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

by R. M. ArceJaeger

  “Who is Roland?” she asked after she had taken a polite drink.

  “My son. It was he who distracted the guard outside so I could bring ye here. I had him watching for anyone in Lincoln Green ever since those brutes arrived, just in case.”

  “Your son could have told me all this,” Robin pointed out, still suspicious. “Why bring me here?”

  “Roland is mute,” was the tailor’s blunt reply.

  “Oh. I am so sorry.”

  The man shrugged. “God’s Will be done. But here now, ye shall have to stay until nightfall. They switch the guards then, and the night pair always sneaks off to the alehouse mid-shift. Ye can get away then.”

  Robin nodded. “I will warn my people not to come here for a while.”

  “And deprive me of my best custom? Do not ye dare!” the man growled. “I will have my boy stay near the town gate. He may not be able to speak, but he is not deaf. He can take yer orders and bring them to ye—just let him know when ye will be coming around to get them.”

  “But if he cannot talk, then how can you—”

  “We have a system worked out,” the tailor said. “Trust me, yer clothes will be as ye order. And speaking of order, what did ye come to buy today? I assume that ye came to buy.”

  Robin assured him that she had and described the suit she wanted.

  “A change from Lincoln Green, to be sure,” he said slyly. “Yer sure ye do not want it in red this time?”

  She smiled at his keen memory. “Not red,” she concurred.

  When Robin tried to pay for the clothes, the tailor refused her coin outright. “Consider it my vengeance on the Sheriff, if ye must. I am that vexed,” he said when she insisted. His mouth was set in a thin line, and Robin knew better than to argue further. She let the matter drop.

  With night came the change of the guard, as well as Roland. The lad seemed, if possible, even filthier than when Robin had last seen him, and he listened to his father’s lecture on the subject with a bowed head and an impish gleam in his eyes. As soon as his father relented and handed him a bowl of stew, Roland began to “talk,” using a mixture of signs and pantomimes to relay the adventure he had had earlier with the guards, while somehow managing to eat at the same time.

  At last, the tailor led Robin into the front of the shop. Opening the door the barest crack, the two of them peered outside. The guards were gone. With a last murmur of thanks and plans to meet the boy a week later to pick up her suit, Robin shook the clothesmaker’s hand and disappeared into the streets. When the guards returned to their post an hour later, they found the street quiet; all they could hear was the faint shearing of cloth as the tailor worked inside his shop.

  CHAPTER 20

  A SORROWFUL KNIGHT

  ROBIN DID NOT make it back to the Trysting Tree until late that afternoon. Since the evening meal was only an hour distant, she waited until everyone was gathered together before telling them about the guards in Lincoln Town. Though they laughed when she described Roland’s mischievous means of distracting the Sheriff’s men, they acknowledged the warning within her story. All agreed to be extra cautious should they go into town.

  That night, there was a beautiful autumn thunderstorm, the first of the season. There was no wind, and the rain fell gently upon the roofs with faint patters. Every few minutes, light would blaze through the chinks in the walls and thunder would shake the cabins. Many people propped open the doors of their huts to watch the flashes, a few of them comforting frightened children as they did so. Robin had not slept for nearly two days, but even so she was one of the last to close her door and turn her thoughts toward sleep.

  The next morning when she stepped outside, it was as if to a different world. A lustrous silver fog hung close to the forest floor, eddying through the trees like a lazy stream. Everything looked softer, yet brighter at the same time, and the air smelled fresh and clean; the aroma of wet leaves and damp soil mingled pleasantly in Robin’s nose with the scent of smoke from the fire.

  I do so love the forest after a rain! she thought with a smile, taking in a deep breath of luscious air. She felt utterly invigorated, but one glance at the half-awake camp evidenced that she was the only one to feel that way. All around her, people were moving slowly, the fog’s languor seeping deep into their marrows and making them desire nothing more than to relax. Little John actually growled at her when she suggested they scout themselves some mischief.

