I open my eyes, unsure of the sounds I'm hearing. Are those…cheers? I look over at the target, squinting in the sun, and see an arrow sticking out of it. In the exact center. Bull's-eye. Did I do that? How the hell? Seems impossible, and yet…
"Sir Christian of Hoboken moves to the next round," the announcer confirms.
Woo-hoo! I hit the bull's-eye! I rock! I totally and utterly rock! I raise my hand to high-five someone, but then remember high-fiving has yet to be invented. But dancing hasn't, so I do a little jig.
"Beat that!" I say to Robin as I walk back to the sidelines. I'm so in the zone now.
Robin's staring at me, utter disbelief written on his face. Not that I blame him. "That was amazing!" he exclaims. "I have seen your usual aim and daresay Little John has felt the effects of it. And yet you hit the target from a fair distance."
I shrug. "I guess I'm just awesome. Maybe I'll beat you, and then I'll be the one to kiss Marian. Hey, are any of the vendors here selling garlic-flavored food? Or maybe onions? I want to make sure my breath is real sweet for the ol' maid."
Robin frowns. "Look, I did not know she would be here," he says, taking me by the shoulders and forcing me to face him. "And I am sorry if her presence upsets you."
"It's not her presence that upsets me, it's the way you look at her," I retort, wrenching my arms from his grasp.
"I was not aware that I was looking any particular way."
"No, of course not. Probably didn't notice the drool at the corner of your mouth either."
"Next up, Lord Jerkoffinich," the announcer says. Robin looks relieved. Saved by the bell.
"We shall talk of this later," he says, wagging a finger at me before walking back out onto the range. I watch as he pulls back his bow and lets his arrow loose. It sails comfortably into the bull's-eye.
He walks back, standing a small distance away from me and refusing to look me in the eye as the next archer steps up. Fine. He can be that way. I don't care. I really don't.
Soon, it's my turn again. Most of the other archers have now been eliminated. In fact, there's only me, Robin, the sheriff and one other dude left in the running. And the random guy just missed the target on his last shot, so if we all get bull's-eyes he's out. Not that I imagine I'll get another bull's-eye. The first time had to be sheer luck, right?
In an insane hope for lightning to strike twice, I repeat exactly what I did before. Aim, pull back on the bow, close my eyes, and let loose. I open my eyes again, just in time to watch the arrow soar into its target—much to the delight of the crowd.
Oh yeah, baby! I do a little victory dance. Who's your daddy? Who. Is. Your. Daddy?! Fortunately, I remember this time, however, not to ask the question out loud.
Robin and the sheriff both match my performance, and the random guy is out, and so now we're on to the next round. Who will be crowned archer of the land? Who will get the golden arrow, and who will get to lay a big smooch on Maid Marian?
The sheriff goes first and easily lands the bull's-eye. Gotta give the guy props—evil or no, he's a good shot. But I know Robin can best him. After all, all the storybooks say so. Or maybe I will this time.
Robin steps to the line, and I notice beads of sweat on his forehead. He's in serious mode now. He wants to win. He pulls back on his bow and lets the arrow fly. I squeeze my eyes shut, not able to watch, then open them again.
Robin's arrow has not only hit the bull's-eye, but it's actually hit exactly where the sheriff hit—splitting the sheriff's arrow in two. Ooh, ooh! I remember this part from the legend! How cool is that!
The crowd agrees, going about as wild as we Red Sox fans did when our team won the World Series for the first time since 1909. The sheriff (definitely a Yankees fan) narrows his eyes. He bends his bow over his knee and snaps it in two, then throws it to the ground. The crowd jeers at his unsportsmanlike conduct, but he doesn't seem to care. He storms to the other side of the courtyard, down by where the targets are set up, and I see him whisper something to a guard—probably selling us down the river now that he knows he can't get the glory of a victory. The guard looks over at Robin and then at me. We'd better win this thing quick.
It's my turn now. I don't think even my luck will cause me to split Robin's arrow in two. But I'm willing to give it the old college try. I close my eyes and release my arrow.
Zoom! Thump!
Did I do it? I hear screams again…though not exactly the same as before. Actually there's only one scream—of pain? Mixed with laughter? I open my eyes, my mouth dropping open.
