Heart of Sherwood

by Edale Lane

  A thought began twisting its way through his devilish mind as the Sheriff stared over the weaver's shoulder at the town elder who stood stooped behind him.

  "Old woman," he called, causing the weaver to lurch to his feet with eyes narrowed. Nottingham gestured to her. "Come forth." She shuffled toward him with a puzzled expression. "Now, you are old and wise. Tell me about Robin Hood. When will he be coming around again? Who is he really? You don't want to see your son beaten do you? You owe no allegiance to a murdering rogue. Speak!"

  She squinted her ice-blue eyes and cupped a hand to her ear. In a gravelly, cracked voice she uttered, "Eh? How's that?"

  "My Lord Sheriff," the weaver blurted out. "My mother is an old woman and doesn't hear well. She doesn't know anything. I implore you to leave an elder be."

  "Worthless bag of bones!" Without the slightest hesitation he backhanded the matron sending her tottering off balance to be caught and steadied by her granddaughters. Gasps of shock, fear and dismay sounded through the crowd. The weaver's eyes flashed with rage and he clenched fists at his sides, but consciously chose to keep them there.

  "You think you can hold out on me?" the Sheriff shouted. "Tell me what I want to know or I will start hanging you paltry churls!" The gasps turned to cries of terror as they clung to one another, tears beginning to flow amid pleas for mercy. "Blore all you wish; it will do you no good. Deputy, you soldiers," he called motioning to them to come, and they proceeded forward. "Let's see," Nottingham mused, passing a raptor's gaze over his flock of prey. Then he pointed. "Him," he said, his finger aiming at the smith's son.

  "Ward!" his distraught mother cried out as her boy was snatched from them. She clung to her injured husband whose face reddened to match his hand.

  "My boy has done nothing wrong!" he declared.

  "That one," Nottingham pronounced, paying the squealing vermin no heed as he selected a farmer. "Her," he smirked, denoting the miller's wife.

  "Mummy, mummy!" wailed three stair-step children, tears bursting from their big, round eyes, while their father held them back.

  "Not my wife!" the miller howled in disbelief. "She is only a woman and knows nothing of outlaws."

  The Sheriff again refused to answer or acknowledge their pleas. "Over there," he said selecting the traveling merchant who stood by his cart.

  The indifferent hands of guards dragged the prisoners into the hub. "But milord!" protested the trader. "I don't even live in this village. I received no assistance from the criminal!'

  "Yes, well, you should have better discretion than to do business with those who harbor outlaws," he answered dispassionately. "An example must be set." Then the edge of his lips curled. "Deputy, bring me the old woman."

  A puzzled look crossed Blanchard's square face. Hesitantly he walked over and extended a hand to the frail, aged female, and she went with him without protest.

  "My lord!" cried the weaver in dismay. "What would you want with someone who is clearly no threat to anyone? Prithee, do not harm my mother! Take me instead, for whatever your purpose."

  But the Sheriff ignored his supplications. Noticing the displeased expression worn by his deputy, he pulled him aside while the other guards secured the prisoners' hands behind their backs. Blanchard's face was drained of color and his eyes betrayed his displeasure. "Milord, the old woman?"

  Nottingham's voice cut like cold steel. "They must understand that none of them, from the oldest to the youngest, is safe and then we use their fear to force them to hand over Hood."

  "But-" Blanchard hesitated, then asked in a hushed tone, "Are you sure they know where to find him? What if they are telling the truth?"

  The Sheriff straightened and crossed his arms over his chest, regarding his deputy as one might an insect. "Are you capable of carrying out your duties, or do you need to be replaced?" He furrowed his stark brows accusingly at Blanchard.

  Blanchard snapped to attention. "My lord, I have sworn an oath to obey the responsibilities of my office and to follow the Sheriff's orders; I do not intend to break that oath. However, my lord cannot order me to enjoy it."

