Olde Robin Hood

by Kate Danley

  "Our hearts are still good," said Robin, reassuring both her and himself.

  She lifted the palm of her stained hand to Robin's face, seeing her pain reflected back in him, then rested her petal-soft lips upon Robin's cheek. "We are still good," she whispered.

  Little John came forward, taking Marian by the elbow. "There will be people worried. Questions sometimes arise when a lady such as yourself is lost in the woods without female companionship." Marian lowered her eyes and nodded, knowing Little John's words were true. He motioned to the carriage. "If you please, gentlewoman, allow me to take you home. No man will disturb you with me in the driver's seat."

  Maid Marian turned to Robin, a mysterious question hanging between them, a question that there was no answer to when asked between an outlaw and a noblewoman. Robin swallowed. It took all his strength not to ask her to hold him once again. Instead, he stated, "Little John is an honorable man with a beloved wife and children. You will be safe in his care."

  The question faded and Marian nodded in sad understanding. "I hope our paths will cross again someday," she said, carefully picking out each word and placing it like a scribe illuminating a holy text.

  "I hope so, too," said Robin, each word a prayer to the old gods, hoping they would hear him and grant him this one, desperate wish.

  Little John opened the door to the carriage, but before she disappeared, Marian turned back to Robin. "If the sin of sending these devils to hell causes you restless nights, confess to someone. I know all will be forgiven. No God would mark your soul for saving another's life. And there would never be any sin that you could commit which would make me think less of you. I hold in my heart only gratitude."

  She managed a brave smile, as if trying to share her strength, then ducked inside. Little John closed the door and she leaned out to look until the last at Robin, her fiery hair cast like a halo in the sunlight until the coach turned the corner and was gone from sight.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Little John returned to a somber camp. When neither of his friends gave him any more than a passing acknowledgment, he dismounted and tentatively asked, "How goes it?"

  Robin and Will had put on new tunics of green. The ones they had been wearing before, the ones tainted by the nobleman and his guards, were now ashes in the fire.

  "How goes it with you?" responded Will, motioning to Little John to give Robin some time and space.

  But Robin looked up from his brooding. "Did Maid Marian get home safe?"

  "I left the carriage on the side of the road for her family to retrieve. She took one horse. I took the other." Little John pulled a heavy bag off the back. "She insisted I take it as payment for saving her life. She said she would not be able to carry it herself and if outlaws were going to have it, she'd rather it was us." He glanced at the two men, his words heavy with the promise he made. "She asked us to do something good with it, to make its value worth the lives lost."

  That she could even think of such generosity after all she had been through put Robin to shame. "Is she well?" he asked.

  Little John nodded. "Shaken, but she is strong. Made of far sterner stuff than you find in most noblewomen."

  An uncomfortable quiet descended once more.

  "You are made of stronger stuff than most men, too," Little John said.

  Robin rubbed his forehead with his hands. Everything they did made things worse. If the Sheriff discovered the murders, there would be no forest large enough to hide in. "I am so tired of sorrow and death," he stated, his voice tinged with frustration. "I am so weary of this life and the endless days of doing whatever we must for survival."

  He looked up at the forest branches.

  When he first came here, he believed he could dog the Sheriff and make him rue the day he crossed the family Hood.

  Now, all he saw before them was a lifetime of this pain.

  Revenge was a double-edged sword and he was tired of being cut.

  "We should leave this place," he said.

  "Moving our camp is always wise—" began Little John.

  "No," Robin clarified. "I mean, leave this place. Go somewhere where we are not known. Begin again. Scotland. France. Spain. Change our names and join the Knights Templar."

  "I have a wife and children—" Little John reminded him.

  "Bring them with us! Start anew! Just... stop this bloody, never-ending struggle." His voice was harsh with the ugly truth. "It will never get better. It will never get any easier. There will be no pardon from the king. Even if we amassed all the wealth in England, we will never be anything more than this." He motioned helplessly around their camp. "This shall be our forever."

