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

by R. M. ArceJaeger

  Tessa, who was sitting on a log near the front of the assembly, gave a distressed cry at this insinuation. Several men chuckled—a knowing rumble that swept along the crowd. Out of the corner of her eye, Robin saw Will hang his head, smiling. Once again, she was glad that she bathed half a mile upstream, before anyone else was awake.

  Robin waited until the laughter quieted down, her own expression serious. When she finally spoke, her words rang with an earnest conviction that seized the outlaws’ hearts. “If you feel you cannot live under my direction, than leave—no one will fault you. But if you stay, then you must swear to be more than a band of thieves: you must become a band with more integrity in your bows than all of the Sheriff’s servicemen, a band who will do more good for the people than any king. Choose to stay, and together we will create a legacy that your children’s children will acclaim.”

  The crowd was silent for a moment, uncertain. Lives of honor? A legacy of integrity? No one had ever painted their lives in such noble hues before, nor even told them it was a possibility. A strange excitement began to stir within them—the desire to be that sort of man. They looked at Robin with shining eyes.

  “I say,” Gisborne menaced from where he stood, breaking the silence, “that you are a fool, and that any man who listens to you is a fool as well. I say we just kill you and do what we want with no censure—we are outlaws after all!”

  Robin’s breath caught in her throat—Johnny’s father looked quite capable of carrying out his threat. For the first time since she had run away, she felt afraid.

  Suddenly, David was standing there beside her.

  “If you want to kill Robin, you will have to get through me,” his low voice menaced, and he flexed his fingers with a wrestler’s readiness.

  “And me!” Will avowed, racing to stand by her other side.

  Everyone immediately quieted. This was truly serious, they realized. Gisborne’s threat, Robin’s proposal . . . what was happening here would forever change their lives in the greenwood, and they all sensed it. Heads turned to gaze from Robin, to David and Will, to Gisborne, and back to Robin again, their thoughts in a flurry. What should they do?

  It was true that they admired and respected Robin, and they esteemed David, whose innate sense of honor had made him the unofficial judge in several camp disputes. Everyone liked Will, the ambassador who had brought them to their current haven, and many of the younger men considered him a personal friend. As for Gisborne . . . well, no one wanted to be under his dominion. But was Robin any better to issue such an ultimatum—to demand their loyalty or their expulsion?

  Robin had Will and David’s support—certainly a strong point in his favor! Furthermore, he had sworn to improve their standard of living, and they knew from experience that his ideas were generally good ones; more importantly, he had never yet broken a promise to them. If anyone could guide their community well, it was he. All things considered, having Robin for a leader might be worth a try!

  The murmurs of the crowd converged toward acceptance, causing Guy of Gisborne’s eyes to narrow in rage. “I will not follow a mere slip of a boy!” he snarled, meeting Robin’s gaze with one of unmerited hatred. His hand fell on the knife at his belt and he took a step forward; David immediately echoed his stance, followed an instant later by Will. Gisborne drew up short. “That milksop will be the death of you all!” he shouted. “Come, Johnny!” Gisborne dragged his son up from his seat by the arm; Johnny shot Will an anxious look, but allowed himself to be steered away. The crowd willingly parted to let them pass.

  Robin took a deep breath, trying and failing to expel some of her tension. David and Will stepped back to her side, and she gave them both a small smile of gratitude, before turning back to address the gathering in a voice that quivered with passion:

  “You all came here with nothing, outlawed from your rightful place in society. You have no one else. We must band together, look to one another, protect each other and those like us. You can be sure no one else will.

  “I am Robin o’ the Hood,” she said, using their nickname for her. “Follow me, and I promise prosperity and merry times for every person here. Follow me, and together we will make the Sheriff rue the day he named us Outlaw!”

  “I will follow Robin o’ the Hood!” Will cried impetuously, raising his fist into the air.

  “As will I,” David nodded, giving her a smile.

  “I will follow Robin o’ Hood,” another man swore, and then another, and another, until they were all standing and proclaiming their fealty.

