“You will sit still,” he said, pressing harder, and she was choking. “You will be quiet and accept your fate. Your father cannot save you.”
“What’s that!” one of the men called, and others rushed to the edge of the camp to peer into the darkness where, deep in the woods, a lig
ht was burning. A small flame, like witchlight. No telling what it was or what it meant. It might have been a torch, but it did not move, glaring like an eye. A small orange light, as if the forest itself had lit a candle.
And then another appeared, some distance on. Then another—in about the time it would take for a young girl to move from one spot to the next, but the men didn’t think of that. Eleanor, silently and without fuss, had snuck close enough to steal a brand from the fire.
It seemed as if the camp was being surrounded by witchlights.
“I warned you,” Mary said, coughing. Her throat was bruised, and her breath came rough. It made her sound fierce, and she said, more boldly, “Sherwood protects its own. It always has. Those who’ve wronged Robin Hood never escape its shadows.”
Edmund slapped two of his men on the shoulders. “You, go see what it is. It’s some trick. Peasants with lanterns. Take your swords and run them through!”
“But it’s Robin Hood’s outlaws!”
“It isn’t! Go kill them!”
Mary closed her eyes a moment and made a prayer for Eleanor to stay quick, stay silent. Now she must run and get help, yes?
Something, likely a small stone, struck the younger of the brutes on the head. Then another. The man fell moaning, hand clasped to his forehead, probably from surprise rather than pain. There wasn’t even any blood that Mary could see, but he acted as if he’d been sliced by an ax.
“Oh God, what is it!”
Another stone flew and struck the next man, who stumbled to his knees.
All Robin’s children inherited his smile, and his aim.
“Elfshot! The ghosts of Sherwood strike, these woods are haunted!”
“Nonsense! It’s a trick. Get out and see who’s out there!”
“I can’t see anything!”
“Put the fire out, they can find us!”
“They’ve already found us, you idiot!”
Mary called, “The ghosts have come for you, and you cannot stop them.”
The young one with the astonished expression screamed and ran from the camp, into the woods, his cries echoing. Edmund hollered after him but only inspired one of the others to drop his sword and run too.
Mary watched, marveling. John had got to his feet. He had a big red bruise on the side of his face where Edmund had kicked him, but he was smiling.
Then something small and soft touched Mary—her sister’s hand, holding hers. A pull and a push—and the knots binding her came loose. A shadow behind her moved, and Eleanor, wide-eyed and serious, looked back.
Everyone in the camp was yelling at each other, drawing their swords, or aiming their bows and arrows at darkness.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” John said, stating the obvious but full of nerves, shaking ropes off his hands with an air of disgust after Eleanor untied him.
“If we run, they’ll chase us,” Mary said. She glanced up.
John looked where she did and grinned. “But if we disappear, they’ll fear us. Get me up first and I’ll pull up Eleanor.” Mary, he knew, could climb on her own. She made a step with her hands, John put his foot there, and she lifted as high as she could. He straddled the wide branch just above their heads and reached for Eleanor, who raised her arms to him. Mary climbed, and in just a few moments, they were all in the oak and climbing higher, to the uppermost branches and well out of sight. Which meant they got to watch the rest of it.
It was the leader, Edmund, who noticed the children were gone. “You idiots! Go and look for them! They can’t have gone far.”
“The ghosts have taken them!”
Edmund was florid and screaming. “There are no ghosts! There is no—”