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

by R. M. ArceJaeger

  Imagine what Darah would say, to find me pining after such things!

  With a laugh, Robin plucked the flower from her hair and let it flutter to the ground.

  She spent the rest of the morning meandering through linden groves and stands of fragrant pines, through goldenrod thickets and through carmine meadows, letting each place breathe its life and peace into her soul. How she loved this border of the seasons, when spring merged with summer and filled the air with the sumptuous scents of flowers and sun! What other time of the year was the greenwood so bursting with brilliance?

  Unbidden, the words to her favorite childhood ditty weaved through her head: “For the sun is shining bright, and the leaves are dancing light, and the little fowl sings he is near . . .”

  Feeling full of delightful folly, Robin sang the last part aloud, even as her feet carried her to the top of a low crag. From here she could see the wide spread of the forest: trees undulating in small dips and rises that marked its valleys and knolls, patches of ever-present fog merging with the clouds, and the faint bluing of smoke—nearly indiscernible even to her keen eyes—that lifted from her camp a mere half mile away.

  She stood there for a moment, gazing out over the forest with an air of possessive pride. My Sherwood, she thought with contentment. My home.

  With the ease of a bounding deer, Robin leapt off the ledge in sudden abandon, skidding down the rocky slope and coming to a halt by the verge of a pellucid river.

  This particular river emanated from the same watercourse that fed the stream by her camp, but its waters were much wilder than those. In the winter, it ran deep and broad, with roiling currents that could pull a man underneath in seconds. It was a gentler being in the summer, its waters less rushed and thick; but no matter the season, it never lost its glacial chill.

  From where Robin was standing, her camp was but a short walk beyond the river. Going back the way she had come would require another quarter day, and while Robin did not mind the trek, she was starting to feel hungry and was ready to return. Still, she would have walked to London and back again before she would have voluntarily forded those icy waters! Fortunately for her, nature had provided a third solution.

  Long ago, a giant pine had fallen across the river, its roots tying it to one bank and its tip binding it between two tree trunks on the other. In this way, it was kept from being swept downstream by the fierce current, and was the only reliable means of crossing the river for miles.

  And it was close by. Light-hearted, Robin wended her way along the silt bank, singing her ditty softly to herself while her boots squelched to the beat.

  All at once, she stopped short. The tree-bridge had come into view, and Robin could clearly see that there was someone already on it.

  At first she thought that it was a very short, very broad sort of person, just standing in the middle of the log, but no. On closer inspection, she realized that it was really a large man who was in fact not standing at all, but was sitting with his back to her and with his legs drooped over the side of the trunk, idly twirling a large staff through his fingers like a giant baton.

  “Good day,” Robin called.

  The person did not respond.

  “I say, do you mind moving? I desire to cross,” she called again, a little louder this time.

  No reply.

  “Fine,” Robin muttered, and began to stride across the log, slipping a little on some particularly wet patches of wood.

  When she reached the man she stopped, tapping her foot impatiently.

  “Move please,” Robin requested through gritted teeth.

  It was as if the man could not hear. Was he deaf?

  “Move!” she commanded, losing her patience and giving the fellow’s shoulder a hard shove.

  He barely budged, but her action succeeded in breaking him out of his doleful thoughts, and he whirled to face her with a look of anger and fear—emotions that quickly transformed into sheer astonishment. “Robin?”

  Her astonishment was just as great. “John—John Little? Whatever are you doing here?”

  John Little got to his feet, causing Robin to take a step back; she had forgotten just how tall he was. “Hiding. Is that not what you have been doing? You were smart to run away into the woods after we clashed with those foresters,” he told her bitterly. “I thought I would be safe enough in my village, but a few days ago someone tipped off the Sheriff’s soldiers to my presence, and I had to make a run for it.”

  “The Sheriff’s soldiers—but you did not kill anyone,” Robin protested, not understanding.