  “To Robin o’ Hood!”

  “Yes, Robin o’ Hood!”

  And one small boy with a newly made bow: “Huzzah for Robin Hood!”

  CHAPTER 8

  FIRST FORAY

  “HOW MUCH LONGER do we have to sit here?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  “This is boring.”

  “My leg is falling asleep.”

  “I am falling asleep.”

  Robin sighed, and bit back the urge to hush her men yet again. She really could not fault them for their restlessness; it had been a long afternoon. So far a palmer, two peasants, and a courier had passed them by. None had been, in Robin’s estimation, sufficiently unworthy of the cargo they carried to merit her taking it from them.

  She had chosen the men for her ambush very carefully, picking them for their patience and marksmanship. There was Murray, the tanner; Lot of Lincoln, a butcher; Nicolas Sutter, ex-miller; and Glenneth and Shane, twin brothers who were, after her, probably the camp’s finest archers. And of course, Will Stutley, whom she doubted she could have left behind even if she had wanted to.

  At first, it was with a jovial air that they had taken up their perches in the ash trees or crouched in the bushes that lined the High Road through Sherwood Forest. But as the hours waned by, the tedious wait began to tax even their patient fortitude.

  One more hour, Robin promised them silently. One more hour, and then I will call this whole thing off as a dozy idea.

  “Do you hear that?” Murray called softly from the tree next to hers.

  Signaling the others to silence, Robin listened. In the distance, the muted jangle of bit harnesses, the shrill peal of bells, and the creaking of a wagon heralded the approach of a small caravan. It would reach the outlaws soon.

  From her position in the tree, Robin strung her bow, seeing in her periphery her men do the same. She hoped that they would remember the instructions she had set them; she had been very firm.

  “No killing,” she had emphasized that morning. “None of you has killed a man, but I have. It is a bitter thing, and I hope I never need do so again. Aim your arrows for a shoulder, or a foot; for most, your threat will be deterrent enough. But if something goes wrong and you must strike mortally, then strike hard and see that there is no need to strike again. I would rather have them dead than you.”

  “Aww, stop it, Robin, yer makin’ us blush,” Will quipped, pretending to wave off her concern. The others laughed, and that was the end of the speech. For Robin, though, it was far from a laughing matter. She hoped they would remember her words.

  She could see the caravan now—four men-at-arms, and a large, laden wagon. A yellow canvas sheet was thrown over the top of the cart and bound by thick ropes. Whatever lay underneath must be heavy, for two tawny horses were needed to pull it.

  The man driving the cart was clearly a merchant: his green-and-yellow silk jacket was cut in the mercantile style and trimmed with fur, and a blue silk cap perched upon his head to match his bright blue hose.

  Like all nobility, Robin had an instinctive dislike for the merchant class, who frequently profited through the use of faulty scales, and who sold their goods to a needy public for far more than they were worth. True, some merchants were honest, but in poor Nottinghamshire, such men were few and far between, and they often had to struggle to maintain their existence against their more ruthless competitors. This merchant’s clothes and guards attested to his wealth—only
a rich man could afford four men to escort him through the Sherwood.

  Those guards—two at front and two at back—were sitting comfortably upon their horses and peering into the forest as they rode, their expressions reflecting their tedium.

  Of course they look bored, Robin mused. Four guards are more than enough to deter an outlaw or two. Suspicion and distrust kept most outlaws from joining together; these guards had clearly never encountered the sort of unified band that currently lay in wait for them. The thought made Robin smile.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Murray nock an arrow. “Wait,” she hissed, knowing full well that he could not hear her. The words were more a prayer than an honest command.

  The caravan was below her now, the gaze of the guards skimming right over the green-leafed ash in which Lot was hiding, past the bracken where Nicolas lurked, and beyond the trees where she and Murray dwelt.

  The twins were still hidden from view in the their own ash trees several rods ahead, but Will was leaning dangerously far forward out of his. If the guards chanced to look up . . . .

