by Mari Mancusi
"I'm—hiccup—Friar Tuck," bellows another man, not moving from his spot by the keg. He's short and bald and extremely fat, wearing a long brown robe with a loose tie around his waist. He lifts his mug in way of greeting. "If it's praying ye need, I be yer man."
"If it's beer ye need, more like," Little John quips. The camp breaks out in laughter. At first Friar Tuck looks offended, but then he just laughs and raises his glass to the group and downs a mammoth gulp of ale.
"The Good Lord asks that we enjoy all the fine gifts he has given us," he says after swallowing, "and I always like to do what the Good Lord asks." He sets down the mug on a nearby tree stump and belches loudly.
"If you are quite finished, my dear drunken friar, may I go next?" A richly dressed boy of about eighteen steps into the open. While the others are clothed in mainly gray rags and rugged leather, he wears a scarlet tunic of fine silk. Not so suitable for hiding out in the woods, mind you, it's very expensive-looking.
"Will Scarlet I am," he says gallantly, sweeping off his feathered hat and bowing low. "And 'tis a great honor to make thy acquaintance."
Hm. While I'd never want to make judgments of sexual preference based on someone's dandyish dress—he could very well be a medieval metrosexual, after all—the sly once-over he gives me as he rises from his bow does make me a little curious as to what team the boy’s batting for.
Others step forward then, introducing themselves one by one. There are probably fifty merry men all together, though I'm not quite sure "merry" is the appropriate term. Overall, they seem kind of a beaten-down lot. I guess being outlawed and forced to live in the middle of nowhere in 12th-century England will do that to a person. And, thanks to Robin “Slacker" Hood here, they don't have any robbing the rich/feeding the poor distraction to while away the hours.
"Enough loafing around for you all," Robin says, clapping his hands after introductions. "Let us prepare for the feast."
They all spring into action, and soon the camp is crawling with very productive men. It's like a mini factory. Everyone seems to have a job to do. Makes me feel a bit slackerish, myself, and I realize I should pitch in. After all, I'm not some princess who needs to be waited on hand and foot. Not like Kat probably demands, wherever in time she is. I, Chrissie Hayward, can pull my own weight.
"Anything I can do to help?" I ask Robin, wondering what kind of task I'd be good at. Anything, I suppose, except preparing tonight's dinner. Skinning the deer.
"You could skin the deer," Robin replies automatically.
Of course.
My stomach roils at the thought. They really expect me to jump in and start disemboweling without a care in the world? I'm supposed to actually scoop out the bloody innards of an innocent forest creature that was forced to sacrifice his life in celebration of my untimely arrival to 12th-century Britain? Lovely.
"Um, anything else available? I make a mean salad, you know." Actually, my specialty is this amazing vegan Jell-O mold off a recipe I found on Pinterest, but I highly doubt that's on the menu tonight.
Robin chuckles. "Too fancy to get your hands dirty, eh lad? Perhaps you'd like to entertain the men with a church hymn instead? Though sad truth be told, I think they enjoy bawdier tunes—music I'm sure 'twould offend your delicate ears."
I narrow my eyes. Hmph. I see how it is. He thinks I'm some total wimp. Some church boy who won't be able to survive an outlaw's life. Well, I’ll show him.
"I'm not too fancy for anything," I growl. "Pass me the knife and bring on Bambi." Robin shoots me a confused look. "Uh, the deer," I clarify. "The one for dinner. I nicknamed him Bambi. Seems like a deer-ish name, don't you think? I mean, much better than, say, Fred." Man, I've got to stay in character here. Not be so stupid. The last thing I need is for it to be found out that I'm not only a chick, but a chick from the future. I'm sure that would go over real well.
Robin snorts. "Very well then," he says, his eyes sparkling. He knows he's trapped me in a dare and is way too amused by it for my liking. "Go see Little John then. He will offer you the proper tools you need."
I head down the little hill and into the bowels of the camp. Ew. My nose wrinkles in protest as I near the fire. They are so not using Glade Plug-ins or washing with Irish Spring here in Sherwood. The place reeks of sweat, rot, and some other unidentified substances that I would prefer stay that way. And I haven't even gotten to the deer carcass yet. Great.
