He glances around, his expression anguished. "This is a disaster. They outnumber us and will easily kill us all. And I cannot bear the thought of anything happening to you." He stares at me, desperation in his eyes. I realize I've become a liability, something he always warned the others about. A weakness. A distraction.
"Go," I say, pushing him forward. "Don't worry about me."
He gives me an agonized look, then turns and runs to the weapons tent. John throws him a bow, and together, the two men shout orders to others.
I duck behind a tent, searching for a viable escape route, wondering not for the first time what happens when one gets killed in the 12th century. Will I bounce back home, safe and sound? Or is this it? I try to decide which would be better. Sure, with the bounce-back theory I'd be comfy cozy in the present day USA, but I will have lost Robin forever. And I can't imagine living without him.
I look around. There's carnage everywhere. Our men are falling at a rapid pace. There's no way—no plan—that could have saved us from this attack. There's just too many of them. They're just too well equipped. We're dead. Doomed.
A noise behind me makes me whirl around. An armored soldier stands above me, wielding a huge sword. I'm caught. And likely dead.
I fall back, hands over my face in a vain attempt to ward off my deathblow. The soldier draws his sword back to swing.
This is it. The moment of death. It's over. Forever. I send up a quick prayer to whoever's listening, apologizing for every wrongdoing I can remember from first grade on. I should have gone to confession before heading to the 12th century.
I think about Robin and pray that he makes it somehow. That he escapes and lives a long happy life. I figure maybe he has a chance. After all, this isn't how the story is supposed to end…
I wait for my death, hoping it's quick. Hoping it's painless and that the soldier won't gut me and leave me alive with my entrails hanging out like you see in movies.
But the deathblow doesn't come. Confused, I open my eyes. The soldier is still standing above me, looking down. What is he waiting for? Just do it already!
"'Tis you!"
Huh? I squint my eyes at him, confused. The soldier pulls off his helmet. My mouth drops open as I recognize the guy. It's the guard from Locksley Castle. The one I told Robin not to kill. The one we freed afterward.
"Oh, hey there," I say, surprised and overwhelmingly relieved. Holy small world, Batman. "How's it going? Off the castle-guarding gig, I see."
"I am Duncan of Carlisle. Once you saved my life," the soldier says. It's hard to hear him over the din of battle. He lowers his sword. "And I promised you the same someday. It seems this is destined to be that day."
I stare at him, shocked and disbelieving. He's really going to spare my life?
"Look," he hisses, his eyes darting to the battlefield behind us. "I will spare your life, but I must wound you somehow or someone else will surely kill you. A blow to the head will knock you out, but I shall make sure you live. If you wake, play dead until you are sure we have all left."
"No way!" I cry. Then I won't be able to help. There are too few of us left as it is. We need every man. Robin, my beloved—
"I am sorry, girl, but you have no choice in the matter. I must keep my promise to save your life." And before I can move, he lifts his sword and sends the pommel crashing down on my head. I swim into blackness.
* * *
I awake to the sounds of birds chirping too cheerfully, their tweets pounding into my already aching head. I sit up, for a moment not knowing where I am or what I'm doing here. Every muscle in my body aches, and I'm covered in mud and grime. I look around, and my mouth drops open in horror as visions of the morning flash back in rapid sequence.
The camp has been crushed beyond recognition. Bodies of former Merry Men are scattered throughout—pierced by arrows, slashed by swords, trampled by horses. The stench of dead bodies and unending gore under the hot afternoon sun invades my nostrils, and I place a hand over my nose, scrambling to my feet in dismay. But it's not enough. I lean over and puke my guts out.
I desperately scan the area, a vain attempt to find survivors, but no one's moving. My heart pounds, and my hands shake as I walk from body to body, checking each for signs of life—a faint pulse, a flutter of an eyelash.
No one stirs.
Tears stream down my cheeks, and I can barely breathe through my sobs. All these men. Their hopes, dreams, lives. Their mothers, wives, children. Everything has been cruelly ripped from them because they decided to help save their world.
This is all my fault.