  A few more seconds, Robin pleaded. Just let the wagon get a little bit further . . . .

  “Now!” she cried, leaping from her tree. Lot and Nicolas quickly followed, echoed by Glenneth and Shane. As per her plan, Murray and Will stayed where they were, covering the ambush from above.

  The horses, startled by the abrupt appearance of half-a-dozen men, reared up in consternation, squealing loudly as their riders tried to wheel them around. Three of the guards drew their swords; one of them raised a large crossbow, aiming for Lot. Robin placed an arrow through his shoulder before he could shoot, causing him to drop his weapon.

  The other guards turned in their saddles, cursing loudly as they examined the ambush. Robin had planned it well. Shane and Glenneth stood several yards ahead of the caravan, and Nicolas several yards behind, their drawn bows allowing them to threaten the guards while their distance kept them out of danger from horse and blade. Murray and Will covered the ambush from the treetops, their whoops of glee marking their positions, but their height keeping them out of jeopardy. Lot and Robin were by far the closest to the caravan, but the guards did not dare attack them with so many arrows aimed in their direction.

  “What are you waiting for?” the merchant blustered. “Kill them!”

  The guards ignored him.

  “What do you want, archer?” their leader demanded, still struggling to control his mount.

  Robin gave him an amicable smile. “To help you. It is clear that you have traveled far and are no doubt weary. Good yeomen that we are, we are here to relieve you of your burden.”

  “And of our lives?” he asked, stone-faced.

  “Just your weapons. Unless you prove difficult. I do hope you do not prove difficult.”

  The guard considered, but he was in no position to defend against this ambush, and he knew it. With a grunt of assent, he tossed his sword onto the ground.

  At Robin’s signal, Shane and Glenneth darted over to pick up the weapon, and those of the other guards as they followed suit.

  “I should stomp you flat,” one of them muttered rebelliously, flinging his blade to the ground.

  Shane mirrored Robin’s grin, his eyes gleaming in merriment as he indicated the ready archers with a sweep of his hand. “You are welcome to try.”

  Meanwhile, Robin approached the merchant, who glared at her fiercely and primed his horses to bolt.

  “I would not do that if I were you,” she advised as he raised his whip. “Unless you want a sheaf of arrows in your back.”

  “Churl!” the man bellowed. “Brigand! You are nothing but an honorless, gutless, low-account thief!”

  “Did you hear that, men?” Robin asked, pitching her voice to carry.

  “We heard, Robin!” Murray shouted from the trees. “Shall we teach this varlet a lesson?”

  The merchant squared his back, steeling himself for the arrow that would end his life. He did not look the least bit repentant.

  “Aye, we shall,” she agreed, after a moment’s consideration. “But not in the way he expects. Gentlemen, let it never be said that Robin o’ the Hood and his men are honorless thieves. You will dine with us tonight. Come!”

  Robin hopped into the wagon and seized the reins from the startled merchant. “I am afraid there is not room up here for two. You, my good sir, will have to walk.”

  For a moment, he looked like he was going to refuse—then with a loud oath, he dismounted, glaring dourly.

  Turning her gaze from the merchant to the rest of the assemblage, Robin saw that the guard she had wounded was reeling in his saddle. In the stress of the moment, she had forgotten about him!

  At her direct, Lot helped the man dismount from his horse and cut the arrow from his shoulder, using the guard’s tunic as a rude bandage. Then he and Glenneth settled the wounded man onto the back of the wagon; the guard gave a small groan but made no other sound, his lips locked white against the blood loss and pain.

  A queasy feeling of guilt settled into Robin’s stomach. Blast him anyway for making me shoot him, she thought defensively. Why could he not just surrender peacefully?

  With a nod, Lot indicated that he had done everything he could for the man—further aid would have to wait until they got to camp. Robin nodded back to show that she understood, and turned the cart into the forest, leading the way; the others followed closely behind her.

