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

by R. M. ArceJaeger

* * * * *

  Robin’s temper had cooled by the time she reached the road leading up to the church, but though she regretted her sharp words to Little John, she did not regret her decision to stay.

  She lifted her gaze toward St. Mary’s church, which stood upon its knoll like a sentry overlooking the town. It was too dark by now to distinguish much beyond its torch-lit entrance and its glowing windows, but Robin could feel its stern presence looming beyond her in the dusk.

  The doors to the church were open, but Robin temporarily deferred its invitation. It was still a few hours yet until Mass, and now that she knew how to get there, she could pass the time until its start in a more comfortable locale.

  Robin wandered back through the town, searching for a warm place to wait. Nearly all of the shops were closed by now, and their customers returned home. At last, she found a small inn where a penny bought her a place by the hearth for as long as she cared to remain. For three more pennies, she could have bought a nice meal and a tankard of mead as well, but Robin’s conscience was already bothered by the oat cake she had consumed; not having planned on attending church, she had not thought to abstain.

  Then again, what is a pre-Mass repast when compared to the sin of armed theft? she mused.

  Robin sent up a quick prayer for forgiveness and signaled the innkeeper for some food; she hoped that God would be so pleased to see her in church again that He would absolve her for failing to fast.

  The wait until Mass was long, but the inn was crowded with holiday travelers who plied Robin with stories and music and who did not seem to mind that she talked little in return. Eventually, the innkeeper’s candle-clock had only one stripe left, and Robin thanked the loquacious peasant who had been telling her about his daughter’s ringworm, and wended her way through the guests and out into the night.

  It was freezing outside. Robin pulled her hood tight and tucked in her chin, blessing the new wool garments she wore; thick and warm, they did much to keep out the frigid air. They did little to protect her face, however, as a small white droplet clearly emphasized by splattering on Robin’s nose. She looked up towards the sky just in time for another droplet to land in her eye. Uncertain whether to be irritated or pleased at the unexpected Christmas snow, Robin quickened her pace through the town’s abandoned streets.

  The snow was slushy at first, but soon it changed into solid flakes that peppered Robin’s face like cold sparks. In spite of her discomfort, Robin took great pleasure in watching the world around her turn white. The snow dazzled where moonbeams struck, and the holly and ivy bedecking the houses glistened through the growing blanket of ice. Still, it was with relief that Robin mounted the slick stone steps of St. Mary’s church, thankful to be out of the weather.

  Doffing her hood out of respect as she stepped inside, Robin glanced curiously around. Though she was nearly half an hour early, the church was already beginning to fill. Rather than entering the nave to join the rest of the congregation, Robin headed for a small vestibule off to the left—she had some respects to pay before Christ’s Mass began.

  * * * * *

  The Bishop was tired. He had ridden all the way from Hereford at the Sheriff’s request to celebrate the Midnight Mass, and would have to ride all the way back to Hereford to celebrate the Dawn Mass in the morning.

  At least the Sheriff was paying him well for his service.

  The Bishop set down the heavy purse he had been holding and pulled on his pontificals—a white alb and chasuble, a pointed miter for his head, and a stole for his shoulders woven with real gold thread. The motion caused the ring on his third finger to glitter in the candlelight, and he paused to admire the huge ruby carbuncle. He had acquired it upon his rise to the bishopric; its price could buy a small fiefdom.

  A low gonging reverberated through the room as the bells called the faithful to Mass, startling the Bishop out of his admiration. Hastily, he picked up his purse and shoved it into the deep inner pocket of his robe. Seizing his shepherd’s crosier from its stand, he exited the vestry, making his way through cold corridors to the narthex entrance at the back of the church, where the ceremonial procession would commence.

  * * * * *

  The pealing of bells brought Robin out of her reverence. Her knees ached from kneeling on the icy stone floor, but she had needed that moment to pause and to pray. There were so many things on her mind of late.

