Hood

by Jenny Elder Moke

  “As you might imagine, there were those who were less than pleased with John’s actions. The rebel barons did not rise overnight. Most of these barons have been fighting against John since before he took the throne, your grandfather chief among them.”

  “You mean your father?”

  Robin shook his head. “No, I mean your maternal grandfather. Marien’s father. Robert Fitzwalter, leader of the rebel barons.”

  That knocked the wind out of her sails. “Mother is from the gentry as well?”

  “Of course,” Robin said with a sideways glance. “Where do you think she learned her disdain for them? Not from her father, mind you. The man is a blustery wind on a chill day. But you do have to admire what he’s accomplished with the barons now. You know, he’d be quite proud of you, if he knew of you. Setting the castle keep on fire in York, you’ve no doubt saved him the trouble of doing it himself.”

  How could she not know her entire family history? Her father the Earl of Huntingdon, her mother the daughter of Robert Fitzwalter, leader of the rebellion against King John?

  “I suppose it was inevitable I would find myself at the end of a royal sword, wasn’t it?” she said faintly.

  Robin grinned. “It runs in the blood.”

  “So why did John consider you a threat to his coup?”

  Robin grimaced. “That’s the boring, complicated part. In a very long, roundabout way, the earldom of Huntingdon had a claim to the throne of Scotland. My father was David of Scotland, a prince and heir to the throne at one point. It’s more of a ceremonial right than anything else now, but at the time it meant something to John. The English and the Scottish have never been amicable in the best of times, and the King of Scotland was worried John might not stop at his brother’s throne. In a show of solidarity with the barons, my father arranged for me to marry Fitzwalter’s daughter. We were young and untried, and everyone thought they could control us.”

  “I cannot imagine anyone controlling Mother,” Isabelle said. “Or you.”

  “Yes, the whole business went rather poorly from the start,” Robin agreed. “Your mother hated me, and I had no intention of marrying. But as such things do in youth, our passion turned from hatred to love, and we agreed to be married. It was a strong alliance between the rebel barons and the Scottish throne, and it must have made old Lackland very nervous indeed.”

  A shiver ran over her skin. “Because he sent the Wolf to kill you.”

  Robin nodded. “Wherever John Lackland went, Sir Roger of Doncaster slithered along in his shadow. Mind you, he always loathed me. The man did not even have the muscles in his face required to smile. He just sort of lifted his top lip and bared his teeth. My father used to say he smiled as if he had just smelled something most foul. I was arrogant in my youth, and I never thought he would come for me directly. I let my guard down, and he slipped through.”

  “What happened?” Isabelle asked breathlessly.

  Robin’s eyes hardened. “He burned down our home with us inside it. They tried to make it look like an accident, but they did a poor job of it. Kicked over a few pots in the kitchen and lit the tapestries in the hall on fire. As if a flaming goose would have sauntered out of the kitchen and stopped to admire a woodland scene.”

  Even though she knew how this story ended, her breath still came in quick, shallow bursts. “But you did not die.”

  “No, I did not. The fire consumed enough of the house that we only had to help it along in the eastern wing to cover our escape. We used the bodies of two servants who had been caught in the kitchen as decoys. We spent many months in a perpetual state of flight, staying with trusted friends when we could and making our home in the wilds when we could not. But eventually Marien was far enough along with you that I could not have her running about the forest, hiding for her life. I was desperate to find a safe haven, and so I turned to a distant cousin who served as prioress at Kirklees. I tried to convince Rosamund to let me stay disguised as a sister, but she was appalled at the suggestion. Something about violating the sanctity of the vows and disturbing the sisters’ communion with God.”

  Isabelle smiled faintly, imagining Sister Catherine’s horrified reaction were she to discover a man living in their midst.

  Robin shrugged. “So I escaped to the wilds of Sherwood, where I found men made even more desperate than myself by the toll the monarchy was taking on them. Richard was an incredible soldier but an abysmal king. He left his subjects vulnerable to his brother’s greedy attacks. They needed hope and discipline, and I was embarrassingly full of both at such a young age. And so, here I am.”

