by Wendy Mass
So I emptied my pockets into their donation box. At first Alan wasn’t thrilled with me for giving away all our money, but when he saw how happy the kids were, he came around. But it meant we had to start over. In my haste, I invited the wrong man to dinner. Sir Guy Gisborne. The man the sheriff hires to do his dirty work. Even the name makes me shudder.
We’d seen him traveling the road before. Little John had warned me to let him pass without stopping him, so I’d stayed hidden. But after I gave all our money away, I was feeling desperate, and I hadn’t seen anyone else that day who looked wealthy enough to pay up.
Guy stopped by the side of the road so his horse could graze. As usual, he wore all black with a cape pulled over his head that looked like it was made from an animal skin — head and all. He was nearly as big as Little John, but much creepier.
“Good sir,” I said, darting into the road in front of him. “You must be tired from your travels. I can offer you an excellent meal and fine company.”
The man pushed back his hood and narrowed his eyes at me. Up close he smelled foul. He swiftly drew a sword from his belt and lunged almost before I had a chance to react. Almost. With inches to spare, I leapt off the road and landed on my back in the bushes. I sprang up and pulled out my own sword, saying a little prayer of thanks that I had worn it.
I came out swinging, but he definitely had the advantage. My fencing classes hadn’t prepared me for fighting to the death with a man three times my size. And I was pretty sure that’s what was happening.
We clashed and clanged our way from one side of the road to the other, both of us landing the occasional blow. It soon felt like no part of me had been left unbruised. And he’d sliced my shirt in three places! I desperately wished I’d brought some of the Merry Men with me as backup, but I’d proven to be the best at this first part of the plan. I had the innocence of youth on my side, and all that. Much would have come, but I’d convinced him he was too young. Now I’d have been grateful for anyone.
Finally, Guy swore and boomed, “Enough, boy! This is wasting my time. I am looking for a man named Robin Hood. An outlaw of the worst sort. Reportedly wears a silly brown hat with a red feather. You must know him.”
“Why would you say that?” I asked, thankful for the fact that I’d forgotten my hat that morning in my haste.
He growled at me. “You tried to pull the same trick he’s been doing this week. Luring people to dinner and then forcing them to pay. You should be more careful whose bad actions you try to imitate. Not everyone would be as understanding as me.” He said this last part with a snarl.
“He doesn’t force anyone to do anything,” I insisted, then quickly added, “I mean, I’m sure he doesn’t.”
“Do you know him or not?” he demanded.
I shook my head as backup finally arrived in the form of Much, who jumped out onto the road and said the exact wrong thing at the wrong time. “There you are, Robin. We were getting —” He clamped his mouth shut when he saw the company I was keeping. But the damage had been done. I’ll never forget the purple shade of Guy’s face.
Thinking fast, I darted over and sliced through the rope Guy had used to tie his horse to a tree. “Your horse is getting away!” I shouted at him. And then Much and I ran faster in the other direction than we’ve ever run before. Neither of us got much sleep, fearing Guy or the sheriff’s deputies would be out looking for us. Fortunately, the night passed without trouble.
“Are you sure he won’t recognize me?” I ask Much now.
Much shakes his head. “He’s looking for a young, handsome man in green. And now you’re, well, not that. He’s probably forgotten all about you by now anyway.”
“You think so?” I ask, feeling a bit of hope. Maybe I don’t need this disguise after all. I should be able to steer clear of Guy Gisborne. Shouldn’t be too hard to know when he’s nearby. That foul smell of something dead is stuck in my nose.
Alan-a-Dale joins us, a large canvas bag slung over one shoulder. He’s out of breath as he addresses Much. “Bad news,” he announces with furrowed brows. “The sheriff’s deputies have been posting Wanted posters with Robin Hood’s face on it! There’s a reward for his capture, dead or alive. Sounds like the sheriff doesn’t like anyone else making money in his woods or besting his right-hand man. We have to hide Robin. Do you know where he is?”