  Nottingham snorted, turning down his nose on his subordinate. "I couldn't care less how you feel, as long as you do as I say." He stepped away from Blanchard to look over his hostages and beyond them. "There." He spoke in a strong voice as he pointed to a large oak with sprawling branches standing near the mill and the river which powered it. One of the guards retrieved a pack from his saddle and carried it over to the tree. Other guards started rummaging through hovels bringing out stools. The villagers watched in horror as the first guard pulled ropes already tied in nooses out of the bag and tossed their free ends over a big, horizontal branch one by one.

  "No!" "For God's sake!" "Do not do this thing!" The helpless shouts rose through the gathering as people sobbed and pleaded.

  Why do they blubber so? Godfrey wondered. It isn't as if anyone important is going to die.

  Nottingham's keen eyes scanned the edges of the village and the tree line for any sign of Hood and the outlaws. Maybe I underestimated Hood, he thought. Mayhap he doesn't really care about the peasants after all. Upon spotting no trace of outlaw heroes rushing to the rescue, he shrugged. Hanging a few of these churls just to set an example would be alright by him.

  The villagers watched helplessly as their loved ones were directed to stand on stools and had ropes secured around their necks.

  The smith's son tried to be brave, and replied, "Do not cry, Mum," when she called out his name. The weaver's mother was having a hard time keeping her balance as she waited for death to take her, while the other three beseeched the Sheriff for mercy, but to no avail.

  With all in place, Nottingham strode forward baring a grim expression. "Once more I ask you people of Millhaven, who is this outlaw Robin Hood and where is his lair?"

  "My Lord Sheriff," the miller answered, his features twisted with pain to match the writhing in his gut as he looked upon his beloved wife, perhaps for the last time in this life. "Do you wish us to lie? Shall we invent a story to tell you? By God's bones, we know not this Hood, nor where to find him. Do you not think to save my wife, the mother of my children, I would not turn over a thief to the law? We cannot tell you what we do not know!"

  Nottingham curled his lip in a contemptuous sneer. "So be it." His eyes passed over the gathering once more and beyond them. All was still and quiet. He returned his attention to the souls whose light he would crush this day in order to strike fear into the hearts of serfs and peasants all across the shire and gave a nod to the soldier in charge of the execution. Deputy Blanchard stood rigid between the prisoners and the people, his sword in its sheath and his bow and quiver over his broad shoulders.

  The executioner approached the nearest victim. All at once a muffled whish cut through the air and the executioner stopped, slumping down to one knee as he cried out in pain. An arrow shot through his foot had pinned him to the ground.

  Chapter Ten

  A second arrow whizzed through the air, slicing the noose around the young lad's neck, all before Nottingham spotted Robyn sliding off a roof.

  Her knees bent like coiled springs as her boots hit the ground, then she tucked and rolled coming up with the cocked bow making a shot to sever the rope threatening to strangle the old woman. The agile smithy's son who had wriggled his hands free of their bindings caught her before she could fall, easing her down from the wobbly stool.

  "Get him!" Nottingham commanded in a shout as he drew his sword.

  Just as the two nearest guards began to draw their weapons, Little John emerged from behind the merchant's cart. Raising his staff, he made a quick swing to the left and back to the right, striking each guard's helmet with enough force to send them careening into each other. Stunned, they crumpled to the ground with throbbing heads spinning and white lights flashing before their eyes.

  Another volley of arrows came from around the side of the weaver's cottage where Gilbert and Arthur Bland stood. Gilbert's shaft cut
through the rope fastened about the neck of the Miller's wife, and she scurried to join the youth and the elder as they ducked for cover. Arthur's arrow narrowly missed the advancing Sheriff, and he halted abruptly, glancing back toward Robyn's men.

  "Over there!" he shouted, pointing at them.

  Allen and Much engaged a pair of guards with their swords while Little John took on two by himself, the reach of his staff and power of his blows giving him the advantage.

  Robyn looped the bow over her shoulder as she rushed forward, pulling her crusader sword to cut the last captives free before turning to see Tuck, long sword at the ready, step between the looming Sheriff and herself.

  "Well, if it isn't Friar Tuck!" Nottingham exclaimed with recognition. "I thought you had gone back to the monastery." He took up a fencing stance across from the corpulent clergyman and motioned to him with his tip.