  The statue of the Virgin Mary smiled kindly down at her daughter. Maybe it was because Robin had no mother of her own, but she had always felt a special connection to the Virgin. It was to Mother Mary that she told all of her secrets and asked for guidance in her life. She knew that Heaven’s King did not mind this intimacy—Mary was one of His envoys, after all.

  The bells rang again and with a small groan, Robin got to her feet, the chill of the stone biting into her hands as she pushed herself upright. She glanced at the statue again, her gaze directed this time at her bow and quiver peeking out from their imperfect hiding place behind the stone figure. She hated to leave them there, but she could hardly take them into the church proper. It was one thing to retain her sword—nobles and soldiers wore their blades into church all the time—but a bow would draw far too much attention. She should have just handed the weapon off to Little John before going her separate way, but pride at his commanding words had lost her the opportunity. Now she had no choice but to leave her bow and quiver in the prayer room until the Mass was finished.

  No sense in dwelling on it now, Robin thought, forcibly pushing the concern from her mind as she exited the vestibule and navigated her way into the main body of the church. The seatless nave had filled during her prayers and was now so crowded that Robin could scarcely squeeze inside.

  At least with everyone standing so close, I will not be cold for long, Robin reflected. In fact, the chill that had seeped into her bones while she had been praying had already begun to withdraw.

  As the choir in the chancel began to sing, Robin blessed her uncommon height, which allowed her to see over the heads of many of the people standing before her. Widening her stance as much as she could, she settled in for the long Midnight Mass.

  * * * * *

  Little John emerged from the black tangle of trees and stepped into the camp unnoticed. The outlaws had clearly decided not to wait until Christmas day to start their revelries, and were wassailing around the bonfire with much noise and cheer, tipping back pots of spiced ale and shouting on occasion, “Drinkhail!”

  “Little John!” Will Scarlet called out, barely audible over the festive music. He danced away from the fire and toward his friend, his face glowing red from merriment and heat. He made a grab for Little John’s pack.

  “None of that, now,” John rebuked him sternly. “Those gifts are from Robin, and you are not to see them until New Year’s Day.”

  “Where is Robin? I want to show ’im me costume,” Will Stutley cried, bounding over as well. “Did ye bring the masks?”

  “Robin decided to go to church,” Little John said sourly, trying to make his way over to the blazing fire through the growing circle of revelers.

  “Church? On Christmas Eve? That lad has more guts than a butcher’s pail,” Lot laughed, watching with amusement as Little John tried to fend off Will Stutley and the twins, who had joined forces in an attempt to pull the sack from Little John’s shoulder.

  “All right!” Little John bellowed, reaching into his pack and tossing a sheaf of disguises onto the ground. “There are your blooming masks!”

  “Crab Apple,” Will Scarlet called him fondly, picking up the masks and passing them around. “I know just the thing to sweeten your temper.” Seizing Little John by the shoulder, he drew him towards the ale tun.

  Five minutes later, Marian came running up to them, her eyes alight with pleasure. “It is snowing!” she cried, just in case they had not noticed.

  “Merry Christmas, darling,” Will smiled fondly, seizing Marian in an embrace and dipping her down for a kiss.

 
Little John felt a sharp stab of loneliness. Mumbling an excuse to Will, he ambled toward the far side of the fire where the celebrants were fewer and it was quieter. Behind him, some of the outlaws had slipped into costumes and masks and were knocking on the doors of the empty huts, dancing and caroling as if a whole town were watching.

  John felt their revelry wash over him like the queasy feeling one gets when they have had too much to eat. Turning away from the merrymakers, Little John found himself searching for the presence of a nimble figure amongst the skeletal boughs of the forest, even though he knew it would be hours yet before Robin would begin her journey home.

  * * * * *

  “. . . And it is at this moment—the darkest moment of the darkest night—that the light of salvation appears. When all hope is gone and your hearts shrivel with despair, that is when God makes himself manifest. He is a mewling infant, crying out for your attention in the night. Seek him, nurture him, and He will grow within you into a man whose Word will renew you and whose Spirit will guide you . . .”