Well, getting in trouble didn’t take long. Less than a week. Must be a new record.
Alan turns to me. “Forgive me, I don’t think we’ve met?” His expression is pleasant as he waits for an answer.
“Alan, it’s me! Robin.”
His eyes widen; then he throws back his head and laughs. “You don’t need the Merry Men’s protection. You could share a pint of ale with Guy Gisborne himself and he wouldn’t recognize you. You look terrible.”
“Thanks. I guess.”
“But you can’t wear that to the wedding tomorrow!” he exclaims. “I need handsome, charming Robin, not poor, disheveled, rotten-toothed Robin.”
“But he’s a wanted man,” Much points out. “Elly’s marrying a wealthy landowner. There could be guests there in high-up places. The sheriff himself could show up!”
Alan frowns.
“I’ll still be charming on the inside,” I assure him. “Plus, I wouldn’t want to outshine the future groom. You got your suit?”
Alan pulls a long coat, white shirt, and black pants from his canvas bag. “Had to play from sunup to sundown, but the townsfolk were generous today. I think they felt sorry for me.”
“Whatever the motivation, one look at you and Elly’s going to run into your arms.”
Alan appears doubtful, but squares up his shoulders and says, “Whatever happens, if not for you I’d surely be spending tomorrow curled up in a ball with my scarves over my face.”
“You really love her a lot.”
He thumps his chest. “She’s my person.”
Was it only a little over a week ago that I thought that same thing upon meeting Marian? If only she could see me now, in this disguise. She’d run for the hills! I think of her often, and hope she’s feeding her brain at the school, and I admit it, I hope she thinks of me, too. Visiting her will have to wait until I’m no longer a wanted man. Whenever that will be.
I wake the morning of the wedding with an uneasy feeling. What was I thinking, promising to break up the wedding of two strangers? Now I’m the one who wants to curl up and hide my face.
The other Merry Men are already awake and dressed by the time I crawl out of the tent I now call home. Much helps me put my disguise back on, adding some chalk to my hair. We shovel in a breakfast of black bread and fish that sits in my stomach like a stone.
And then it’s time to go. Rolo the Ratcatcher — one of the few Merry Men who has a job outside the forest — has lent us his horses and cart. Alan, Much, Little John, and I squeeze into the back next to a pile of wire cages, spring traps, and long pointy sticks stained red at the tip that we all steer clear of with a collective shudder. I wind up sticking my dagger in my belt in case we run into any trouble on the road. The Wanted poster shows me with a quiver of arrows on my back, so I leave those back at the tents. Better not to call attention.
I try not to show how nervous I am about what we’re about to do, and focus on the fact that I’m being pulled along the bumpy, dusty road in a wooden cart that will no doubt collapse under our collective weight. What I wouldn’t give for a working hoverboard!
By the time we arrive at the large church on the outskirts of Nottingham, the invited guests have filed in. The uninvited ones — namely, us — stand outside wiping dust off our clothes and hair and gathering up our nerve.
We can hear the service through the open windows. Music filters out, and I recognize Friar Tuck’s voice as he starts the opening prayer. Alan-a-Dale — spiffy in his new suit — rolls his eyes. “Violin? Really? Everyone knows you need a harp at a wedding.” He pulls out his small one from under his coat and puts it into position against h
is chest. “Ready?” he asks.
I take a deep breath and nod. “When Friar Tuck asks if anyone knows a reason they shouldn’t wed, that’s our signal.”
We listen at the window, Alan cringing every time the groom speaks. So far we haven’t heard Elly say anything at all. Finally, it’s time. I pull my cap a little farther down and motion for the others to follow.
As soon as Friar Tuck says, “If anyone objects to this union, speak now, or forever hold thy peace,” I throw open the doors and we march in, single file, with Alan pulling up the rear. “We object!” I announce loudly.
My voice echoes across the church, and a hundred heads in fancy headdresses and fur caps swivel around to glare at us. Religious men in friar robes stand at the end of each pew, hands clasped calmly in front of them.
