Free Outlaw Princess of Sherwood by Nancy Springer Page A

from the first, and her heart had never led her wrong before. Was he really such a scoundrel as he seemed? Etty suspected not. Somehow that fake accent of his, and that devilish grin, calmed her fears. Things couldn’t be too bad if Beauregard was still able to annoy her.
    Just at that moment, things rapidly got worse. “Men,” yelled the captain, “seize her!”
    Etty gasped and took one last stab at the padlock, giving the bodkin a wild twist, and she felt the lock’s iron innards give way at last. It fell open. She pulled it out of the latch. The cage door swung wide.
    â€œNo!” the sergeant yelled at the advancing soldiers. They hesitated, glancing at one another.
    Barefoot, looking as fragile as frost in her chemise, Mother pattered forward to the door of her cage. “What a lovely pony,” she told Beauregard.
    â€œFor you to ride, my lady.” Beauregard swung the pony around for her to mount. “Her name, it is Dove.”
    â€œHow sweet of you.” The smile at the corners of Mother’s eyes showed that she knew she was being absurd. But just the same, Mother would not give up her courtly courtesies unless blood started to flow. As seemed all too likely.
    â€œ Seize them!” the captain roared.
    â€œNo!” the sergeant shouted just as loudly. “Follow them.”
    The soldiers surged and muttered like waves of the sea, washing forward, then back. Beauregard grasped Queen Elsinor by the waist and set her upon the pony, lifting her easily although he stood no taller than she did. Etty grabbed the mantle lying at the edge of the cage and threw it around her mother’s shoulders. Clicking his tongue, Beauregard tugged at the reins, urging Dove into a walk. Etty trotted to her mother’s side.
    A rough hand grasped her shoulder from behind.
    Etty snatched her knife from her belt and struck. Whoever he was, he swore and jerked his hand away, but there were more captors now, more hands grabbing, clutching. Ettarde flailed with the knife, seeing no faces, only arms and grasping hands, a wall of men all around her.
    Through the pounding panic in her ears she heard a hunter’s horn blow three notes as soaring and joyous as the song of a lark. “Robin!” Etty cried.
    There was a surge of sound, brush crackling, feet tramping. The soldiers around Etty froze. She dodged through them.
    Ranged along the edge of the clearing stood two-score archers in Lincoln green, their six-foot yew bows drawn to the fullest, each with its clothyard shaft’s honed-steel head pointed at a man-at-arms’s chest. The men of Auberon outnumbered the outlaws three to one, but the soldiers weren’t wearing their helms, most of them had laid aside the heavy quilted tabards they wore by way of breastplate, and some of them had even laid aside their weapons. They stood dumbstruck.
    â€œStep back,” commanded the tallest outlaw, Little John, and the soldiers did so.
    From the forest strode a towering, brown-clad youth even taller than the outlaw captain. “Are you all right, my dear little lady?” he called.
    All of Etty’s fear melted into exasperation.
    â€œLionel—” The lummox, he could see she was fine. “I’m not your dear lady!”
    Atop the white pony, her mother smiled at her over her shoulder. “Come, my dear little daughter,” she called with a quirk of laughter in her silver voice. “We’ve tarried long enough. We really should be going.”

Eleven

    A ll right, Beauregard,” said Robin, looking as vexed as Etty had ever seen him. “Explain.”
    â€œ Sacre bleu, mon ami , what is there to explain? I go back to get Dove and my hat, that is all.” Under the brim of that large plumed headgear, Beauregard rolled his sparkling dark eyes. “Why you shout at me? You think I leave Dove with those varlets who speak rudely to her and give her the forage fit only for