  “You go lose yourself in that ruddy soup if you want to. I am quite comfortable where I am at.” He drew a deerskin blanket closer around his shoulders in emphasis and hunkered down next to the fire.

  “Where is your sense of adventure? It is hardly the time to hibernate yet!” she laughed, but she let him be. No one else seemed inclined to venture from the camp, either, so Robin set off on her own into the misty forest.

  Within the fog’s silvery veil, time seemed to stand still, as though the land had been transfixed by some spell. Only Robin moved within the silent Sherwood, slipping occasionally on the sodden leaves that littered the forest floor. Their orange and amber hues formed a shimmering carpet beneath her feet, decorated with gossamer embroidery that glistened in the mist. A slight wind picked up, brushing coldly past her cheeks. Robin drew up her hood to help protect against the chill.

  The white fog and chiaroscuro transmuted the forest from her familiar woods into a strange land of light and shadows, exotic and mysterious. Robin’s breath swirled out before her as she gazed about in wonder. The splendor around her was captivating, and even if she were to live in the Sherwood for a hundred years, she knew she would never grow tired of it.

  Robin trekked on, enthralled with her surroundings, until a flicker appeared ahead of her through the mists. She halted, and the flicker came once again, like a large shadow moving through the drizzle. She was certain it was not a deer. Perhaps a wolf? Not planning to hunt, she had not brought her bow, but the comforting weight at her hip reminded her that she did wear her sword. This Robin drew, the cool metal whispering quietly as she slid it from its sheath.

  A horse whinnied softly; for an instant, the breeze drove the mists apart and Robin saw that she was standing near the High Road, and that a man and his horse were ambling toward her. Yet there was something very wrong with the picture they made, and she puzzled over it as the mists closed again. The rider was dressed in rich satin clothes, but he wore no jewels or gold chains—ornaments those of his obvious standing rarely went without. He rode unaccompanied, but sat his horse like a noble, though he did not hold himself like one. Instead, his head drooped disconsolately against his chest, and his hands were slack on the reins—even his horse plodded with its head hung low, mirroring its master.

  A burning desire to know the truth of this enigma made Robin forget her caution.

  “My Lord,” she called impulsively, sheathing her sword and stepping towards him out of the fog. “Stop a moment, sir, for I would speak with you.”

  “Who are you, that you halt a strange traveler in this manner?” the man asked her wearily, looking up at last.

  It was her father!

  Robin froze. Lord Locksley was waiting for an answer and, knowing him, he would not wait much longer; in fact, Robin was amazed that he had stopped at all. She forced herself to think. Her father did not recognize her, that much was obvious, and the daughter in her had to know what was causing him distress.

  Sinking her chin into the depths of her hood, she withdrew into her woodland persona. “Who I am depends on who you ask. Some people say that I am a charitable man, while others call me a thief. Some name me their friend; to others, I am their enemy. Yet any whom you ask will tell you these two things: I am an outlaw, and I am known as Robin Hood.”

  “Are you indeed?” His moustache twitched, as though suppressing a smile. “I have heard of you, Robin Hood. We have met before, in tourney . . . though I am certain you do not remember.”

  “How could I forget a man who shoots so well and loses with such grace?”
She bowed, grateful that her tongue could be so smooth, even when addressing her father. See, Darah, I have learned a courtier’s glibness after all! “It would honor me greatly if you were to join me for a meal in the greenwood today.”

  Now the knight did smile, a sorrowful twisting of his mouth. “Ah yes, I have heard that you and yours keep a mighty inn—one that is almost worth the fair purse you ask in exchange. But I am afraid you would find me a disappointing guest; I have no money. You had best let me pass on in peace.”

  “What?” Robin gasped, momentarily forgetting herself. Quickly, she resumed the attitude of her nom de guerre. “You jest, Sir Knight. Lords like yourself always have purses upon their persons, though they may hide them well.”