“How dare you?” the groom demands, taking a step toward us. He’s a burly man, gray-haired and at least twice if not three times Alan’s age. But he’s not as feeble as I was led to believe. He looks like he could inflict some damage with his fists, for sure.
Little John steps in front of me. The groom halts but growls at us. “What hole did you just crawl out of? Why have you come to ruin this sacred occasion?”
It takes me a second to remember my disguise. Maybe I laid on the ash a little too thick. Behind me Much pokes me in the back, and I shout, “Because true love is not about the number of gold coins in your pocket. Alan-a-Dale loves Elly for the goodness in her heart, and she loves him, too!”
The crowd gasps as Alan steps forward, and Elly gives a small yelp of surprise. I look at her for the first time, and I can see why Alan is smitten. Instead of the traditional wedding white, she’s wearing colorful scarves draped over a plain brown dress. Kindness radiates from her as she gazes across the church at Alan.
“Is this true?” the groom asks through gritted teeth.
A tall, well-dressed man who could only be Elly’s father leaps to his feet from the front row. “It doesn’t matter who she loves! This union will happen. Now! Friar Tuck, please continue.” He glares at us with such hatred that I look away. “I will deal with you later.”
Friar Tuck clears his throat. “I am bound by law to only marry two people who join together willingly. If not for love, then for duty and family honor. Elly, is it your choice to marry today?”
Elly doesn’t answer. She looks tearfully at her groom, then at her red-faced father, and then at Alan, who gets down on one knee. He begins to serenade her with a love song that has half the women in the room crying, and a few of the men, too. The sunlight shining through the stained-glass windows adds to the effect.
“It is indeed my choice to marry today,” Elly finally says when he finishes. Alan’s whole body droops. I swear I can feel his heartbreak. Then she adds, “But it is Alan-a-Dale that I want as my husband.” And that’s all it takes. The guests erupt in either angry shouts or happy cheers. The groom looks shocked, but to his credit he doesn’t stop Elly from running into Alan’s arms.
Elly’s father storms down the aisle toward us, snapping his fingers at two uniformed men sitting in the back of the church by the door. The deputies from my first day! The ones who took my statues! What if they recognize me? I hunch my shoulders to try to seem smaller, as though that could help. They head toward us as well. We’re trapped in the middle! I guess I should be grateful that neither the sheriff nor Guy Gisborne are here to rush us from the sides, as well!
Little John holds off Elly’s father, leaving me and Much to face the deputies.
One of them has his fingertips inches from my arm when a shout goes up on the left side of the church. Two women in huge fruit-covered hats and long black dresses start pulling at each other’s hair and screaming in shrill, angry voices!
“He’s mine! You stole him like a common thief!”
“I did no such thing! You need a good leeching!” Everyone — including both of the deputies — turn toward them as horrified whispers rise up though the crowd. One of the deputies begins shoving his way through the pews toward them. Now we only have one deputy to deal with.
“Look over there!” someone shouts, and points to the other side of the church. Heads then whirl around in that direction. It’s one of the friars who had been standing so still beside the pews. He has jumped onto a church pew and is now waving his arms! His hood covers much of his head and face, so I can’t see his expression. Has he gone crazy?
Once he has the room’s attention, he bends his knees and jumps four feet straight up into the air! He lands lightly on his feet, then takes off again! The room gasps. After the second jump, the other deputy begins pushing his way toward him. Whether it’s to save him from himself, or from jumping on a wedding guest, I’m not certain.
“Wow,” Much says, “I didn’t know anyone could jump that high! He must be part grasshopper!”
I chuckle. I’ve seen better. Back home, Will could do five, easy.
I know we should take advantage of the fact that at least for the moment, the focus has been taken off of us. We should get out of here and not look back. But like everyone else, I can’t take my eyes off what’s going on. The two young women are still shouting and pulling. One of their hats has come off now, and her braid is whipping around her head, dangerously close to slapping spectators in the face. A part of my brain registers something familiar about the color of her hair, but my attention is quickly pulled back to the jumping man.
