Robin: Lady of Legend (The Classic Adventures of the Girl Who Became Robin Hood)

by R. M. ArceJaeger

  This time when she went to check on Mara, he eyed her in warning, but said nothing.

  Satisfied that the baby would not arrive for a while, Robin pulled the woman’s skirts back down and rocked back on her heels as she thought.

  What was it Darah had said during the maid’s delivery—something about first births taking a long time? And herbs, herbs to help the pain.

  “I brought water,” carpenter John Logan announced, opening the door to the hut. He glanced uncertainly at the laboring woman, and then away again, holding the bucket in front of him like a shield. Robin accepted the water from him, as well as the thin rag he held out.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Send Edra in here the instant she gets back, and in the meantime, see if she has any birthwort or raspberry in that hut of hers. If she does, brew them into a tea and bring it to me as quick as you can.”

  “Yes, Robin,” came John’s automatic reply; he practically fled out the door.

  Time passed. Robin had David sponge his wife’s face and neck with the warm water, talking to her all the while in a low voice. She doubted that Mara, distracted and faint, understood what he was saying, but it was the comforting sound of her husband’s voice that was important, not the words.

  When John Logan brought the herbal tea, Robin seized at it gratefully and tipped the liquid into Mara’s mouth, pouring slowly so the woman would not choke. It must have eased her a little, because some of the lines in her face relaxed, and her cries of pain became less shrill. She still did not open her eyes.

  Day faded into night; someone brought a torch and placed it just inside the doorway. David had fallen asleep holding his wife’s hand, and Robin was nodding off as well when Mara gave a piercing scream that brought them both to their feet.

  “Mary, Mother, help me,” Robin prayed, hastily pushing back the woman’s skirts. The baby was coming, oh, how it was coming!

  “What do I do? What do I do?” David cried, barely audible as his wife gave another scream.

  “I do not know!” Robin shouted back. Outside, she heard distant voices calling something, but she ignored them. All her focus was on the crowning head.

  God above, do not let me drop it.

  When Edra burst into the hut a few moments later, she saw David cradling a tiny infant in his arms, and Robin wiping bloody hands on her tunic, a vague expression on her face. Mara had fainted from exertion, but her chest rose and fell with ease.

  Though momentarily taken aback by the scene, the healer quickly recovered her wits and strode over to the baby, taking the child in her arms to assess its condition. Robin, seeing that she was no longer needed, took the opportunity to step outside. It was a beautiful night, with thin wisps of pearl-colored clouds surrounding the moon and stars like gauze studded with diamonds. Against the darkness of the clearing, a bonfire crackled, its flames rising taller than a man and silhouetting the shapes of those sitting around it.

  At the sound of the infant’s first howl, these outlaws had turned as one to face the cabin, and when Robin emerged, they greeted her with a relieved hail. One man whipped out a crude set of hand pipes and began to play a joyful tune in time to the baby’s wails. This, in addition to many broad smiles and ribald jokes, helped shatter the tension that had gripped the camp for the last few hours. David was well liked in the community, and his concern for his wife and child had become theirs; the birth of a baby who could bellow so heartily was definitely cause for celebration.

  Rather than joining the nascent festivities, Robin stayed standing just outside David’s hut, looking at her hands in amazement. In the distant light of the fire, the blood on them gleamed black against her golden skin.

  I should wash these, she thought, but continued to stare at her palms, still stunned by what she had accomplished.

  A heavy hand clasped her on the shoulder. It was David. His voice when he spoke was thick, and there were tears shining in his eyes.

  “Thank you, Robin.”

  She nodded, and the two of them stood that way for a while, listening in the dark to the healthy sound of a baby crying.

  * * * * *

  Winter eventually melted away, and the greenwood began to prosper once more. Flowers flared everywhere—pied daisies, red poppies, and cerulean bluebells—all vying to paint the landscape their particular brand of color. Baby rabbits flooded the undergrowth, sparrow couples took flight in their primordial dance of courtship, and sundry insects awoke from their winter sleep to repopulate the verdure.

