Nottingham

by Anna Burke

  Several spotters moved the targets farther back, increasing the difficulty of the shot. Robyn grinned. She couldn’t help herself. Certainty sang along her bowstring. These men were good, but they were not her. They did not understand their arrows with the intimacy of a fletcher. She knew each one personally, had tested its flight and christened it with the sweat from her hands. Her lungs filled with air and she exhaled. An errant breeze whispered past her ear and into her hood. No one stopped her. No one told her she should not shoot because she’d been born a woman. Was this how men felt? Free? She thought of Michael, and some of the fierce joy bled out of her. Freedom had limits.

  A large crowd had gathered by this point to watch. Their eyes bored into the back of her head, prickling against her shoulder blades as they chattered about the competitors’ chances. She ignored them. They were nothing more than leaves, and the target was all that mattered.

  A flash of blue moved in the corner of her vision. It drew her eye, involuntary though the motion was, and she closed her hand around her arrow as she met Marian’s gaze.

  Fire licked her insides.

  Color flushed Marian’s cheeks as her lips parted in recognition, and the sight went to Robyn’s head faster than a mug of ale. She winked, and Marian’s lips curved in a smile Robyn knew she’d see later that night as she tried to fall asleep back in the safety of the forest. She enjoyed the feel of those dark eyes on her as she took her mark.

  “Nock,” said the announcer. Robyn nocked her arrow alongside the four other remaining competitors.

  “Draw.” She could still see Marian out of the corner of her eye. She forced herself to concentrate on the target.

  “Loose.”

  Her shaft landed dead center, but so did three of her competitors’. The fourth swore violently and stepped back, waiting to fetch his errant arrow until the contest finished.

  Robyn nocked another arrow. Some of the certainty of victory had faded with her lapse in concentration. Things felt less sure, and she steadied her breathing. She needed this. Gwyneth needed this. The world narrowed once more to the target, and when she let her arrow fly she sent part of her heart with it. Please, she prayed. Let me win.

  It landed beside its sister arrow, the shafts so close she could hardly tell them apart. One of the judges took the field to inspect. Robyn eyed the other targets with frustration. Once again, the three of them had shot in tandem, too close to call.

  Robyn set her jaw. It was time for what Michael called “cocky shooting,” wasteful, the sort of thing done by wealthy yeoman with money to spare. She squinted, not at the target, but on the first arrow. Blue tinted her gaze. She let it, and Marian’s dress melded with the sky as she released her last arrow.

  She knew she’d won before the judge announced it. She’d split her first perfect shot down the middle, ruining the fletching and blunting the head, but none of that mattered. The crowd roared. With a jolt, she realized they were chanting her name.

  “Robyn Hood, Robyn Hood, Robyn Hood.”

  She turned. Midge’s face grinned back, supported by John’s quieter smile. I won. The chant accelerated, along with her heartbeat. If she lingered much past this, she’d have men offering to buy her ale, and she couldn’t risk that, no matter how wonderfully strange it felt to hear her chosen name on the lips of the men and women she’d grown up with.

  “Archer,” one shouted. “Where do you hail from?”

  She waved him off and looked to the announcer for guidance. He gestured for her to retrieve her arrows, and when she had them in hand, split though one was, she knelt before the pavilion.

  “Wonderful shooting,” said a woman’s voice.

  Robyn looked up to see Marian standing before her. She wore a simple blue dress, but Robyn had a sudden recollection of the smooth skin beneath it, and the curves revealed by the rushing water of the stream that day in the forest. She met Marian’s brown eyes slowly and savored the current of energy that passed between them.

  “May I see your arrows?”

  “Of course, m’lady.” Robyn handed them over, not bothering to hide her satisfaction.

  “These are of fine quality,” said the announcer from beside Marian. The crowd strained to listen to his voice. “Who made them?”

  I did, Robyn thought, but the impossibility of her answer slowed the passage of time as she struggled to grasp the precariousness of her position. Admitting that she’d made the arrows was as good as admitting her identity. Anyone who examined her arrows closely, however, might recognize the craftsmanship, which left her only one option. She swallowed, wishing she had a moment to pray, and tossed the dice.

