Thief of Hearts: Dragon Curse Chronicles, #2

By D.L. Snow

From USA Today Bestselling Author D.L. Snow

Book Two of Dragon Curse Chronicles – THIEF OF HEARTS 

 

Sometimes revenge is a matter of honor…

 

THE OUTLAW: If there is one thing Lord Hood is good at, it's sniffing out a lie. And the newest member of his troupe of Merry Men Players, the lad Little John, is lying about something. Hood just has to figure out what. In the meantime, he will continue to steal from the rich and give to the poor and evade the bounty hunters who pursue him. For one day soon he will return home to avenge the murder of his betrothed and perhaps that will ease the dark stain upon his heart. 

 

THE PRINCESS: Happily ever after? Zaina doesn't believe in it. Now revenge on the other hand is a noble pursuit. Particularly when her goal is to ruin the man who defiled her so thoroughly that she is unable to return home. All she has to do is cut her hair, dress up as a boy, call herself Little John, join the traveling circus, guard her soul against the evil sorceress, battle dragons and avoid the lethal tip of the mysterious Lord Hood's blade.

 

It's perfectly easy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wolfstreet Press
• Release date: Sep 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781987928143

Book preview

Part I

THIEF OF HEARTS

Wanted

Map of the Continent

Chapter 1

T’was a wee lad, only ten hands tall,

So slight, so fair, but loved by all.

His courage, ‘twas said, was bettered by none,

And that is where our story’s begun.

---

Zaina turned the dagger over in her hands. She ran her finger along the bejeweled sheath, absently rubbing the inlaid mother of pearl. The dagger had been a gift from her father, the king of Fenloch, only a few months before he died. That was years ago now. Oh how she missed him.

Slowly she withdrew the dagger from the sheath, the sound of metal against metal so loud in the close quarters of the carriage that she glanced across at Analise, her lady-in-waiting. But Analise was asleep, lulled by the sluggish rocking of the slow-moving carriage. Turning the dagger over in her hands, Zaina rubbed the family crest carved into the gold pommel and stroked the etching that ran the length of the blade. It was a beautiful knife, more ornament than weapon. But today her father’s gift would serve its purpose.

Pressing the tip of the blade against her thumb, she tested its sharpness. Strange. With very little pressure she drew blood, yet she did not feel a thing. Absently, Zaina squeezed the blade tight in her hand and then opened it. Her skin was split, the blood spilling out onto her palm. Yet still she felt nothing.

Perhaps she ought to wake Analise and get it over with.

No. There was still plenty of time before she reached home. Four days at least—she’d let Analise sleep a little while yet. Paying no mind to the blood dripping from her hand onto her silk gown, Zaina turned to stare out the window, watching the slow passing of rain-soaked fields, feeling as if the low lying clouds were about to smother her. But it was not the passing landscape she saw. In her mind’s eye, Zaina saw flashes of events that had taken place and those that would surely transpire in the near future.

Horrible images of Prince Cahill, the wretch! Oh, how she’d longed for him. How he’d deceived her! He’d slipped into her room in the middle of the night and she had wakened with pleasure, welcoming his secret touches and caresses. How easily she’d given in to the passion she’d never known existed, only to be turned out of the castle the next day for her impurity. The worst thing was that her body—the traitor!—still quivered at the thought of the scoundrel’s illicit touch.

Other scenes played painfully through her head; the image of her mother collapsing at the news of her dishonor borne ahead by a messenger on horseback. Her stepfather—the King—heartless and spiteful—his greatest desire was for his own son, her step-brother, to be next in line for the throne. How convenient that he should have a legitimate reason to get rid of her, the rightful heir, as decreed by her father. Yet for all her father’s progressive thinking, there remained those archaic laws that still held true. A princess must be virtuous and pure. If it could be proven that she was not, she would be sentenced to death.

It wasn’t your fault, Analise said, smothering a yawn and startling Zaina out of her reverie.

