Forbidden Forest by Michael Cadnum Page B

would take his life. He would bruise as many felons as he could, but his days were over.
    The stranger asked John what men called him.
    â€œJohn Little,” he said, resigned, but feeling the first stirrings of his returning anger. He would make these outlaws bleed!
    The woodsman repeated this name with a thoughtful frown.
    â€œAnd who have I had the pleasure of fighting this sunny day?” asked John, trying to match his opponent’s fine humor, although he had already guessed the stranger’s name. When they delve my grave out of the forest floor, John swore in silence, they will not remember me as surly or cursing. I can wear a fine smile too.
    â€œFolk along the High Way,” said the man in green, “call me Robin Hood.”
    John wondered if to die at the hands of a famous outlaw was a better death than to expire in bed under a priest’s prayers. John remembered courtesy then, and in the manner of a knight, or a squire well advanced in training, he gave a fighting man’s bow.
    â€œI think your name does not suit you,” said Robin Hood.
    John was about to give a sharp answer, but two men detached from the trees and hurried to Robin Hood’s side. From behind, John sensed a soft whisper, a crushed leaf. He turned, and saw a third outlaw standing in the deer path, stringing his bow. Each man was dressed in rough-spun green, with worn leather and use-tarnished buckles. “Who is this?” asked a short, dark outlaw. The young man’s words were slightly slurred.
    â€œA man with a strong arm,” replied Robin Hood.
    â€œStrong enough,” said the outlaw, smiling with toothless gums. “He’s cracked your crown.”
    Robin Hood nodded, laughing silently. Something in his manner began to capture John right then. John took in the way the men looked to Robin Hood for direction—not as servants, but as friends. Curiosity and the bare beginnings of hope kept John from trying to flee these green-clad strangers.
    â€œShall we give him a drink of water?” asked the young outlaw meaningfully.
    Robin Hood smiled and shook his head. “Little John,” he said, “is our guest tonight.”

Chapter 12
    Toothless Will Scathlock brought a cup of sweet wine to where John sat. John had kept his calm, marching with these men through the woods as dark gathered. He wanted to learn more about these robbers of song and tale. Now that the fire was stirred and logs split and burning, a fine example of the king’s venison sizzled on a massive spit.
    This meat was delicious, and John ate his fill, and still there was plenty more. John knew the stories, how Robin Hood would not dine unless he had some rich wayfarer held against his will as a guest. Each victim had to tell a story, or sing a song, and even wealthy Exchequer’s men, employed to monitor the royal treasury, were released without a bruise, their purses only somewhat lighter.
    John did not believe such tales entirely, and had a lingering suspicion that this evening’s entertainment would be the hanging of a tall young man from the north country, his belly full of poached deer.
    But among the outlaws was a burgess with an emerald ring and mare-skin leggings. Aware that John was observing him, the man gave a laugh. “I was waylaid yesterday,” said the city man, his eyes lit by the campfire. “Robbed and held against my desire,” he added with a smile.
    â€œDrink deep,” said Will, speaking carefully to make his words clear. “We have several skins of good grape wine, and you know it turns to vinegar in a fortnight.”
    â€œWhat wine merchant’s throat did you cut to win this drink?” asked John after a long silence. The wine was warming and sweet, but he did not want to take too much pleasure in it. If he was going to be hanged, he would make his feelings known, and die sober.
    Will put a hand to his own throat and gave a cough. “Are folk quick to cut