  “I bought these arrows the day before last, from a widow in your city, but the price she charged was far too low.” She paused, her eye falling on the purse. “I think, perhaps, that I shall give her the prize in exchange for another quiverful.”

  The crowd loved this. Marian, however, pursed her lips, giving Robyn a measuring look as the announcer nodded, clapped Robyn on the shoulder, and departed.

  “The purse is yours to give to whomever you choose,” she said, handing two of the arrows back to Robyn. “But I would like to keep this.”

  Robyn’s gaze fell to the ruined arrow in Marian’s hands. “It won’t fly far for you, m’lady.”

  “Does it need to?”

  “That depends on where m’lady aims.”

  “Perhaps it has already found its mark.”

  “Marian,” called a voice from the collected nobility. A flicker of annoyance passed over Marian’s face, but she hid it quickly, motioning for Robyn to rise.

  “I would speak with you before you leave,” she said, and her hand brushed Robyn’s as she turned, a small gesture, lost in the folds of her gown but hot as a brand against Robyn’s skin.

  Robyn didn’t have time to dwell on this. The giant tossed the purse in the air, causing the coins inside to jingle dramatically, and Robyn caught it.

  “Thank you,” she told him. “Have you seen the fletcher’s widow?”

  “She’s over there,” he said, pointing to a face white with shock a few yards away. Robyn’s heart stopped as Gwyneth covered her mouth with her hand. Symon gripped his mother’s golden hair in tight fists, and Midge was doing her best to prop them both upright.

  “Never mind.” She pushed past him and approached the woman she would have gone to the ends of the earth to protect from the hurt that shone out of her pale blue eyes.

  “Keep it together,” said John into her left ear. “Smile. Remember, you don’t know her well.”

  Several onlookers had lingered to observe the exchange, the generosity of Robyn’s gift piquing their curiosity. Robyn wished them all death by a thousand cuts or perhaps, in the interest of time, something more immediate. “You undersold your arrows,” she said to Gwyneth in a lame attempt to continue with her falsehood.

  Gwyneth did not speak.

  “My cousin is in shock, sir,” said Midge, taking Gwyneth’s arm. “It is such a generous gift.”

  Robyn resisted the urge to scoop her nephew into the air as she used to and surprise a long string of giggles from his little belly. Her heart ached. No, her entire body ached at the nearness of them, but she knew she could come no closer. “Might we buy you a drink?” she said instead, gesturing at herself and John.

  At last, Gwyneth managed a brittle smile and nodded, clutching the child to her, and they made their way toward the edge of the crowd on the far side of the green. John bought a flagon of ale from a leering alewife, who looked as if she would be willing to give him far more than a jug for the pleasure of his company, but he fended her off with uncharacteristic brusqueness.

  “You are supposed to be dead,” said Gwyneth, holding Symon so tightly that his face began to darken with infant rage.

  “Gwyn—” Robyn began, but Gwyneth cut her off.

  “You are supposed to be dead. I thought you were dead for weeks. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It wasn’t safe,” Robyn sa
id, wishing she had just let Cedric shoot her. “I had to protect you.”

  “By lying to me?” Her voice rose, and Midge placed a warning hand on her arm.

  “She didn’t have a choice, Gwyneth,” said Midge.

  Gwyneth turned on her. “And you. You knew?”

  “I—”

  “Robyn.” Tears filled Gwyneth’s blue eyes and spilled down over porcelain cheeks. Robyn wanted to hold her, anything to ease the anguish, but she knew that would only make things worse.

  “I killed a man, Gwyneth, and Cedric saw.”

  “You think that is an excuse for leaving me alone to mourn you? Men die all the time, Robyn. We know that better than most.”

  “You were in danger. I didn’t know what Cedric would do, and I thought you would rather I run than hang.” She hadn’t meant the last words to sound so harsh and instantly regretted them.

  “Of course I would rather you lived. I just wish you had seen fit to tell me, instead of playing me the fool.”

