Barnaby, Alys’s and Graham’s horse, chuffed between them. The trio had been plodding along in silence since they left camp, Robin Hood, and the rest of the Merry Many. Ahead? A journey out of Nottinghamshire, out of England, and to the continent to save King Richard from captivity. To Alys, England’s restoration had never felt so close and yet so far away at the same time.
She scanned the trees. “Something grey you said?”
“Aye, wee one. Can you not see it? An archer like you,” Graham’s brogue rolled the words, “I thought you’d find it in no time.” He tutted.
“I’ll find it.” Trees and branches filled her field of vision. A few lingering leaves rustled when the breeze picked up, but the weather was mild. An auspicious day to start a journey. Alys tilted her head up when a bird whistled from above. “There! The tufted titmouse.” A small, grey bird with its grey crest and a short beak turned its body, and then its head, to eye them. The bird sang again.
“Good job. I was a bit worried we’d walk right past without you spotting it.”
“I didn’t think it’d be an animal.”
“Are animals off-limits, wee one?”
Alys shook her head, and Barnaby nickered. “It’s too soon to stop,” she told the horse. “We’ve only been walking for the afternoon.”
The horse nudged her shoulder, and Alys wasn’t sure if that was a sign of approval or not. Behind them, she heard the birdsong again. This time, it sounded like an alert, the way the castle bells would ring if there was some attack or escaped prisoner.
Alys stopped. She felt Barnaby’s lead slip from her hand as the horse dipped his head to nuzzle through the ground cover for grass. She caught the sound of his nosing aside crisp leaves, ripping blades from the dirt, and grinding them between his teeth. Alys knew she was safe, off the road, with a friend, but in her mind… she was straddled atop Barnaby, Graham behind her. In her mind, she’d just fired her bow. In her mind, the arrow with the red fletch had just buried itself in the sheriff’s neck.
Breaths came fast. Shallow. Alys backpedaled. Her heel caught a root. She remembered her cousin, Sir Guy, teaching her the sword. Never let them get you on your heels. The ground rushed up to her body. It met her back with a dull slap. Echoes of the impact raced around her ribcage, her hips, down her arms, along her legs, up into her skull. Her teeth clacked together. The canopy above vanished, and Alys saw only the sun, like a fiery coin stuck into the sky.
Someone touched her shoulder. Alys looked to the side, eyes wide so her eyelids felt stretched. Above her, trees. Sticks and sunshine and clouds. Graham’s face. She’d fallen off Barnaby that day, the day she took the sheriff’s life. She’d been speared out of the saddle. She could feel the sharp iron in her torso, or the memory of it. Her fingers walked toward the wound, healed but only just, and when her hand came away unstained by blood, she could not imagine why. Graham’s lips were moving, but Alys couldn’t hear his voice. Her brow furrowed.
Graham placed a hand on her forehead and then reached around to the back of her head.
He pulled his hand back and blew out a sigh, rocking back on his heels. The first words Alys heard him say were, “No blood. No blood, wee one.”
Alys shuddered. Air whooshed into her body and stars flitted before her eyes. She swiped at them, but they passed through her hand like it wasn’t solid flesh and bone. Alys flexed her fingers and marveled at them and the stars. “The sheriff. I killed the sheriff.”
“Aye,” Graham said. “That was weeks ago, wee one. We’re on our way to Almany, remember?” His brow creased into a horseshoe shape.
She felt her side where it seemed the pike had pierced her body. She’d been certain it was molten iron. But that was weeks ago, too. With a slow nod, the time between killing the sheriff and this moment slammed together. A soft, fuzzy nose nuzzled the side of her head. Barnaby. Alys sat up and a wan smile stretched across her lips. “Were you worried?” She asked the horse, weaving her fingers into the whiskers under his chin.
Barnaby considered her a moment and then plucked some grass from the forest floor. While he munched on it, Alys saw her reflection in his deep brown eye. She wanted to escape in that mirror image, if she could.
“It was as real as that day.”
Graham nodded and pulled her up from the ground. “I know what you speak of. I have felt it too—in my last days in Scotland.”