I shake my head to clear my 21st-century thoughts. So Febreeze has yet to be invented. Big effing deal. You probably don't smell of roses either, toots, I remind myself.
When in Rome, smell like the Romans do, I guess. Or the medieval Britons, in this case.
"Excuse me?" I say as I approach the giant called Little. He's bending over to tend to the fire, and his butt looks bigger than a cow's, his tunic straining at the seams. The guy is not only tall, he's in dire need of Jenny Craig. I guess whatever the starvation state of the rest of the kingdom, Robin keeps his men well fed.
Little John turns, a wide grin on his face. His hair sticks out in the weirdest places and he's missing several teeth. But his smile is friendly. Infectious, even, and I grin back at him. Definitely a gentle giant, though I still would not like to get on his bad side.
"I'm here to help you clean the deer," I announce, uneasily shifting from foot to foot. I really can't believe what I've gotten myself into this time.
Neither can John, evidently. He raises a skeptical eyebrow and gives me a once-over from head to toe. "Are ye sure ye want to be dirtying your hands, boy?" he asks, though much more genuinely in tone than dear Robin did. "I dunna mean to insult you, but it's a bloody job, it is. Not one meant for a squeamish stomach."
"Sure I'm sure," I say, mustering up a bit of false bravado after a quick glance up the hill to where Robin is still standing. He's watching me closely, a smirk on his otherwise handsome face.
Little John shrugs and nods toward the woods. "The men have just returned." He hands me a knife caked with blood and gristle or something. I feel my stomach gurgle just at the sight. I can only imagine how it's going to react to slicing flesh. My kingdom for an Amy's California Veggie Burger.
But it's too late to turn back now. I sit down on a rock and watch as two men carry a large brown deer over to us. It's upside down, its legs tied to a long wooden pole, and its head flops to one side, its glassy eyes staring at me accusingly. As if I were to blame for its early demise. Which I am, in a way. Bleh.
The men stick one end of the pole into the dirt and the deer is now hanging vertically. Little John motions for me to make the first cut.
"Just slice down its stomach," he says, tracing a pudgy finger down the deer's furry belly.
I take a deep breath and squeeze my eyes shut, then open them again. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I lift the blade, realizing my right hand is trembling like crazy.
Come on, Chrissie, this is your big test. You've got to prove you're one of the men.
"Sure you don't want to go wash pans down by the lake instead?" a voice behind me jeers. I whirl around. Robin's come down the hill and is watching me, arms folded across his chest. "Or gather berries in the woods?"
What a jerk. He knows this is totally uncomfortable for me and yet he still feels he has the right to tease. I guess after I bested him in a fight, saved the little boy's hand, and witnessed him getting lost in his own forest, he's probably dying for me to fail at something.
I grit my teeth. Failure is not an option. I will skin this deer, and I will skin it without running screaming into the woods.
"Do you mind? We're trying to prepare dinner here," I say.
Robin holds up his hands in front of him, his eyes glittering with even more amusement than before. "By all means, young Chris, please continue."
Angry now, I jab the blade into the deer. Blood pools instantly around the dagger, gushing out in spurts. It's redder than I imagined it would be, coating the fur in crimson. Coating my hand with some horrible steaming goo.
My head starts to swim. I can feel myself swaying and I struggle to keep consciousness while holding on to the blade with both hands, dragging it down the deer's stomach. It sounds like ripping fabric and little wet drops spatter my face. I swallow back the vomit that threatens to spew from me like Linda Blair in The Exorcist.
"Are you all right?" I can hear Robin's voice from a distance. He doesn't sound amused anymore, at least. But still, I'm going to see this thing through. Is the cut long enough? What next?
The deer's entrails suddenly flop out of its body in a tangle of what looks like sauce-covered spaghetti.
Fuck this. I'm so fainting.
Chapter Five
I wake up under a large pile of soft fur. I open one eye, then the other. Where am I? It looks like I'm in a tent. How did I get in a tent? Was there camping at King Arthur's Faire? Where's Kat? What time is it?