My memory flashes back to Delta Z. Will used to practice his high jumps on the observation deck for hours, making the rest of us dizzy just watching him. He’d flap his arms to give him more lift, just like this friar is doing now. Sometimes he’d add a twist midair, and come down facing the opposite direction.
JUST LIKE THIS FRIAR IS DOING NOW.
My heart starts to pound hard in my chest. Much is pulling on my shirt, shouting in my ear that we need to get back to Rolo’s cart, but I only have eyes for the flying friar, who is getting more air with each jump. His hood is inching farther back on his head with every liftoff, and I get a peek at a brown eye here, a pale cheek there.
It’s not possible.
There is NO WAY it is possible.
The first deputy is only a foot away from the fighting girls, and the second one is closing in on the jumper. He spins around to avoid the deputy’s reach, and his hood falls back far enough now that I can clearly see his face.
He looks right at me and shouts, “Hiya, cuz! Hang on for the ride!” Then before I can fully process what’s happening, the line of friars on either side of the church rush in, lift Will (WILL!!!) off the pew by his armpits, carry him to the nearest open window, and slide him out!
I’m vaguely aware that the fighting girls are getting the same treatment. While I’m trying to process all this, two men flank me and lift me right off the ground like I weigh no more than a feather. Since both deputies have now turned their attention back to me, I see no reason to stop the friars from tossing me out a window, too.
Instead, they bring me to the front door and then toss me out. Will is waiting for me there, on the back of a horse! “Hop on,” he says, holding on to the reins like this is something he’s done every day of his life. Another horse pulls up alongside him with a pretty brown-haired girl riding in front, and a beautiful yellow-haired girl holding on to her waist. They are clearly not enemies, like their fight inside would have led everyone to believe.
“Hey, stranger,” the yellow-haired girl says. Marian. It’s Marian! “Want to hop on that horse so we can go rescue a king? Unless you’re planning on staying for the wedding cake?”
“Wha … the king … huh … Will … how?” is all I can muster, I’m not proud to say.
“Not just a king,” Will says, reaching out to grab my arm. “If I can get us to the sheriff’s castle, can you get us past the gates?”
His horse bends at the knees, allowing me to swing my leg over its enormous flank. Is this really happening? Will (!!!) repeats his question. “Can you get us onto the grounds?”
For someone who prides himself on always knowing what to say, the power of speech continues to abandon me. The sheriff’s archery tournament is today — Much and the other Merry Men have been talking about it all week. The grounds will be very crowded. It would mean seeing those awful men from the stream on our first day here, and Guy Gisborne, the deputies, and the Sheriff of Nottingham himself. But if I enter the contest, we’ll get onto the grounds. Instead of trying to get all those words out, I just croak, “Yes.”
“Good,” Will says, trotting the horse until we’re in front of the girls’. “Now hold on tight,” he says, digging in his heels. “We’re going to rescue King Richard.”
Then he adds over his shoulder, “And your parents!”
“What did you just say?” I shout up to Will. Did he just tell Robin we’re going to rescue HIS PARENTS? Is that what he couldn’t tell me yesterday when we first met in town? How could Robin’s parents, who are supposed to be dead, be alive on this medieval planet?
But their horse is too far ahead now, and he can’t hear me over the clomping of hooves. I resign myself to having to wait for an answer until we arrive. Meanwhile, I may as well enjoy the feel of the wind in my hair and on my face. I close my eyes and trust in Kylea’s control of this beast. This is a marked improvement from my behavior this morning when we first climbed on for the ride to the church. That was more of the screaming-in-terror variety.
Kylea’s been great. We wouldn’t have even known how to find Robin in the first place if she hadn’t heard Alan-a-Dale singing about it in the village before she came to find me and Will. He’d sang about a man in green hopefully rescuing his true love from marrying another, and she put it together when she saw Will’s outfit.