  The Bishop lectured on without paying much attention to what he was saying; after thirty-odd years as a bishop, he knew his speech by heart. While his lips were expounding on the Sacred Birth, his mind was busy contemplating the vast feast that would be his in Hereford Town only a few short hours from now. As his hands began to prepare the Eucharist, his mouth was envisioning the succulent taste of Christmas boar.

  That earthly vision disintegrated, however, the instant he descended the steps leading down from the altar in order to give Communion to the people. Their grimy natures disgusted him; he hated being so close to the low populace. As he placed the Holy Wafer in their mouths, he shuddered at the touch of their breath on his fingers. Still, the rewards of his station more than made up for the unpleasantries, and for tonight at least, he would only be tasked with giving Communion to the men—Nottingham’s own priest could bother himself with the chore of serving when it came the women’s turn.

  By turning his mind back toward the feast, the Bishop managed to endure his repulsive duty. Soon, there were only a few men left to serve. As the Bishop held the Host up for his final invocation, he looked into the face of the one standing before him and saw familiar blue eyes staring back at him—eyes that mocked him in his dreams and made him relive the indignity of being robbed.

  Robin Hood—for that was who it was, the Bishop was certain, despite the grey woolen garb and lowered hood—was clearly concerned; he had hesitated too long in giving Communion. Hastily, the Bishop of Hereford murmured the ceremonial blessing and dropped the Host on Robin Hood’s tongue. As soon as Robin turned away, the Bishop scurried up to the altar, leaving St. Mary’s priest to present the Sacrament to the women of the congregation.

  Under the guise of clearing the altar of its Eucharistic implements, the Bishop beckoned over an altar boy.

  “I am excusing you from the rest of the service,” he whispered fervently. “Go through the vestry and into the nave, and find the Sheriff as quick as you can. He is sitting with his guard in the front row, on the left-hand side. Tell him that Robin Hood is here and if he acts fast, he may catch him!”

  CHAPTER 22

  NOTTINGHAM CASTLE

  ROBIN WAS CERTAIN that the Bishop had recognized her. The startled look in his eyes and the hatred that had flashed across his face before he had thought to disguise it had been unmistakable.

  Little John was right—I was foolish to have come here, she berated herself, shaking her head in dismay.

  Robin followed the line of returning communicants to her spot near the back of the church, her eyes searching urgently for an exit. The main entrance seemed to be her nearest option. She wavered: would it be better for her to remain hidden within the tight press of people until Mass ended, or to get out of the nave and risk the attention that would bring?

  Her own anxious motions stole the decision from her. Irked by her disquiet, the people around her shifted away, leaving Robin momentarily unsheltered.

  “There he is!” a voice shouted. Robin whirled around and saw the Sheriff pointing in her direction from the side aisle and several soldiers shoving their way through the crowd to get at her.

  Robin panicked. Pushing people forcibly aside, she squirmed toward the west end of the church, breaking free of the multitude and sprinting toward the exit. From out of nowhere, two soldiers appeared abruptly before it, blocking her escape.

  With the agility of a fleeing rabbit, Robin changed direction and darted over to the sidewall, seizing with both hands the ring of a heavy iron door and pulling it open, hoping desperately that it would lead outside.

  A narrow, winding staircase appeared before her, heading toward the roof. Without a second thought, Robin dashed up the stone steps and reached for the handle of the door that awaited her at the top . . . .

  It was locked.

  “Mary, Jesus, help me,” Robin prayed as footsteps pounded up the stairs behind her. Bracing herself at the top of the spiral staircase, she instinctively reached for her bow—but of course, it was not there. Hastily, she drew her sword instead; its blade cleared the sheath an instant before the first soldier came charging around the bend.

  Desperation lent Robin strength as she fought to preserve her life, and the stones beneath her feet soon grew slick with blood as she slew her attackers. Yet even as one man would fall, another would emerge to take his place, pushing his predecessor’s body aside and seeking to strike her in spite of the hampering curve of the stairs. Had she been fighting anywhere else, Robin would surely have been dead within the first few moments; only the advantage of her position at the top of the narrow staircase saved her from serious injury.