Then it all comes rushing back to me. The phone call from Kat. My mission impossible—to retrieve the Holy Grail and thus help my coworker get back from the future. Meeting Robin Hood and his not-so-merry men. My volunteering to help clean out a deer carcass just to prove I'm a man. My fainting at the sight of the deer carcass, proving perhaps that I am not.
My stomach heaves as my mind replays the vision of the disemboweled creature and dangling entrails. What had I been thinking? Did I really need to prove my point that badly?
"Ah, awake, are you?"
I look over to the tent entrance. Robin pulls back the flap to step inside. The tent's tall enough that he only has to crouch down a little.
"How do you fare?" he asks. "Do you think you would be able to hold down a bit of stew?"
My stomach growls and I realize I'm starving. At the same time, I'm pretty sure the main entrée on the menu is slaughterhouse deer, not corn. Can we say, No thank you?
"I'm okay," I lie, sitting up. "Don't really have my appetite back yet."
Robin nods—without condemnation, thank goodness. "Aye," he agrees. "You did well, though," he says, squatting down to my level. "When my father first showed me how to skin a deer I ran screaming at the first cut."
"Really?" I ask, surprised by his admission. Here I was ready for him to make fun of me some more. Tear me down so he could build himself up. Like Danny used to.
He laughs. "I know 'tis hard to picture, but I was not always the strong, strapping man you see before you," he says, patting his chest with a silly grin.
"I see." I say, smiling back despite myself. "So what's your story, anyway? How did you turn into this big bad outlaw guy?"
The smile fades from his face. "Eh, 'tis a long sad tale," he says with a shrug. "Surely you'd rather go out to the fire and hear Alan a Dale spin a song of adventure."
"Maybe in a bit," I say, not willing to drop it. I want to hear his story and no song or dance is going to tempt me away. So many things about the Robin Hood legend have turned out different than what you read in the storybooks or see in the movies. I'm all about gathering the real truth while I'm here. After all, if I'm stuck back in time waiting for King Richard's return, I might as well learn something. Unlike Kat, who I'm sure whittled away her hours drunk and dancing on tables at the local pubs. Probably charming the knights with a rousing adaptation of the Pussycat Dolls’ "Don't You Wish Your 'Damsel' was Hot like Me?"
Bleh.
"I'm kind of cozy here, to tell you the truth." I stretch out my arms and run my hands down the soft furs to prove my point. That is, until I realize what I'm doing, Ew. I pull my hands away. Essentially, I'm lying in a pile of dead animals. Cozy would not be the right word.
"Well, don't be getting used to it," Robin says. "‘Tis my bed you lie in. And I plan to take it back when I'm ready to lay my own head down."
"Sure. It's all good," I say as casually as possible, feeling my eyes burn a bit as I realize I've taken over his bed. I don't know why; I mean, it's just a pile of skins on the floor. But still... Kind of intimate, I guess. Thinking about him curling up underneath the furs. Relaxing his muscles as sleep overtakes his body. I wonder if he sleeps naked. Not that I care. Really.
"Uh, how about you tell me your story?" I say, suddenly desperate to change the subject. At the very least I want to stop the blush that I can feel heating my pale face. It's dark, but not that dark.
He stares at the far side of the tent for a moment, his eyes glazed and his expression contemplative. I study him in the semi-darkness. He really is a good-looking guy, and his close proximity is doing funny roily things to my insides. Half of me (the brave, lusty Miley Cyrus half) wants to grab him and drag him down into the bed and have my way with him. After all, thanks to Danny's infidelity, it's been awhile. But the other half (the pathetic, cowardly, not-like-any-celebrity-I-can-think-of half) manages to restrain my inner Miley. After all, I don't know this guy or anything about him, save the legends—which, so far, have proven sadly inaccurate. Not to mention he thinks I'm a eunuch, which would, I'd imagine, make him a bit squeamish if not running-screaming-from-the-tent-all-together-ish were I to suddenly attempt to molest him.
