Robyn and the Hoodettes

by Ebony McKenna

  “Hey Robyn, look what I made the other day,” Marion said. He took something down from the shelf behind him. “What do you think?”

  “It’s beautiful.” Turning it over she saw something stamped into the base.

  “That’s my new hallmark, two letter Ms, it stands for “Marion Made”,’ he said with a satisfied grin as he took one of his sleeves off.

  To reveal his toned arm beneath.

  Robyn felt heat spread over her face. It had to be from the forge. Who knew he was developing so . . . interestingly.

  “I know what letters they are,” she said, sounding far too defensive. Because she had to say something to cover for the fact she’d been staring at him. Time to change the topic. “But . . . The base is so rounded, how can the bowl rest on the table?”

  “It’s not a bowl, you trout, it’s a helmet. I haven’t put the ear protectors on yet. Here.” He took the helmet back and placed it on his head. “See? Perfect for when I go to the crusades.”

  Robyn’s voice rose an octave. “You’re not joining the war!” Why did the thought of him leaving upset her so? Was it because she too wanted an adventure and didn’t want to be left behind? That must be it.

  “Hush up!” Marion hissed as he wiped the perspiration off his arm and put the sleeve back in place.

  Darn. She’d been enjoying the view.

  Then he got back to the forge, pumping the bellows to bring the heat up, creating extra noise to drown them out. Robyn stepped in closer. The heat of the forge roasted the side of her body. “You are not going on the crusades. If you got hurt, Mother Mary would kill you.”

  “Which is why you’re not going to tell her,” Marion shot back.

  Worries lurched in her belly. “But you can’t! You’re the only one who knows how to use–” Robyn cast her hands out “–all this!”

  He pumped the bellows, “So it’s not that you’d miss me or anything?”

  “What?”

  Marion charged the bellows again. “See if the children are finished ripping off the carriage.”

  Feelings all in a muddle, Robyn ventured away from Marion.

  Outside by the carriage, the children were having too much fun.

  “They’re so pretty, can we keep them?” Madge showed Robyn the decorative badges they’d chiselled off the carriage doors. The insides were looking bare as well, as the children stripped away curtains and cushions.

  “No, we can’t keep any of it. Take every last scrap of metal to Marion so he can melt it down. I’m sure he’ll make you new toys if you ask nicely.” Actually, Robyn wasn’t sure at all, but she had to say something encouraging to the children for their quick work. “No Issie, don’t take the wheels off, we don’t have enough blocks to chock underneath it.” A wheel-less carriage on blocks in the middle of the village green? Not the kind of ornament the village’s stern Grannymas would appreciate.

  A familiar snuffling noise sounded behind her. Turning, Robyn saw Shadow standing there. For a horse, she looked pretty sheepish.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” Robyn said. “How did you get out anyway?” Through the flickering firelight, she saw the half-door to her cottage wide open and a bewildered-looking Bella the cow wondering if it were morning yet.

  “Come on Shadow, back to bed.”

  Shadow nuzzled her arm.

  The days’ events were catching up with Robyn. Tiredness made the decision for her. “It’s time for sleep, come on.”

  The horse had the good sense to follow her home and Robyn checked the latch was attached to the door. Still there, so it wasn’t broken. Had she not clicked it shut properly last time, or had the horse worked out how to open it?

  The cow began lowing. “No Bella, back to sleep for you as well.”

  “The village is so proud of you, sweetheart,” Eleanor said, jogging up with Joan by her side. In the darkness, Joan looked so tall, she could have been the parent and Eleanor the child. Her mother added, “Joan’s bunking in with us tonight.”

  “Sure,” Robyn said as weariness made her yawn.

  “I was so worried. What happened to you out there?” Eleanor asked as the three of them made their way into the cottage and climbed the ladder into the shared straw bed.

  “It’s all a blur,” Robyn said as she relayed the story to her mother. She got some events in the wrong order so Joan took over narration duties.

