Lionel is seven feet of pure coward. Banished by his warrior father for refusing to learn to fight, Lionel found refuge in the woods of Sherwood Forest, where he joined the misfit band of teens led by Rowan Hood, daughter of Robin. Now, a year later, his father has been taken prisoner by Robin Hood, and Lionel is determined to make peace. But when Lionclaw spots his son among outlaws, he vows revenge. Suddenly Sherwood is crawling with danger and Lionel wants nothing more than to turn and run. But when a couple of bounty hunters capture Rowan and use her as bait, the lion in Lionel is awakened, along with the courage to stand up to his father. "Springer excels at keeping the action and adventure in high gear, and she creates strong characters with clear motivations." Nancy Springer has published forty novels for adults, young adults and children. In a career beginning shortly after she graduated from Gettysburg College in 1970, Springer wrote for ten years in the imaginary realms of mythological fantasy, then ventured on contemporary fantasy, magical realism, and women's fiction before turning her attention to children's literature. Her novels and stories for middle-grade and young adults range from contemporary realism, mystery/crime, and fantasy to her critically acclaimed novels based on the Arthurian mythos, I AM MORDRED: A TALE OF CAMELOT and I AM MORGAN LE FAY. Springer's children's books have won her two Edgar Allan Poe awards, a Carolyn W. Field award, various Children's Choice honors and numerous ALA Best Book listings. Her most recent series include the Tales of Rowan Hood, featuring Robin Hood’s daughter, and the Enola Holmes mysteries, starring the much younger sister of Sherlock Holmes. Ms. Springer lives in East Berlin, Pennsylvania. Chapter 1 Trudging through Sherwood Forest, with his harp nestled like a turtledove in one big hand, Lionel did not even try to be quiet. It was no use. His feet, the size of pony heads in their curly-tipped shoes, would never learn not to scrape and shuffle. His great lumbering body would never learn not to rustle brush and bracken. And his poor muddled head, seven feet above the ground, would never learn not to conk itself on tree limbs. He made a poor excuse for an outlaw, forsooth. According to his father, he made a poor excuse for a son altogether. Lionel slowed, gazing up at tall oaks with acorns fattening on their branches, their autumn leaves hanging muted purple, like old royal velvet, in the twilight. Somewhere high in the darkening sky wild geese bayed like hounds, but Lionel barely heard. Instead, he heard in memory his father’s voice: "You disgrace my name. My heir, a sissy, a harp plucker? You are no son of mine. Go. If I see you again, I will kill you." The words echoed in Lionel’s mind. Yes, kill. His father had really said that. And meant it. Lionel remembered his father’s eyes narrowed to slits above his beard, remembered the lion growl in his father’s voice. A great lord can, and will, kill whomever he pleases. My father. Two years ago he had threatened Lionel with death. On my birthday. Thirteenth. Unlucky number. Lionel sighed, lowered his gaze from the storm-purple oaks, and trudged on. In the months since another powerful man, the Sheriff of Nottingham, had put a bounty on his head, he had become accustomed to the threat of death. But remembering his father saying You are no son of mine. He had not yet become accustomed to the heartache. Or the fear. He often quivered with nerves—oversized, sniveling ninny that he knew himself to be—but he had seldom felt such bone-deep terror as now. But . . . I have to try. He slogged on, under the oaks, along a ridge, then into thickets of hemlock and holly, their shadows deepening as night fell. Then down into a rocky dell, where ferns brushed his legs, their fronds dry and yellow at this time of year. Lacework leaves as yellow as primroses, as yellow as Lionel’s jerkin; yellow was his favorite color. The butter-bright ferns seemed to glow in the twilight. Gazing at them, Lionel stubbed his toe, stumbled into a boulder, and almost dropped his harp. A blackthorn branch raked his shoulder. His hand, flung out to grab something solid, found only a patch of nettles. "Owww!" he complained. "Lady have mercy, harper," said a quiet voice in the nightfall. "A deaf man could hear you coming." Peering into the shadows, Lionel could just make out the gleam of a polished longbow, then behind it the form of a man in green. Uphill from Lionel, motionless and almost invisible amid wild quince and ivy, one of Robin Hood’s men was standing guard duty. Lionel cringed. "Don’t shoot me!" he squeaked. In the dusk he could not see the outlaw’s good-humored contempt, but he depended on it, knowing it was there. "Maybe not this time," the man said. "Are you on your way to join the feast?" Standing still, with the ferns no longer rustling around his shins, Lionel could hear the talk and laughter of the outlaws in their hideout o