If I had not suggested that they rise up—if I'd not told them the plan to rob the rich to feed the poor—then the sheriff would have had no reason to launch such an attack. The men could have lived out their days drunk and stupid in Sherwood Forest, never bothered by the local government. But no. Because I'd read a few storybooks, because I thought I knew how the legend went, I destroyed these people's lives. I killed them. I'm practically a murderer.
And what about Robin Hood? My partner. My true love. The man who said he would die for me? I suddenly realize that while the notion of someone dying for me sounds romantic in theory, I certainly didn't want him to actually go through with it.
What if Robin's dead?
I scan the bodies again, searching for a telltale feathered green cap. There's no sign of him.
I run to my place of solace, the spot by the lake where he and I shared so many thoughts on so many nights. I collapse at its shore, tears streaming from my eyes, splashing into the otherwise still water, rippling out into infinity. My head pounds with both physical and emotional agony.
Robin, my love. Where are you? Could you really be dead? Could I really have lost you forever?
That guard did me no favor by sparing my life. Not if with his other hand he struck down the only man I will ever love. Not if now I'm destined to live a purgatorial, loveless existence, robbed of the one person who could make life worth living.
"Chrissie!"
Hope leaps into my chest at the sound of the voice, and I'm not sure I can believe my ears. And then I doubt my eyes—am I seeing a ghost? But no. He's real. Robin of Locksley. Robin Hood. Robin of mine. Standing in front of me. He's caked in mud and dirt, but he's here. He's alive. And he's looking at me with the same overwhelming relief I'm feeling while looking at him.
"Robin!" I cry, jumping to my feet and throwing my arms around him. "Oh, Robin! I thought you were dead!"
"Chrissie, my love! You live!" he cries, burying his head in my curls. "When I came back to see what happened to the hideout—"
"Came back?" I pull away from the hug, confused. "Where did you go?"
"Many of us not killed outright were taken captive. The sheriff wants to hang us in the castle courtyard, to show the kingdom what happens to outlaws. Little John, Allan a Dale, Friar Tuck, Will Scarlet, and I were all thrown into a barred wagon. Halfway to the castle, they stopped to give the horses a rest, and the strangest thing happened. Duncan of Carlisle—the one whose life you made me spare at Castle Locksley, approached the wagon once the others had turned their backs. He said he would free me to repay the debt to his own life. I begged that he free us all, but he said 'twould be too obvious, and they would come after us."
"He saved my life during the battle as well." I smile, rubbing my head. "Though in a much more painful way."
Robin looks impressed. "Then your foresight not to have him killed saved both of our lives."
"Not foresight. Just human compassion. And good karma."
"Karma?"
"Er, never mind." We don't have time to get into the Hindu laws of cause and effect at the moment. "So he set you free?"
"Aye. And I promised the others I'd return to rescue them before the hanging." He shakes his head. "So I rushed back here, hoping to find others to aid me. But you are the first living person I've found. It seems…all the others are lost."
His sober words erase the joy I felt a moment
ago upon learning he was alive. "Oh, Robin!" I sob into his shoulder. "This is all my fault. If I hadn't roused the men into action, if I hadn't suggested we rob—"
"Shhh. Quiet, silly woman," Robin scolds, squeezing me into a tighter embrace. I can barely breathe he's hugging me so hard, but I don't mind. "You're speaking nonsense. You gave these men something no one else could. A reason to live. A sense of purpose. A noble cause. You saved starving children. You put roofs over people's heads. You gave the hopeless hope. We were a miserable band before you arrived. Now we are soldiers, fighting for our land and country."
"But we've lost. Most of us are dead, and those of us who are left are captured. There's no way to rescue them. I mean, look at what happened last time you tried to storm a castle. And now it's just the two of us."
"Aye, it does seem that two against an entire castle are not favorable odds," Robin agrees. "But I cannot leave the men to die at the hands of the sheriff. We must try."