  One such insect—a mosquito, Robin noticed with dismay—was currently kissing her arm in itchy appetite.

  “As if I had not problems enough,” she swore, dropping the bow she had been assessing onto her lap and tugging at her sleeves in an attempt to shield her arms.

  This effort proved futile, since her sleeves were worn to shreds; for that matter, most of her outfit was worn to shreds. If she did not get something new to wear soon, she would be running around in threads—which, Robin thought wryly, would definitely liven up the camp after a rather boring winter. Of course, she was not the only person there in dire need of new clothes, but she had no doubt which of them would provide the greater spectacle.

  It was hardly surprising that the camp’s attire was in such a sorry state. Deer that winter had proved infuriatingly elusive, and the pelts of those they had been fortunate enough to kill had been distributed among the outlaws as much-needed blankets; even the hides of rabbits and squirrels had been used for this purpose. None could be spared for new clothes.

  Faced with this scarcity of warmth and meat, Robin knew the outlaws could have responded with the worst of human instincts. But years of near-starvation, combined with their expulsion from society, had merely increased their desire to aid those who shared their plight. So it was that they shared with each other the little they had, growing over the winter from a community into a family. By miracle of their altruism, no one had starved or frozen to death—not even the baby.

  Robin glanced over at where Mara was sitting a few feet away, bouncing her baby lightly upon her lap and chatting cheerfully with Edra. Little Hannah gurgled happily in her mother’s arms and waved her plump pink fists ineffectually through the air. Outlaw life seemed to suit the babe, who flourished even while the adults grew thin. The entire camp adored the child, and the sleepy grumbles that resulted from her nighttime cries were tolerant and good-natured.

  Less tolerant were the muddy feet that shuffled impatiently in front of Robin, and obediently she returned her attention to the bow in her lap. She peered down its shaft to make sure that there was no lateral curve to the wood. She ran her fingers over the shank to check for splits, and to make certain that the wood where the arrow would rest was smooth. Lastly, she checked the hemp bowstring for fraying—its coating left the faint smell of animal fat on her fingers, rather than beeswax, as the season was still too inhospitable for that particular insect to make itself known.

  “Let me see you bend it,” Robin directed, returning the longbow to its owner. The young boy in front of her strung the bow, his face screwed up in concentration. Laboriously placing the tip by his instep, he drew the string back until his hand just touched his ear. The bow bent with a small creak, but not with the cracking, snapping sound that Robin was listening for.

  “Very good,” she smiled with enthusiasm. “You have made a fine weapon. You should be proud.”

  “Thanks, Robin!” the boy said, flashing her a grin that was missing two front teeth; he scampered off to where his friends were waiting to hear the verdict.

  One more for the ranks, Robin thought idly, reclining against the bole of the oak in what was her favorite spot. She was prepared to swear that the moss here was thicker and softer than anywhere else, but while a few of the other outlaws seemed to share her opinion, no one begrudged her the spot when she wanted to rest there, deferring the place to her out of respect.

  It still surprised her, the people’s respect. She had not sought it, had not even noticed when
it began to develop—first as simple admiration, and then altering slowly into a rare high regard.

  It was clear to all in the camp that Robin was their best hunter—over the winter, she had brought in thrice the amount of game that anyone else had—and she had won the evening archery contests so often that she was eventually forbidden to compete. Those competitions had proved more effective than even Robin could have dreamed, and had affirmed to the others that her ideas were worth listening to.

  It had begun simply, after yet another fight between men whose winter-worn tempers had snapped—this time resulting in a brawl so severe that two-thirds of the camp had been involved by its end. Robin had spent a sleepless night pondering how best to prevent another such squabble. The result was presented at the next camp convocation, where she had suggested holding a nightly competition, which would allow the people to display their prowess in archery, wrestling, or cudgeling, while at the same time releasing their pent-up energies.