  Isabelle’s head swam with questions, the most inane of which rose to the surface. “Does this mean I am a princess?”

  He gave her a wry smile. “Only in my heart, love. I am afraid I left that life long ago, and took you with me. My younger brother, John, holds the title of earl now. Ah, here we are.”

  He held his hands out to encompass the meager gathering of cottages before them, many of the thatched roofs falling in and missing support beams along the top. The people drove their sheep and hung their washing as townspeople did all over the country. It was a small hamlet, the citizens grim and weary. Their faces were smeared in various shades of grime, their backs hunched as they shouldered their burdens. After the opulence of the sheriff’s gold stores in York, the sight of his people suffering in resigned silence raised the heat in Isabelle’s blood.

  “What are we doing here?” she asked.

  “We are here to repay an old friend,” Robin said.

  Robin moved into the town with his light step, giving a wave to those he saw. Their faces brightened as he passed, many breaking out in wide grins and lifting their hands in salute. Some of the people called to him by name, shouting across the fields to be heard.

  “You know these people?” Isabelle asked.

  “I have need of many friends in my waning outlaw years,” Robin said, clapping a passing farmer on the shoulder. “You never know when you might require a pile of hay to hide under while the soldiers pass.”

  Isabelle lifted her brow. “Are these people not afraid of incurring the sheriff’s wrath?”

  Robin shrugged one shoulder. “He barely manages disdain for them. He would not imagine any of them might have an original thought of their own, much less the temerity to defy him. Rather works in my favor most days. Here we are.”

  He ducked into the opening of a small hovel, the roof collapsing in places where the constant rain had eaten away at the thatching. Isabelle had borne witness to the crumbling exteriors of the poorer abodes in Kirkleestown when she accompanied her mother to tend the sick, their hearths cold because they could not gather the wood, their floors unswept because their brooms kept moldering. But still this home fared worse than those in her memory, seeming to be held together by not much more than the mysterious will of the Almighty. The people of Kirkleestown were starving; what would happen to the people of this nameless village?

  She took a moment to adjust to the dim interior as she stepped inside, but Robin’s boisterous laugh drew her toward the far end. A rail-thin man stood among a collection of patched burlap sacks filled with grain or some other staple. It was an odd dichotomy, such a starved-looking man among so much food. But his eyes were bright and quick, and he matched Robin’s laugh with a surprisingly full-bodied one of his own.

  “That, my friend, is why my wife is in charge of the household expenses,” the man was saying. “Or so she tells me.”

  He looked up at Isabelle, his eyes widening. “Who is this lovely young woman?”

  Robin lifted his chin and pulled back his shoulders, his eyes shining. “This glorious creature is my daughter, Isabelle. Isabelle, this is Harry.”

  The man’s eyebrows shot up as a warm blush spread across Isabelle’s cheeks. “Your daughter? I should say she must have her mother’s looks.”

  Robin gave another laugh. “That she does, my friend.”

  Isabelle inclined her head, acutely embar
rassed to be discussed in such a manner. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

  Harry gave her a low bow, which seemed particularly ridiculous considering the ruinous state of his home. “The pleasure is all with me, miss. But what brings you two here in Little John’s place?”

  Robin waved one hand dismissively. “The wind, my good friend, the wind calls and I am but her slave to answer. Well, that and the promise of a spot of good fortune. Speaking of which, I find myself with a pocket full of coin and an empty belly. Have you a spare sack or two of your fine meal?”

  The man frowned, looking about the small space. “All of this is held for the collector. We barely had enough to fill our own table this harvest. I cannot risk being turned out of our home, not with the new wee one.”

  Robin scratched at his chin, pursing his lips in contemplation. “How much do you owe the tax collector?”

  “Ten sacks,” Harry said heavily. “Would have been twenty if he had his way.”

  “What does that tally to? Three pence a sack?”

