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

by R. M. ArceJaeger

  I have a feeling I will be hearing this story for a long time, she sighed.

  By the time dinner was ready, Robin felt toasty enough to part from the bonfire and to snag two trenchers of meat. Murray was trying to pull his brother into line for the victuals, but John held back, uncertain.

  “I have your plate,” Robin told him, indicating with her head that John should follow her. “Come on, I am hungry.”

  With a shrug, Murray let his brother go and nipped ahead several places in line. Chuckling at his audacity, Robin led John over to the Trysting Tree.

  “Sit here,” she said, sinking down onto her preferred spot and indicating that John should sit at her right.

  He was not looking at her, however—his gaze was fastened on the golden arrow dangling from the oak tree.

  “Is that what I think it is?” he asked, incredulous.

  Robin’s smirk was answer enough. “Are you going to eat, or not?” she demanded. “A fine thing it is, when the guest of honor will not partake of his own feast.”

  John sat down carefully on the mossy seat and accepted the trencher she held out to him. But rather than eating the meat, he just stared at it. Though he knew that by fleeing the Sheriff’s soldiers, he had made himself an outlaw, his heart had yet to accept that fact. To partake of this meal would be a willing violation of the King’s law—something he had sought all his life to avoid.

  Robin noted his reluctance and guessing the cause, said to him kindly, “Out here, we abide by the King’s law as best we can. Even so, we must survive, and sometimes that does mean breaking the rules. If society were to afford us another choice, we would certainly take it, but as it is we do our best to live as honorably as we can, while ensuring that we do indeed live.”

  John nodded that he understood, and with the air of a man committing himself fully to his new path in life, sank his teeth deeply into the meat, tearing off a large piece.

  “This is very good,” John Little remarked when his mouth was free again. “But you did not need to hold a feast for me. I have done nothing to deserve it.”

  “Robin holds a feast for everything,” Murray remarked, sinking down heavily beside his brother. He toasted Robin with his bowl of stew as he explained, “If you are a lord, you get a feast. If you are an abbot, you get a feast. If you devise a new ditty, you get a feast. If there is no one to hold a feast for, Robin orders a feast because the sun is shining.”

  “And when it rains, he orders a feast for that, too,” Shane chimed in from his place at Robin’s left. “When you have five-score people to feed, every day becomes a feast day.”

  “I see,” John said blandly. “In that case, I accept the honor.”

  Robin laughed.

  Murray kept up a steady stream of talk as the outlaws ate—John for his part mostly listened, absorbing the details of the band’s exploits. Robin attended the tales with wry amusement, fascinated by how much the events changed in the telling.

  “So, when might we christen this bonny babe?” Shane whispered to her during one such rendition, waggling his eyebrows at John.

  “I nearly forgot!” she whispered back. Standing up, she detached the horn from her belt and blew a low note that gained everyone’s attention. John looked up at her, puzzled—she could see that he, too, had forgotten his promised naming. A small smile tugged at her lips for the jest she was about to play.

  “As all of you are undoubtedly aware by now, today I received a most unwelcome dunking.” A wave of knowing chuckles greeted her announcement. “The man responsible for this outrage is sitting here beside me. His name is John Little, and he has asked to join our band. I know John Little to be a valiant man, a kind man, and—I believe—a good man, so I have agreed—on one condition.” Robin turned to face John. “He must undergo a dunking in turn.”

  At this signal, Shane and Glenneth seized a startled John under his arms and hauled him towards the bonfire that blazed in the center of the diners.

  John glared furiously at the twins, the muscles in his shoulders bunching under his tunic as he prepared to buck them off. But before he could, he caught a glimpse of Robin’s face; she was laughing. So too, he realized, was everyone else—not cruelly, but as an older brother might laugh when fondly teasing a younger sibling—as Murray had often laughed when he had teased him as a boy. John stopped struggling and allowed the twins to push him to his knees.

  Robin stepped in front of John—she was holding a pot of ale. “Who bringeth this babe for christening?” she inquired loudly, affecting a high, dignified manner.

  “We do!” came the jubilant replies, one from each of the men who had rushed to her aid earlier that day.

  “And what shall be his name?” she asked.

  “Little John!” Shane shouted.

  John Little let out a low groan.

  Robin forced herself to stare at John’s forehead—she was afraid that if she met his eyes, she would double up laughing and not be able to stop. Setting her face into a stern mask, she announced in a solemn voice that cracked only a little: “Thou camest to us but a little while ago, John Little. Little knew you of the world, and thus lived you but little. Now you shall live indeed, a member of our fine company. Changed you are, and changed shall be your name. John Little is no more—Little John, I christen thee.”

  Then, with a glance to make sure that he was still firmly restrained by the twins, Robin took the pottle of ale and slowly, methodically, poured it over John’s head.

  A great cheer arose from the camp as Little John shook the thick rivulets of ale from his mane, sending froth flying. The twins released their hold on him and he rose stoically to his feet, gazing around at the applauding crowd. At last, he turned to face Robin.

  For a moment, she was afraid that he might be angry, but no, he was smiling—a small grin that soon broadened into a hearty smile as he let out a rumble of laughter that amplified to soar above the cheers. Relieved, Robin handed John another tankard of ale, this time to drink.