  “What an adventure,” Eleanor said when they’d finished.

  Really? In the heat of the moment, Robyn hadn’t noticed. But now that someone else had said it, she felt a thrill move through her.

  Adventure.

  Kind of nice to think she’d had one. But all the same, it wasn’t anything compared the kind of adventures her father would be having.

  “So mother, is the Earl of Derby working for the Sheriff of Nottingham?”

  “No dear, the Earl of Derby is the Sheriff of Nottingham.”

  Robyn’s stomach curdled like milk left in the sun. Once the Earl-Sheriff found out what she’d done, he’d send his anger down on their village like a swarm of bees.

  “Get to sleep dear,” Eleanor said.

  Robyn sighed. “I’m trying. But mother, what’s going to happen next?”

  “I don’t know.” Now it was her mother’s turn to sigh. “But I do know that not getting any sleep won’t make things any better.”

  Her mother’s advice made perfect sense, but it still didn’t help. Today she’d made a powerful enemy. Would the Sheriff-Earl send his men to punish Robyn, or the whole village?

  ***

  To ensure the bags of grain couldn’t be taken from them again, the villagers took to the fields the next morning and got busy planting. If the Sheriff’s men wanted the wheat back, they’d have to sift the soil to get it.

  Joan was a marvel with the plough, being strong enough to steer the device in a straight line. The grannymas were also out, raking the soil to a fine tilth and covering the seeds. They’d brought all the babbies with them and had sat them under a tree, where they rolled about and played in the crunchy fallen leaves.

  Marion and Midge did something pretty clever. They had several light planks of wood, which they attached together with straps of leather to form a pen to keep the babbies in.

  “They look like piglets,” Joan said as she completed another long, straight, plough line.

  “They look like they’re having fun,” Robyn said, at which point, Midge’s little brother Tuppence toppled backwards into a pile of leaves.

  Everyone was so busy laughing at the delightful babbies’ antics, they didn’t realize how much work they were getting done. By mid afternoon they were finished and the villagers offered Joan and Robyn more food than they could possibly get through in a week of dinners.

  “Come on you,” Mother Eleanor said as the afternoon wore on. “We should get Joan back to Littleton before her parents worry where she’s got to. A good walk will do you good.”

  Joan managed a groaning few steps before she had to rest against the side of the village well.

  Eleanor gasped and cried, “Don’t lean too hard, Joan, that well’s not–”

  “Whoa!” The top stones came loose and Joan reeled backwards.

  “–sturdy.” Eleanor made a pantomime sigh.

  “Take this with you.” Grannyma Miller shoved a sack of flour into Robyn’s arms.

  Umpfh. Heavy stuff. Did she have to carry it the whole way? Her arms would drop off at this rate.

  With the villagers’ farewells carrying on the breeze, Robyn, Joan and Eleanor turned their backs on Loxley and headed towards Littleton. Shadow made a bee-line for Robyn and walked beside her. A moment later, Robyn and Joan realized it was silly to toil with the bags when they had horse right there, so they slung their load on to Shadow’s back.

  Only a short walk–an hour, tops–the cottages on the outskirts of Littleton came into view.

  “Lord above,” Eleanor said. “I remember when all this was fields.”

  T
he bend in the road opened to reveal the main buildings in the village. Feathers galore were blown like autumn leaves into drifts. The Sheriff’s men sure had made a mess of things.

  Hardly big enough to be a village, Littleton boasted a few small cottages with kitchen gardens at the front and fields behind. But Littleton had something Loxley did not: A stone tower keep, taller than the mighty oaks that reached bare arms towards the top of it. It was completely out of place amongst all the thatched-roof cottages. A single, square building with arched doorways below and sawtooth battlements along the top of each wall. Too small for a church (although the entire village could fit inside it), it looked like somebody had started building a castle years ago, but their ambitions had surpassed their abilities.

  “Come on, let’s put this away,” Joan said, taking the bags of flour towards the tower.