  Harry nodded. “And a surplus tax of a penny on top of it. As if we should be punished for a good harvest.”

  Robin dug into his pocket, producing a handful of gold coins Isabelle recognized from the sheriff’s coffers. “I should think this would cover your troubles, would it not? And a bit extra for the wee one.”

  Harry’s eyes went even wider, accenting the thin lines of his long face. “Robin, I can’t…’Tis too generous. The collector will want to know where I got this.”

  “And you shall tell him a passing nobleman had a craving for flat cakes and insisted you accept his gold for your grains. Though these collectors tend to lose the power of speech in the presence of shiny baubles.”

  Harry cupped his hands as Robin dropped the coins, folding his long fingers over the gold in wonder. Robin scratched his chin, contemplating the bags of grain.

  “I am afraid in my hunger I have been overzealous in my purchases,” Robin said. “The Merry Men could hardly eat ten sacks of grain before the wheat rotted away, and I would be loath to see such fine meal go to waste. I do not suppose you know anyone hereabouts who would benefit from such a supply?”

  Tears stood out in Harry’s eyes as he gave a solemn nod. “I will see the grain put to fine use among the townspeople. And thank you, Robin. From the bottom of our hearts, thank you.”

  Robin gave a wave. “I should be thanking you for alleviating me of the burden of carrying ten sacks back to the camp.” He lifted one of the sacks and tossed it over his shoulder with a grunt. “Now I remember why I send John on these errands. Good day, Harry.”

  Harry gave a smile and bowed to Isabelle. “Good day to you, my friends.”

  Isabelle waited to speak until they had cleared the hovel. “Will the sheriff not be suspicious of how he came by the gold?”

  Robin gave a small laugh. “The sheriff will have his hands full trying to rebuild the keep before King John’s next visit. He’ll need that gold too badly to ask where it came from. This way the townspeople at least get a decent meal out of it.”

  Isabelle shook her head. “When you took that gold, I thought…Most men would keep such wealth for themselves.”

  Robin shrugged. “What use have I for gold? The earth is my floor, the heavens my roof. The Merry Men my company. What more do I need that gold would buy?”

  Isabelle followed him through the hamlet as he dispensed the sheriff’s gold, many of the townspeople brought to tears at the sight of a single coin that was worth more than they could earn in a lifetime. And everywhere the people blessed Robin, forcing what gifts upon him they had to give, until he was burdened with sacks of grain, stacks of cakes, simple pieces of pottery, and skeins of wool.

  “This is not what I imagined of the outlaw lifestyle,” Isabelle said, carrying a sack of wooden cups and bowls with her. “I expected far more carousing and highway robbery.”

  “There’s plenty of that, too,” Robin said with a wink. “We’ve one more stop to make.”

  Isabelle followed him to the edge of the hamlet, where an old man worked out in the open, his hair thick and gray. He leaned over a worktable, his lean arms browned from the sun, stripping the bark off a long piece of wood. He looked up at Robin’s clattering approach, shielding his eyes against the sun.

  “Well, look what the rains washed in,” he called in a scratchy voice.

  Robin grinned. “I see they can’t wash you out.”

  “I’ll be clinging to this place like a drowned rat until God himself puts me down,” the man said. Robin clasped his forearm, shaking it heartily. “Good day, Robin.”

  “And a most excellent one to you, Matthew. I have need of your craftsmanship today.” He nodded toward Isabelle. “My daughter has misplaced her bow.”

  “Ack,” the old man said, squinting at Isabelle. “And are you sure she deserves a replacement? A bow is family. You can’t simply go about losing one.”

  Isabelle reddened. “I did not lose it,” she said. “It was taken. Rather forcefully.”

  The old man grunted, but he turned away and disappeared into his small cottage. When he stepped back out, he held a simple bow, the wood so expertly planed and smoothed it reflected the clouds. She drew in a half breath, reaching out for it reverently.

  “This is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” she whispered, running her hands along the shining grain.

