“Lad, I do not know who you are, but leave now before the Sheriff returns,” he advised Robin in a low tone, glancing this way and that for sight of the Sheriff. “It is a scurvy trick he has played on you, agreeing to buy your beasts for so little a sum. I bear you no ill will, and would not have him beguile you.”
“He has not beguiled me,” Robin assured the man, pleased that despite his impression of her, he had character enough to try and warn her. “My brothers and I know the value of our beasts—we will ensure that the Sheriff pays proper value for the meat he will receive.”
Bemused, the butcher opened his mouth to argue, but just then the Sheriff reentered the quadrangle astride his blood bay mare, accompanied by several guards.
“Very well,” the butcher said. “On your own head be it. I have never met such a mad youth in all my life.” With a nod of acknowledgement to the Sheriff, he walked away.
“Shall we?” the Sheriff asked, indicating for Robin to lead the way.
Robin shook her head. “I will lead you to my home as I have promised, my lord, but not these men. My brothers dislike soldiers.”
“They come to protect me,” the Sheriff scowled.
Robin spread her hands as if to indicate, I am helpless in this. “I merely repeat what I know my brothers will say: if your men come, they will have nothing to do with you. It is your decision, my lord,” she added when he hesitated. “I am sure there is someone else out there who would be willing to buy my beasts.”
That settled it. The Sheriff simply could not let a deal this good pass him by. “Remain here,” he ordered his servicemen. Although Robin saw doubt reflect in their eyes, they were too well trained to argue, and obediently fell back.
“Follow me, sir,” Robin said, walking away before the Sheriff could change his mind.
Once outside of Nottingham, they did not pass many people by, but those they did pass turned often to stare at the sight of a youth in Lincoln Green walking next to the Sheriff’s horse. Robin’s lanky legs came in handy now as she was forced to take long, striding steps to match the mare’s gentle amble. To her regret, she had sold the butcher’s horse and cart before going to the feast, and the Sheriff had not thought to offer her the use of a mount.
Well, what did I expect? Robin mused. Since when does our Sheriff consider other people’s needs?
At least the Sheriff had been quick to forget his abandoned guards; in fact, he was in a rollicking mood. Phillip Darniel fully expected to earn at least four hundred pounds through his canny bargain, and it had put him in such a good humor that he scarcely noticed when Robin led him off the High Road and onto one of the lesser paths traversing Sherwood Forest. Instead, he regaled Robin with long-winded tales about his judicial exploits and talked animatedly about the new taxes he hoped to implement next autumn. Robin gave his words her full attention, nodding politely when required and chuckling occasionally at his jokes.
All at once, the Sheriff stopped talking and gazed around at his surroundings. They were deep within the shades of Sherwood now, in a part of the forest he did not recognize. “Heaven preserve us,” he said, casting an alarmed glance at Robin and reining in his mount. “Are you lost, boy, to take us so deep into the woodland where that varlet Robin Hood dwells?”
“Not at all!” Robin insisted. “We must pass this way to get to my home. Do not fear, you are safe with me!”
The Sheriff peered uneasily into the dark foliage, far from comforted by the youth’s reassurance, but at last the thought of the profit he would forfeit if he turned back now overwhelmed his anxiety, and he allowed Robin to lead him further into the forest.
They had not gone more than another half mile when Robin suddenly halted, putting one hand upon the Sheriff’s bridle rein and pointing ahead with the other. “There are my horned beasts, good Sheriff,” she trolled. “Have you ever seen such fine-looking animals?
The Sheriff followed her pointing finger to a small cluster of red deer chewing contentedly on the bronzing grass. “Is this a jest, lad?” he demanded angrily.
Robin looked at him steadily. “Not to me.”
Alarm coursed through the Sheriff as he met those intense blue eyes. For the first time, he registered the Lincoln Green apparel of his guide.
“Let go my horse,” the Sheriff said, fear tightening his voice as he attempted to pull the reins free from Robin’s grasp. “I do not know who you are, but I know that I like not your company any longer! Go your own way, sirrah, and let me go mine.”