  “Welcome to the band!” she said.

  Those men who had sponsored Little John’s naming came up to congratulate him on his new status. Murray, his head reaching only to John’s chest, stood with his hand upon John’s shoulder, telling anyone who would listen about the youthful exploits of his “little” brother.

  So loud was the chatter and festivities that it was a while before anyone could hear the approach of distressed shouts. One by one, heads turned toward the surrounding forest and voices quieted; Robin’s hand fell without thought to the hilt of her sword.

  With an inarticulate cry, a gangly youth stumbled into the now silent clearing, panting hard to catch his breath. It was Andrew, Nicolas’ son.

  “’Tis Will Stutley,” the lad wheezed. “He has been captured by the Sheriff!”

  CHAPTER 12

  A HANGING

  “HE IS TO HANG tomorrow,” the boy explained, his voice trembling with fatigue and distress. Someone shoved a tankard of ale into his hands, but he did not drink. His eyes met Robin’s, begging her to do something to save his friend.

  Panic rose up in Robin’s throat like bile, but she choked it down and led the youth over to the oak tree, sitting him down in her own spot while the others gathered around.

  “Tell me,” she said, her voice sounding distant even to herself.

  The boy’s story was simple enough. Will Stutley, buoyed by Robin’s decision to venture into the Sherwood, had decided it was safe enough to venture back to Nottingham. It seemed that during the archery tournament, he had met a girl he fancied—

  “The flower seller?” Robin interrupted.

  “No, ’twas another. She had the seat next to the Sheriff’s.”

  —and some kind of promise had been made between the two. When Will, accompanied by Andrew, had returned to collect on that promise, the Sheriff’s guards had appeared. Will had been captured; fleet-footed Andrew had barely managed to escape.

  “But Will has no warrant on his head! The Sheriff had no ca
use to arrest him!” Murray protested, his words rising over the dark exclamations of the band. Robin ignored their outcries, intent on obtaining every last detail about her friend’s capture. At last there was no more she could learn, and the youth’s words petered away.

  “You have been a brave lad, Andrew,” she told him. “Get you to bed now.”

  “But Will? What about Will?” the youth asked desperately as Robin turned and walked away.

  “Robin will take care of it,” Nicolas reassured his son. “He always does.”

  “I do not understand,” the newly christened Little John murmured to David, who was standing beside him. “Why would the Sheriff arrest this boy, if he has no warrant?”

  “Because Will, that foolish youth, cannot leave well enough alone! He tried once before to woo the Sheriff’s daughter, and for his efforts Phillip Darniel had him beaten. Now it seems the Sheriff has caught him at it again, only this time, Will Stutley was dressed in Lincoln Green . . . and all of Nottinghamshire knows what that means.” David shook his head in dismay. “The Sheriff needs the prestige that catching one of us—one of Robin Hood’s men—will bring him, especially after the tournament and the King’s public doubts regarding his competency. It does not matter whether Will has a warrant on his head or not—the Sheriff will hang him tomorrow before the noon bells ring, simply for being caught wearing Lincoln Green.”

  With that dire prediction, David strode over to where Robin was standing apart from the group. Not knowing what else to do, Little John followed him.

  Robin stared into the darkening forest, thinking hard thoughts. She had grown complacent with the success of her band, had come to believe that the cat-and-mouse game she played with the Sheriff would produce no casualties, that her people could never be captured. She was paying for that complacency now—Will was paying for it now.

  But what was it Nicolas had said? “Robin will take care of it.” Her people’s faith that she would save their friend was both frightening and affirming. The time had truly come to be the leader she had promised to be, and now that it had, she was afraid. Will Stutley’s life—and the lives of his rescuers—depended on the decisions she would soon have to make.

  But fear could be deadly, fear made mistakes. With a deep breath and a colossal effort of will, Robin pushed aside her fear enough to focus on the task before her. She knew that her worry and anxiety were still there, but for the moment, they were frozen and unimportant. What was important was Will, and how to rescue him.

  Robin raced through possible plans in her mind, weighing one scenario against another and immediately discarding them both for a third.

  John and David exchanged glances.

  “What are you going to do?” Little John finally asked.

  “We,” David corrected quickly. “What are we going to do?”

  They both drew back slightly as Robin turned to face them. Her eyes were like shards of fire—blue stars that blazed within the shadows of her hood. When she spoke, her voice was like steel. “We are going to get him back.”

  * * * * *

  A hanging was usually a festive occasion for Nottingham Town, one where its citizens could rejoice to see justice well wrought and could garner a little entertainment from the execution as well. But this time the crowd filing into the town square was strangely subdued. It was one thing for a man to hang when his crime was deserving of the sentence, but this condemned youngster had no warrant on his head, and if—as the Sheriff insisted—he was indeed one of those men who willingly served Robin Hood, then who here did not owe him their gratitude? Seed had been purchased and overdue taxes paid with the money that band had left for them. Their children played at being Robin Hood and begged to practice with their longbows every day, not just on Sunday as the law required. How could they rejoice to watch one of their heroes hang?