  He shrugged. “We fought the foresters together, and which of us actually killed his nephew makes little difference to our Sheriff.”

  “John, I am so sorry,” she apologized miserably. “If I had not—”

  “If you had not, I expect I would be dead by now,” he said gently, resting one large hand on her shoulder. “I do not blame you, Robin.”

  His kindness only intensified her feeling of guilt. She could see now the changes his outlaw status had wrought in him: his clothes and beard were ragged, and his face was not as carefree as it had been the last time they had met.

  “Where will you go?” she asked with concern.

  At her question, John looked a little uncomfortable. “I have heard tell of an outlaw leader who haunts these woods. He and his men are not like other criminals—they steal, but only from those who acquire their wealth unjustly, and then they give their takings away to the poor. It is said that their leader will not condone murder, and is kind even to the people he steals from. If I am forced to live as an outlaw, I would like to be an outlaw such as he.”

  Robin shook her head, incredulous. “Do you mean to tell me that you sought refuge in Sherwood Forest in order to join Robin Hood’s band?”

  “If he will have me.”

  Robin laughed. “Oh, he will have you.”

  John Little looked at her sharply. “Do you know him, then?”

  “I should say so,” she smiled, indicating herself with a sweeping gesture.

  John quirked a quizzical eyebrow, and then made the connection. “Of course! You are dressed in Lincoln Green—you must be one of his men!”

  “One of his men? Really, is that what you think I am?”

  “Are you not? Then how do you know . . . ?” John Little paused suddenly; when he spoke again his voice was kind. “Oh, oh I understand. He gave you the clothes out of charity, but not a place in his band. Look, lad, if Robin Hood turned you away, then he is not the man I thought him to be. Well, who needs him, anyway? I can look out for you.”

  Robin’s jaw dropped.

  “You do not need to thank me. I know how hard it must have been for you to survive on your own for this long.”

  “I have done quite well for myself, thank-you-very-much!” she sputtered indignantly.

  “True, you do look well fed.”

  The ridiculousness of it all left Robin reeling, and she announced with some desperation, “Can you not see that I am Robin Hood?”

  “Robin Hood? You?” John Little gave her a smile of compassion. “Look now, I understand why you might be mad at the fellow, but pretending to be someone you are not is hardly the way to go. Besides, he has promised to punish anyone who takes on his title, and though you may share the same forename, that will not save you from his wrath. Trust me, it is not worth the consequences.”

  “I tell you that I am Robin Hood!”

  “Then where is your beard? Everyone knows that Robin Hood is a great bearded fellow,” he told her, half-teasing, half-serious.

  “They what?” Robin’s hand flew to her face, affront filling her at such an inaccurate description. Then she had to chuckle at the irony: she, who had wished to remain anonymous in her role, now sought to convince someone of her identity.

  She stroked her chin, affecting a woeful countenance. “Nope, no beard—though not for want of trying.”

  John let out a bellow of surprised laughter, and slapped Robin so har
d across the back that she almost tumbled into the river.

  “Lad, you have spirit, I will give you that. Lead me on to this band of yours then, and I will most humbly crave your pardon when we arrive.”

  “After you,” Robin said with amused anticipation, indicating the opposite bank.

  Still chortling, John Little turned around and marched across the arboreal bridge, cheerfully twirling his staff through his hands so fast that it whistled.

  “How do you do that?” Robin asked enviously. “Murray has been teaching me some basic moves with the quarterstaff, but I—”.

  “Murray? From Mansfield?” John interrupted, pausing with one foot on the bank and one on the tree. “How is it you come to know him?”

  “He is one of my men.”

  “Naturally,” John Little said with a shake of his head. “Do you mean to tell me that you have been learning how to cudgel from him?”

  “Murray is a very good teacher,” she defended.

  John scoffed in obvious disagreement.

  “Do you think you can do better?” Robin challenged.