  Inside the stone walls they found a ladder leading upwards to a trapdoor. The ladder creaked and groaned as Joan climbed up with the sack over her shoulder. Robyn thought it best to wait until Joan was all the way up on the next floor before climbing herself. Who knew if the timber would hold both their weight?

  The acrid stench of chicken poo and stale air assaulted her as she stepped through. Time to breathe through the mouth.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll stay down here with Shadow,” Mother said.

  Smart woman.

  Joan climbed up yet another ladder, heading towards a trap door in the opposite corner.

  “Can’t we leave the bags here?” Robyn asked.

  “This is where we put the chickens every night, so the foxes can’t get them. If you put the food in here, the chickens will eat it all.”

  True. But the chickens would get fat and delicious, Robyn thought. “Where are the chickens, by the way?”

  “Dunno. Probably scratching for worms down by the river.”

  Taking the next ladder up, balancing her own bag of flour, Robyn came through to the third floor. No sun came in here at all. The arched windows on each of the four walls had all been boarded up to keep out the rain and the wind.

  “Over here,” Joan said, laying down her load.

  Robyn did the same. “I can never get over how quiet it is here.”

  “Yeah . . .” Joan said, then a strange look came over her face–it was hard to tell in the darkness. “It is quiet, isn’t it?”

  Too quiet.

  Joan climbed the last ladder and opened the final trapdoor to the sky above. Light and fresh air streamed through. Blinking, Robyn hauled herself up to the top deck, where she found herself eye-level with the skeleton branches of the tree tops.

  “Where is everyone?” Joan said, looking out across all four corners of the tower.

  Fear sliced into Robyn as she too gazed over the empty fields, shading her eyes from the late autumn sun. The villagers of Littleton should be sowing their winter wheat as well. Or at the very least, someone should be watching the chickens.

  Even the chickens were quiet. No, they hadn’t gone quiet, they’d simply gone. Along with everyone else in the village.

  “Something’s happened,” Joan said, making for the trap door to climb down again.

  Robyn gulped. Her gaze took another lap of the battlements, searching for signs of people. Looking back towards Loxley, she saw movement on the mud road. Someone was running towards the town. A male, with even strides, pumping arms and a chest broader than she remembered.

  It looked . . . like Marion.

  And he had parchment in his hand as he ran towards them.

  Robyn scuttled to the bottom of the tower just as Marion reached them.

  “The Sheriff’s men are back,” he said, between huffs and puffs as he tried to collect his breath. “They’re making us evacuate.” Huff, puff, pant, wheeze. “They made up some story about the Shire Wood being full of thieves so they’re moving us on to Sheffield for our own protection.”

  Panic flinched her muscles. They thought the woods were full of thieves? But the thieves were only Robyn and Joan. And anyway, they weren’t thieves; they were merely taking back what was theirs in the first place.

  “Look,” Marion unrolled the parchment. It had tears in the corners where he’d ripped it off the barn wall they’d nailed it to. “See what it says?”

  “I can read!” Robyn ground out. “They’ve just written it in a weird way, that’s all.”

  Robyn sort of recognized the angry slash of the letters written along the top of the paper, but the rest of the words swam about on the page. If she concentrated, really concentrated . . . she still couldn’t read it.

  Joan asked, “What’s this about ‘hoded men’?”

  “Hooded,” Marion corrected. “They’re saying the woods are full of hooded men.”

  “Where?” Joan asked.

  “I think they mean us,” Robyn said, pressing her lips together in thought. “They mustn’t have got a good look at our faces.”

  Joan looked offended. “They thought I was a man? Honestly, I did a fine job of sorting them out and they’re not even giving me the credit for it!”

  “Hang on a minute. This could work in our favour.” Robyn said.

  “You’re thinking what I’m thinking then,” Marion said.

  Robyn nodded. “They’re looking for a band of men, not a couple of girls.”