  “Why not?” had been the general consensus. “It is not like there is anything better to do.”

  The resulting upswing in the camp’s mood had been as great as it was unexpected. After weeks of maddening monotony, the glade now rang in the evenings with laughter and cheers. Even better, now that the men had a valid outlet for their virility, they no longer felt the need to take their boredom out on each other. Tempers had improved, and to everyone’s pleasure, the number of unsanctioned fights plummeted to nearly zero.

  Impressed by Robin’s ingenuity, the outlaws had begun coming to her for advice . . . much to her consternation and to David’s friendly amusement. Several even petitioned Robin to help them improve their archery, which she did gladly, showing them the tricks to smooth flight that she had discovered over the years. Soon even the worst of the archers found their aim beginning to steady, and as they started to triumph in the evenings against veteran bowmen, more and more people sought to join Robin’s lessons, until she found herself teaching half of the outlaws at once. Some of the men needed only a little refinement; some of them—contrary to the King’s law—had never even touched a bow before, let alone possessed one. For such men, her first lesson was simple: learn to make the weapon that could save an outlaw’s life. Only once their longbow had passed her examination did she permit them to enter group training.

  The men’s regard for her archery skills was evident, but as anyone would have told her, archery was the least of the reasons they respected her. Without even knowing it, Robin had shown herself to be a leader that the people could esteem. During Mara’s crisis, she alone had kept her head when others felt helpless to act. When Thatch’s hut had caught on fire, her directives had kept the blaze from spreading, and when wolves had attacked Gary Ebbot, her composed commands had kept him from losing his life. And in spite of Robin’s initial misgivings about the people who now filled her once-private glade, the strong community they had formed gradually seduced her, until she could not imagine living without them. In community decisions, hers was a strong and influential voice, and whenever someone needed help, she did not balk at lending her aid.

  So the outlaws liked her and respected her, and called her Robin o’ the Hood, because no one had ever seen her without that particular couture.

  Robin o’ the Hood. I rather like it, she thought sleepily, settling more comfortably against the oak. It sounds . . . mysterious.

  The warming sun and the friendly breeze succeeded in siphoning away her thoughts after that, and she had almost managed to doze off when a commotion at the edge of the camp roused her awake.

  A small pack of young men—ones that Will Stutley had adopted as his own special friends, she noted—were making their way into camp like a band of triumphant heroes. They were laden with sacks whose contents spilled out as they set them on the ground: dried foods, oats, patched woolen blankets, and even a couple live chickens. Robin watched, aghast, as outlaws converged on the items, carrying them away until not even a grain of barley remained.

  “Ye want any, Robin?” Will asked, heaving a small sack in her direction. He opened it to show her a wheel of cheese and some pasties.

  “Where did you get this?” she asked, incredulous.

  “Oh, some farm o’er in Mansfield,” he said, surprised that she did not know. “’Twas Johnny’s idea. ’E decided ne t’ try Nottingham again cuz they only gots rotten stuff there af’er the Sheriff gets done wi’ them, but we made a good ’aul this time.”

  Realization made Robin dizzy. Over the last couple of weeks, she had noticed some new items appearing among the outlaws—a pot here, a different pair of shoes there. She had assumed that some of the outlaws had risked going into town and had bought or traded for these things. Now she knew the truth.

  “And everyone . . . knew?” she asked, still trying to comprehend.

  “O’ course,” he said. “I thought ye did, too, or I woulda told ye.” Robin’s attitude puzzled him—was she not glad that the outlaws were providing for themselves? He continued to hold out the small sack.

  “Put that down,” she ordered, the cold fury in her voice stunning the boy. “Go gather those friends of yours and their families—better yet, gather all and sundry. We are going to have ourselves a little talk.”