  John Little looked her over, taking in the attentive stance of her body and the half-daring, half-hopeful expression on her face.

  He smirked. “Your first lesson starts now.”

  * * * * *

  John waited patiently in the middle of the bridge while Robin fashioned a makeshift cudgel for herself, cutting down a six-foot oak sapling with her sword and then using her dagger to trim off its scions and branches. Leaving all of her weapons upon the sandy bank except for the staff, she stepped back onto the fallen bole.

  “Tell me again why we are not doing this on firm ground?” Robin asked as she tested her footing. Although years of use had worn the top of the trunk nearly flat, it was quite slippery, and provided at best a hazardous perch.

  “Balance is the first thing a good fighter must learn,” John informed her. “Surely a swordsman knows this? Or do you carry such a weapon simply for the pleasure of it?” he quipped.

  Before Robin could answer, John Little struck. Hastily, she moved to block his blow, but it had been a feint. She felt his staff rap her lightly on the ribs. He went to strike again, but this time she succeeded in parrying his blow.

  “Better. Strike me a good one if you can!”

  Robin tried, but John Little swept away her blows as easily as though he were swatting mayflies.

  “Surely you can do better than that! How does a man become such a powerful leader when he has such weak arms?” he twitted her, testing to see if words could distract. Robin refused to be sidetracked.

  “I may not have your physical power, but I empower people,” she panted, warding off another blow. “My character is my strength.”

  John’s eyes glinted appreciation of her answer, even as he casually struck aside her staff. He was clearly taking Robin through her paces, discovering just how much she had learned, and offering a tip here or there whenever he found a weakness. And he seemed to find many. As exhaustion started to creep over Robin, seeping into her sinews and making them ache, she began to resent John’s cavalier appraisal of her skills. She waited for an opening and when it came, struck John Little a hard blow to the ribs.

  The breath went out of the man with an oomph! and he staggered, reflexively swinging out at Robin with more force than he had shown her in the entire past hour. His staff hit her squarely in the side, knocking her off her feet and into the frigid river.

  It was fortunate for her that she had been knocked upstream, and that John Little recovered his senses in time to seize her by the ankle before the current could sweep her out of reach. He pulled her, sputtering and sodden, back onto the tree trunk, and then helped her over to the bank where she collapsed among the sedges, coughing up water and relearning how to breathe.

  “Sorry,” John apologized, leaning guiltily against his staff. “You surprised me.”

  “I must remember not to do that again,” Robin gasped. A violent shiver wracked her body—glory, but that water was cold!

  Sitting up, she used her hands to wipe as much of the water and mud off herself as she could, wringing a small rill from the bottom of her tunic and tightening her liripipe. Her hand passed over the silver horn at her waist, but though she shook it hard, it failed to dislodge the liquid inside. Unhooking it from her belt, she blew a quick triad, sustaining the last note until she was certain that the sound was clear.

  “That is a handsome bugle,” John Little noted, watching her with concern.

  In response, she handed the trumpet up to him to examine. He took it, his eyes never leaving her face.

  “Are you certain you are all right?” he asked.

  “I am fine,” Robin announced with more force than she had intended. In a calmer tone, she added, “Truly, I am. Really, John, you need not look so worried—my ribs will heal from the bruising you gave them, and I am not one to hold a grudge. If it makes you feel any better, I promise not to oust you from my band before you have even officially joined! Of course, if you ever wallop me like that again . . .”

  John Little laughed, as she had meant him to, and handed her back her horn.

  Just then, there arose the terrible crashing of breaking branches and snapping shrubs. Robin gazed with instant comprehension at the horn in her hands.

  “Oh my,” she expressed, but before she had the chance to say anything more, Nicolas, the twins, and half-a-dozen Lincoln-clad men burst out of the bracken. They took one look at the titan looming over their sodden leader, and leapt at him in indignant attack.