So, um, let's just say my arrow has not, this time, hit its mark. Well, not the bull's-eye, anyway. It has managed, however, to pierce the Sheriff of Nottingham in the butt. And he's presently screaming incomprehensibly at me, his face purple with rage.
"Uh, oops. Sorry about that. My bad!" Gulp. This is not good. I glance over at Robin. He's shaking his head in disbelief. He's going to kill me later.
"Ladies and Gentlemen!" the sheriff cries, his voice a bit hoarse. "Those men you see before you are none other than the outlaw, Robin Hood, and his manservant. They are wanted for crimes of treason against his royal majesty, Prince John. Seize them, guards! And throw them in the dungeon."
"I think we've just worn out our welcome," Robin says with a wink. At least he doesn't seem ticked.
"Uh, yeah." I agree. "What are we going to do now?"
"Follow me!"
Robin takes off, and the guards begin their pursuit. I follow, dodging spectators and somehow managing to knock over a cart of fruit. Apples and pears tumble to the ground, making our escape about as easy as running on a floor made of marbles.
"Close the city gates! Do not let them escape!"
This could be bad. Very, very bad. I knew we should have left when I first slipped about Robin's identity to the sheriff. At least then we would have had a fighting chance. But no! Robin wanted the glory of a win. Or a chance at a kiss.
The outlaw stops at a small door embedded in the castle wall and motions me inside. I crawl in. The passageway beyond is narrow and dark.
I follow Robin, and we race through a maze of twisty hallways. Windowless. Dark. Illuminated only by sparse torches. I have no idea how he knows where he's going but have no choice but to trust that he does. Cobwebs cling to my face, and I bite my lip to keep from screaming as a six-inch rat crawls over my foot. Luckily, I'm no longer feeling the alcohol. Adrenaline—not to mention fear for my life—is a definite buzzkill.
"In here!" I hear voices down the other end of the corridor.
"Hurry!" Robin urges.
My heart pounds a mile a minute as we run. I hope he knows what he's doing. Where he's going…
We reach a spiral stone staircase leading up into the darkness. We charge upward, until we come to a rotting wooden door blocking our path. Robin grabs the rusty handle but…
"'Tis locked."
"What?" I cry. This is not good. I can hear the voices of the men in pursuit, and they're getting closer. And now we're trapped. There's no way out except through the door.
Will they kill us on sight? Or will they capture us and throw us in the dungeon? Which will be worse? Will they torture us? I remember seeing a History Channel special on medieval torture, and it didn't look like something I wanted to experience firsthand.
Robin throws his body against the door, but it doesn't budge. He prepares to heave again.
"This door is not supposed to be locked!" he cries, his eyes shiny with panic. The cocky, confident Robin is gone. He doesn't want to die either.
"Wait!" I say, a brainstorm coming to me. Could I actually pull this off? Save the day?
"We have no time to wait!"
"No, I mean, I think I can unlock the door," I interrupt. When I was a kid, my mom was always tripping out and forgetting what time it was. After being locked out of the apartment fifty times or so, my brother and I learned to pick the lock.
"Give me your knife," I say, pointing to the weapon in his boot. He pulls it from its
sheath and hands it to me. I get on my knees and study the lock, then jam the knife in and feel my way around. It's a very simple lock, thank goodness, as my skills in lock picking aren't exactly Ocean's Eleven quality.
"Just a turn here and then—"
"You'd better hurry. I hear them on the stairs, and that blade is my only weapon."
"Don't rush me," I mutter. "I need to concentrate. It's been twenty-something years since I picked a lock."
But he's right. The voices sound like they're only a few feet away. Come on, Chrissie! You can do this!
Bingo! I hear a click and push on the door. It swings open easily.
"Go!" I cry. "It's open!"
Robin pushes me through the door and then joins me on the other side, shutting and locking it behind him. I realize we're in a small sparely furnished room with a rickety ladder leading up.
"We're in the east tower," Robin explains. "It's on the far castle wall. We need to go up to the roof. There may be another guard up top, so let me go first."
