“They are here! Robin, they are here!” Marian cried, interrupting her sister’s reflections and hastening over. Though attired in a simple rose-colored dress, her only ornament the purple amaranths braided into her flowing brown hair, Marian looked absolutely radiant, her excitement tingeing her cheeks the same hue as her gown. In the past, her sister’s delicate beauty would have made Robin feel self-conscious of her own height and thew, but she knew now that in her own way, she did indeed look as David had said, “Very beautiful,” in her robin’s egg suit of blue, with her short golden hair held away from her face by a small circlet of honeysuckle.
At Marian’s words, Robin felt the butterflies in her stomach fly up into her throat—but her sister’s announcement proved premature. It was only Will Stutley, returned ahead of the main entourage to alert the camp of the impending arrival, now just a few minutes distant. The two girls waited anxiously for their guests to appear, Robin’s hand clutched tightly in Marian’s.
Lord Locksley was the first to emerge from out of the trees, accompanied by Little John and Will Gamwell walking one on each side. Little John was talking with her father, and looked as handsome and poised as she had ever seen him. He caught her eyes and smiled at her; Lord Locksley followed his gaze to where his daughters stood.
“Girls!” someone cried, but it was not their father. A carriage was clattering clumsily through the underbrush, and from its window Darah was waving a handkerchief in anxious greeting to the two sisters. As soon as the carriage rumbled to a stop, she tumbled out and would have dashed towards them were it not unladylike to do so. Instead, she contented herself with walking as quickly as she could.
“Oh, I have missed you so! How different you look! Marian, you have grown so brown—and Robin! Whatever have you done to your hair, my child? And what on earth are you wearing? Gracious, but you do look like a boy!”
“Hello, Darah,” Robin greeted, surprised to hear no rancor in her voice. She did not even mind the woman’s thoughtless babble. “I am pleased to see you,” she said. And she was.
“Robin,” a deep voice called softly. She turned to face her father.
He had dismounted from his horse and was standing just a few feet away. His garments were clearly new, and the lines of worry she had seen on his face during their last encounter were gone. But instead of feeling relieved, his reestablished wealth made her nervous. Once again he was Lord Locksley, presuming and noble; the humble camaraderie he had displayed to her only a few months ago was gone. What must he think of her now?
“Sir,” she greeted him uncomfortably.
“I have brought you something,” Lord Locksley said, appearing to be as uncomfortable as she. “I promised to repay your loan before the year was through, but I thought your men might prefer these to mere pounds.”
He beckoned a cart forward and lifted the cover to show Robin what lay inside.
“Two hundred bows of Spanish yew,” he told her, removing one and handing it to her to examine. The stave was inlaid with silver dryads that shone against the wood and were so intricately carved that they seemed to come alive in her hands.
“There are two hundred quivers as well,” he added. Robin could see the stacks of rich green leather, embroidered with silver figures to match the bows. Each quiver held a sheaf of arrows fletched with peacock feathers that rippled from the depths of the cart like a thousand rainbows.
“They are beautiful,” she gasped.
Lord Locksley carefully lifted out a wool blanket from the cart and opened it. “These are for you, Robin, since the Sheriff took yours.
He handed her a quiver whose arrows were innocked with gold, and a longbow with gold etchings spiraling up the burnished wood. Gold horns capped the ends, and the string between her fingers was as smooth as velvet. At the grip, in her father’s script, was the meticulously incised title: Robin of the Hood.
Robin could scarcely speak, she was so overcome. “Thank you . . . Father,” she whispered.
“Such nonsense!” Darah interrupted them with a sniff. “What a thing to give a daughter! Although I suppose you shan’t be discouraged from it now. Well, Robin, at least you are getting married! Who would have thought? Surely not I, for I am certain I despaired of ever finding you a match!”
* * * * *
Robin stood under the Trysting Tree’s chandelier branches, her face dotted by the brilliant light that pierced its thick crown of emerald leaves.
To her left stood Will Gamwell, decked head-to-toe in scarlet raiment, with a splendid white feather stuck in his cap that trailed past his shoulder and down his back. He had one arm wrapped around Marian, and the two were gazing at each other with eyes that bespoke a lifetime of devotion and happiness to come.
To her right . . . to her right stood Little John, his shoulders seeming broader than ever, and his eyes twinkling at her with an emotion that made Robin dizzy to behold. He took her hand as the friar Will had enlisted hemmed and hawed and sought to find an appropriate Bible passage for the occasion. Out of sight of everyone, John’s thumb made small circles in Robin’s hand, distracting her so that she missed the first few words that Friar Tuck spoke.
“. . . come here today to join these men and women in the holiest of unions . . .”
Was that Darah sobbing loudly in the crowd?
“. . . to honor each other, and love each other, and guard each other in health and affliction, forsaking all others . . .”
Her people gazed at her with bright eyes, the obvious joy they felt for their friends lending beauty to even the most weathered of features. Even those members who still resented Robin for her concealment were not unaffected by the scene.
Robin caught the gaze of her father. His blessing on the life she had chosen touched her more deeply than she could have imagined, and some restless part of her soul that had agitated her since her youth finally found peace.