  * * * * *

  All activity stopped in the camp when Robin rode in accompanied by four guards, a disgruntled merchant, and her cadre of archers.

  “A feast!” she ordered blithely, leaping down from the cart. “Set a beast to cook. We have guests!”

  With a bow of welcome, she indicated for the confused convoy to settle themselves at the base of the central oak. This they did with laudable self-possession, refusing to show overt discomfort at finding themselves in what was clearly an outlaw camp.

  “What is going on, Robin?” David asked, appearing at her side. “I thought you were going to bring us a pretty purse, not a whole caravan.”

  “Now, David, would you have me refuse them our hospitality?” she asked, clapping him on the shoulder. “After all, we are not common thieves who take what has not been earned. Trust me,” she said, lowering her voice. “We will get their purses yet. But I will not have it said that we are nothing but disgraceful brigands who prey on others for sheer profit. We must be more than that, or we will quickly go the way of Guy of Gisborne.”

  Shifting her attention, she snatched a gaping lad by the elbow as he edged in for a look. “Fetch Edra and tell her one of our guests has an arrow in his shoulder—ask her to tend to it, please.”

  “Now gentlemen,” Robin said, striding over to the seated men. “You have had a trying journey, I am sure. Perhaps some entertainment to help you relax?”

  Not waiting for an answer, she beckoned over John Logan and Richard Bentworth, who agreed to her request to wrestle for the pleasure of their “guests.”

  At first, it seemed that Logan would win without difficulty, for he was a big, burly man whose large stature lent him strength; but though Bentworth was smaller, he was also craftier, and he shrewdly evaded his opponent’s clutch time and again.

  Such was the skill of the two wrestlers that the guards soon forgot their situation and found themselves cheering on the powerful display; even the wounded man managed a ragged whoop, startling Edra, who was in the process of dressing his wound, and earning himself a stern rebuke. Only the merchant appeared unaffected.

  With one last tumble, the wrestlers stopped, and the approving guards shouted their acclaim as the sportsmen helped each other to their feet and bowed.

  “Shane, Glenneth! Show these men what you can do with a longbow,” Robin called before the applause had a chance to die down.

  A young boy scampered to mark a piece of bark on a birch tree at the far edge of the glade, and the twins took turns shooting at the target, their arrows bre
aking off pieces of the bark until all that was left was a sliver of mark; they unstrung their bows with satisfied smiles.

  “There is but an inch left,” Robin said, gazing at her guests with a neutral expression. “Do any of you care to try and mar the mark?”

  The head guard stood up. Without hesitation, Shane handed him his bow and stepped back to watch.

  “You can barely see the target!” one of the guards protested. Their leader ignored him and restrung the bow. Accepting an arrow from Glenneth, he nocked it to the string, and with one smooth motion, pulled back the bow and shot.

  “Just shy!” called the boy who still lingered by the mark.

  “No one can make that shot,” the leader averred, returning the bow to Shane.

  “No one?” he asked lightly, looking at Robin with an expectant smirk. Pride fluttered through her at his unspoken assumption, and she obligingly stepped forward and strung her yew bow. Giving the target the briefest of glances, she drew back an arrow and loosed.

  “God’s Teeth!” cried the skeptical serviceman in amazement as her shaft split the faint white mark in twain; two shards of pale bark fluttered their surrender to the ground.

  Robin allowed herself a small smile as her men cheered her shot, joined after a moment by the astounded acclamation of the guards. Though her face flushed hot with pleasure, she did her best to appear unaffected by the praise.

  “Now, we eat!” she cried to mask her emotion, indicating with a sweep of her hand that viands should be brought.

  The guards, ravenous after the excitement of the afternoon, seized eagerly at the meat they were given, delighting in its consumption and ignoring the hot juices that burned their hands. The merchant alone turned his head away from the food, although he could not keep from licking his lips as the delicious aroma wafted around him.

  “Surely you are hungry?” Robin asked. “I know this is not the sort of fare you are accustomed to, but it will do you good to eat.”