  * * * * *

  Robin waited for the last puzzled stragglers to find a place to sit, putting off the moment when she would have to address the crowd. She knew in her heart that what Will and his friends were doing was wrong, but it was one thing to know it, and another thing to convince everyone else of that . . . especially when they profited from the purloinment. How could she keep them from dismissing her as a meddling fool? Somehow, she would have to find a way, or else the community they had formed would become a monstrosity—wolf heads in reality, preying on those too weak to stop them.

  “My friends,” she began, her mind still unsettled, gesturing with her hands for them to quiet. “When Will and I welcomed you here, it was because you had nowhere else to go. You had been thrown off your lands because you could not pay your taxes, or been branded as outlaws for stealing the bread you needed to eat. Some of you defended your families against assault, and as a reward found your likeness adorning the Sheriff’s bill.

  “Great wrong had been done to you, and so we allowed you to build a life with us,” Robin stated. “Then today, I learned that you have become the very wrongdoers that you detest. You have stolen from people who need our help and our protection, not our larceny. What right have you to take from those who have nothing spare to give?”

  “The right to survive!” one man shouted. There were loud cries of agreement. “We need supplies—grains and new clothes! How else are we supposed to get them? We have as much right to maintain our lives as anyone!”

  “Yes,” Robin argued, “but not by depriving others of that right! I have a plan,” she continued, working through a nascent idea, “to ensure that we all get a diversity of provisions. Let me help you, and I promise you that hunger and deprivation will soon be only a memory.”

  “You are nothing but a lad!” Guy of Gisborne cried, rising to his feet. “A whippersnapper who cannot even grow a beard upon his chin. What gives you the right to make yourself our leader? If anyone is to be leader here, let it be me!”

  He looked around the gathering for support, but no one met his eye. Gisborne was a strong man, both mentally and physically, a soldier outlawed for killing another in a brawl. His was the voice that most often opposed Robin’s in the gathered community; he was also a bully, and the people feared him. A few men shifted, but nobody stood.

  Gisborne’s accusation took Robin aback. Leader? She did not want to be leader—at least, that had not been her intention. She just wanted to stop these people from hurting those who were already so oppressed. But Robin knew that if she allowed Gisborne to seize control of this moment—if she was seen to back down from his challenge—then he would sway the others to his selfish ways, and what began as juvenile pilfering would soon degenerate into utter mercenari
ness.

  It would not be the first time Robin had taken charge, but when she had done so in the past, it had been because circumstances required it. It seemed they required it now, but was she the one these people needed? She was a girl, not a commander! But who better? Certainly not Gisborne! As for the rest, they were villeins, uneducated and simple, knowing only their own trade and their own affairs. Robin was of noble birth, and as such had grown up with tutors who fed her language, science, and strategy (much to Darah’s disapproval)! She could think in ways these men could not even begin to comprehend. Who better to lead them than her?

  There is no one better, Robin realized. If I want to help these people, then I will have to take charge completely. It is up to me. I can do this.

  Robin squared her shoulders, accepting the role that Gisborne had unwittingly assigned her. “If you want to continue living here, then you will have to accept my undisputed leadership,” she told the congregation slowly, her voice unconsciously taking on her father’s timbre of command. “There can be no more personal forays. Yes, we have a right to survive, and yes, we may need to steal to do that . . . but only for what we need to keep us fed and clothed; the rest we will give back to the populace to whom it rightfully belongs. Never again will we rob from the poor—only from the corrupt rich who have pilfered the people’s monies for far too long. We may be outlaws, but we will be outlaws with honor . . . a quality not many of the Sheriff’s soldiers can claim to possess!”

  That assertion got a small chuckle.

  “So we just have to rob from the rich instead of the poor? That does not sound so bad,” laughed Gavin o’ Dell.

  “Honor is more than that,” Robin said firmly. “It is sharing what you have with those who have less. It is sheltering and caring for the widows, the orphans, and the sick. It is doing no woman harm,” she said, recalling the many bruised cheeks she had seen in her lifetime. Her gaze happened to alight at that moment on a pair of particularly randy twins, and on impulse, she added, “And that includes not spying on them when they bathe.”