“That I cannot do, lord Sheriff,” Robin told him, tightening her grasp on the reins. “My brothers would never forgive me.” So saying, she unhooked the silver bugle from her belt and blew a ringing triad that made the Sheriff’s heart quiver within his chest.
The Sheriff drew his sword. “Stand back, cur,” he commanded Robin, “or I will trample you beneath my horse and blade.”
Robin let go of the reins and stepped out of the Sheriff’s way. Phillip Darniel wheeled his horse around, preparing to gallop out of the greenwood with all possible speed, but his way was blocked by a score of archers. He spun his horse on its hindquarters back toward Robin—the horse, alarmed, kicked out with its forelegs before coming back down on all fours, almost striking her—but his way was blocked by another half-score of archers there, too. Seeing that there was no way out of the trap, the Sheriff held his horse very still and sat stiffly upon it, waiting with obvious trepidation to see what the outlaws would do.
Robin held out her hand for the Sheriff’s sword, and he gave it to her without protest.
“Shall we kill him, Robin?” Little John asked from the head of one group, his face expressionless. The Sheriff felt his throat close up; he began to wheeze.
“You ask that of me?” Robin queried quietly. “For shame. This is the Sheriff of Nottingham,” she announced, turning away from Little John. “He has taken the time out of his very busy day to come and feast with us. We are honored, are we not? Put down your weapons, men, for he is to be our guest!”
The archers reluctantly let their bowstrings go slack. The Sheriff, realizing that they were not going to shoot him—not yet—found that he could breathe again. The giant who had asked if they should kill him came forward and took the reins from Robin. The Sheriff knew there would be no escaping from this outlaw—he looked quite capable of holding back a surging horse if so required.
With another trill of her trumpet, Robin led the party off the narrow path and into the twisted trees of the forest.
The Sheriff’s hands clenched into fists of hatred in his lap as his horse ambled after the jaunty youth. No wonder he had never caught Robin Hood before. He could scarcely believe that this scurvy lad, this . . . this fair-faced boy, was the bane of his existence, the scourge that had plagued the good folk of Nottinghamshire and himself for so long! If word of this got out, he would be a laughing stock. It would mean the end of his career as sheriff . . . assuming that he survived the night. It galled Darniel to no end that the only reason he was still alive right now was because his foe had ordered it.
These thoughts so preoccupied the Sheriff that he scarcely noticed that his outlaw captors—rather than reveling in their victory—were walking beside him in somber silence. No one seemed inclined to look at the Sheriff directly, preferring to shoot him surreptitious sideways glances instead.
At last the procession came to a halt, and the Sheriff was startled out of his brooding by the sight that met his eyes. Phillip Darniel had never troubled himself to imagine what an outlaw camp might look like, but if he had he would have pictured men strewn about the ground in drunken slumber, half-eaten carcasses littering the turf, and golden coins winking in the sunlight. The orderly, peaceful hamlet that greeted the Sheriff was completely beyond anything he might have conceived.
Its residents had obviously been waiting for him. The men stood at silent attention beside their cabins, their womenfolk kept slightly behind them. The people’s noiseless stares sent prickles down the Sheriff’s spi
ne. Even their children watched his passage quietly—one man held a young toddler who gazed at him with wide brown eyes, a plump fist stuck in her mouth.
“Please sit,” Robin said, giving Darniel a small bow and gesturing toward the base of a tall oak. Her voice seemed overloud in the silence.
The Sheriff hesitated for a moment, feeling the weight of ten-score eyes upon him, and then he dismounted his horse, taking the seat that Robin had indicated. A glint of yellow caught his eye—dangling above his head was a golden arrow. A taunting rhyme began to dance in his head, and the Sheriff glared at its author with newfound hatred, his mouth tightening into an impossibly thin line.
Seemingly undisturbed by his glower, Robin sank down onto the ground beside him. The Sheriff flinched away; she pretended not to notice. “Come, men!” she called. “Where is our hospitality? Our venerable Sheriff provided me with a lavish feast this afternoon, and I shall be shamed if we of the Sherwood cannot do the same for him!”