“I never wish to know the sensation again. We best do what we can in a hurry. The sooner I have the king’s pardon, the better.” She gathered Barnaby’s lead, and they continued through the forest. Bad enough it will probably take a couple of weeks to reach the king once we complete our sea voyage.
Alys preferred to walk in silence and Graham didn’t interrupt, save to whistle a tune. That she didn’t mind. But talking about the sheriff’s demise, talking about the fact that Graham had once asked for her hand and they were now traveling alone together… none of that appealed to her.
Barnaby plodded along without protest, even when Alys continued to lead him past the scrumptious tufts of grass that survived the mild winter thus far. She led him until they reached a fallen tree. Too large to climb over, too low to pass under. When she stopped, the horse dipped his nose to graze again. “We’ll have to find another path,” she said. On one side, the forest was full of trees and branches. On the other, a small cliff which dropped down to the river. They ought to be able to climb down into that galley, but Barnaby could not—and Alys wouldn’t countenance abandoning him. They’d have to backtrack.
“You don’t think Barnaby could jump over the tree?” Graham asked.
Alys eyed the horse, who seemed content to continue chewing. Then she observed the fallen tree. It came up to her hip. “Here,” she passed the lad to Graham and sat on the trunk to swing her legs over. The bark felt rough beneath her palms. Alys reached for the lead and together, she and Graham tried to coax Barnaby over the tree trunk.
The horse dug his hooves into the ground and picked more grass between his teeth.
“Right,” Graham said. “Maybe if one of us is in the saddle.”
“I have never jumped a horse before,” Alys said.
He took the lead from Alys and mounted, then turned Barnaby back a few paces before charging the fallen tree. Barnaby stopped short, and Graham had to brace himself against Barnaby’s neck to keep from spilling over horse and tree alike. He caught his breath, then dismounted.
“Come on back over then, wee one. Mayhap we can find a deer path to get us around the tree.”
When Alys imagined leaving Nottinghamshire, she didn’t think it would involve retracing their steps. She supposed as long as they didn’t have to walk all the way back to camp, it wouldn’t be a total loss—but she’d hoped to be out of Nottinghamshire as soon as they could manage.
By the time they located a way around the tree that would accommodate Barnaby, the day’s light was fading. “Do you know the way in the dark?” Alys asked.
“This path leads to the road. I know we said we’d stay off of it, but I doubt we’ll come across anyone at night. Besides, if we did, then torchlight would give them away before they were upon us.”
Alys stopped and eyed the beaten vegetation ahead. It was traversable if they rode or walked in a single line. “Very well. We can always get off the road again to rest. I don’t want to wear Barnaby out… but I want us out of Nottinghamshire before sunup at the latest.”
Graham vaulted into Barnaby’s saddle and held out his hand for Alys. She wished she could get onto the horse without help, but with him already in the saddle, that would be awkward if not impossible—and Barnaby was no pony. A chestnut bay, his back was higher than her chest. But Alys only held onto Graham as long as necessary to swing one leg over Barnaby’s back.
“We’ll go at an easy pace until we reach the road,” Graham said.
Alys watched the sun set through the tree trunks. “So long as we reach the road before dark. I don’t think Barnaby would like walking this path at night.” She wrapped one arm around Graham’s waist and together they nudged Barnaby with their heels.
The horse chuffed and leaned into his first step. Saplings and low branches brushed against Alys’s shoulders as they moved along the deer path. I wonder if the deer beat this path to escape a hunter, like we are escaping. Only they were being hunted by the new sheriff, Alys’s own cousin, and his men. Maybe. Alys hoped not. She hoped Guy had yet to realize they had left the area, but with a price on her head, Alys harbored little hope of that.
The sun continued to settle lower on the horizon until it looked like it spread out like a raw egg, oozing light onto the far surface of the earth. Barnaby nickered.
“Are we almost on the road?” Alys asked. She wished she were sitting in front so she could see better the path ahead.
“Aye.”