Zaina turned from the window, barely tilting her head in response. Analise was wrong. It was her fault. She’d been duped. She, who prided herself on her stability of emotions and intelligence, she, who had spent her spare time learning the workings of the kingdom instead of sewing whatnots for her trousseau, she should have known better. But when she’d met Cahill, everything had changed. For the first time in Zaina’s life, she’d actually contemplated marriage. It was not a mistake she would make again.

What is that? Analise asked as she reached across and straightened Zaina’s skirts. Blood? You’ve hurt yourself?

It’s nothing.

Analise flipped over Zaina’s bleeding hand and gasped. It’s not nothing. You need to bind that. She hiked up her skirt and tore a strip from the bottom of her chemise and then reached for Zaina’s hand and paused. Why, pray, do you have your dagger out of its sheath?

Zaina passed the blade to her companion. Meeting Analise’s worried grey eyes, she said, I need you to help me.

Her lady-in-waiting dropped the dagger on the carriage floor and shook her head so hard a curl came loose from her cap. Oh no!

Analise, please. I’m not asking much.

Princess, I can’t!

You know I can’t go home. I will be dragged to the dungeon and left in chains for forty days and forty nights. Then I will be beheaded before all I love. That is not the manner in which I choose to die.

But, milady, surely your mother will not allow—

My mother holds no sway over my stepfather, the king, you know that.

Analise fluttered her hands in frantic denial. When she spoke, her voice broke with emotion. What you ask of me is a crime. And even were it not, I could not do it. Please, please do not ask this of me.

You would rather see me suffer? You would rather see me dishonored in front of my people?

Analise covered her face and wept.

Zaina sighed with resignation. Then she picked up the dagger from the carriage floor and said, Very well. If you won’t do it, then I suppose I must.

The road ahead grew misty as the sun broke through the heavy grey clouds. Hood paused at the top of the hill to overlook the valley as the caravan lumbered slowly behind. He supposed his appearance painted a discordant picture; him with the face of a gargoyle, heading such a whimsical caravan. The wagons were painted gaily in reds and blues with the lettering The Merry Men Players decorating the sides for those few with the ability to read. Not only did the wagons appear cheerful, but there was an air of festivity that buzzed around them like bumblebees to a clover patch.

However, Hood was immune to such merriment. He sat atop of his blue-black hunter, unable to smile, as weary as the mask he wore. With the hawkish nose and pock-marked cheeks, seemingly etched by wind and rain, the disguise was a form of defense as surely as the sword at his hip, the dagger in his boot and the bow across his back were meant for protection. His long black hair was pulled back by a cord yet a wisp came loose in the wind as he swept his dark gaze back and forth, on the look-out for bandits and highwaymen.

Attacks were rare. Hood credited his disguises for that fact. From Hood’s experience, bandits preferred to prey on the comely rather than big, ugly men, such as himself; men who had very little left to lose. Although he supposed it did no harm that, in addition to his shocking features, he had a reputation for having no soul. Rarely was anyone stupid enough to challenge him. There were those who were swayed by drink and the promise of reward, and of those men, all had found themselves dead—a dagger through the neck, an arrow through the eye, a sword through the heart—before they had a chance to rethink their impulsive actions.

Why, no more than a sennight ago, Hood had come across a bounty hunter in the village of Lisane. The brute had been passing around parchment with Hood’s very own image drawn upon it. It was a terrible likeness…except for one thing. The telltale scar that ran the length of his cheek, the one Hood covered daily with his waxen masks. It had been too long since anyone had come so close, Hood was becoming careless. After watching the man all evening from the cover of disguise, witnessing the way the thug disabused a young serving girl, Hood waited until nightfall to follow the man to his rented room. He’d met too many men like this mercenary, vicious and cruel, and he felt no remorse for slitting his throat.

Gods. The time to stop running was nigh, Hood felt it in his weary bones. Returning to Fenloch and facing the sheriff had occupied his mind for the past many days, including now, as he gazed out across the countryside, tuning out the cacophony of his group of players as they approached from the rear.