  “Gwyneth, I’m sorry.”

  “And I don’t suppose you’re coming home, are you?”

  “I can’t. Not now.”

  The baby began squalling, forcing Gwyneth to spend a moment cooing into his beet-red face. None of the sweetness lingered in her eyes when she lifted her gaze again to Robyn. “Thank you for the purse, Robyn Hood. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll take my son home.”

  “Gwyn, please.”

  “I loved you as my own sister. Every day I prayed that you’d come back, and now I find out that you’ve been on this earth the whole time. Do you care so little for us?”

  “I couldn’t tell you and keep you safe.”

  “And so you chose to let me live in hell.”

  “I had no choice,” she said, her voice breaking.

  “There is always a choice, Robyn. You’ve made yours clear.” She snatched the money from Robyn’s hands, glaring at Midge and John as she did so, and turned on her heel.

  “Gwyn,” Robyn called out after her, but her sister-in-law did not look back.

  “We have to go with her,” said Robyn. “She isn’t safe with that purse.” As she spoke, however, she saw another familiar figure approaching Gwyneth: Tom. Lisbet dogged his heels, and Robyn almost shouted out to them. She remembered herself in time. Tom would see Gwyneth home. Perhaps he’d even marry her. She waited to see how that idea would settle with her brother’s ghost, but all she felt was worry. Tom was a friend. If he cared for Gwyneth, he was at risk. And there is nothing else I can do right now to protect them.

  “Well, that went well,” said Midge, scowling at Gwyneth’s retreating back.

  “She will never forgive me.”

  “She might yet,” said John. “Here, drink this.”

  “I’m not thirsty.”

  “I don’t care. Drinking will keep the mug in front of your face and give your hands something to do in case anybody’s watching. Besides, that went better than I was expecting.”

  Both Midge and Robyn gave him looks of horror. He raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Anger is better than tears. If she has the strength to hate you, she has the strength to survive. I think she will come around. You didn’t see the way she looked at you when she first realized who you were. But you can’t go back to the way things used to be. She’s got to find her own strength, unless you want to drag her and the baby back into the woods. And you’ve given her business and money today, along with the knowledge that you’re alive.”

  “When did you get so wise?” Midge asked John.

  “I’ve left my fair share of people behind, little one.”

  “Archer.” A group of men with expectant faces approached. “Let us buy you a round.”

  “Thank you,” said Robyn, “but I’ve just topped off.”

  “Drink it then! There’s plenty more.”

  “Perhaps another time,” said Robyn.

  The men exchanged disappointed looks, which quickly soured into resentment. She didn’t want to wait around to see what they’d say next. She had to get out of Nottingham. It wasn’t home. Not anymore. Not without Gwyneth. She repressed a painful memory of their house with its cheery hearth and worn wood table, Gwyneth singing as she spun by the fire while Robyn fletched in the dim light and Symon gurgled from his cradle.

  “Wait,” said Midge, placing a hand on Robyn’s arm.

  Robyn shook it off. “We should never have come.”

  The crowd let out a roar as the next contest began, and Robyn heard the clack of wood on wood: quarterstaffs. If they left now, no one would notice. No one except Marian.

  I would speak with you again.

  Gwyneth. Marian. The ties that bound her to this city. Their faces blurred before her, one dark, one fair, and the same reckless feeling that came over her when the wind turned the leaves silver before a storm ripped through her. Marian wanted her. It didn’t matter that she thought Robyn a youth. Right now, she needed to be wanted by someone, and if she couldn’t have the love of her family, then she’d settle for a pair of brown eyes and a slow smile.

  “Fine. We’ll stay a bit longer, if you want to see the bear that badly. I have something I need to do.” She caught a glimpse of Midge’s hurt expression as she walked away and saw John place a hand on her cousin’s shoulder. Let him comfort her, she thought, aware that her anger was misplaced, but too lost in it to care.