  “Young ladies, please.” Joan looked thoroughly annoyed at this development.

  “A couple of very strong ladies that handed them their backsides,” Marion added for good measure.

  Nice save, Robyn thought.

  Eleanor butted in. “And they’ve moved everyone out?”

  “To Sheffield. They’re saying it’s for our own good, but it’s bull–”

  “–Marion!” Eleanor said, sounding like everyone’s mother.

  “Sorry. I meant to say it’s not the truth.”

  Joan’s brows tented in the middle. “When the villages are empty, you can bet they’ll come back and steal everything that isn’t nailed down. And then they’ll say it was the thieves or something.”

  “Lovely!” Eleanor said, dripping with sarcasm. “They move us out because of thieves, but they’re the ones who are doing the thieving!”

  The breath flew out of Robyn. All that adventure and excitement and fear . . . all that effort of getting back their stolen food and clothing and tools . . . only to have them stolen again. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind they’d take everything they could from the village as sure as chickens laid eggs.

  At least their winter wheat was safely in the ground.

  The others kept talking and complaining for a while, which gave Robyn time to set her worries into a stew.

  In a clear, firm voice, Robyn said, “Everyone, be quiet, I know what to do.” To her surprise, her mother, Joan and Marion all stopped talking and turned to her.

  What power!

  “Joan, I’m sorry about this but we need to take everything of value that’s left in the cottages and pile them into the tower.”

  Instead of questioning Robyn, Joan immediately nodded and said, “Good idea!” Then she set off towards her cottage to raid her parents’ belongings.

  Eleanor looked at her expectantly, awaiting orders. If Robyn weren’t careful, this power trip would give her delusions of grandeur.

  “Mother, take Shadow down to the river, and keep her out the way. We can’t risk them recognizing her. See if you can find the chickens while you’re down there.”

  “Will do. Come on girl,” Eleanor clicked her tongue and guided Shadow gently by the neck, leading her away from the village.

  “What do you need from me?” Marion asked.

  A lump formed in Robyn’s throat. Checking left and right to make sure the others were out of the way, Robyn kept her voice low and said, “I need you to tell me what this says.”

  She steeled herself for laughter. Derision. Confusion.

  None of it came. Marion merely nodded and read the parchment, his voice low so they wouldn’t be overheard.
r />   Shame flooded her. He must have known all along that she couldn’t read.

  Marion didn’t boast either. The very least he could do was look smug; that way she could get properly cross with him. But no, he was all understanding and compassion.

  Damn him.

  The moment he finished reading, he rolled the parchment up and pointed to an empty cottage. “I’ll raid that one.”

  “Good, I’ll climb the tower and see if they’re coming.”

  “Gotcha.” And off he raced.

  Back up the tower Robyn charged, her heart pumping fast with excitement and fear. She scrambled up the flights of ladders and trapdoors until she was high above the world, looking back towards Loxley.

  With shoulders hitching towards her ears, Robyn tried to stay calm. There was no sign of the Sheriff’s men, yet.

  Cool autumn winds teased her neck as she scanned the neighbourhood. She was grateful for the season of trees with bare branches. If it were summer, the leaves would be so thick and lush she wouldn’t be able to see the road.

  Below, Joan and Marion raided each house and brought clothes, pots and even three-legged stools out.

  Joan tossed the pieces up, and one by one Robyn caught them and shoved them over by the wall. Speed was the essence, not neatness. Meanwhile, Marion raided the two remaining cottages, his arms overflowing.

  Get it done, then get safe. “Is that all of them?” Robyn called out as she caught a clay pot and placed it to the side.

  “Can’t see anything else,” Marion said.

  “That’s why we’re called Littleton,” Joan said, adding a grin.

  Marion pointed over his shoulder. “What about the cottages back that way, around the bend?”

  “No, too far away, they could be here any moment,” Robyn said as she caught a folded sheepskin. “Climb up to the top and keep watch for us.”