  Then she overreached.

  “Oh,” Robin gasped as her sword lodged in the chest of a young soldier. The shock in his dying eyes matched her own as his weight pulled her off balance, causing her to slip on the blood-drenched stone and tumble forward into a soldier positioned below, whose instinctive reaction was to shove the conjoined duo aside, thus furthering their momentum down the stairs; Robin’s head struck a wall as they crashed into yet another soldier who was charging up the steps—his outstretched sword impaled his dead comrade, freeing Robin from his weight; she toppled over him and out the bottom doorway, coming to a crumpled halt at the Sheriff’s feet.

  “So nice to see you again,” he sneered as his men pulled a quaking Robin roughly to her feet. One of the soldiers bound her wrists together while another confiscated her sword.

  “Sanctuary,” Robin choked out, spitting blood from her broken lip. “I claim sanctuary.”

  The Sheriff hesitated and turned to glance behind him at the Bishop of Hereford, who had deserted his post at the head of the church to come and watch the arrest unfold. At the Sheriff’s implicit question, the Bishop gave a cruel smirk and turned his back on Robin, walking away.

  “You are mine now, Robin-lack-Hood,” the Sheriff grinned, seizing her short hair and flinging her toward the church’s main entrance. Robin stumbled and fell, jarring additional agonies into her already bruised bones.

  “But he claimed sanctuary,” Robin heard one bystander exclaim as a series of kicks and shoves propelled her outside. The protestor was quickly hushed.

  A soldier brought over the Sheriff’s horse, and Darniel turned away from the lieutenant he had been addressing to mount it. With Darniel prancing triumphantly at the head of the escort, Robin was led away through the town streets while the rest of the congregation watched from the church steps, conversing together in wary whispers.

  Robin scarcely noticed her surroundings, too dizzy to pay much attention to anything besides her footing. Only once did she look behind her; her bloody footprints gleamed black in the moonlit snow.

  Not my blood, she thought dully. Theirs.

  By the time the contingent arrived at Nottingham Castle, Robin was nearly frozen from shock and from cold. A pair of castle guards, not yet relieved from duty for the holidays, took charge of her from her soldiering e
scort and followed the Sheriff into the Great Hall, where a blazing fire roared. In keeping with her misfortune, they halted her just outside the reach of its warmth.

  Now that she had stopped moving, Robin could not keep from swaying where she stood. The reeling in her head had abated only a little, and she had to struggle to focus as the Sheriff’s lieutenant strode into the room and began to speak.

  “. . . my men did a thorough search of the church like you ordered. We found no other outlaws, but we did find this.”

  He offered Robin’s bow and quiver to the Sheriff.

  “Well, well,” Phillip Darniel gloated, taking her bow in his hands. His fingers caressed the pied wood. “So this is the bow of Robin Hood.”

  The guards next to Robin let out startled gasps, and in spite of her situation, Robin could not help but be amused. Clearly, they had not realized the identity of their charge. With looks of commingled fear and awe, they inched away ever so slightly, despite the fact that her hands were bound.

  Suddenly, the Sheriff let out a sharp hiss. His head snapped up from his examination of the bow, and his eyes burned into Robin’s like black fire.

  “Out!” he shouted at his men, his voice trembling with inexplicable rage.

  Puzzled, but grateful to comply, they hastened from the room, leaving Robin alone with the Sheriff in the middle of the Hall.

  Darniel grabbed Robin by her collar and thrust the bow beneath her nose. “Explain . . . THIS!”

  Reflexively, Robin glanced at the bow, but she did not need to see its stave to know what the Sheriff had spotted. The small engraving inside the grip of her longbow was worn from use, but still very legible upon close inspection: Robin Ann Locksley.

  Robin did her best to summon a cavalier smile. She must not appear afraid. “Hello Phillip. Care for a dance?” she taunted in her natural voice.