Something caught his eye. Down in the valley, a lone carriage sat at an awkward angle. From his vantage point, the carriage appeared deserted, leaning with a forward slant where a wheel was missing. There was no one about, as far as he could see, no horses, no people. The carriage was either the result of a recent crime or it was a decoy and an ambush. Hood betted on the latter.

He circled around to meet the caravan, ignoring the constant laughter and bantering between Tweedle and Deedle and the other players, giving a subtle nod to his four companions, Much, Stutely, A’Dale and Bland. Four men, who stood out from the rest, who acted the parts of players but in truth were more henchmen than poets, although A’Dale’s ability with the lute and lyrics were as skilled as any minstrel Hood had ever met.

An ambush do you think? Much asked as the five men surveyed the distant carriage in the lonely valley.

I have little doubt, said Hood.

Ride down with swords drawn? Or something more subtle? Stutely asked, his hand lingering restlessly on the hilt of the sword sheathed against his hip.

More subtle, I should think. Hood said, his dark eyes flashing with a peculiar light.

The men chuckled with anticipation and Hood rounded his horse, calling a halt to the caravan. He dismounted and stepped up into the lead wagon to prepare an ambush for the ambushers.

The slow clop of the tired donkey came closer and closer. Zaina peeked out from behind the boulder where she hid. A hunched old man in a filthy, tattered cloak approached, dragging a reluctant donkey whose swayed back was piled high with what appeared to be all of the man’s worldly possessions. As the donkey neared her hiding spot, he brayed and stopped, digging his hooves in, deciding, it would seem, to go no further.

Come now ye lazy ass, the old man argued in a raspy voice.

As if in reply, the donkey brayed again and shook his head to pull the tether from the man’s frail grasp so the donkey could lower his head to the grass growing near the cart path.

Zaina watched from her hiding place with a mixture of curiosity, fear and hope. Perhaps this man was her salvation. Then she caught a glimpse of the face beneath the hood and she ducked back down behind the rock, all hope forgotten, her heart pounding in her chest, her grip tightening on her dagger, as if she’d seen the very devil himself. A grimy bit of cloth covered one eye. His nose and chin were so long and pointed, they curved almost to meet one another. His face was scarred and dirty with distorted features and strange growths. But it was that one good eye that stole her breath away. For just a moment she’d caught sight of it, black as a moonless night, dark and empty. Zaina wondered if perhaps he’d covered the wrong socket with the cloth because she couldn’t imagine anything that was more lacking of soul than that one black eye.

Holding her breath, Zaina pressed her body against the boulder as if trying to crawl inside. She could still hear the occasional clop of the donkey as it moved to and fro in search of grass. But she didn’t hear another word from the man. As quietly and slowly as she could, she eased to the edge of the boulder and peeped around it. The donkey was there by the side of the carriage. But the man was gone.

Just as Zaina ducked back down, her arm was yanked behind with such force she dropped her knife. In an instant she was hauled to her feet, the cold length of a dagger pressed against her neck. She cried out in surprise but her startled response was cut short by the bite of the blade against her flesh.

What do we have here, then? a raspy voice whispered in her ear.

Please, she cried, but the blade only pressed more firmly and Zaina felt the sting of splitting skin.

Planning on attacking an old man? Shame on ye.

No. Zaina tried to shake her head in denial but the blade stopped her.

And a liar too. He made a clucking noise with his tongue.

I-I don’t know who you think—

Quiet now.

The man held her firmly against his body, covering her mouth with his free hand. Was this the same stooped old codger who couldn’t hold onto a donkey? Surely not. For the man at her back was broad and firm beneath his cloak. The hand clamped against her mouth was large and strong. The man did not have the smell of the decrepit: rotten onions, garlic and decayed teeth. He smelled like sage and wood smoke. These facts were not a comfort and Zaina’s knees buckled with the fear of her pending doom. At least her death would be quick. Whatever this man had in mind, it would still be better than having to wait for her public execution in the damp, rat-infested dungeon beneath Fenstrom Castle.

