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

by R. M. ArceJaeger

  * * * * *

  Shane and Glenneth took to Arthur a Bland right away, for all that he was a cudgeller and a wrestler and not a bowman like they. He was brash and coarse, with a streak of naughty humor that other men seemed to delight in.

  Not everyone attended to the new arrival, however.

  “What is his problem?” Arthur asked the twins one day in a whisper meant to be overheard. He gestured to the ridge overlooking the river, where a man had been sitting all morning. It was Little John, staring silently into the distance and pondering many lonely and troubled thoughts. His back stiffened slightly at Arthur’s comment, but he ignored it.

  Shane shrugged and glanced over at Little John. “Who knows? Ever since spring began, it has been like he is only half there.”

  “Ah,” Arthur said wisely. “Of course.”

  “Of course, what?” Glenneth demanded. It irritated him to have to guess at others’ thoughts.

  Arthur paused for effect. “Yer friend is undoubtedly suffering from . . . spring fever!” he announced. When this diagnosis was met by blank looks, he expounded impatiently, “Spring fever—the feeling of hot vigor rushing through yer blood after a winter’s restraint; the desire to prove yer vitality again—to pursue, to conquer! The fever that can only be allayed by the tender ministrations and submission of the fairer sex.”

  “In English?” Glenneth asked.

  “Yer friend needs a girl,” Arthur exclaimed, exasperated. He strode over to where Little John sat and seized his shoulder. “Come, my good man. Let us take ye into town—I know a couple of wenches there who are always welcoming, and whose hospitality is everything a man could desire.”

  “I have no need for such hospitality,” Little John told him coldly, brushing the man’s hand off his shoulder.

  “Nonsense,” Arthur blustered, beckoning to the twins. “We will get ye a girl, or we will not return home tonight!” He seized one of Little John’s massive arms, and Shane and Glenneth impulsively seized the other, and between the three of them they managed to haul Little John to his feet.

  Little John’s face turned red with anger and he was about to throw them off, but like a sword being doused in water, his ire abruptly cooled, giving way to a sense of exhaustion. He could not battle these men and his own thoughts, too. With a sigh of resignation that bespoke the turbulence of his mind more eloquently than any words, he allowed the trio to steer him towards the edge of the clearing.

  * * * * *

  Robin, just returning to camp from one of her forest rambles, gazed curiously at the quartet as they passed her by. Shane and Glenneth were chuckling boisterously at something Arthur had said and did not notice her; Little John, caught up in the midst of the group, faltered for a second when he saw her, but then averted his gaze and strode on.

  It matters not, Robin lied to herself, trying to brush off the hurt of his evasion. Seeking a diversion, her gaze fixed on Will Stutley, who was sitting with an air of utter dejection upon a nearby rock, his head bowed disconsolately.

  “Anything the matter, Will?” she asked, walking over and sitting down beside him. “Why the long face?”

  “Shane and Glenneth are takin’ Little John t’ town t’ get a girl, but Arthur will ne let me come along. ’E called me a little boy! I am ne little—I am a man, and I ’ave as much right to a girl as anyone!” he exclaimed defensively.

  “Oh,” Robin said faintly. “Oh, I see.” She felt as if someone had just rammed a quarterstaff into her gut for the second time that week; all at once, she could not breathe.

  “’Tis ne fair,” Will complained petulantly, not noticing her distress as he buried his chin in the palm of his hand.

  An inexplicable anger filled Robin, pushing aside the pang in her stomach and releasing the constriction that bound her lungs, allowing her to breathe once more. She got to her feet. “No, it is not fair, and I for one will not sit here pouting while the others go out and have their fun. We will find an adventure of our own, shan’t we, Will?”

  “Will there be girls?” he asked hopefully.

  Robin gave a bitter laugh. “I will see what I can do.”

  * * * * *

  They made their way through the Sherwood, Will trusting that Robin had something wondrous in mind to soothe his wounded spirit, and Robin knowing only that she needed to find something to distract herself from Will’s dismaying news before it could overwhelm her.