  "Do you think what we do is useless?" asked Little John. He stared at Robin as if he did not recognize his friend. "Keeping the bellies of children full and a roof over the poorest in the county? That we serve no purpose when we take back the hoards from the wealthy and redistribute it to the people who have nothing?"

  "I murdered two men today. All because we wanted to steal their wealth," said Robin.

  Will's bravado dropped. "You bear that only because I am a coward." He half-laughed, but it came out sounding more like an apology. "My arrow should have struck the one. You had to do it instead. Little John, you could have died. My arrow should not have flown wide." He opened and closed his fingers, studying the hand that betrayed him. "I could not keep my arm from shaking."

  Will's guilt washed over Robin, and a protectiveness for his cousin rose in his soul. The loss of Will's ease, the loss of Will's joy, doubled the tragedy. What had he done bringing them to this place, leading them along this path?

  You're nothing more than a frightened little boy playing at the bandit, traipsing around the forest with his friends

  The taunts of the slain lord looped over and over in his mind.

  For the man had been right.

  "It was ordained by fate!" Little John remarked, trying to lift them out of the dark cloud. "If it wasn't for us, Maid Marian would be... in a much different place than at home with her family." He left the horrors unsaid.

  "We left four corpses for the wolves and ravens to devour. How does a man go on when every time he closes his eyes to blink he sees the images of what he has done?"

  "It will become easier to bear as time goes on—"

  "Do not speak to me of 'some days'," warned Robin. He pointed the other direction toward the road. "This? This is just the start. There will be more men who resist us. It is just a question of when. You knew this day would come. You warned me not to rely on kindness, that to commit a single violent act and secure a reputation as a cutthroat would mean people would not try to stand against us. We should have done it from the start and had it over with. We ended at the same place."

  "Not the same place. Think how much your way has worked," urged John. "We have done so much good. This was one set of men, one set of bad men—"

  "And there will be more," Robin fired back. He rested his head in his hands. "I do not want another day like this. I just don't want another day like this..."

  Little John rose. He came over and sat next to Robin, nudging his friend's knee with his own. "We follow you, Robin. If you wish to leave, we shall go, too. But not without planning. We must secure enough for safe passage on a ship with a captain who will not ask questions. We must have enough to bring my family safely with us. We must have enough to buy land wherever we go so we do not become peasants, so we are not crushed again beneath another unjust heel. Do these things, and we shall go."

  Will agreed, adding onto the plan. "We will set off to Nottingham tomorrow. We find out when the next wealthy travelers are coming down our road. We plan and we target carefully. We focus all our decisions from this point forward towards leaving Sherwood Forest."

  The trees creaked with protest. The ghostly owl who haunted Robin's nights landed on a branch. Her stare accused him of his abandonment.

  But Robin stared up at the stars, wondering which cursed one he had been born under. He was
done. "Good."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  They rode into Nottingham the next day. The forest was quiet, as if it felt the cloud that had descended on the group. Robin and John handed Will the reins to their horses and made their way into the city.

  As they neared the brewhouse, Robin sighted the single, dark, bell tower of Saint Mary's in the distance.

  Marian had said as she left that he should make a confession if the burden became too heavy. Was all this punishment for abandoning a faith that no longer made sense to him? Had it been a test, which he had failed, and was now suffering the consequences? What if the terrible weight could be lifted by a few muttered words to the God he had abandoned? What if the only thing that could give him peace could be found in a few moments of silence inside a building?

  People preached of miracles.

  And he needed one.

  Robin paused on the castle road. "Go on," he said. "I have a task I must do."

  Little John followed Robin's gaze. "You're not going in there, are you?" he asked. His voice was still and dangerous.

  Robin steeled his resolve. "Aye," said Robin, wanting to explain but feeling foolish. "Just for a moment. To see."

  John gripped Robin's arm. "It is across the road from the county gaol," he reminded him. "It is folly."