Zaina closed her eyes, saying a silent prayer as she awaited the inevitable. But instead of a quick slash across her throat, she was suddenly dragged backwards. Stumbling to get her feet beneath her, she fell against her captor who released her mouth and righted her with ease. She blinked in confusion at the thunder of approaching hooves.

Four large horses carrying four even larger men surrounded Zaina and her captor.

How many? her captor growled in a voice that was no longer raspy but strong and commanding.

None, said a large blond man on a prancing bay.

None? Are you certain?

The only tracks are a fresh set from a carriage and a few horses beside the cart path. Nothing in the forest. This was not an ambush.

Then what happened here? her captor asked.

I don’t know, one man replied. Why don’t you ask him.

Him.

So, it had worked. They believed her to be male.

It was with great relief that Analise, her lady-in-waiting, had agreed to assist her in changing her appearance. At first the girl had thought Zaina meant to kill herself. What a notion! How Analise could have thought such a thing…it went against reason. And Zaina had always lived according to reason—up until a few nights ago when she’d given in to Cahill and…oh! To think of her behavior…of his! It could not be borne.

Once Analise understood what Zaina was asking, she gladly sheared off Zaina’s long golden locks with the bejeweled dagger and helped her remove her gown. Using a wide band of cloth, she wrapped Zaina’s bosom, flattening her chest until she appeared to have the physique of a boy. Dressed in the pageboy’s extra breeches and tunic, the coachman’s cloak and the footman’s feathered cap, Zaina’s disguise was complete.

Now she had only to convince these men of her story.

The ugly brute behind her pushed her so suddenly Zaina stumbled, nearly falling on her face in the mud. She turned a circle, eyeing each of the men who watched her from their mounts. Tripping over her too large boots, she managed to right herself in front of the man who’d held her. He no longer appeared hunch-backed or frail as he stood straight and tall, towering above her. His mottled face looked even worse up close as he tugged on the piece of cloth covering one eye and removed it, revealing another equally dark and frightening eye.

Zaina swallowed.

What happened here? Why are you alone?

I-I…

Do you recognize my face?

Y-your face, Sir? Zaina stammered in confusion.

Yes, my face. Do you recognize me?

Her captor took a step closer and Zaina’s automatic response was to take two steps back. She shook her head. No, Sir. I don’t recognize you.

He grabbed the clasp of her cloak and pulled her closer, gazing down into her face with a piercing glare. Are you certain? he asked, his voice hard and cold.

Believe me, Sir, Zaina stuttered. If I had seen your face before…I would remember.

For what seemed an eternity he stared into her eyes and no matter what Zaina wished for, she could not look away. Then he released her and the strangest thing happened. The gash across his face, that was supposed to be his mouth, twisted strangely and the man threw back his head and laughed. His hood slipped off, revealing a mass of long, raven black hair. The men surrounding her joined in the laughter with loud chortles and chuckling.

He would remember my face, he says!

As would I, laughed one dark-haired fellow. It is quite a face, milord.

As quickly as the laughter started, it stopped. Her captor turned his stony glare on the dark-haired man, who appeared suddenly abashed and looked away.

You, the man’s stony gaze now held her again. What happened here?

I-I don’t know.

You don’t know?

Zaina licked her lips and started again. I was traveling with my lady. We lost a wheel on our second carriage and I was sent to the forest to fetch some wood to repair it. When I returned, the other carriage was gone. They must have been set upon by bandits.

The man took a step closer and once again, Zaina could not look away from his penetrating stare. Bandits? Is that so?

I ah… Zaina cleared her throat. I assume so. But perhaps they simply forgot me.

If there is one thing I am good at, the man said as he leaned toward her, forcing Zaina to tilt her head back in order to look up at him, it is sniffing out a lie. The man sniffed the air right in front of her. And you, lad, are lying. Before she could blink, he grabbed the front of her cloak and thrust the tip of his blade into the soft flesh beneath her chin, leaving Zaina in no doubt as to how quickly this man could steal her life.

Chapter 2

In the mud, by a ditch, the wee lad was found,

Five men on horseback rode him aground,

‘Kill him,’ one said, ‘Tis a thief,’ cried another,

‘Nay,’ spoke their chief. ‘We shall embrace him as brother.’