They dismounted as soon as the path opened up to the width of a wagon. Alys didn’t like walking too close to the road, let alone on it. She tightened her hold on Barnaby’s lead and walked a little closer to Graham, like she could make the three of them appear smaller and harder to spot. She fell silent, though her footfalls—despite her care to be quiet—sounded like a drum beating right next to her head. A scan of the surrounding forest produced no sign of ambush, no concealed guards.
After a few deep breaths and a quizzical glance from Graham, Alys forced herself to relax, starting with her white-knuckled grasp on Barnaby’s lead. “Sorry. I didn’t figure on us walking so close to the road. But I suppose even though there’s a price on my head, and even though the prince ordered Guy to find Robin and me… well, we don’t have much of a choice, do we?”
“Only if you want things to change.”
“And,” Alys continued, “even though Guy was commanded to hunt us down, I don’t actually think he would kill me.” But if they were caught, she could say farewell to her chance to save the king.
Graham chewed the corner of his lip. “Well, wee one, he probably would not, being your cousin and such. But he would arrest you and turn you over to the prince. Who knows what would await you in London? At John’s hands?”
Dizziness swept through Alys’s head, and all she heard was a faint buzzing noise, like a swarm of bees in the distance. “Why would you say that to me?”
“I want you to be prepared. This is no game, wee one.”
“I never thought it was.”
“Aye, well, leaving England—it’s less of one danger and more of so many hazards.”
“Would you rather have stayed behind?”
“Someone has to keep you alive.”
Alys bristled. She tightened her grip again, and her voice rose in pitch and volume. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“How many times have I saved you?”
“No more than I saved you. Who covered you when we rescued Robin?” Alys asked.
“Wouldn’t have been necessary if you hadn’t gotten him arrested.”
Heat filled her face and pressure built behind her eyes. With her free hand, Alys pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fine. I concede that. But who saved you from being skewered the day the sheriff died?”
“You did.”
“Hah!”
“But that wouldn’t have been necessary if we hadn’t gone to Nottingham Town so you could publicly devote yourself to the people and the Merry Many.”
“So I get no credit for saving your skin?”
Graham smirked. “No, wee one. But I’ll give you credit for—”
Alys never found out what Graham planned to say because a pike spiraled through the trees and buried itself between them. Barnaby’s eyes widened, and he whinnied, rearing, and almost pulling free of Alys’s hold.
“Quick! Mount up,” she said to Graham, spinning to throw herself up into the saddle once Barnaby had all four hooves on the ground again.
Graham swung up behind her and his arm cinched around her waist.
Threading the reins through her hands, Alys flicked them just as Graham kicked. Barnaby’s whinny pierced the twilit tranquility, and he bolted forward through the trees. When they broke through the line of trunks and saplings onto the road, they spotted a company of at least half a dozen soldiers. Two were mounted.
Graham kicked again and took the reins. Alys untied her bow from the saddle and nocked an arrow. A spear soared past their heads, but Graham managed to steer Barnaby to the side in time.
“Alys Hood!” One of the mounted soldiers pointed a sword at them and gave chase, the others following.
Alys fired an arrow with two white feathers and one gray—one her father had fletched for target practice. Nothing like practicing on a moving target. “We’ve got to get off the road, and fast.”
“We’ve got to get out of Nottinghamshire and fast,” Graham replied.
Alys doubted the soldiers would abandon the chase if they left the shire without losing them first, so she fired two more arrows when the road turned. Archery would be easier if Graham sat in front of her, and Alys cursed herself for not thinking of this moments ago, when she mounted. She couldn’t turn and fire with ease unless she wanted to risk unseating him.
“Don’t waste them,” Graham said.
“I can make more. Or we can buy some.” Though no purchased arrows would fly as true as those fletched by her father, she thought.
Another kick from Graham and Barnaby lurched into a faster gait and stretched his head forward. The steady beat of hooves behind them faded. Barnaby huffed out each breath.
Alys fired one more arrow. “Keep this pace,” she told Graham as she relaxed but did not stow her weapon. “With any luck, we’ll make it out of the shire and they will not cross its bounds.” Saying so sounded like hope, and they needed hope now.