  But the bells from the church called. "I worry for my soul, John," said Robin. He shook his head, as if he could clear away the chaos that had haunted him. "Do you think there is forgiveness for men such as us?"

  "There is no need for forgiveness," Little John stated with conviction. "Give it some time. This wound is still fresh. Allow it to heal."

  "But what if I can heal it without a scar?" asked Robin.

  "That is not possible."

  Robin's voice was distant. "I might sleep better if I tried. Even if it does not work, just to know I tried. It used to work before."

  "You are a different man."

  He squared his shoulders, filling his voice with resolve. "I'll be a few minutes behind you, that is all. I'll join you in the tavern where we will continue with our plan. But I must do this."

  Little John's jaw clenched, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he nodded, not in understanding, but in acceptance. He left Robin to take his separate path and continued on his way to the brewhouse alone.

  Robin wandered down the high street, being careful to hide his face as he passed by the gaol. The grey, stone church loomed square and blockish, surrounded by the graves of the dead. Robin pushed on the heavy, iron-bound doors.

  Inside, the building was empty. An aisle ran up the center with oak pews on either side. To the right was a small, secondary altar dedicated to the Virgin Mary, her statue painted red and gilt with gold.

  Robin put alms in the poor box for intercession and then knelt. He knew he needed to speak the words aloud to a holy man for the confession to count, but for now, he just needed to say them. He clasped his hands. The remnants of blood still tinged the rough cracks in his fingers.

  He heard the soft footsteps of a priest pass down the center aisle of the main church, then pause before continuing on. The front door opened and closed. Robin relaxed, grateful for the moment alone.

  "Please," Robin begged. "I do not seek you often. And yes, I have lost my faith. But like the prodigal son, I ask you to welcome me back if forgiveness is possible. I beg of you, lift this sorrow from our land. Save our people from the cruelty of the Sheriff. I come to confess a heavy sin. I have been told you can lift the stain that troubles my heart."

  He reached out for an answer, quieted his mind to hear the wisdom and comfort promised to him.

  But there was nothing.

  He waited longer for some sense of forgiveness, for some sense of hope.

  Instead, the door opened and suddenly the church was filled with angry footsteps.

  "That's the man!" yapped the priest, red-faced and pointing an angry finger at Robin. "That is the man who robbed me on the Great North Road!"

  Robin rose and turned.

  It was Abbot William Roundel, a man who should have been in his abbey in York. He blocked the door of the church, surrounded by an armed guard of twenty men bearing on their tabards the black crest of the Sheriff of Nottingham.

  Before Robin could raise his blade in defense, the soldiers were on him. They swarmed, grabbing him by the arms and legs, and carried him out.

  "You would arrest a man on holy ground?" Robin shouted as he struggled and kicked. "You would arrest a man who sought sanctuary in a church!"

  "I'll not give you sanctuary, you flouter of the law!" spat the abbot. "You steal from one of God's men and then turn to him for help?"

  "Are we not taught to turn the other cheek?" yelled Robin over his shoulder as the soldiers almost reached the door.

  "Do not speak the word of the Lord with your split tongue, devil!" cursed Abbot William. "Begone! Be gone!"

  The moment they were over the threshold of the church, Robin landed a kick in one of the soldier's jaw. Leg free, he wrenched his arms away from the soldiers. He had only enough time to register that the Sheriff himself stood across the street on the steps before the county gaol, gleefully witnessing Robin's capture and arrest, before the guards were on him once more.

  Robin grabbed a sword from one of the men. They were ill-trained, but he knew a lucky, clumsy stroke killed just as surely as one with a skilled blade. He tried to protect himself, to injure, not slay. He did not want to kill. He did not want to kill again. To spill blood on the steps of a church, no matter what his faith or his thoughts, would surely turn any human or god against him.

  But blood poured from wounds. He struck and pounded and struggled, not knowing in the heat of battle, surrounded and outnumbered, how many men were upon him and where he connected.