  Sir Robert’s face turned red. “If any other man were to question my word thus, I would demand recompense for the insult. But I can see why you might think as you do. It shames me, but I speak the truth when I say that the ten shillings in my pouch are all the money I possess in the world.”

  He reached inside his tunic and handed a stained silk purse to Robin. She knew before she opened it that it would be as he said.

  “How can this be?” she asked, bewildered, handing him back his purse. “Unless the trappings on your horse deceive me, you are Lord Robert of Locksley, cousin to the King himself. Everyone knows that your estate is the grandest in all of Nottinghamshire.”

  The bitterness in his voice shocked Robin. “Soon it will be my estate no longer . . . the Prior of Emmet has seen to that!”

  “My Lord, if you would find it in your heart to tell me of your troubles, I may be able to help,” she offered.

  He looked at her strangely. “Why would an outlaw wish to help a lord?”

  “Sir, you say that you have heard of me. Then you must know that I steal only from the rich and the wicked, that I may help the poor folk they have wronged. I have yet to hear of you despoiling your tenants in any way, or of you mistreating your people. Please, come with me into the greenwood and tell me what ails you, and I will do what I can to aid.”

  Her father sighed. “I do not know what good it will do to tell you, nor what aid you might provide, but I will come with you as you ask and explain.”

  Robin led Lord Locksley into the forest, listening with growing guilt as he told her the tale of his two daughters—how the first had broken her engagement to the Sheriff by running away, and how the second had been stolen away by outlaws on her wedding day. As if losing his two children had not been misfortune enough, the Sheriff had appeared at his doorstep only a week ago to demand recompense for the twice-broken engagement.

  “I am not a rich man, Robin, though I have always managed my estate well. I emptied my coffers to pay the engagement penalty when my eldest daughter ran away—her name was Robin, too. Yes, Robin, though the priest who baptized her refused to give her a boy’s name at first, claiming it would make her too headstrong. And she was strong, my Robin. If I had been fortunate enough to bear a son, I would have called him Robert, but God gave me a daughter instead. Well, His Will be done, and at least I had a child to carry on my name.

  “But forgive me, I digress; I was telling you about the Prior. I had to pawn my estate to him in order to afford the betrothal damages a second time. I have paid the Sheriff his recompense—I can say that much at least!—but now I am penniless. Even so, in three days time I must repay the Prior all that I owe him, or else I forfeit my estate to him forever.”

  “But by what right could the Sheriff demand payment?” Robin exclaimed, horrified by her role in her father’s ruin and outraged at Darniel’s greed. Obviously, her words to him in the Sherwood had had the opposite of her intended effect. “You told me yourself that it was his men who had charge of your daughter on the day she was kidnapped. Is not the fault for the missing bride his?”

  “Yes, well.” Lord Locksley’s keen blue eyes slid sideways to look at Robin. “Apparently, he had an unfortunate encounter with a band of outlaws the other day, and my daughter was there among them. Since she made no attempt to throw herself on the Sheriff’s mercy—in fact, she complained about his being present—he concluded that she was there voluntarily and that the kidnapping had been staged to break the engagement. According to the bylaws of Nottinghamshire, he has the right to demand recompense.”

  Lord Locksley’s tone and words were neutral, and his face revealed nothing as he turned his gaze into the forest, but Robin knew as surely as if he had shouted it that he was aware she had orchestrated Marian’s disappearance. Shame filled her for not having confessed to the action the first time Marian’s name had been mentioned. Now, it was too late. Robin braced herself for her father’s wrath, but it did not come.

  “You do not blame me?” she asked at last, bemused by his lack of rancor.

  He did not answer her question directly, but merely said, “I shall be glad to see my daughter again.”

  Robin felt even worse.

  The sun was high in the sky and the fog dissipated by the time they reached the camp. It was much as Robin had left it, full of torpid men reclining at their ease. Even John was still at his place by the fire, staring drowsily into the flames. Had so little changed in their world? It seemed like a lifetime had passed since she had first espied her father on the road.

