit in such a space, but every time she reached a tentative hand forward she met with the ties of his apron. Her heartbeat settled as they slipped farther from the soldiers.
“Is this…Are we going to meet…him?” she whispered.
Thomas grunted. “Of a sort.”
Which started her heart pounding away again. Robin Hood. Her father. Her father. She didn’t even know she had a father to wonder about. Plenty of other young women came to the priory with no father to give them a name, and she had not considered herself any different. At least not until just after her mother became prioress and Sister Catherine had sought to expend her fury on Isabelle by assigning her the worst parts of kitchen duty. She had picked up a pot of boiling water too soon after it was taken off the fire, the metal searing the flesh across both arms, and dropped it with a screech. The water spilled everywhere, soaking into the soft boots of the nearest sisters and burning their toes inside the leather.
Sister Catherine had screamed until her face turned red, calling Isabelle all manner of heinous things, but it was the last that sent her running to her mother for answers. Treasonous bastard spawn. She hadn’t known a single one of those words, and when she asked her mother what they meant, the prioress had only asked who had spoken them, then disappeared to the kitchens. Sister Catherine was put on kettle duty after that, and Isabelle learned only later the true meaning of what she had been called. She could not imagine her mother committing any kind of treason, so Sister Catherine must have been talking about her father. But every time Isabelle attempted to ask her mother about him, Marien suddenly found pressing business in her duties as prioress that took her away, and Isabelle gave up on ever having a private moment to ask her again.
Which she never would have done if she’d known the answer.
“Here we are,” Thomas said just as Isabelle ran right into his backside. “Steady now, lass.”
“Apologies,” she breathed. “I did not know we were stopping.”
“Soldiers shouldn’t be this far out from the Boar, but keep your wits about you,” he said. “I’ll go up first. Wait for my signal and follow after.”
She didn’t want to let him leave, considering she had no way to know how to follow him, but his ale-foam scent drifted upward, a sliver of moonlight dropping into the tunnel from above and illuminating the hard edges of a ladder. A few moments later he gave a soft whistle down into the tunnel, which she hoped meant Come along, lass and not Run for your life, lass.
The night’s chill settled on her immediately as she emerged from a hollowed tree trunk into the woods. Thomas lowered a curtain of moss over the hollow, draping it so that no one would even know the opening was there unless they were already looking for it. She couldn’t see the Blue Boar Inn from here, much less hear it, and she took a deep, cleansing breath for the first time since spotting the inn what felt like years ago. Thomas gave a trilling whistle that she would have mistaken for a birdcall if she weren’t right next to him.
They stood perfectly still for several moments, waiting for what, Isabelle couldn’t fathom. She glanced between the barkeep and the thicket of trees around them, waiting for something to change, but the night grew colder and her stomach grew louder and still nothing happened. Even Thomas looked annoyed.
“Bloody idiots probably carousing half in their cups by now,” he muttered, releasing another sharp whistle, this one louder and more impatient. “What’s the bloody point of a signal if no one’s listening for it?”
“Who are we whistling to?” Isabelle asked, because it seemed safe enough to talk now.
“Nobody, apparently,” Thomas groused, staring hard at the trees. He glanced down at her, his features softening at the complete befuddlement on her face. “Sorry, lass. This is all probably a bit of a shock for you, eh?”
“Yes,” Isabelle said faintly. “Yes, it is.”
“Robin would do much better to explain the whole business to you,” Thomas said, his gaze sweeping the trees. “If he would show up.”
“He is…Robin Hood is coming here?” Isabelle puffed out a few short breaths, staring hard into the trees like she could pierce the veil of night with her anxiety. “But I…Does he even know I exist? Does he know who I am? Is he expecting me?”
Which was a foolish question, for of course he would not be expecting her. Perhaps he didn’t even want to see her. She didn’t know the first thing about how she ended up at a priory with her mother and he ended up the king of the outlaws. Maybe she was about to be a very unwelcome intrusion. Her stomach gurgled loudly in sympathy.
“I can’t—” Thomas began as a distant whistle cut through the trees, nothing more than the call of a nightingale. But Thomas grumbled at the sound. “Finally, the fools.”
“Is that him? Them? The…” What had Thomas called them? “The Merry Men?”