  A lesser man would have fallen beneath the sheer weight of their numbers, but John Little was not a lesser man. Startled though he was, his staff was soon spinning in a series of sweeping arcs, knocking men left and right until at last they drew back, rubbing their cracked crowns and bruised ribs and wondering how in the world they were to overcome.

  “Enough!” Robin called, finally able to make herself heard over the chaos. She had climbed to her feet and now placed herself between the fighters, her arms outstretched. “Nicolas, stop! John . . .” she warned as he shifted his purchase on his staff.

  “What is going on, Robin?” Nicolas demanded, his suspicious glare never leaving the stranger. “Did you not sound your horn for help?”

  “I sounded my horn,” Robin admitted, “But I did not mean to call for help when I did so. This here is John Little. He has asked to join our band, and I have agreed.”

  “Then you really are Robin Hood,” John Little exclaimed, still incredulous.

  “I am indeed. I believe this is where you crave my pardon?”

  John gave her a rueful scowl. “I most humbly and abjectly apologize for my doubt . . . Robin Hood. As for my request, perhaps I need to rethink it if your band is made up of varlets such as these.”

  Robin flicked some mud off her shoulder at him. “Ease up a little, John. They meant no harm.”

  “Yes, John, ease up a l-i-t-t-l-e, John,” Glenneth grumbled to his brother.

  “Little John! I like that,” Shane burst out. “He is, after all, such a very little man.”

  The other bandsmen laughed loudly, delighting in that vengeance on the stranger who had bruised their bodies so.

  “Call me that again, and I will cut you down to size,” John growled, his fists tightening upon his staff, and his already towering presence seeming to dominate further.

  “Nay, forebear,” Robin said, chuckling a little herself. “After all, if people believe Robin Hood to be a great bearded fellow, then surely in their eyes you must be a Little John! We shall have a feast to celebrate this christening. Come!”

  So saying, she picked up her weapons and led the way through the forest. Cheers greeted them as they entered the camp, for all had heard the bugle call signaling Robin’s distress and had feared the worst. They gazed with curiosity at the stranger—head and neck taller even than Robin—who followed at their leader’s heels and who stared back at them without a smile.

  “John!
” Murray cried in surprise, hurrying over. “You scoundrel, whatever are you doing here? And Robin, what has befallen you that you are all wet?”

  Robin sighed dramatically. “This scoundrel, as you so aptly call him, took umbrage with my cudgeling skills. He gave me a drubbing and a dunking that I did not expect.”

  “You should teach your students better,” John Little told Murray sternly, his demeanor uncharacteristically harsh. Then to Robin’s surprise, his scolding expression melted away into a grin of pure delight, and he pulled Murray into a hug. “It is good to see you again, brother.”

  “Brother?”

  Robin looked from one man to the other—there could not have been a more dissimilar pair. John was tall and his complexion fair as flax; Murray was brown of hair and skin, with a fighter’s stocky build.

  “Half-brothers, actually,” Murray said, speaking from somewhere behind John’s chest. “But we have never worried about such technicalities. I have not seen him since before I was outlawed.”

  “I am an outlaw now myself, thanks to your fair leader,” John informed him. When Robin opened her mouth to apologize yet again, he waved it off with a wink.

  Seeing that the two brothers desired to talk, Robin excused herself, grateful for the opportunity to head to her cabin and change into a dry set of clothes. When she emerged, the two men were still standing where she had left them, chatting animatedly. Rather than interrupt the brothers, Robin wandered over to the bonfire, eager to rid her bones of the river’s chill, which persisted in spite of her fresh clothes.

  A few feet away, Lot and David lingered by the smaller cooking fire, conferring together over a brace of does. The designated cooks by their own choice, they were responsible for preparing the communal feasts. Right now, David was roasting one doe while Lot butchered the other, casting its meat and some of Edra’s herbs into a pot for some stew. They smirked to each other when they saw Robin warming herself by the fire—already the tale of her dunking had spread throughout the camp.