“Do you, John Little—also known as Little John—take this woman, Robin of Locksley, to be your wife in the sight of God and Man?” Friar Tuck asked, interrupting her thoughts.
“I do,” Little John avowed.
“And do you, Robin of Locksley—also known as Robin of the Hood—take this man, John Little, to be your husband in the sight of God and Man?”
“I do,” she affirmed, and never did she taste two sweeter words.
Friar Tuck then asked the same of Will and Marian, and handed each couple their ring.
Robin’s eyes fixed on Little John’s face as he lifted her hand to him until her fingers just grazed his chest. Everything else around her seemed to fade away; Robin’s whole world was encompassed by the look in John’s eyes.
“I, Little John, take thee Robin to be my wife. Through fortune and affliction, through weal and woe, for now and for eternity, I pledge eternal loyalty. In the name of the Father—”
He touched the ring to her thumb.
“And the Son—”
He tapped it to her forefinger.
“And the Holy Spirit—”
It alighted briefly on the tip of the one in the middle.
“Amen.”
Little John slid the token of their unity onto Robin’s ring finger, forever there to stay.
* * * * *
Half a furlong from the Trysting Tree, two figures threaded their way towards the clearing, unaware of the momentous event currently taking place.
The boy named Much wiped a grimy hand across his brow. He had lost his way twice already, in spite of Eadom the Innkeeper’s whispered instructions and his own vivid memory of the time Will Stutley had shown him to the outlaw camp. The second misdirection had taken Much half an hour to amend—time that Eadom would not be quick to forgive. Yet through it all, his companion had followed him staunchly and without question, seeming as comfortable trekking through the bracken as he had been sitting astride his ivory mare.
Much shot another glance at the youth he was leading. The lad was garbed in bright-hued clothes of the finest cut and possessed the fresh aroma o
f one who bathed every day; Much, on the other hand, wore the oft-patched tunic of a stable hand and stank of the horses he tended. He had fully expected his coxcomb companion to complain throughout the journey and was still rather surprised that he had not.
“This is it,” Much announced with relief as the sound of voices reached their ears. He had not taken more than one step into the clearing, however, when an eruption of cheers shook the air, startling them both.
“Ayah—! What is going on?” Much exclaimed loudly, biting off an alarmed shout of his own.
A stately woman near the edge of the crowd overheard his question and turned to face them both with a beatific smile stained with tears. “Oh, it is Robin and Marian—they are married at last! I cannot believe it, truly I cannot. Oh, now I can die a happy woman!”
“Robin . . . Hood?” asked the well-clad youth, his green eyes focusing intently on the crowd gathered beneath a great oak tree, parsing the joyous assembly until he fixed on a couple at their center.
The stable boy followed his gaze and wished more than anything that he could linger to celebrate with the merry outlaws, but Eadom’s hand was heavy when his orders were disobeyed. “Take the messenger to Robin Hood and come straight back,” he had commanded, and Much had already taken far too long to carry out that task. But what a tale he would bring back with him! Robin and Marian were finally married . . . . Why, he might even earn the rest of the day off for being the first to bring Eadom the news!
His mind awhirl with the possibilities, Much bowed to his companion and accepted a silver penny from his soft, lily-white hand; clasping it tightly in his own sun-browned fist, he began his trek back to the inn.
* * * * *
Robin finally managed to break her gaze away from Little John and turned to face her friends, laughter burbling from her lips. Lot handed her a cup of spiced wine, and she took a sip before handing the chalice to her husband.
Husband! He is my husband now, she thought in amazement. Little John lowered the cup, his lips glistening from the drink. He bent to kiss her, but just then Allan struck up a lively tune on his lute, and with a merry laugh, Little John seized Robin around the waist and swept her off into a dance.
They whirled around the greensward, each rejoicing in the feel of the partner in their arms. Will and Marian joined the dance a few moments later, and soon all the woodland couples and those who had no partner were cavorting beneath the Trysting Tree to the sound of Allan’s lute.
At one point, Robin’s hyacinth wreath flew off her head, but she took no notice and did not see the elegant lad who stooped to pick it up. All of her attention was focused on Little John, who suddenly stopped dancing. Taking her chin in his hand, he thrilled her lips with a kiss that tasted of nutmeg and cinnamon.
“Beg pardon,” a voice interrupted.
The couple ignored the utterance, but when the interjection was repeated a second time, Robin reluctantly broke away from Little John and turned to face the speaker.
Standing before them was a stately youth, with a face fairer than Robin’s own and clothes that were fairer still—a crimson tunic and hose, made of silk and lined with gold thread. The emblem of the royal household was embroidered upon his chest.
With a small bow, he handed the hyacinth wreath to an astonished Robin, but turned to address Little John.
“Sir, forgive my intrusion. I am Richard Partington, page to Her Majesty the Queen. Her Majesty has heard of your skill with the bow and your daring deeds, and would like to extend to you an invitation. In four days time, her husband, the King, will hold a tourney in London Town wherein the greatest archers in all of England will partake. Her Majesty opines it a travesty that one of your talent should not be allowed to compete simply because you are an outlaw, and if you will deign to strive against the King’s most adroit bowmen, she will guarantee you safe passage to and from Court, and will venture with the King to have you and your men declared Royal Foresters and your crimes pardoned should you win. To demonstrate her good will, she bade me give you this ring.”
