found proof: footprints, child-sized. Who had been here? Who was it, kept stealing his food?
He foraged for hazelnuts and blackberries and butterball mushrooms. He returned to his shelter and sat outside it and ate his meagre meal. He took the whetstone from his pack and sharpened his knife. In the distance the sound of hammers had stopped: the villagers must have gathered at the foot of the Trystel Tree, sharing bread and ale. There was a clink of metal, and a cheer: Narris Felstone and the others, throwing horseshoes on the common ground.
I hate them all. I wish they were dead.
It was a terrible thing to think, but sometimes he couldn’t help it. She was a liar, Mabel Felstone. She didn’t miss Robin’s family. None of them did. Listen to them now, as if nothing had ever happened, and nobody had a care.
Robin was vaguely aware that today was his birthday. Todayhe turned eight years old. It wasn’t important. A cold wind was blowing through Summerswood; leaves were falling like rain. He needed to cut twine and collect pine branches to build his shelter warmer. He needed to start stockpiling food. One day his father would return, of that he had no doubt. And when he did he would see Robin had needed nobody’s help, and he would be proud.
Robin finished his meal. He tested the keen edge on his hunting knife, then he took the blade and set about his work.
II. The Greenwood
R obin woke knowing someone was creeping close to his shelter.
He sat up, very slowly, and crouched on the balls of his feet. He tried to peer through the weave of the walls. He saw little in the dim dawn light. But he knew who this was outside: Narris and Swet and the rest.
He closed his eyes and listened. How many of them had come? What did they carry with them this time?
Twice in recent months Robin had woken to the smell of something foul dripping through the roof of his shelter, and the sound of Narris and the others running away, laughing. After each attack Robin had retreated deeper into Summerswood. He had coated this new shelter in brambles, so from afar it looked like any other blackberry bush.
But he had not been careful enough. The boys from the village had found him. They were being very quiet – barely a leaf cracking – a single twig snapped – it was more of a
feeling
Robin had that they were skulking, very close.
He sensed them drawing nearer, nearer—
He burst from his shelter, throwing himself on the nearest intruder, grappling their legs, Robin’s head colliding with their stomach – a winded cry of surprise and alarm – the twoof them sprawling together to the earth, Robin scrapping wildly and silently and whoever it was fighting back, scratching and biting and hissing at him through bared teeth and then screeching a high-pitched wail and finally spitting out words, furious and garbled.
‘Gedoff lemeego stoppit leggo gedoff leggoff!’
Robin understood several things at once: the intruder was alone; it was not Narris Felstone or anyone else from the village. It was a stranger. It was a girl.
He eased his grip. The girl slipped out of his grasp and sprang away and crouched there, her back arched, poised on bare feet and fingertips, fixing Robin with a dark, fierce glare.
‘You hit me!’ she shouted. ‘How dare you – who are you – what are you doing in my woods I’ll have you thrown in gaol and you’ll stay there living on bread and water for the rest of your life which in any case won’t be very long because I’ll have my father’s knights chop off your head and put it on a spike so everyone can see what happens to a filthy stinking wretch who dares put his hands on a duchess – which is practically a princess – how dare you, you hit me, you’ve
drawn blood
!’
This went on for a long time, the girl ranting and raging, barely taking a breath, until she sounded ready to choke.
And then, abruptly, like a summer storm parting, she fell quiet. She stood upright. Her top lip was bleeding. Her
He foraged for hazelnuts and blackberries and butterball mushrooms. He returned to his shelter and sat outside it and ate his meagre meal. He took the whetstone from his pack and sharpened his knife. In the distance the sound of hammers had stopped: the villagers must have gathered at the foot of the Trystel Tree, sharing bread and ale. There was a clink of metal, and a cheer: Narris Felstone and the others, throwing horseshoes on the common ground.
I hate them all. I wish they were dead.
It was a terrible thing to think, but sometimes he couldn’t help it. She was a liar, Mabel Felstone. She didn’t miss Robin’s family. None of them did. Listen to them now, as if nothing had ever happened, and nobody had a care.
Robin was vaguely aware that today was his birthday. Todayhe turned eight years old. It wasn’t important. A cold wind was blowing through Summerswood; leaves were falling like rain. He needed to cut twine and collect pine branches to build his shelter warmer. He needed to start stockpiling food. One day his father would return, of that he had no doubt. And when he did he would see Robin had needed nobody’s help, and he would be proud.
Robin finished his meal. He tested the keen edge on his hunting knife, then he took the blade and set about his work.
II. The Greenwood
R obin woke knowing someone was creeping close to his shelter.
He sat up, very slowly, and crouched on the balls of his feet. He tried to peer through the weave of the walls. He saw little in the dim dawn light. But he knew who this was outside: Narris and Swet and the rest.
He closed his eyes and listened. How many of them had come? What did they carry with them this time?
Twice in recent months Robin had woken to the smell of something foul dripping through the roof of his shelter, and the sound of Narris and the others running away, laughing. After each attack Robin had retreated deeper into Summerswood. He had coated this new shelter in brambles, so from afar it looked like any other blackberry bush.
But he had not been careful enough. The boys from the village had found him. They were being very quiet – barely a leaf cracking – a single twig snapped – it was more of a
feeling
Robin had that they were skulking, very close.
He sensed them drawing nearer, nearer—
He burst from his shelter, throwing himself on the nearest intruder, grappling their legs, Robin’s head colliding with their stomach – a winded cry of surprise and alarm – the twoof them sprawling together to the earth, Robin scrapping wildly and silently and whoever it was fighting back, scratching and biting and hissing at him through bared teeth and then screeching a high-pitched wail and finally spitting out words, furious and garbled.
‘Gedoff lemeego stoppit leggo gedoff leggoff!’
Robin understood several things at once: the intruder was alone; it was not Narris Felstone or anyone else from the village. It was a stranger. It was a girl.
He eased his grip. The girl slipped out of his grasp and sprang away and crouched there, her back arched, poised on bare feet and fingertips, fixing Robin with a dark, fierce glare.
‘You hit me!’ she shouted. ‘How dare you – who are you – what are you doing in my woods I’ll have you thrown in gaol and you’ll stay there living on bread and water for the rest of your life which in any case won’t be very long because I’ll have my father’s knights chop off your head and put it on a spike so everyone can see what happens to a filthy stinking wretch who dares put his hands on a duchess – which is practically a princess – how dare you, you hit me, you’ve
drawn blood
!’
This went on for a long time, the girl ranting and raging, barely taking a breath, until she sounded ready to choke.
And then, abruptly, like a summer storm parting, she fell quiet. She stood upright. Her top lip was bleeding. Her
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