The guards are pounding on the door, screaming. I don't know how long we have before they pull a Jack Nicholson and "Here's Johnny!" with an axe.
"Okay." I nod. "Let's do this."
Robin starts climbing up the ladder, and I follow, praying that it will hold our weight. At the top, he pushes open a trapdoor, and sunshine streams into the dank chamber. I have to blink a few times to get used to the light change as I scramble up onto the tower's lookout point. When my eyes become accustomed to the brightness, I see that Robin has pulled a rope from his pack (where does he get all these wonderful toys?) and ties it around the iron trapdoor handle, tugging on it a few times to test its strength.
"Oh no! I'm not climbing down that!" I protest. I'm deathly afraid of heights.
"You will, or you will die here. And I am not about to let you die."
"But I can't climb down that. I'll fall." I look over the tower edge. We've got to be more than fifty feet up. And there aren't a lot of handholds on the tower wall. This so reminds me of the time my fourth foster family signed me up for an Outward Bound adventure. Except, no safety harness this time.
"Just hold on to me," Robin instructs. "I will do the climbing for both of us."
I realize I have no real choice. Face the bloodthirsty sheriff's men or the rappel from hell. I hold out my arms, and Robin hoists me piggyback style onto his back, and we start our descent. I grip him tightly, eyes closed, fear making my heart race.
"Could you…try…not to dig your fingernails into my shoulders?" Robin mutters, out of breath.
"Uh, sorry." I try to release my hold, to put myself in his care. He knows what he's doing. I have to trust in that. He's Robin Hood after all, right?
We climb down. Down, down, down. How tall is this tower, anyway? It didn't feel so tall going up the stairs. I feel his muscles strain, and sweat dampens his tunic. But he doesn't pause.
After what seems an eternity, Robin jumps, and we hit the ground. I tumble off of him, whacking my knee against a tree stump. "Ow!" I cry, face full of dirt. I scramble to my feet, brushing myself off. My tights have ripped, and my knee is bleeding, but nothing's broken. And we're on the ground outside of the castle walls. I have a looser definition for "We're okay" these days.
"Come on!" Robin urges, out of breath but somehow still good to go. Man, this guy is impressive in a crisis. Glad he's on my side. "We're not safe till we're in the forest."
We run down the path and come to a few horses, which are saddled and tied to a tree. Must belong to some of the spectators—though this seems as dumb as leaving your keys inside your car outside of Yankee Stadium. Robin unties two of them and helps me onto mine. I cling to the reins and whisper a prayer to whatever higher power happens to be listening, then dig my heels into the horse's flanks. He (or she? I didn't take the time to check my mount's anatomy) takes off, and I tighten my legs so I won't fall off.
I've only tried the horseback thing a couple of times, and I still have no real idea how to steer, so it's lucky the horse seems to know enough to follow Robin. I hold on for dear life as we gallop along, the wind whipping through my hair. I glance back for a second—a total Lot's wife move that almost causes me to slip off the horse—and see the castle and guards fade into the distance. No one appears to be chasing us. Phew.
Now that I'm safe and sound (well, as safe and sound as a horse-newbie on a galloping beast can be) I get a thrill of excitement tickling my belly. We just escaped from an armed castle! How cool is that? And I was an integral part of the escape. My misspent youth actually came in handy in saving our lives! And then there were all those bull's-eyes on the archery field. Bull's-eyes made by me. You know, maybe that's been my problem all my life. I was born in the wrong century. Maybe I was destined to live back in these times. Maybe I did live back here, and I'm just starting to remember my reincarnated roots.
Or maybe I'm just a drunk who got lucky.
Sadly, though, it wasn't mission accomplished. We didn't get the arrow. Which totally stinks. To make matters worse, now I'm sure we're topping the Ten Most Wanted in Nottingham list. The sheriff's butt will be sore for at least a week, and I'm sure the memory of the humiliating and painful incident will last much longer than that.
We reach the entrance to the forest, and Robin slows his horse. Thankfully, mine seems tired enough to slow him/herself, because in addition to being useless at steering, I have no idea how to put on the brakes. Maybe I should get myself some horseback riding lessons while I'm here as well.
"I believe we have lost them," Robin says. "We can rest our horses a bit."