I pull back from the hug to smile at him. He's changed so much since I first arrived in Sherwood Forest. The old, defeated Robin wouldn't risk a fight with three men on horseback to save a boy's hand. Now he's ready to lay siege to an entire castle to rescue his drinking buddies. He's definitely back to his old self—the Robin Hood of legend.
I've changed too, I realize. I'm no longer simply Chrissie Hayward of Hoboken. I've grown beyond the obedient magazine photographer who spent most of her life being walked on by others. I'm one of Robin's Merry Men. I'm a soldier for the cause. Sherwood Forest is my home, and I love our ragged gang as much as Robin does. If I have to die to save them, I will.
"I'm with you," I say, pressing my lips together in determination. "Whatever it takes, I'm with you."
"As am I!"
"And I!"
"And I!"
Robin and I whirl around at the sound of voices behind us. My eyes widen as I see a rag tag team of peasants marching toward us. There's at least a hundred men, women, and children led by two Merry Men. I breathe a sigh of relief. We may not have saved our camp, but at least we saved the villagers.
"What happened?" asks one of the men, looking at the carnage with horror.
"The sheriff came early," Robin says, relating all that had happened. "Those not killed were taken captive. They are to be hanged in the castle courtyard tomorrow."
The villagers murmur amongst themselves. Then a bearded man steps forward. "We will help you get them back."
Robin stares at him. "You will?" he asks, his voice laced with his disbelief.
"'Tis only fair," pipes up a sweet-faced woman. "You risked yer hides to feed us when we was dying of starvation. You stood up to the sheriff's men and saved the lives of our babes. We was glad to accept your charity, but now 'tis time we pay you back."
Another steps forward, a boy, probably only fifteen. "We are not warriors, sir. But we are many. And we will fight with everything we have to help rescue your men."
The woman nods. "You have taught us that we can fight back. That we can make a difference."
"And we're ready to make that difference now. To throw the Sheriff of Nottingham out of power and restore England to its rightful glory!"
The bearded man raises a fist in the air, and the crowd cheers. The noise is almost deafening. Did I say there were a hundred people? It sounds like nearly a thousand.
Robin stares at them, tears rolling down his cheeks. He gets on his knees, humble, and bows his head.
"Thank you, Lord," he says in prayer. "Thank you." Then he rises to his feet, jumps on a nearby boulder to get some height, and starts addressing the crowd.
"I welcome you all," he says. "'Tis a proud day for England indeed. Now here's what we're going to do."
CHAPTER TWENTY
In a video game I used to play with Danny they called it Zerging—named after a little creature called a Zergling that's cheap to make and can be sent, in massive quantities, to rush an enemy's base, defeating them with sheer numbers rather than strength of arms. Danny used to always create a million of the tiny buggers, bringing down my carefully constructed space stations every time.
But Zerglings are made of pixels, not people. And so Robin's suggestion that we basically storm the castle and rescue his men is not one I can comfortably go along with. "Too many people will die," I whisper into his ear. "There have already been enough wasted deaths today as it is."
"Then what do you suggest?" he asks.
I think fast. How can we stage a castle rescue with no casualties, launch a war even Gandhi would approve of?
That's it! Wow, what would I do in the Middle Ages without movie plots to fall back on? "We'll do a sit-in," I announce. "A peaceful protest."
Robin and the rest of the villagers look at me as if I'm absolutely bonkers. "What do you mean?" he asks.
"Look," I say. "There's a lot of us here, but there's no way we're going to be able to storm a castle on our own. No offense, but you guys are mostly farmers armed with pitchforks. You can't go up against trained, armed guards. And I like you all. I don't want to see you get killed trying to help us. So, instead, we'll go sit outside the castle and shout stuff. Dance. Play instruments. Whatever."
"A siege? You want to try to starve them out?" Robin asks. "That could take a long time. And the hangings are tomorrow morning.''
"No, no." I shake my head. "The sit-in is just a distraction. All the guards are going to be watching us, waiting for us to make a violent move. In the meantime, a few men will go around the back. Remember that castle wall you told me about, Robin? The one you climbed to find Marian? You can lead our most trained men in through there and rescue the prisoners. Since most of the soldiers will be keeping an eye on the ruckus outside, there likely won't be a huge guard contingent to deal with."