As if her words were the countercharm to some great spell, the camp’s strange stillness abruptly broke. Those on serving duty immediately began to bustle about, seizing wooden platters and placing slabs of meat upon them, filling horns full of sack and ale, and finishing the supper preparations. Those who were not on duty that evening took their seats; Will Gamwell sat down in his normal place at his cousin’s left, and Little John settled on the Sheriff’s right side like a guard. Both of them shot Robin dubious looks that seemed to question the sanity of her actions, but neither of them voiced their doubts aloud.
Marian had no such reservations. “Why did you bring him here?” she demanded in a too-loud whisper as she handed Robin her food. “Now he knows where to find us; he will bring back his men and hunt us down—”
“I was very careful,” Robin assured her sister, patting her hand. “He will not be able to find his way back here. Trust me to know what I am doing.”
The Sheriff watched their interaction, his gaze growing blacker as he realized that his abducted fiancé was in fact a willing consort to Robin Hood. He ignored the trencher of meat that another server was holding out to him; exasperated, the man set it down on the ground in front of the Sheriff and stalked back to the fire.
Sneering at Marian, the Sheriff demanded loudly, “Tell me, Lady Marian, do you serve all the men of Sherwood, or do you save such tender meat for Robin Hood alone?”
Marian flushed and drew away from her sister. Will half-rose out of his seat, but Robin seized him by the arm before he could stand and issue a challenge, pulling him back down.
“I would mind my manners if I were you, lord Sheriff,” she suggested in a nonchalant tone. “Steel blades cut deeper than steel tongues.” Robin took a deep bite from the meat on her trencher, deliberately letting its golden juices run down her chin. “Do eat up, Sheriff. You would not want to insult our hospitality.”
With a mouth puckered so tight that it was a miracle he could fit aught inside it at all, the Sheriff of Nottingham picked up the meaty bone and took a contemptuous bite. Robin pretended not to see his expression alter over the next few mouthfuls from mutinous compliance to delighted consumption. Phillip Darniel was neither a forester nor nobility and had no more right to the King’s deer than a peasant—venison was not meat that he would scorn to eat with impunity!
And venison was just the start of the meal. Rabbit-and-onion pasties, boiled capon, and a delicious honey-and-curds dish soon followed in succulent succession. It was a fine feast indeed, and Robin wished that her people could be as lively and merry as they usually were at their mealtime gatherings, but the strange quiet that had gripped the camp ever since the Sheriff’s entrance persisted even through their supper.
Have I made a mistake? Robin wondered, not for the first time. She had wanted to show the Sheriff the livelihoods he had stolen—to make him see her people as children, wives, and husbands, not outlaws. She wanted him to feel some remorse for those he had ousted from their proper place in the world, and to engender some respect for the lives they had managed to forge here. But the Sheriff looked only at the food he was eating, or at the space above the congregation’s heads. And her people, with their quiet whispers and sidelong glances, were hardly the picture of a happy and healthy community.
Somehow, I have to make him see them as I see them, Robin thought desperately. I have to make him at least look at them.
Robin nudged Will with her elbow and stared meaningfully at the cudgel lying propped up by Little John’s side. With a sigh, Will Gamwell put down his unfinished pasty and got to his feet.
“Shall we have a bout, Little John?” he asked loudly, helping his friend up and handing him his cudgel. Immediately, the atmosphere in the camp shifted. A fight between Will “Scarlet” and Little John was always a treat, and lately a rare enough occurrence that the mere suggestion was enough to enliven the people with eager anticipation.
Will led Little John over to the sparring ring in front of the fire, accepting a cudgel from David along the way. As one, he and Little John settled into their stances, their eyes locking on each other with an intensity that suggested their camaraderie would not prevent them from giving their best to the contest.
Indeed, the match was everything that a sportsman could desire. By the fourth or fifth cracking blow, even the Sheriff was riveted, his food lying forgotten in his lap.