  “Better be,” Matthew grunted. “Took me near two weeks to craft it. That one was a stubborn wood.”

  “Matthew is the greatest bowman round these parts,” Robin said. “When I’m not here, of course.”

  “Ye’ve never accepted a challenge from me, so who’s to say,” said the old man.

  Robin tilted his head in concession, flipping him two gold coins. “For your trouble, and any future troubles that might come your way.”

  The old man grunted again, the coins disappearing from the table in the blink of an eye. “She’ll be needing a quiver as well.”

  The quiver, if it was possible, was even more beautiful than the bow. The outside was simple and unadorned, but the stitching was tight and neat, the leather perfectly cured to a beautiful golden-brown hue. She shouldered the quiver, stretching the bow to its full extent to test the tension. It was a heavier weight than her last, requiring all her concentration to pull it, but it fit perfectly into the groove of her hand.

  “Thank you so much,” Isabelle said, not knowing any better words to express her true gratitude to the old man or Robin.

  “Shall we test it out?” Robin asked.

  Isabelle looked up, and for an absurd moment she thought she might cry. “You want to go shooting with me?”

  “Why would I not? You are my daughter. I am the greatest bowman of England. It is my paternal duty to make sure you live up to the name of Hood.”

  The woods around York were much sparser than Sherwood, the canopy cover giving way to rolling hills as they left the road. The township was but a speck in the distance, though Isabelle imagined she could still see smoldering clouds over the keep. Robin kept a brisk pace down each hill and up the next, the grass thin and marked with rocks. Isabelle’s stomach grumbled, reminding her that she had skipped breakfast. She was about to protest walking any farther, when they crested a tall hill, the land stretched out like a rumpled blanket below them.

  “Here?” Isabelle asked as Robin finally stopped, leaning over and trying to catch her breath. “But there is nothing to shoot here.”

  “No, there is nothing easy to shoot here. If I wanted to see you shoot a target at thirty paces, I would not have brought you so fine a bow for your fifth birthday.”

  Isabelle took a last huffing breath and straightened, turning in a slow circle to survey the land. She could see nothing but hills all around, the city a smudge against the blue horizon, and a few trees dotting the landscape. She shrugged, completing her circle, before something caught her eye and made her turn back.

  One of the lone trees dotting the hills in the
distance was nondescript except for a tuft of white against the trunk. Isabelle squinted and shielded her eyes, sure she was imagining the angular cuts of feather sticking out. She shook her head.

  “Impossible,” she said. “That tree must be at least seventy paces away, maybe more.”

  Robin shrugged one shoulder. “I suppose it is impossible for those who do not possess the skill necessary to make such a shot.”

  Isabelle gave him a narrow look. “You are goading me.”

  “I would not dream of such a thing.”

  She huffed, shading her eyes once more toward the tree. “How do I know you shot from this hill? You could have shot from that one over there closer to the target.”

  “I could demonstrate now, if you like. Setting aside your intimation that I am a liar and a cheat, of course. Come, now, let us see your stance.”

  “My stance? Whatever for?”

  “Their stance is the bowman’s declaration of intention. A poor stance ruins even the best of aim.”

  Isabelle planted her feet, feeling a bit foolish as she lifted the bow and drew the string back with the first three fingers of her right hand. She settled down into her ribs, rooting herself to the earth and focusing on the tree rather than the tip of the arrow. A fair archer tries to measure the gap between the tip of the arrow and the target to gauge for distance. An excellent archer intuits the distance and focuses solely on the target.

  “Not bad,” Robin murmured. “Though I am surprised your mother would let you get away with such a slouching posture.”

  Isabelle sighed, releasing the tension on the string to rest her muscles. “She does not let me get away with it, but I cannot shoot right when I try to hold my carriage up as she does.”

  Robin waved his hand. “She told me on more than one occasion that I would grow a hump if I continued to slink about like that while shooting.”

  Isabelle laughed. “She told me my spine would grow crooked if I did not stand straight.”