Outlaw Princess of Sherwood by Nancy Springer Page B

face like a carving from—from somewhere ancient, Greece, Egypt—that head like a sleek cat’s poised atop a fine neck, those winglike cheekbones, that elegant unbroken line of brow and nose . . .
    â€œYou are one of the accursed race,” Etty whispered, edging back, feeling the knowledge ripple up her back, clenching every muscle.
    â€œAccursed! For what cause?” Beauregard rose, his black eyes flashing, all his foppery gone. “My race holds no land, makes no wars, sheds no blood. No man of my race holds any other man slave or serf or servant. You call us thieves? It is true we steal sometimes, to survive, but are you not also thieves, O outlaws?” He shot a level look that took in Will Scathelock, Robin, all of them.
    â€œSilence.” Etty had never seen Robin so stern. “You have come here in disguise, to deceive me—”
    â€œHave you not also gone about in disguise?”
    Outlaws shouted with rage. Will drew his short sword. “How dare you! As if he were like you?”
    Others cried out. “Bah! You sneaking villain!”
    â€œYou of the wicked race—”
    â€œBloody-handed—”
    â€œCradle robber—”
    But Beauregard’s flutelike voice pierced through them all. “You think we steal babies? Bah, what for? Who needs more?” He tossed his head, arrow-straight and defiant. “We steal gold, given a chance—but the greatest thieves of all, are they not the kings and so-called lords of your race? Stealing livelihood and soul from common folk, wresting maidens from their fathers?”
    â€œEnough,” Robin commanded. He turned to Will and the others. “Will, sheathe your sword. Take him within.” Inside the oak, he meant. Its hollow could house a dozen outlaws in a huddle. Robin ordered, “Do not mistreat him, but guard him well, and tell him nothing.”
    Etty watched Beauregard’s proud, straight back, shoulders square under the crimson tunic, as they took him away. “I liked him,” she whispered, shuddering.
    Robin let out a long breath. “Use your head, lass,” he told her gently enough, “not just your heart.”

Nine

    E tty knew she had to do it.
    With a wavering feeling in her gut, but keeping her face calm, she walked up to the fire and seated herself facing her father. His breakfast, she noticed, lay beside him upon its trencher, untouched. Glaring wildly behind him, as if something might be sneaking up on him, he did not see her sit down almost near enough to touch.
    Firming her voice, Etty spoke. “Father.”
    With a jerk he faced her, his sharp red eyebrows bunched like wings. He opened his mouth.
    â€œFather,” Etty said before he could start scolding, “you will send orders for Mother to be clothed, fed and released. At once.”
    She saw his face go meat red, dark beneath the carrot color of his beard. But he kept control of his rage, letting it give force to his words as he told her too softly, “Foolish girl, your impudence will be punished. Your mother will die.”
    Inside herself, Etty felt little Princess Ettarde quivering like frog eggs. Papa really did possess the power, legally, to have Mama killed. Yet outwardly, Etty did not tremble, for she was an outlaw now. She said, “Remember what Seneca said, Father: All cruelty springs from weakness.”
    It was her father who had taught her to read and memorize her Latin and Greek. He had provided a whipping girl to be beaten with a dog lash when Ettarde did not learn her lessons, and it had been harder for Ettarde to watch the peasant girl cry than it would have been to take her own punishment. Papa was like that—perverse, somehow cruel even in kindness. And proud, all too ready to show off his wealth or his horses or his learned daughter before his honored guests. A daughter who could read and write, forsooth! But above all, Father was proud of his own learning.
    The only way