He removed an ornate ring from his pocket and held it out to Little John.
“That is quite an offer,” Little John said, making no move to take it. He looked down instead at the lady standing beside him. “But I think it is not I to whom it is made. Robin?”
The page shifted his gaze to the blue-suited woman, completely confused. His bafflement lasted only a moment, however, as a swift review of what he had seen and heard since his arrival in the camp comprehended to him his mistake. Whatever Richard Partington’s personal thoughts might have been regarding the true identity of Robin Hood, his eyes remained empty of judgment, and he continued to hold out the ring.
Robin took the gold band from his fingers and cautiously turned it over in her hands, her mind weighing the dangers of the request and the magnitude of its rewards. “A very generous offer. I would be worse than a fool to refuse it.”
Little John’s brows knit together in consternation. With a glance at Richard Partington that warned him not to follow, he drew Robin a short distance away.
“What of our wedding day? What of our people?” he demanded quietly. “For all this page’s fancy words, there is no guarantee the Queen will secure our pardon; and though she has promised you safe passage, there is no law that says the King must obey her pledge. Will you imperil your life again on a chance?”
Robin laid her hand upon Little John’s cheek. “John, I understand your concern—truly I do. But this is not like Christmas Eve. You were right to try and deter me then—I was taking a foolish risk and I should have listened to you. But this is different. The possibility of a pardon far outweighs any personal danger in attending this tournament. It is not as if I want to go . . . but you asked me to think of our people, and I am. I want our family—all of our family—to be raised to a life that is free.”
Little John stared at her. He would not have believed that the love he held for his wife could grow any stronger, but Robin’s readiness to sacrifice her life for the chance to assist others filled his heart with a crushing pride. Though he trembled inside at the thought that something could happen to her, he knew as surely as if God had spoken it that she was destined for a greater purpose than to just be his wife, or a noble, or even the leader of their band. God had spared her for a reason, and though he could not see His ultimate plan, he sensed that the journey to London Town—for better or for worse—would play an important part.
He nodded his assent. “I am coming with you,” he declared.
“Of course!” Robin smiled at him, surprised. “I would hardly go without you!”
With a kiss that drew from him a broad grin, she slipped the Queen’s ring onto her right hand and turned back to face the page. “I am honored to accept the Queen’s bidding. We can leave for London on the morrow.”
“Forgive me, my lady, but there is no time. We must leave straightaway, if we are to make it to London before the tourney.”
The newlyweds scowled at the urgency, but knew there was little choice. “Then we shall leave in an hour, but no sooner,” Robin informed him, the steely determination in her voice indicating that she would not negotiate on this point. “It is my wedding day, after all, and I intend to spend at least part of it with my friends.”
“Very well,” the page acquiesced, giving a small bow.
The next hour passed in the blink of an eye, and at Partington’s gentle prodding, Robin and Little John gathered their few belongings into a sack and went to take leave of the band.
“Do ye really ’ave t’ go?” Will Stutley asked with a mournful expression as his oldest friend bade him farewell.
Robin gave him a kind smile. “For a little while, at least. You will be in good company here, and if I win the tournament and the Queen keeps her word, then none of you will ever need fear the Sheriff again.”
“I almost wish I could go with you,” Allan told her enviously. “What a story I could tell of your adventure!”
Robin
suppressed a smile. Allan hated to travel.
“You will just have to tell other stories,” she said. “I have every confidence in your ability to turn even everyday doings into heroic feats . . . a talent you have aptly and frequently demonstrated.”
“Your doings are far from ordinary, Robin. One day, they will make you legend—with the help of my ballads, of course.”
“Legend?” she laughed. “Really, Allan, you must not tease a lady so. But since I know you will keep composing no matter what I think, just promise me not to embellish your tales too much.”
“Only as will please my listeners,” Allan chuckled, running a hand across the strings of his lute.
Robin shrugged, experience having taught her that she would get no better assurance. “Do as you will.”
At that moment, a familiar bellow of laughter reached their ears, and Robin turned to see Little John standing a few yards away, clasping forearms with his brother and attempting to maintain a light-hearted farewell. About to head towards them, she caught a glimpse of the lingering misery on Will Stutley’s face.
“Here,” she said on sudden impulse, unbuckling the silver horn from her waist and holding it out to him. “Will you keep this for me until the day I return?”
Will’s eyes lit up at the entrustment, and he took the trumpet from her hands almost reverently, a broad grin splitting his face.
“Ready?” Little John asked, coming up beside Robin. She nodded.
Marian had already bidden her sister farewell, but she ran up again and threw her arms around Robin’s neck, soaking her tunic with her tears. Will followed his wife at a more sedate pace, but upon reaching them, seized them both in a fervent hug.
Robin: Lady of Legend (The Classic Adventures of the Girl Who Became Robin Hood) Page 31