Much narrowed his eyes; a laughable show of threat.
Will grimaced and said, “We try not to use the K-word.”
“Fuck you,” Much said, and turned back to the computer. “Here’s Rob.”
On the screen, the portcullis went up and two figures on horseback rode into the courtyard.
Without meaning to, Rooster walked deeper into the room, past the desk and right up to the window to get a better look.
“Oy. What’s he doing?”
“It’s fine.”
Much and Will, he registered, but his attention was on the courtyard and the circling riders.
They’d trotted in, and the horses were excited; tossing their heads and tugging at the bits. Not fractious, but still full of energy from the ride. Both were big-boned, heavy-legged draft types. And their riders:
Both in those awkward skintight English riding pants and tall black boots, and dark green jackets with hoods. One, the larger of the two, carried a rifle in a scabbard strapped to his back like a sword. And the other had a longbow and a quiver of arrows.
Something tickled at the back of Rooster’s mind, a tense crawling sensation that left him suppressing a shudder.
Deshawn came to stand beside him.
“That’s your boss? The one with the bow?” Somehow, he knew that was the case.
“Yep, that’s Rob,” Deshawn said, and the tickling in Rooster’s head intensified. There was something in his friend’s voice – not smugness, but a secret barely held in check.
Rooster couldn’t see the speakers set in the walls around the courtyard, but he heard the crackle and then the distorted echo of a voice over a sound system; it was Much – he could heard him right behind him, too. “We’ve got company, Rob. Get up here.”
The man with the bow swung off his horse, smiling, and waved up at the window with a gloved hand. Rooster saw his mouth form the words,Just a second.
Someone came out on foot to take the horses. The other rider, Rooster noted, washuge. No wonder they’d ridden Percherons.
By the time the sound of footfalls crossed the threshold, the tickling in Rooster’s mind had become an awful scratching. He was missing something here; something everyone else wanted to smile about.
“So this must be Rooster,” yet another British-accented voice said, and Rooster turned.
The man they’d all called Rob was unremarkable. At first glance. Pleasant-faced, but not distracting in any way. But the longer Rooster stared at him – his easy smile, the copper flash or his hair when he pushed his hood back – the more he started to think that behind the camouflage of vagueness lurked something foxy and sharp. His eyes were bright, and his canine teeth were just a little too sharp. When he strolled into the room, seeming unconcerned, it was with the coiled grace of a predator. Under his loose green jacket, there was a soldier’s body, ready for battle.
And his hair. The light hit it just right and it was red. For a moment, Rooster’s breath caught. Could he…? But no. It wasn’t the same shade as Red’s. A darker russet, with lots of brown. He wore it longer than military regulation; it clung to the sweat at his temples.
He’d never met the man in his life, but there was something almost familiar about him. Forget itching; there were warning sirens going off in his brain now.
“Pleasure to meet you, Rooster.” He stuck out his hand; freckles across the knuckles, old, hard calluses on the palm and fingers. He wore a three-fingered archery glove. “I’m Captain Locksley, but all the boys just call me Rob. Welcome to Lionheart.”
And then it all clicked into place. Some tiny scrap of schoolboy knowledge finally fitting the pieces together: Will Scarlet. Much. John. Rob Locksley.
His mouth felt numb. It was hard to work his tongue. He asked, “Where’s Friar Tuck?”
Rob laughed, delighted. “Sleeping, I expect. He does a lot of that when he’s got into the good wine.” His eyes danced; they were green, a deep forest green. “You figured it out quicker than I thought.”
Processing all of this was impossible. He turned to find Deshawn smiling at him.
“Your boss is Robin Hood,” he deadpanned.
Deshawn shrugged. “Again: your girl shoots fire out of her hands.”
Very true.
Rooster turned back to the man – the legend – in question. Still smiling kindly at him. Slowly, he reached out and took the offered shake.
Rob gave him a firm grip and then let go. “Alright. Someone said something about staging a rescue?”