---

The young lad looked so frightened, Hood almost felt sorry for him as he debated whether to take the lad’s life or not. Why would he lie? Hood knew the answer to that question and regardless of how young the lad was or how innocent, Hood was certain the boy was working for someone who was not so young and not so innocent. Someone who wanted to collect the reward for Hood’s capture. Unfortunately this youth was probably a pawn in all of this, but Hood had not lived as many years as he had because he was reckless or soft-hearted.

Please, the boy said in his high, unbroken voice. Please, let me explain.

Hood tossed him to the ground and stood over him, drawing the sword that was concealed beneath his cloak and pressing the tip into the lad’s stomach. He would find no pleasure in impaling the boy and letting him bleed out on the muddy ground, but he would do it if he had to.

I am… the lad closed his eyes and exhaled a long slow breath. I am only protecting my lady.

Your lady?

Yes. The lad opened his eyes again, never breaking eye contact, something that even a few of his own men were incapable of.

How, exactly, are you protecting her?

She, the youth licked his lips and then pushed himself into a seated position. May I stand, please? I find it rather difficult to explain the situation while flat on my back.

Cocking his head to one side, Hood took a slow step backwards and then nodded for the boy to stand. The boy scrambled to his feet and dusted himself off.

Continue, Hood commanded.

With a tentative glance at the other men still astride, the boy began to speak. My lady asked me to lie for her.

And who is your lady?

With his head held high, he said, The Princess Zaina of Fenloch.

Of Fenloch, you say? Hood asked with interest. He was familiar with the King of Fenloch. Even more familiar with the King’s sheriff and it was not a relationship that gave him any sort of pleasure. Why would this princess ask you to lie?

Because she wants her people to believe she has been captured and taken by bandits.

Oh I see, Hood muttered. I suppose she is hoping some foolish lover will come after her? Hood shook his head in disgust. Bloody nobles.

No, the boy said with a great deal of passion in his voice. No. No one will come for her. She was not returning home under the best of circumstances. She has gone into hiding, hoping never to be found. She hopes that her people will believe her dead.

Hood lowered his sword and leaned upon it. A princess who is willing to relinquish her noble heritage? Now this story becomes interesting. Tell me why this princess would be willing to do such a thing.

Because if she goes home, she will lose her head, if you understand my meaning, Sir.

I understand your meaning perfectly. And what exactly happened to bring about this dire situation?

A traitorous wretch by the name of Cahill, prince of Lorentia, the lad said the words with a fire in his blue eyes. He then proceeded to explain how the princess had been courted and wooed by this duplicitous prince, only to be used in the worst possible manner and thrown away. The lady was ruined and now was forced to return home and face the consequences.

Ruined, the lad spat the word like he was spitting out something that was rotten and infested with maggots.

Hood nodded slowly, fighting to maintain his serious expression while the youth extolled the virtues of the princess whom it was clear the lad was rather fond of. Then he noticed the lad’s hand. Tell me, boy, what happened to your hand? Why is it bound? From what injury?

The boy lifted his hand and studied it as if he was seeing it for the first time.

"Protecting your lady?" Hood asked, barely able to keep his lips from twitching in amusement at the thought of the young pup experiencing his very first sniff of physical yearning.

The lad shook his head.

Then how?

I’d rather not say.

I think you’d better. Hood lifted his sword and flourished the tip toward the boy’s thin chest. Already the lad had located a remote, soft morsel of Hood’s heart, which made him more dangerous than the worst sort of thug. This lad would be the perfect decoy and spy for someone like Dutton, the sheriff of Fenloch, and he was not going to take any chances.

The youth looked down at the sword and then back up into his face. They are self-inflicted, Sir.

Self-inflicted?

Yes. The boy nodded and looked around at the men still mounted above him. He seemed to be considering his words carefully. When he spoke again, it was in a lower voice, as if intending his words for Hood and Hood alone. Have you ever felt such horrible pain followed by a strange sense of numbness… the boy regarded his bandaged hand, that you inflicted pain just as a test to see if you would ever feel anything ever again?