  How could Little John just go off like that? Had he no self-respect? Or was the lure of female flesh more important than their feelings?

  “Oh, whom am I kidding?” she said aloud. There was no their.

  “Wha’ were that, Robin?” queried Will from a few paces behind her.

  She waved a dismissive hand to show that it was nothing.

  Yes, nothing. John has made it very clear that he wants nothing to do with me—with the woman, Robin. And it is not as if I ever told him how I felt. I have no claim on him.

  “It is his choice—his life,” she muttered angrily, her voice too soft for Will to hear. “I cannot—I mean, I have no right to stand in his way.”

  The thought did not comfort her.

  Eventually, Robin’s aimless trudging led the pair to the High Road. As she hesitated over where to go, a cart ambled down the highway. The smell of ham and mutton, steak and goat meat hit her nose hard—the driver was obviously a butcher on his way to Nottingham’s market to sell his wares.

  On a whimsical impulse, Robin stepped out into the roadway. “Good sir, halt a moment,” she called; the surprised butcher obediently reined in his horse.

  “Good morning, friends,” he called blithely, looking down at the pair with cheerful curiosity. “Why have you stopped me?”

  “My name is Robin Hood—” she began, but she got no farther than that, for the butcher let out a low moan and dropped his reins, drawing back in his seat in fright.

  “Please sir, I am an honest man!” he cried. “I am on my way to Nottingham to sell my meat so I can provide for the dear lass who has pledged to be my bride. I have done you no harm, sir, and I have cheated no one, so if you are the man I have heard tell about, I beg you, sir, take naught from me!”

  “Calm down,” Robin implored, although the man seemed inclined to do no such thing. “You are to be wed?” she asked, trying to set him at ease.

  “Next Thursday,” he replied, anxiety etching deeper into his face.

  “Well, sir, I have never robbed an honest man, least of all one who was about to be married. I would like to buy your meat from you, and your cart and your horse, too, if you are willing. How much is their value?”

  Will shot her a questioning look—was this part of the adventure?—but he did not interrupt.

  The butcher was also puzzled. He stammered as he answered, “Four–four marks for everything, but less if I cannot sell all my meat.”

  “I will give you six marks,” Robin told him, pulling from her purse more money than a common man could earn in a year. The butcher gaped at the silver coins. “Consider the balance a gift to help set you upon your married life.”

  The butcher clambered down from his seat, stuttering his thanks. He took the coins from Robin and quickly slipped them into his own purse, shoving the pouch deep within his tunic. Robin climbed into the cart and helped Will up beside her. With a flick of the reins, the horse ambled off toward Nottingham, the incredulous butcher watching the outlaws depart with his mouth agape.

  Robin flicked the reins again, inciting the horse into a trot; she was eager to get to Nottingham and to the diversion it promised.

  * * * * *

  An avid crowd had gathered around the butcher’s market, their necks craned in an attempt to catch sight of the wondrous new vendor. The other meat-sellers’ stalls were devoid of customers, and the butchers behind them glowered at the newcomer and muttered darkly to themselves.

  From behind her butcher’s bench, Robin—clad in the bloodstained apron she had found in the back of the cart—cleaved contented
ly at the butcher’s meat. When one slab was done, Will would whisk the pieces away for sale and lay another slab in its place.

  Every now-and-again, Robin would pause in her cutting and cry out in a loud voice,

  “Meat, meat, now who will buy my meat? Fat priests and greedy merchants stay away—I like you not and will make you pay twice what my meat is worth. The common man may choose to buy, it matters not to me—I will charge you three pennies for three pennies worth of meat. Now the goodwives among you have a friend in me—I will give you three pennies worth for just one penny. But the pretty maids among you will like us best—you get the choicest meat for the price of just one kiss.”

  Laughter turned to astonishment as the crowd saw things were just as Robin said, for Will would hand a man his money’s worth of meat, but a lady would walk away with three times the meat she had paid for. As for the girls, they swarmed around the stall, accepting tender cuts from the handsome Will and giving his lips a savory kiss in return.