  "They wouldn't let me return," he replied with a clink of his metal against Nottingham's. "You saw to that. Tsk, tsk; trying to murder more innocent peasants, are you?"

  Nottingham answered with an advance amid a flurry of strikes. "No one is innocent," he sneered again.

  But Tuck was an expert swordsman and held his ground, matching blow for blow.

  No sooner had Robyn freed the last hostage than a bolt sped past her close enough to tear the sleeve of her tunic. She spied Deputy Blanchard across the way notching another arrow. A quick roll and she was behind the large oak. She sheathed her father's sword and swung her bow into her hands. Quickly, she replayed the image of the deputy in her mind's eye, taking note of his surroundings. When she stepped around the trunk her aim was trained on a large sign hanging over the blacksmith's shop which she cut loose with her arrow, dropping it on the big man. It was not sufficient to knock him out, she noted, but he did appear dazed for the moment allowing her to move her attention elsewhere.

  Her band was vastly outnumbered and, though they had the element of surprise, they would not be able to hold off this troop of soldiers for long. Arthur and Gilbert had wounded a few guards but were currently being closed in on by a gang of six. Much was bleeding from a wound and Alan was retreating as he stayed off blows from two larger men. She was going to have to end it now.

  The Sheriff was thoroughly engaged in his duel with Tuck, allowing her the opportunity to make the necessary play. She took several stealthy, rapid steps coming up behind Nottingham with her bow cocked.

  "Stop!" Robyn thundered with the weight of authority. Startled faces all turned toward her as she stood six feet from the Sheriff, her missile trained on his heart. "I am too far away for your sword to strike and too close for me to miss. And, Deputy," she addressed as she saw him start to draw his bowstring out of the corner of her eye. "Your lord will be dead before you can loose your arrow, so don't even think about it."

  Giffard stared at her from coal-black eyes. "Hood," he said in spiteful acknowledgement. "You and your men are surrounded and outnumbered, with no hope of escape. You may as well surrender."

  A smile of inevitable triumph tugged at the corner of Robyn's mouth, but she controlled it. Not quite yet. She spoke with a calm assurance that unnerved the Sheriff and terrified his guards. "Are you certain about that? It would appear that you are the one in need to surrender. Yes, we are surrounded and outnumbered, but your life is in imminent peril. Mayhap Blanchard's arrow will hit its mark, but you'll never know, because you will be dead. And perchance your soldiers could carry on without your leadership and finish us off, but you'll never know, because you will be dead. I see many possibilities before us in the next several minutes, but only one certainty; you will do exactly as I say, or you will die this day."

  The Sheriff gritted his teeth, started to move a foot, and then stopped. His expressionless face concealed whatever thoughts he was having and he began to relax. "I thought you may make an appearance if I threatened enough peasants you claim to serve. But tell me, Hood, because I am quite curious: why go to all the trouble to plan and execute elaborate robberies, put your own life in danger, as well as those of your followers, and thereafter give away your hard earned spoils?"

  "That is simple," she answered, her grip remaining strong and her eyes trained on his. "Because you, Prince John and your lackeys have been robbing and abusing the people ever since King Richard left for the Holy Land. It started small, but it grew, with your unfair taxes, harsh punishments, absurd laws, and detestable practices. You take what is not yours, and those who are not yours, for your own pleasure and sport. You hide behind your position not to protect, as chivalry would have, but to amass power unto yourselves. You stole Sir Whitehand's title and lands, as well as the one you now possess; you stole Tuck's standing in the Church and you would steal the very hopes and dreams of the citizens of this shire if left unchecked. I am merely giving back what rightfully belongs to the people."

  Nottingham's' face remained impassive. "Would you kill me, Robin Hood, champion of the people? Would you retain their esteem as a murderer?"

  "Only if I must," was her penetrating reply. "Now, this will stop."

  He gave a shrug and glanced around at his guards. They had lowered their weapons, all but Blanchard, and had the hapless look of sheep without a shepherd.

  "What? What has to stop?" the Sheriff asked mildly.

