Isabelle pressed her eyes closed, all of her attention fixed on one breath in, one breath out, steadying her nerves as her mother had always taught her when hunting. One thumb rubbed over the smooth polish of her bow handle, pressed against her side where the boy held her, the arrow caught under her arm and digging into her side. It would absolutely ruin the fletching, she was sure, but that was the least of her worries at the moment.
“Come on, Little,” the boy muttered. “Do your job.”
Something crunched through the forest off to their left, loud and clumsy like a wounded animal, or like a terrified young woman fleeing for her life if you didn’t know any better. The soldier whirled toward the sound, sword raised on alert.
“Who goes there?” the soldier called out, but the crashing continued away from them, deeper into the trees. The soldier grunted, sheathing his sword and running off in the same direction. Still Isabelle did not dare to move, nor did the boy loosen his hold on her, until both the crashing and the soldier’s pursuit faded into the night.
“I’m going to release you now,” the boy said slowly, carefully, as if speaking to a small child or a wild animal. “You’re not going to scream, you’re not going to make any sudden movements, and if you bite me again, I’ll bite you back. Understand?”
Isabelle nodded slowly, cutting her eyes to one side and then the other to try and get a better look at him. All she could make out was a pair of long legs clad in deep green, the hose thick and woolen and likely much more comfortable than her skirts tangled about her legs. Slowly the boy lifted his hand off her mouth, the other clamped firmly on her arm, but shifting so she could sit on her own. Moonlight dappled his face, hiding and revealing brown hair that rolled like waves on the sea, and dark eyes, his jaw sharp and his teeth a flash of white in the darkness.
“Well, you certainly increased our evening’s entertainment,” the boy said with a smirk.
“Who are you?” Isabelle asked, her voice shaky, her heartbeat pulsing through each word. She’d never been so close to a man who wasn’t begging for food or trying to arrest her, and as her panic receded, something else rose to replace it, an odd hyperawareness of every point of contact between them and the distant last time she’d been able to wash. There was something different about this boy, something stronger and leaner and more dangerous than the foulmouthed boys from the tavern or the boys back in Kirkleestown, who always stank of muck and sweat. Something that set her pulse on an uneven rhythm again.
“I’m Adam,” he said, oblivious to her racing thoughts. His eyes flickered over her, appraising her disheveled appearance. “And I’d guess from the look of you, you’re the sister Thomas has been tearing up our forest looking for.”
“Thomas.” Her stomach flipped and she clutched his arm reflexively, shoving back her extended analysis of his jawline and the waves of his hair. “Is he all right, then?”
“Oh, I’d say so, probably half into our roasted duck by now. None too pleased with you, either, I’d guess. Didn’t he tell you to stay put in the tunnel?”
Isabelle darted her gaze away, relief tumbling into a growing sense of guilt. “There were extenuating circumstances.”
Adam chuckled. “Oh, I’d like to see you tell him that.”
“How do we get down from here?” Isabelle asked, wishing to change the conversation and put some physical distance between her and the boy.
“We don’t,” Adam said, pointing higher into the tree. “We go up.”
“Why would we…” she began, but trailed off as she followed his direction. For above them, several more feet into the foliage, she could just make out the shape of a rope bridge tied to the sturdy tree trunk, spidering out in every direction to the neighboring trees. She would never have noticed the ropes from the ground, twisted as they were in the leaves and branches, but from here they were unmistakable, and they were everywhere.
“What in the name of the Almighty…” she breathed, her eyes going round in fascination.
Adam grinned at her from the shadows. “Welcome to Sherwood Forest, sister.”
Getting up to the rope bridge was a task more easily imagined than executed. Adam scaled the branches as if he were strolling up a hill while Isabelle struggled to follow with a maximum reach several inches shorter than his. She was used to climbing the neatly manicured trees of the orchard and had done so to slip out of the priory on several occasions, but these trees were different. Older than the kings themselves, these trees had stood guard over all that came to pass in Sherwood Forest since the first bud had sprung, and their massive branches did not suffer fools or beginners. She was still two branches below the bridge when Adam crouched down, perfectly balanced on the rope’s edge, and lifted a brow at her.
“Need a hand, sister?” he asked.
“I…believe…I can…manage,” she grunted as a strip of bark came away in her hand, nearly tumbling her to the ground far below.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Adam said, but he didn’t offer her help again.
It took several more tries, and a littering of bark on the surrounding limbs, but she finally managed to reach the thick line of rope and haul herself up. There wasn’t much to support her, a single rope the thickness of her foot and two smaller ropes at waist height for balance, but it was better than scrabbling up the tree trunk. The rope swayed under her feet, the hard soles of her boots giving her no purchase.
“Takes some getting used to,” Adam said, reaching out a hand to steady her until the rope stopped swaying. She could feel each one of his fingers pressed into her side, their heat suffusing the fabric of her habit. “Might help if you took those boots off.”
“I…am…fine,” Isabelle said, her heart hammering away with each wide sway of the rope. She’d rather fall a few dozen feet than bare her legs to him right then. “Where are we going?”
“Well, if you can get your balance, we’re headed to the camp,” Adam said, eyeing her boots doubtfully. “I suppose I could carry you.”
“Absolutely not,” Isabelle said, heat blossoming over her cheeks as she gripped both hand ropes until her knuckles were white. She pulled her shoulders back, willing the rope to stay steady under her feet. “I am fine. Shall we?”
His only answer was a raised eyebrow and a half smile, but he turned and led the way forward. He moved over the rope like it was wide as the king’s road, his step sure and quick. She did her best not to rock the bridge, mimicking his movements by sliding her feet forward rather than picking them up. Still, she had to stop several times to regain her balance before she could continue on.
“What of the soldier?” she huffed, her concentration glued to the ropes as they reached the next tree where the rope bridge connected to another.
“Who, that tin head?” Adam glanced back at the forest floor. “He’ll be fine. Little’s probably led him halfway to Scotland by now.”
“And the others?” she asked, hugging the trunk of the tree to slide to the next rope bridge. “The Blue Boar Inn?”
Adam gave a little huff of laughter. “I wouldn’t worry about that lot. It’s the king’s lapdogs you should be worried for. They know better than to come round here. These lads must be green and hungry to bother the Boar.”