He regarded the wide-eyed lad for a moment or two as he considered the boy’s words. Then, beneath his breath he whispered, Perhaps. Once upon a time.

I’m sorry, Sir? Did you say something?

After a moment’s hesitation, Hood scowled, lowered his sword and motioned toward the donkey. Grab the beast. You may follow the caravan while I decide your fate.

He bent to retrieve the lad’s fallen blade, taking a moment to admire the delicate workmanship before tucking it in his belt. He turned his head and whistled a long piercing blow. Rathe, his horse, galloped through the trees toward him. Catching the horse’s reins in one fist, he hoisted himself up onto his mount. He left the boy and his men behind while he rode hard up the hill to where the caravan awaited his return and his signal it was safe to proceed. It was safe, certainly, but Hood still had some doubt over the wisdom of sparing the boy.

Leading the slow-moving procession down the slope toward the carriage, Hood considered the boy’s tale and two things became abundantly clear. The first was that the boy was obviously in love with this princess, Zaina of Fenloch. It was a silly, romantic sentiment, but for some unknown reason, it warmed Hood’s cold heart. Whether the story about her ruination was true or not, Hood was less certain. He was convinced of one other point, however. Though this boy had all the appearance of sincerity, he was still lying.

Zaina yanked the obstinate donkey’s tether as she tried to keep up with the parade of colorful wagons, people and animals. The dark man who had threatened her only hours before now led a group of players. Players! It was so strange, so incongruous that Zaina could make no sense of it. The man and his four companions seemed more like highwaymen, the sort of bandits who had once served in the King’s guard and, deciding that sort of work was not lucrative enough, had used their training and gone astray in search of riches. They could not be mere actors.

But Zaina had little time to consider who the men truly were, as just then he appeared, riding on top of his enormous horse, looking bigger than life, more like a carved statue in a courtyard fountain than a living, breathing human being. She glanced up at him and was once again startled by the fierce impact of his gaze.

Thank you, she began and then cleared her throat. Making a conscious effort to lower her voice in order to sound masculine, she continued, Thank you for not killing me.

He made a soft sound at the back of his throat. Do not thank me too soon. I haven’t decided whether I believe you or not, though there is a certain originality to your story and an honesty in your face that I cannot refute.

Zaina nodded, wishing she felt more relief than she did.

When we reach the next village, I shall make arrangements and send you back to Fenloch so you may spread your story of the Princess’s horrible capture and probable demise at the hands of bandits.

Zaina stopped walking. I’m not going back to Fenloch.

Why ever not?

How could she tell him that the other carriage was already on its way back in order to tell that very story? She couldn’t. Her only course of action with this dangerously perceptive man was honesty. I’m not going back to Fenloch because I’m going to return to Lorentia.

Why, pray, would you do that?

Zaina looked up into the dark face above her. To kill the prince.

The man regarded her for a moment and then with a glint in his black eyes he said, Ah. Revenge. It is a romantic notion. Tell me, child, how old are you?

I am the same age as milady, the princess, Zaina said stubbornly, knowing she could not tell him her true age for, dressed as she was, she must look much younger than her years.

The man’s face darkened as if a storm cloud covered his features. This princess is no more than a child herself, is that what you are saying?

Well…

Her father sent a child off to ruin and now she is on her own?

She isn’t alone. She is among…friends. Zaina glanced behind her. And the King is not her father. He is her stepfather and—

Her stepfather, he repeated with a scowl. He is glad to be rid of her. Is that it?

Zaina studied the man above, wondering at his sudden change in demeanor. But he stared straight ahead and she could not make out his features. She cleared her throat and said, The princess may be young, but she is resourceful.

And, do you plan to find her again one day, once you have exacted your revenge? The man’s lips twitched though his eyes maintained a stony glare as he glanced down upon her.

Once the Prince is dead, I shall feel relieved, Zaina said. But I expect I shall never see the Princess again.