When Little John seized the victory a half hour later, Robin was relieved to hear the Sheriff’s boisterous baritone join in cheering the prowess of the fighters. Other sparrers sprang up to replace Will and Little John, engaging in their own spirited bouts of wrestling and cudgeling. The people applauded their antics, glad to have a focus for their attention that was not the Sheriff. Darniel for his part cheered and groaned right along with them. He was a sportsman at heart, and shrewd fighting never failed to fill him with heady gladness, so that he unwittingly cried, “Well struck! Well struck!” and forgot for a time that it was outlaws he was praising.
Robin wore a small, satisfied smile as she felt the tension seep out of the camp. Maybe this plan of hers would prove to be more brilliant than stupid after all.
Eventually, the sun began to set and the bright harvest moon began to rise majestically in the sky. Aware of the growing shadows, the Sheriff stood; those nearest to him broke off their conversations first, with those further away soon following suit. Quickly, the happy laughter of the camp faded away into silence, and those left fighting immediately broke apart to see what would happen next.
The Sheriff took a deep breath, fully aware of the eyes upon him, and that whatever he said next might mean his life or death. For this reason, he affected a cheerful tone: “Thank you all for the generous hospitality you have shown me and for the merry entertainment you have provided. It heartens me to see such respect for the King and I, his deputy, even in the heart of Sherwood. But I must go now, for the day wanes late and I have neglected my other affairs for far too long.”
“Of course!” Robin agreed, also getting to her feet. “How thoughtless of us to have kept such a hardworking man from his duty. But before you go, there is something you seem to have forgotten.”
“I have forgotten nothing,” the Sheriff insisted, his face going as white as the fist that clutched for his absent sword.
Robin smiled kindly. She would have preferred to avoid this, but she knew that letting the Sheriff leave the Sherwood with a full purse would be too much for even her band to endure. “I understand how a man with so many important affairs weighing on his mind might fail to recall our fee. Poor innkeepers that we are, we must insist that our guests pay their worth for the food and the drink and the merry entertainment that we provide. We in the greenwood are known for our charity, but I would never insult you, lord Sheriff, by presuming that you need it.”
“Understandably,” the Sheriff said through clenched teeth. “And even if you had not asked, I would surely have given you a score of pounds for the merry time you have shown me.”
“Oh, but I would
never treat you so disrespectfully!” Robin protested. “Imagine what the King would say if he knew his sheriff was of so little worth. I cannot in any conscience value a magistrate of the King at less than three hundred pounds.”
“Three hundred pounds?” sputtered the Sheriff over the startled exclamations and guffaws of the band. “Think you that your measly entertainment was worth three pounds, let alone three hundred? I will not pay your fee!”
“Careful, Sheriff,” Robin said, closing the distance between them and speaking in a soft voice. “Look around you. Right there is Will Stutley, whom you had beaten and later attempted to hang for the crime of courting your daughter. That big man there is David—you threw him and his pregnant wife off their land because they could not afford your impossible taxes. Shane and Glenneth there you outlawed for a brawl your soldiers instigated; Shane almost lost the use of his arm in that fight. And I . . . I you tried to assassinate. I assure you, Sheriff, that everyone here has a story to tell regarding your hand in their lives. None are pleasant.
“We do not wish to be at odds with you, Sheriff, but you have left us no choice except to support ourselves in the only way we can. Perhaps in the future, you will remember this day and consider whether mercy might be more profitable than greed. But for now, realize that your actions have left my people with only contempt for you, and much anger, and know also that I may not be able to restrain their ire much longer. Be advised by me—pay your value without more ado, if your life is something you value.”
Darniel blanched. Slowly, he reached inside his tunic and withdrew a heavy purse, letting it tumble from his fingers to the ground with a clunk.
“Little John, please count the monies,” Robin requested, not tearing her eyes from the Sheriff’s face. Was he ruminating even a little on the more profound things she had said? Based on the hatred radiating from his gaze, it would seem that he was not. She sighed. “It would be tragic if the Sheriff misjudged his purse.”
Robin: Lady of Legend (The Classic Adventures of the Girl Who Became Robin Hood) Page 23