  “Look lively, my friends!” Robin called to her men. “We have a guest.”

  They turned to stare lethargically at the strange knight in their midst—at his rich clothes and his discrepant lack of jewels—who did not seem at all discomforted to find himself in an outlaw camp. Something about his demeanor sent them stumbling to their feet, and several of her people touched their hand to their forelock in an instinctive gesture of respect.

  Robin led Lord Locksley to the base of the wide oak tree, stealing the blanket off Little John’s shoulders as she went. To her band’s surprise, she gave Lord Locksley her own place of honor, laying the skin on the ground for him to sit upon. Without being bidden, Lot sent two boys to the knight with a bowl of stew and a trencher of capon.

  “Father!”

  Marian ran over from across the clearing to hug the sitting man, almost making him drop the food he held in his hands. To Robin’s surprise, he let her hug him and even patted her lightly on the back in return, not seeming to mind that those around him were watching the display with avid interest.

  “Father, what are you doing here? Did Robin bring you? Did Robin tell—?” but Robin coughed at that moment, and when Marian turned to look, she shook her head at her slightly. Disappointment swept over Marian’s face, but she bit off her question and turned back to her father with a smile.

  “How are you, my child?” he asked when Marian finally let him go; his voice was strangely rough. “Do they treat you well?”

  “Oh yes, Father!” she cried, sinking down onto the moss by his feet. Tears filled her eyes, and she hung her head. “I am so sorry to have worried you.”

  “Never mind that now. You are safe when I had feared you were dead; that is all that matters to me.”

  Robin was stunned; she had not realized that Marian and her father had grown so close. When had it happened? He had certainly never regarded Robin with—was that love?—shining in his eyes. She found she could not bear to look at them for long and turned her head away, accidentally catching Little John’s gaze. His face showed a clear comprehension of who this man was as he looked from Lord Locksley to Marian, and then back to Robin. Feeling self-conscious, Robin glanced away.

  “. . . and are you happy here, my Marian?” her father was asking in a voice almost too low to hear. The girl beamed at him and nodded, but before she could expound on her answer, someone stepped up behind her and put a possessive hand on her shoulder.

  “Will! So you are here, too?” Lord Locksley asked, quite surprised.

  “Yes, sir,” he bowed. Marian tilted her head up to look at Will and reached to cover his hand with her own. Lord Locksley watched the tender gesture in astonishment.

  “What is this?”
he demanded.

  Will gave a guilty start and quickly withdrew his hand from Marian’s shoulder, but replaced it a moment later with the air of a man steeling himself for a confrontation, clasping Marian’s fingers tightly in his own.

  “I have asked your daughter to marry me, Lord Locksley. It would mean a lot to me—to us both—if you would give us your blessing.”

  Sir Robert looked down at his daughter, who was gazing at him with hope and anxiety in her eyes. Her face had bloomed with light at Will’s determined declaration, and Lord Robert of Locksley remembered the way his own wife had looked the day she had agreed to marry him.

  “Of course,” he said thickly, clearing his throat. “You will surely be a far better husband to my daughter than the one I had chosen for her.” Will’s shoulders sagged with relief, and silent tears slipped down Marian’s cheeks as Lord Locksley stood and kissed them both upon the brow.

  One youngster let out a cheer, and to Robin’s surprise, Lord Locksley actually laughed. The rest of the band took that as permission to come up and clap Will on the back and to offer Sir Robert their congratulations.

  “I thought you might insist on taking Marian back with you,” Robin murmured once the well-wishers had dispersed, squatting down next to where her father had resumed his seat.

  He looked at her, his expression changing from one of fatherly pride to one of resigned sadness. “In three days time, even a forest home will be more than I can offer my daughter. Besides, she is happy here, and Will is a good man. They love each other deeply, that much is plain. It is best for them both that she stays.”

  “Most lords do not care about their children’s happiness when it comes to marriage,” Robin said carefully.