The man pulled his horse up, forcing Zaina to stop, much to the donkey’s delight as he brayed happily and ducked his head to eat more grass. Do you have a plan?

My only plan is to find some sort of employ so that I might earn money for travel and…other things.

What are your skills? Swordsmanship? Archery? Smith-work? He raised a single brow. "No. You are too fine-boned for those things. Tell me lad, what is it you can do? Not much coin in the haberdashery. The Prince will be dead by the time you save enough to travel the distance."

I am a scribe.

You can read?

And write.

Is that so? The man drew near and, bending low over his horse, he took hold of Zaina’s hands. I see no ink stains.

I am very careful. And precise.

Truly?

Yes. She lifted her chin and stared back into his dark gaze. Standing so close, Zaina noticed something strange about the man’s face. It appeared slack as if the man suffered from palsy.

Suddenly the man sat up and put a hand to his cheek. Turning his face away he said, You will be my page and my scribe. I will not be able to pay much, but I don’t think you have many options. Does that sound agreeable to you?

Zaina swallowed, Yes, Sir. Though he frightened her—as she’d never been frightened before—there was something about this man that told her she would be safe with him. For now. It was more than she could have hoped for.

Very well. He looked about to flick the reins in his hand but then held the horse still with his knees and asked, Tell me boy, what do they call you?

John. My name is John.

Ah, Little John, the man said with a smile in his voice. Yet the smile did not touch his face. His features appeared all askew. Zaina frowned but he turned before she could get a better look at what was wrong with him. Then he kicked the great hunter into a canter and jogged off to the front of the caravan.

Your name, Sir? What is your name? she called after him. But the donkey’s bray was her only reply.

Chapter 3

Tell me his name?

‘Twas Little John.

Of neither fortune nor fame?

‘Twas Little John.

No burden of blame?

‘Twas Little John.

His passion aflame?

‘Twas Little John.

---

Hood had known the boy would refuse to return to Fenloch and he could not decide whether he was happy about the lad’s response or not. There was something about the youth that bothered him, something he could not quite put his finger on. Perhaps it was the manner in which the boy responded to him. Who was this ‘Little John’ who stared back at him so boldly? Most men his own size quivered in their boots with but a mere glance from him. But here was this young stripling who watched him with eyes that were older and wiser than his years. The boy hadn’t even reached the age of change, his voice was still high, his face clean and smooth. Yet his eyes were that of an old soul. No matter what Hood did, the boy returned his gaze with that open, honest, wide-eyed look of his.

Honest? No. That the lad was passionate, there was no doubt. But there was something amiss, something the lad was keeping from him. The notion of what that thing might be bothered Hood enough that his only recourse was to keep the boy close. He had learned from experience that there was no sense in running from his enemies. The trick was, in fact, to run straight toward them. To always keep them within sight. The only exception to this rule had been Dutton, the sheriff of Fenloch. Though Hood was not done with that man, far from it.

Was this boy his enemy? The improbability of the boy’s villainy made Hood even more suspicious. He would keep the boy close. At his side at all times. It was the only way to know for sure.

However, there was only one problem with keeping the boy with him at all times. He would have to be careful, very careful, because it was imperative that this Little John should never see his true face.

Zaina had been wrong, in fact she couldn’t have been more wrong. Hood and his band of Merry Men Players truly were just that, players. They were good too. With every village they came upon, the troupe brought with them a festive air including banners, jugglers, horns and flutes, the players paraded into town singing and clapping, stomping and cheering. By the time the procession moved on, the village was left in a state of laughter and merriment. In fact, it seemed to Zaina that the sadder or sorrier the village, the longer the group stayed and the longer the group stayed, the less Zaina saw of her mysterious Lord Hood. When she did catch sight of him, he would be in an even fouler mood than when they’d arrived.

As for her, although her new master had promised Zaina employment as a scribe, so far the closest thing to scribe work she’d done was to sharpen her master’s quills. The man was literate himself and, so far, he’d never called on her talents. What the man clearly needed instead was some kind of man-servant and Zaina found herself taking on the duties of both valet and page, running