  Robin was more than happy to let Will handle the exchange, laughing inside at how the lad’s eyes would light up with each maid he espied. Some of the girls were disappointed that the handsome butcher was letting his brother do all the work, but Will quickly made them forget their dismay.

  “This is wonderful!” he told Robin during a brief lull. “Can we do this ag’in t’morrow?” He did not wait for an answer, for a fetching young woman had just approached the stall, and he turned to trade her some meat with a broad grin on his face. Robin chuckled and returned to cleaving the meat with a grin of her own. This charade was far more diverting than she had expected it to be, so much so that Robin soon forgot the bitter mood that had driven her out of the Sherwood.

  It gave her a horrible start, therefore, the next time she glanced up, to recognize those waiting in line for her meat.

  “Ye cleave a pretty bargain, Robin,” Arthur a Bland said cheerfully, “but as ye can see, I already have all the morsels I need.” He had his arms wrapped around two buxom ladies—one blonde, the other brunette. The brunette winked at Robin saucily.

  Looking beyond him, Robin saw Shane and Glenneth, each with a lady clinging to their forearm. John, she noted with selfish relief, walked alone.

  Catching her gaze, Arthur misinterpreted its meaning. “Yes, ’tis a fair shame, is it ne? Fool man refuses to have anything to do with these heavenly beauties. Oh well, the more for me and the merrier I shall be. An oath is an oath, and I shan’t be coming home tonight!”

  With a laugh, he and his ladies sauntered away, the twins and their partners following closely behind him. John paused for a moment as if to speak, a faint blush tingeing his cheeks, but then he closed his mouth and trailed after the others, his tall frame causing the crowd to part around him to allow him through.

  Will, occupied with a shapely redhead who had been more than generous in her payment, laid a new slab of mutton in front of Robin with a breathless smirk—he had noticed nothing.

  Before long, the duo had sold all their meat, and the people began to disperse. As Robin mopped up the stall with her apron and Will said a poignant farewell to the redhead, a thickset man approached their cart.

  “Apologies, sir, but I am all out of meat,” Robin informed him over her shoulder as she tossed her cleaver and apron into the cart.

  “So I have noticed,” the man replied dryly. Robin turned to look at him and saw that he wore a butcher’s apron much like hers, although it was lacking in a day’s fresh stains. “Never have I seen a butcher like you, so willing to make loss instead of profit. If I did not know better, I would say you were a thief who had stolen your wares . . . but when did a thief ever give away his goods? You must be some foolish prodigal, who does not know or care for the value of things and thus parts with fine meats for a pittance.”

  “You have seized the matter by the nose,” Robin told him merrily, tickled to encounter this rare man who had clearly never heard of Robin Hood. “May I help you in some other way, good sir?”

  “The Sheriff has invited our guild to a feast this afternoon,” the stranger reluctantly told her. “The victuals will be good and the drink hearty. However you came into this trade, it seems you are a butcher now and if you should like to attend, you may.”

  “That sounds . . . fine indeed,” Robin replied, a clever idea springing into her head. “It is certainly meet for a butcher to feast on the Sheriff’s meat. I will see you there.”

  The butcher nodded, then paused, having registered her pun, and at last walked away, shaking his head.

  “Ye are not plannin’ t’ go, are ye, Robin?” Will asked, standing suddenly at her elbow.

  “Indeed I am,” she answered with a crafty gleam in her eye. “Though on second thought, you had better not—the Sheriff knows you by sight now.” Robin’s mouth quirked at Will’s obvious disappointment; she pulled him close and dropped her voice to a mere whisper. “Listen, I want you to return to camp and tell the others . . . tell them I have a brilliantly stupid idea!”

  CHAPTER 18

  A COSTLY BARGAIN

  WHEN ROBIN walked into the Guild Hall an hour later, the feast was already well underway. She paused in the entrance for a moment, carefully assessing the locale. The conventional room was much as she remembered it, with two long tables spanning most of the hall. A third, smaller table sat across the head of the room; this was where the Sheriff was seated, surrounded by a few of the more prominent butchers. A ray of light from the window illuminated the Sheriff’s face, and Robin smiled, remembering the uproar last summer when her arrow had sailed in through that selfsame window, bearing her triumphant message.