  “’Tis a ruddy outrage,” one man said, scowling fiercely at the gallows.

  “A shame—the Sheriff should be ashamed . . .”

  “. . . hanging for nothing . . .”

  “. . . had to leave my children at home—they would ne stop crying . . .”

  “. . . an outrage . . .”

  Robin heard the mutters floating around her and breathed them in like a balm. Though she had succeeded in repressing for the moment her trepidation for her friend, she had not been able to prevent recrimination’s dark voice from echoing through her mind. If Will had not been wearing her colors yesterday, the Sheriff would not have had an excuse to execute him. If she had lain low, had not robbed so many corrupt abbots or tyrannical lords, her friend might not even now be preparing to hang. Against this self-accusation, the crowd’s unwitting support was a solace, reminding Robin why she had done as she had in the first place.

  No, she could not afford to doubt herself or her decisions—certainly not now when so many lives were depending on her. She needed composure; she needed to think. She had to prepare for every eventuality. If her plan today failed, Will Stutley would not be the only one to die.

  Robin gazed out into the crowd, searching for familiar faces. David and Little John stood near the gallows, each clasping a cudgel like a walking stick. Further in the distance, Shane and Glenneth lingered near the town gate, talking innocently with the porter.

  The others, however, she could not find. Panic began to rise up within her, but Robin fought it down. They are here, surely they are here. It is only that they are so well hidden that I cannot find them, she convinced herself.

  She had come in disguise, as had the others, dressed in old peasant’s clothes that allowed them to blend in with the crowd. Those who carried swords had concealed them beneath their cloaks, and those who carried bows had been instructed to linger in the shadows near buildings and stalls, so as not to draw attention to themselves.

  It troubled Robin that this venture to save one man’s life could end up costing so many others—both those of her people, and of the Sheriff’s. She had directed her band to use their weapons only to distract, but she knew that in the confusion of a fight, anything could happen. The guards would certainly believe they were being attacked, and what began as a distraction could in an instant become a fight to the death.

  Once again, Robin searched the crowd for her men, but it was useless. She would just have to hope that they were in their positions, and that the information the prison guard had given her proved true.

  She had not considered before that he might have lied.

  * * * * *

  She had arrived at Nottingham Town well before dawn, but had forced herself to wait until its gates had been open for at least an hour before ambling into the burg. Her purpose was to reconnoiter; her men would follow later, a few at a time so as not to excite suspicion. She hoped that by the time they started trickling into town, she would be able to present them with a solid plan. They would not be able to meet all together without drawing unwanted attention, so Robin intended to relay her instructions to the first group to arrive after she did, and trust each group to do the same.

  The town square had not undergone any great change in the two weeks since the archery tournament, and Robin quickly memorized its layout, reflecting ruefully that the information would prove useless unless she knew the exact details of the execution. She needed to know where the Sheriff’s men would be stationed, how Will would enter the square, and how many guards there would be to interfere with their retreat. Somehow, she would have to find a way to obtain all these particulars, and right now she could think of only one way to do it.

  Ducking into an alleyway, Robin pulled out a dress from her waist sack and donned her woman’s disguise, too intent on her mission to register the irony that she now thought of women’s garb as the guise, and not men’s. If she had considered it, the thought would have disturbed her, but all her attention was focused on Nottingham Castle.

  Robin climbed the winding pathway up to the castle and stood in front of the gatehouse for several minutes, just staring at the portcullis. Finally, a guard
came out and demanded to know her business there.

  In a slightly awed voice, Robin explained that she had heard that a fearsome outlaw had been captured—could it possibly be Robin Hood? The soldier scoffed at her naiveté, saying it was merely one of his now not-so-merry men. How did he know? Robin inquired. Why, he had helped capture him.

  Robin let her eyes grow big. “You captured him?” she breathed, intimating that she thought him solely responsible. She allowed her eyes to travel over the soldier the way she had seen a kitchen maid once flirt with the butler.

  The soldier absorbed her admiration like a sponge, puffing out his chest and straightening his spine. A few more compliments from Robin and the man’s tongue began to flow like the River Severn as he boasted his knowledge with regards to the prisoner—how he would be conveyed to the gallows, the probable number of guards that would escort him there—even the dearth of defenses at the town gate.

  As Robin fluttered her eyes and listened attentively to all he was saying, she could not help feeling a little surprised at the success of her wiles. She had never cared to study feminine charm, and it gratified her that her first real attempt was such an apparent success. At the same time, it made her feel a little ashamed of herself, but since the flirtation was done solely to save Will’s life, her contrition on the matter was brief.

  Robin finally excused herself to the guard, coyly hinting that although she wanted to secure a good spot to watch the execution, she would not object to renewing their conversation at a later time. Turning her back on the guard’s smug expression, she weaved her way down the steep castle road and back to the town proper. Ducking into the shadowy crevice between two houses, she pulled off her dress so that her peasant’s attire was revealed once more. Stuffing the gown into the bag at her hip, Robin drew out her hood and pulled it on; then with a quick glance at the climbing sun, she hurried back to the town wall to await the arrival of her men.