  The fair swallowed her. She saw the maypole rising off to her left. Its brightly colored ribbons shimmered as girls danced around it. Robyn had always hovered on the outskirts of the May Day festivities, avoiding the boys who might have tried to lay her down on the spring grass or sought a kiss and a promise. As a craftswoman, she had not had the same pressure to marry as most women, though it would have made her life easier. The thought had filled her with dread. She knew what she was and who she wanted, and she knew emphatically what she didn’t want: a man in her bed and a child in her womb. She loved Symon, but dying in the birthing bed like her own mother, and like so many of the women she knew, held no allure. She had watched the dancers and her eyes had followed them the way the men’s eyes had, and she’d swallowed that along with everything else she knew she couldn’t have. Perhaps she might have married Tom. He was a good man. She could have lived with that, though he might not have been happy.

  The life she could have had walked beside her like a shadow. She bade it farewell. None of those worries belonged to her anymore.

  Traders shouted over each other, and spring foals bucked and kicked beside tolerant mares as she passed through the crowd. Merchants from other towns hawked spices and cloth while tinsmiths sold pots, and beer and ale flowed from Nottingham’s alewives, casks resting on the backs of wagons or held up by the women themselves while stray dogs ducked around legs and squabbled over scraps. A flute played a lively tune to her left, and Robyn nearly collided with a group of dancing girls. They giggled as they spun away, a few trying to catch her eye. None were Marian.

  She’ll be with the nobility, Robyn reminded herself, and made her way back toward the tents where the nobles rested in the shade. A group of drunken men loitered between her and the tent. Robyn paused, pretending to examine a barrel of early parsnips.

  “. . . and then I asked him, ‘what does a goat and your sister have in common?’ He didn’t know, so I told him, ‘I’d suckle on both.’ You should have seen his face.”

  One of the men jostled against Robyn. She backed away, aggravated but unwilling to draw attention to herself.

  “What about the sheriff’s daughter?”

  This gave Robyn pause. She didn’t know the sheriff’s girl, but any mention of the man made her itch to nock an arrow.

  “You don’t want him to hear you talking about her. I heard he’s aiming to marry her off above her station. An earl or something. Viscount at least.”

  “Not if I plow her first.”

  “Seems like she wants to get shafted by someone else if you take my meaning. You know what they say: the long
er the bow . . .”

  Robyn shook her head, glad of her hood, and dodged the men. She pulled her hood lower as she skirted the brightly colored banners and silks fluttering in the breeze, seeking a blue dress in the riot of perfumed bodies ahead.

  “Robyn.” Marian detached herself from a group of women with a smile. Robyn turned away so that her companions could not see her face and took refuge behind a teetering pile of sheepskins. The smell of lanolin grounded her, obliterating the lingering whiff of perfume.

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d come back for me,” Marian said, smoothing the skirt of her gown and looking over her shoulder.

  “I wasn’t sure I would either.”

  “I’m hurt. You’d give a purse to a perfect stranger, but you’d scorn me the pleasure of your company?”

  “Pleasurable is not exactly how my company is usually described, m’lady.”

  “Then what do they say?”

  “I wouldn’t dare use that kind of language in front of you.”

  The smile slipped on Marian’s face. “To hell with courtesy. If I hear one more courtly phrase, so help me God, I will take both halves of your arrow and gouge out my eyes.” Marian leaned against the sheepskins. The white wool brought out the red highlights in her dark hair.

  “Gouging out your eyes won’t stop you from hearing them.”

  “It might change the subject.”

  “Oh, fair lady,” Robyn said, raising her voice to mimic the affected speech of the nobility, “then however will I see myself reflected in your fair visage?”

  Marian gave a snort of laughter that seemed out of place with her carefully ribboned hair and rouged lips. “You sound like you’ve spent some time at court.”

  Robyn crossed herself.

  “So,” said Marian, looking up at Robyn through her lashes. “You wouldn’t tell me your name, and yet you were quick enough to tell all of Nottingham today, Robyn Hood.”

  “Perhaps I was trying to be mysterious.”

  “Perhaps you’re just rude.”

  “No, you’re thinking of my cousin. I’m the soul of courtesy.”

  “Modest, too,” said Marian. “Is Robyn Hood your real name?”