  Robin's words came as crisp and frigid as ice with the intensity of a North Sea storm. "You will not abuse, torture, punish, or kill random villagers because you want to get my attention, nor to lay a trap for me, nor because they were recipients of my generosity. I challenge you to find another way to play the game with me if you must persist. But mark my words well: I know where you live. I know where you lay your head at night, on that red silk pillow in a great, tight bed. I know ways in and out of the castle and in and out of your manor house that even the mice have not found, and it would take nothing for me to end you where you lay should you choose not to heed my warning."

  She watched the widening of his eyes at her vow and saw him swallow the lump that had come to his throat, but he calmed and issued his own challenge. "Then why not you and I, one on one, man to man? I would fight you in a duel with the guarantee of your freedom should you best me," he said making a slight motion with the blade still in his hand.

  "Now, now Sheriff," Robyn chided with a nod at his gesture. "Mayhap if the weapon of choice was a bow. I'll not be goaded into a sword fight which I would be certain to lose. Now, command your soldiers to mount their horses and ride out of this hamlet."

  He frowned at her. "In that case what is to stop you from killing me, anyway?"

  "The deputy may stay, with his arrow trained on me."

  Nottingham groaned, his face twisting from obvious aggravation. "Guards," he called. "Mount up and ride back to the castle." For a moment they merely mumbled, looking around at each other, then he shouted, "Do it!" That started them moving, the injured and uninjured alike. Robyn's gang gathered together by the well, Allen helping Much who pressed a cloth to his shoulder.

  Once the soldiers were away, Robyn said, "Little John, lads, back off to the wood with you."

  Tuck raised his chin defiantly. "We'll do no such thing! What's to stop them from killing you once we are gone?"

  "The Sheriff will get on his horse and ride away while the deputy and I keep each other in check. When Nottingham is out of sight, we shall both lower our bows and be on our way. Is it a bargain, Blanchard?"

  He waited for Giffard to grant a nod, and then he replied. "On my word."

  Little John protested. "Robyn, you can't trust him."

  But she nodded with a diminutive smile. "Yes, John, I can. You see, we have been here before, only it was the deputy under my bow. I kept my word to him; he will keep his word to me."

  Blanchard acknowledged her chivalry with a slight dip of his head.

  "Now, my men, Sheriff, off with you. And Nottingham," she added ominously. "Do not take my oath lightly. I can and will kill you if you engage in this kind of terror tactic again."

  H
e snorted and sheathed his sword before making his way to his steed. "This isn't over, Hood," he vowed without looking back. "You shall pay for this insult."

  Little John and the others accepted the smiles and gratitude of the villagers as they walked toward the tree line while Robyn and the deputy held back their arrows. "By the by, Deputy, your horse is being well cared for in my camp."

  A look that could only be interpreted as joy spread over his face. "That is good to know," he said.

  With the Sheriff out of sight and her arm aching, Robyn nodded to him. "That's enough, now."

  They lowered their bows simultaneously. The blacksmith's mother rushed to hug Robyn and thank her for saving her son, but the smithy's son had darker thoughts. He took careful steps behind the deputy gripping a raised pitchfork.

  "No!" Robyn shouted, instantly taking aim and firing. The boy was stunned as the arrow landed in the tool's handle a few inches above his right hand. Blanchard snapped around to observe the youth lower the makeshift weapon in shame. "My word was given, lad, and I keep my word. See to your family and thank the Lord above for your life this day."

  He dropped the pitchfork, nodded at her, and scuttled off.

  The deputy inclined his head to her, then spoke in a voice that sounded of admiration. "Nottingham will try harder than ever to capture or kill you now."

  "I expect no less." Robyn met his eyes and gave him a nod of respect. She then turned to acknowledge the grateful townspeople, clasping some hands and patting children's heads, before making way to the forest beyond.

  *~*~*

  Sherwood Forest, later that day

  Robyn pushed aside a faded, worn wool blanket from the doorway of Much's lean-to. Little John, his wife, Alan and Friar Tuck were already huddled around him.

  "Let me see what you've done to yourself," Robyn said in an uplifting tone and the others parted to allow her through. She had to kneel as his bed was very low to the ground.