I sigh in relief, squirming in my saddle to get more comfortable. Thank God. I thought for sure we were doomed. I glance over at Robin, ready to burst with overflowing leftover adrenaline.
"That was an amazing escape, huh?" I cry. "I thought we were goners for sure. And you haven't complimented me on my excellent aim in hitting the sheriff. That's my second bum shot this month!'' I bat my eyelashes, waiting for a reaction. "Bum shot, get it? You know, like, with Little John's bum? Getting him in the bum? Hey!"
Robin nods, distracted and quiet. What's going on with him? Please don't tell me he's still messed up from seeing Marian.
Sigh. In all the excitement of our escape I nearly forgot about her. Now it all comes rushing back. Of course he's upset. He didn't get to kiss her. The woman he loves. And I was the one who messed up his opportunity. What would he have done if given permission to approach her? Would he have whispered a meeting place in her ear as she lowered her lips to press against his? Would she tell him it was all a case of misunderstanding and that they should resume their affair? Will he ever talk to me again if he gets back together with her? And if not, how am I going to deal with losing him?
My heart pangs in my chest, and I feel a bit sick. I can't believe I've put myself in this situation. Allowed myself to fall in love with someone who thinks of me as second-best. Again. And this time I have no excuse. I may not have known that Danny was spending quality time in coffeehouse bathrooms with waitresses, but Robin's love for Marian is written in a thousand texts. I knew he loved the girl when I was six and watched the Disney version, for goodness sake. And yet, once again, as I always do, I acted on feelings instead of facts. I allowed myself to believe him.
Perhaps he does love me, in his own way. As a friend. A companion. But not as the woman he would die for. Not as Marian.
Tears sting the corners of my eyes, and I angrily brush them away. It's not fair. It's so not fair.
I look at his back, bobbing up and down to the horse's gait. I trace the outline of his broad shoulders with my eyes, his chestnut hair fallen out of its normal ponytail and blowing in the breeze. He's so achingly handsome. But it's more than that. It's a tenderness I feel toward him. An overwhelming desire to crawl into his arms and be held. Why can't he feel the same about me?
We arrive at the camp, and the men run up to us, their eyes alight, begging to know what happened at the tournament. Did we
win the silver arrow?
"I'll spin you the tale of our adventure after dinner," Robin declares. "For at this moment I am too weary and hungry to speak."
We head over to the fire and sit down on our makeshift tree stump chairs. Little John serves us steaming bowls of stew, but I'm not really hungry. Friar Tuck offers us overflowing mugs of beer, but I wave mine away. The last thing I want is to get drunk again.
"So, tell us what took place at the castle today!" Will Scarlet begs eagerly. "Did you win? Is the arrow in your possession?"
"Aye, I won. And Christian here won in his own right." He tells the tale of my two bull's-eyes and my real accomplishment—an arrow in the butt of the sheriff. The men cheer.
"Christian, surely you are a better marksman than Robin here," says Little John, slapping me on the back. "For I like more what you choose as your bull's-eye."
"Aye, Christian. Let's hope his rump is too sore for him to be rutting with any maidens for a fortnight," jeers Will.
Allan a Dale stands up. "This calls for a song!
Good Christian is a champion with a bow
He shoots it high. He shoots it low.
He turns the competition into a farce
And shoots the Sheriff in the—
"Anyway," Robin interrupts. "As amusing as Christian's accomplishments were today, he cost us the arrow."
I cringe. He's mad at me. And I guess he's right. I didn't mean to screw up the competition, but I totally did. Ugh.
The men all turn and stare at me. I can feel my face growing beet red. "Uh, yeah," I mutter. "Sorry about that."
"''Tis a shame," Will says. "That arrow could have fed a village for a month."
"Aye," Friar Tuck agrees. "'Twould have been a great prize to win."
Great. I suck. And here I thought I was totally cool because of that lock-picking thing. But there would have been no lock to pick if I hadn't screwed things up in the first place.
"Well, no matter," Robin says. He sighs then laughs. "We will have other chances to win treasure for the poor."
The men murmur their agreement. They're letting me off the hook!
Mojitos with Merry Men Page 15