  The same sensation of rebellious power that had filled her then filled her now as she stepped into the wolf’s very den. She was wearing her suit of Lincoln Green, and while there were enough butchers dressed in similar hues to keep her attire from standing out, she still felt very brazen as she gazed about the room, undisguised.

  Just then, a servant—blinded by the large roast pig he carried—knocked into Robin, and she hastily jumped aside . . . but that put her into the path of several footmen, each intent on refilling goblets and replacing empty platters with new ones. Somehow, she managed to avoid a collision and to find a free seat at the leftmost table. She had barely begun to lade her trencher, however, when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but my lord requests yer presence,” a harried servitor informed her. It was just the summons that Robin had been hoping for, but she put on a face of surprised flattery and followed him to the head table.

  The Sheriff beckoned her over to the seat at his left hand, and the butcher who had held that spot shifted over grumpily, irritated at having his position usurped.

  “Master Bostock here has been telling me about your exploits in the market today,” Sheriff Darniel told her, nearly shouting to be heard over the multitude of boisterous voices. “He claims that you sold your meat for only one penny, although you could have charged three pennies for it and done well. And that a pretty lass had but to kiss you, and you would give her the meat for free.”

  “All true, my lord,” Robin confessed, not bothering to correct his last statement. “I would rather have a kiss than three pennies any day.”

  The Sheriff roared with appreciative laughter. “Indeed, indeed. I daresay you got the better end of the bargain! You may have to change your prices,” he added, addressing the Chief Butcher, “or else risk losing all of your custom to this brazen lad!”

  The butcher gave her a sickly smile. “Where is your helper?” he asked, trying to shift the conversation away from his day’s poor sales.

  Robin saw her opening. “My brother had to return home to tend our lands and our beasts.”

  “You must have many beasts, and much land, in order to forgo your coin so willingly,” the Sheriff guessed, a greedy glint in his eyes.

  “Yes, indeed,” Robin confirmed, warming to the subject. “We have over five hundred horned beasts, but alas,
we cannot find buyers for any of them. If things keep going as they are, I shall be forced to butcher them one by one, just to feed my family. As for my land, I have never bothered to take its measure.”

  “Just so, just so,” Darniel murmured, envisioning five hundred plump steers. “Well! I like you lad, and I would help you out of your trouble, if you will permit. Tell me, how much do you value these beasts of yours at?”

  “I imagine they are worth at least . . . five hundred pounds,” Robin told him, biting into a thick pasty and pretending not to see the look of cold calculation that flashed across the Sheriff’s face.

  “Five hundred pounds is a lot of money,” he said slowly. “But for three hundred pounds in silver and gold, I will take these beasts off your hands.”

  “Three hundred pounds!” Robin protested, feigning outrage. “Five hundred beasts are worth twice that amount! Or do you think to kiss me and get half my beasts for free?” The Sheriff flushed a dark vermilion, and the Chief Butcher’s mouth fell open at Robin’s audacity.

  “All right,” Robin said, halting whatever words the Sheriff might have found to say. “I will accept your offer, if only because my brothers and I need the coin to maintain our merry lifestyle.”

  “Very good,” the Sheriff replied, the thought of such a rich bargain excising all ire at the youth’s effrontery from his mind. “I will come with you today to inspect your horned beasts.”

  “As you wish,” Robin said. “But mind you bring your money with you. I do not trust a man who offers so shrewd a bargain.”

  “Of course,” the Sheriff assured her, and then changed the subject to a more mundane topic.

  As soon as the feast ended, the Sheriff returned to his castle to collect his monies, and Robin followed the other butchers out into the Hall’s paved courtyard. The Chief Butcher was the last to leave; he looked around, caught sight of Robin leaning carelessly against the wall, hesitated for a moment, and then walked over.