Still, he does smell good. Musky. Smoky. Of the earth, yet with a hint of sky. Eau du Outlaw. Not something they'd stock at Neiman's, but it's certainly turning me on. He stretches his arms above his head and his tunic tightens across his chest. I steeple my fingers to restrain myself from reaching out and touching someone. Him. I imagine tearing off his tunic, tracing his six-pack abs with eager fingers. Pushing him down onto the furs. Feeling him. Tasting him. Having him. His body growing hard as his desire for me builds. Rubbing against that hardness, rejoicing in the effect I'm having on him, until he can take no more. Then he’ll push me roughly onto my back and tear off my clothes just enough so he can slide himself inside of me. So he can take me as I've never been taken before.
Robin clears his throat, breaking through the thick walls of my ridiculous fantasy. I shake my head in disgust. What am I doing, going on about this guy? Sexually frustrated much, Chris? After all, I'm not even technically divorced yet. Not that Danny waited for such technicalities. Heck, he didn't even wait for the honeymoon credit card bills to be paid off. (Yes, we were married seven years, but paying the minimum each month doesn't exactly bring down your balance.) Still, I'm certainly not ready for a new relationship. I should be healing. Learning to live on my own, not going and jumping the first sexy legendary outlaw that crosses my path. Even were this guy Ryan Gosling himself, I'd do best to stay clear. (Hey girl, I want to be your merry man…)
Then again, there is that whole theory of rebound relationships. Maybe a romp in the forest with someone who lived and died eight hundred years before me could be just what the doctor ordered. After all, it's not like he could go all Fatal Attraction on me once I went back to the 21st century.
But it seems it's not meant to be. At least not tonight. Because, before I can say anything or do anything that I'd probably end up regretting, catcalls from the merry men suddenly erupt outside. Cheering, jeering, an all-around ruckus really. Loud as Red Sox fans after a game, and I half expect a "Yankees Suck!" chant to fly through the night. Robin's face lights up and he grabs me by the hand, pulling me to my feet.
"Something's afoot," he says gleefully, his somber spell broken. He's funny that way—his moods change from one to the other with hardly any warning. "Shall we see what it could be?"
I crawl out from under the blankets and scramble to my feet, following him through the tent curtains (no, I do not steal another glance at his butt, really!) into the outside air. It's gotten quite cold now that the sun has gone down, and I wrap my arms around my body in a feeble attempt to gamer some warmth. It had been summer back in New York; it's cold enough to be late autumn here. And there's no central heating in Sherwood Forest. Just like when my mo
ther "forgot" to pay the gas bill for six months straight and they turned off our heat. I remember the ice crystals forming on the inside of the windows of our tiny Hoboken apartment, my little brother and I crawling under piles of ratty blankets, desperate to get warm. It wasn't long after that the DSS showed up. But once I got to my warm foster home, I realized I hadn't minded the cold that much.
The cooking fire's been built up to blazing proportions, reminding me of Woodstock 1999, where festival-goers gleefully burned down the Rome, New York, concert grounds during the Red Hot Chili Peppers set. However, this fire, while just as raging, thankfully seems under control. A good thing, too, since we can't exactly call 911 were it to suddenly start burning down the camp. Sure, I could then rightfully teach Alan a Dale the "Roof is on Fire" song, but I'm thinking the "burn motherfucker burn" lyrics might just blow my cover as a choirboy.
The men stand around the fire, but the flames are sure not what's got their attention. Every last pair of eyes is focused on whatever‘s behind the crackling blaze. I follow Robin around the pit for a better glimpse of what all the men have found so enthralling. My eyes widen when I realize what it is. Or rather who it is.
A woman.
I'd peg her as thirty, though the wrinkles around her watery blue eyes make her seem much older. She's blonde, on the heavy side and certainly blessed in the chest department. Sort of a medieval Rebel Wilson. She's wearing a thin, low-cut peasant's dress, her stringy hair pulled back into a bun. Not exactly your stereotypical Penthouse Pet, but the men seem pretty excited all the same. Guess they don't get women much in Sherwood Forest.
Next to her is a small boy. I recognize him immediately as the one I saved earlier from the Sheriffs men. Small world.
"What is the meaning of this?" Robin demands. I glance over at him. His mischievous expression is gone, replaced by a distinctly annoyed scowl. Whoever this woman is, she's clearly not welcome here. A spurned lover, perhaps? Nah, Robin wouldn't date anyone so skanky. Would he?