Free Wild Boy by Nancy Springer Page B

right.
    But I do care
.
    Rook remembered the dark wolf’s whimper, the dark wolf’s howl. He remembered the blood he had seen on Rowan’s face, the arrow jutting from Lionel’s shoulder, Beau’s pale face as she tugged him away from danger. He remembered the way Tod had cried out—
    He bit his lip as he struggled on.
    Twice more Robin Hood’s horn sounded its silver notes to guide him before at last he saw the campfire’s warm golden light and recognized the place—the hollow with Robin Hood’s giant oak spreading over it. Rook forgot to harden his face as he hurried the last few steps toward—Rowan, yes, Lady be thanked. It was Rowan turning toward him in the firelight, a strip of bandaging in her hands.
    Everything blurred, and for a moment he couldn’t see properly. But he heard many voices.
    “There’s Rook.” One of Robin Hood’s outlaws.
    “Rook!” Rowan called. “Are you all right?”
    “
Mon foi
, look, the poor Rook.” Beau had her
accent faux
back. “All blood and blunder.”
    “He’s done in,” said another outlaw.
    “Rook.” Rowan touched his arm; even in the bleary darkness he knew the gentle power of her hand. “Sit down, let me look at you.”
    He sat, and felt a wet cloth wipe his face, felt her touch strengthening him, and blinked away wetness until he could see her kneeling beside him.
    “I’m fine,” she told him even though he had not spoken a word of his fears for her. “I wish I could start the day over and change it, that’s all.” He had never seen her face so bruised with sorrow as well as with blows. “Men dead because of me—”
    “Do not say so, lass,” came Little John’s gruff voice somewhere behind him. “Only three badly wounded, and they might yet live. You have cared for them well.”
    Rowan pressed her trembling lips together and said nothing.
    “John,” complained a familiar voice, “she means Nottingham’s men too.” Leaning against the great oak, his shoulder bandaged and his arm in a sling, sat Lionel.
    “Aye?” Rook could hear the shrug in Little John’s voice. “Well, Lady be thanked, ours are all accounted for. And now Rook’s back.”
    “Rook,” said another voice, intense. Robin Hood crouched before him with—Lady have mercy, Robin was holding Runkling like a baby in his arms. “Rook, lad.” Worry grayed Robin’s eyes. “Have you seen aught of Tod?”
    Rook just stared.
    “Tod’s not here,” Robin Hood said. “No one saw where he went. Do you know where he is?”

Thirteen

    I t was nearly noon of the next day when Rook got up and walked away from Robin’s camp with Runkling trotting at his bare heels.
    “Are you running off again?” Rowan called after him. Harsh words, for her, but he accepted them without anger. She had been up all night tending to the wounded outlaws, Rook knew, and one of them had died. Robin and Little John were off in the forest somewhere, digging a grave. Some other outlaws were searching for Tod, but not many could be spared, not when their comrades were lying hurt. No one had much heart for the search. Tod could be anywhere, maybe even back in Nottingham. No one had seen Tykell either, so on top of everything else, Rowan missed her furry companion…. Turning to look at her, Rook saw sleepless nightmares of worry in her face.
    So, even though a wolf roams where he will, Rook answered Rowan, if only with a shake of the head. No, he was not running off again.
    Rowan frowned. “You should rest, and eat some more.” He had eaten only broth and bread for her. “Where are you going?” Rowan seldom showed such exasperation.
    Rook shrugged. He was only going to his father’s hut to get clothing and coverings. A jerkin for when the night air grew chill on his shoulders. Maybe some leggings, and sheepskins to sleep on. And he wanted the pigskin shoes his father had made for him. He was tired of banging his bare feet on stones.
    But he did not know how it was that he had started to feel the cold and