  He spun and his sword hit the back of a man's head. And in that moment, the sword broke, and Robin knew he was lost.

  "DO NOT KILL HIM!" commanded the man Robin had just struck.

  Robin wiped the red viscous liquid from his eyes and realized it was the Sheriff. He had broken his sword over the back of the Sheriff's helmeted skull. Around them, twelve men lay upon the steps, groaning and begging for help. Robin wanted none of this.

  The Sheriff motioned to his men to restrain Robin, and they flung him to the ground, landing crippling kicks and blows. Robin did not resist. There was nothing to fight for. He was lost. There were no gods in any of the heavens who could help him now, and the one he thought he should try to turn to was a lie.

  Barely able to focus, Robin registered a crowd had gathered. There were shocked faces looking on, witnessing as he was dragged across the road from Saint Mary's to the Nottingham county gaol. As the guards frog-marched him to the front of the prison, the Sheriff fell in step behind.

  He hissed in Robin's ear, "Do you know the verse about giving to Caesar that which is Caesar's, Robin? Tell us where you hid the King's rightful taxes, the money you stole that was tithed to the church, and your death shall be swift and painless."

  "And if I refuse?" asked Robin. The guards tightened their grip on his arms and wrists.

  "Then I am afraid I cannot predict what will happen." The Sheriff smiled. He held up his hand, stopping the guard. He turned to face the people of the town as he stated the charges. "Robert Hood, known also as the outlaw Robin Hood, you owe thirty-two schillings and sixpence to the Exchequer after the royal justices, headed by Robert de Lexington, held assizes at York. You were called five times by the courts to answer for killing a deer and five times it was noted you did not answer their summons. I hereby charge you with this penalty and shall hold you until you, alone, provide our good King Henry III his rightful due."

  Not a single person in the crowd raised their voice in defense of Robin. They shifted warily, fearfully, hoping the Sheriff would not finger them as conspirators with the man he paraded before them.

  It was a deer that brought his father down, Robin thought.

  It was a deer that was about to b
ring about his own downfall.

  He and his friends could have continued with impunity if not for the slaying of a single deer. Yes, when he and Little John had gone to the pale, it had been an act motivated by revenge. But it was an animal killed to keep them from starving.

  Yet, it was all the king cared about. Not the robberies of his subjects, rich or poor. Not what Robin did, or the Sheriff did. The king only cared about protecting his property.

  "I have no such funds on my person, but I can get it for you," replied Robin, instinctively struggling again against the captors holding him.

  "Oh no," chuckled the Sheriff. "We cannot let you go, trusting blindly that a bloodthirsty, power-hungry criminal who declares himself King of Sherwood Forest would return in good faith with his fine."

  "I would," replied Robin.

  "It is said you are like a mystical wind, breezing in and dropping money where it does not belong. Well, perhaps that magic you work will come to work for you, for I will not take a penny from anyone but you. You may direct my men where to find it, but you shall be held until the day the money appears in your hand alone and deposits it in mine."

  The Sheriff motioned to his men who dragged Robin to continue, and to bring him inside the shadows of the prison. Robin took one final glance at the light of day, knowing it was the last time he would see the sun. He saw Little John's horrified face towering in the back of the crowd. Robin gave just the smallest, most imperceptible shake of his head, warning his friend that rescue was futile.

  And another nod to say goodbye.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The building was despair.

  The cries of prisoners, both the guilty and the mad, echoed along the carved, sandstone walls. The floor was rough and uneven. The Sheriff and his men took Robin down the labyrinth of tunnels and stairs. The Sheriff whistled as he led the way, deeper and deeper into the bowels of Nottingham, swinging an iron ring of keys around his finger, opening each locked door with glee. Robin's hatred increased with each step. He longed to rip himself free from the guards and pound the Sheriff's skull until it was a bloody pulp. Instead, he carried himself with pride and dignity. He would not allow these men to see an ounce of fear. He would not give them any reason to brag in the tavern tonight about the blows they gave Robin Hood.