Robin nods his head slowly. "You know, Chrissie, that could actually work."
The men and women nod and murmur in agreement. Robin squeezes my arm. I feel a sense of pride well up inside me. For the first time in my life, I feel a strange sense of confidence. Like William Wallace, aka Mel Gibson, speaking to his men on the Scottish moor before the battle of their lives. Although, come to think of it, that didn't end so well. Obviously, old Bill the Scot needed me and my movie plots.
"They may take our lives," I yell, suddenly inspired. "But they'll never take…our freedom!"
I wait for a following whoop of cheers, but all is silent. I stop screaming, "Freedom," and scan the crowd. They're looking at me skeptically. Hm. Maybe it's the lack of blue war paint. Oh well.
"Are you with me?" I demand. "Are you ready to join forces and fight to regain all that has been taken from you? Well, not fight exactly. More like…sit. Are you ready to…sit…to regain all that's been taken from you? Are you ready to sit to save country and king?" Hm, maybe this would go down in history as the Armchair Revolution.
"You are all free people," I add. "Making the decision to join us on this quest to sit. If you are not fully ready to…sit…please leave now. Go home to your warm beds, and do not think about the opportunity you missed…to sit for…FREEDOM!"
A few scattered cheers this time. Hmm. I've got to get these peasants on the Braveheart bandwagon.
"Doesn't the word 'freedom' mean anything to you?" I ask. "Does the idea of slavery and oppression turn you on instead? Would you like to be under Prince John and the Sheriff of Nottingham's rule forever?"
"Nay!"
"No! We want to live freely."
"Down with Prince John. And his lousy sheriff!"
"Right," I say. "So, um, when I say 'freedom,' that's your cue to shout and scream and rally the troops. Okay?"
Nods of agreement all around.
"Okay, let's give this a try." I draw in a deep breath. "Freedom!"
A few cheers, a smattering of claps. I sigh.
"Freedom!" I cry again, raising my fist this time.
More people. A dull roar of cheers.
"I said…freedom!" I try one last time. "And, um, a chicken in every pot, and a… hor
se…in every…um, stable!"
Now the crowd erupts in cheers. Who'd have thought they'd be more turned on by Herbert Hoover than William Wallace? I can't believe these people would rather eat chicken than taste freedom. Sad, really. But hey, at this point, whatever works.
Robin squeezes my arm, and I turn to look at him. He's gazing at me with loving eyes. "You're magnificent," he whispers.
"You should really be doing this," I tell him. "I'm not a leader…"
"What are you going on about, woman? You have rallied your people. You have suggested a plan that could actually work." He leans over to kiss me lightly on the cheek. "You are truly wonderful. And I am honored to be under your leadership."
I smile, for the first time in my life feeling confident and valued. Robin is right. I do make a kick-butt leader. I feel like I was born to do this stuff. Maybe the gypsy knew something I didn't when she told me my destiny lay in another era.
'Cause I certainly can't imagine going back to the 21st century now.
The thought troubles me, and I turn back to my makeshift army. "We march now," I inform them. "And make camp a ways off tonight. First thing in the morning, when the men are brought out to the courtyard to be hanged, we sit on our butts."
Everyone yells their assent, and we start walking. Robin and I lead the group. But the joy of accomplishment I had moments before is permanently dampened. Because all I can think of, suddenly, is the idea of going home. My true home—in the 21st century.
If we survive this, if King Richard returns, if I get the blood from the Holy Grail, what then? I'm assuming the next step is me being transported back to the 21st century to hand it over to the gypsy, right? And that means leaving here. Leaving Robin. Maybe without warning.
I glance over at him, and my heart aches. I love him so much. More than anyone ever. Danny was nothing compared to what I feel for Robin. How can I leave him? And what will I be going back to? My empty apartment with bills stacked from floor to ceiling that I can't pay? Messy divorce proceedings? A superficial job that I hate? In the 21st century, I'm no one. Here I have a role. A place in history. A man who loves me.
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