John swallowed. “And then the sheriff was there, and the chance was gone.” John’s eyes fixed on the ground. “I’m sorry, Scar.” He lifted off from the mouth of the cave and went over to Much and Godfrey, leaving me staring after him.
It were anger rushing through me more than anything as I thought over his fool words and gathered the supplies. I weren’t even sure what it meant, him not killing Gisbourne, but hearing him say it like that—like he wanted to keep me and Rob from the other? I could have killed him for it.
Least until I went into the cave again and saw Rob there, bent and hurt. Then every other thought vanished from my mind, and my heart set to a strange sort of beating and the anger left me. John’s words didn’t matter none, and the awful band on my finger didn’t neither. Walking into that cave, it crashed over me again: I loved Rob.
I loved Rob, and there were so many things he damn well better explain.
“Come on, Godfrey, let’s show you more of Sherwood,” I heard John say. “Get the lay of the forest. Much, come along with us.”
I blushed a bit, but I were happy for the chance to be alone with Rob after all that had happened.
In the cave were cooler than outside, and it felt like everything had peeled back like the skin of an orange and I were left with this, the heart of it all.
I came quiet behind Rob, touching his side and picking up the edge of the shirt. He nodded and raised his arms, letting me pull his blood-black shirt off him. Hundreds of holes punched his back, bleeding and red and oozing. Some looked sick and poisoned already. “Christ, Rob. I can clean it now, but I’ll have to go to the friars for a poultice.”
He nodded, his body easing out, muscles loosening. I set to work, taking some of our water and the last of our muslin bandages to rinse the blood away and draw out the dirt and grime of the prison. I started a fire and set some water by it to warm, and by the time I rinsed him once, the water were warm and my hands were shaking a touch. I soaked bandages and laid them in strips ’cross the mass of wounds, trying to pull out anything sick and deep in there. I stayed lip shut, letting my heart lay down its drummer’s sticks and feeling doubt slide into my ribs.
I stroked my fingers light along the strips, pressing them gentle as I stared at the back of his head.
“Time for the reckoning, Rob,” I said soft. “What did you mean back there?” The muscles in his shoulders rolled, like he were trying to move or turn, but I touched his back to keep him still. Maybe also to keep it so his face weren’t to me as I said it; I weren’t sure. “I know . . . I know you thought I’d die in there. Thought you failed, thought all kinds of wrong things. I ain’t going to be murderous if you didn’t mean it all.” Lie. If he hadn’t meant it . . . I weren’t sure what I’d do. Maybe go back to Gisbourne and let him finish the job for me.
“If you’re not going to let me move, you damn well better come where I can see you, Scar,” he said, and his voice were awful rough.
Careful and slow, I went round front of him, my back to the fire so its full dancing light shone bright on his face. He took my hand, tugging my fingers out from a fist and twining his through. He gripped it tight. “Christ’s bones, Scar.” He heaved a sigh, and his hand squeezed mine. “You changed everything. Everything. That day in the market in London, you don’t know what my life was like before that, when I came home and found everything just gone. I had nothing. I hadn’t a soul. And then you appeared with your magic eyes, and you just changed everything.”
Every pain flew from my bones and I stood still as a pillory. “But . . . you hate me.”
He sighed, and his eyes flicked up to mine. The storms were gone, the seas the kind of calm that comes after waves have wrecked a ship. “I hate myself. I wish I didn’t feel anything. I wish I could protect these people—you—like I want to, but I can’t. I don’t. In the Crusades, in my whole life . . .” He trailed off, his eyes and hand left mine, and his throat worked, the sound fair loud. “There’s so much I have to atone for, so much I’ve done wrong. If I were a better man, I would have sent you far from here long ago, but I haven’t, and I can’t. I wish I could stop thinking about you, Scar, stop caring about you. Most days I wish I never met you, because it is torture.” A dry cough came that half sounded like a laugh. “More than, you know, just bodily torture.”
I quieted for a moment, chewing my lip. “You called me a whore, Rob. You said awful things.”
“Ah,” he said, and his hand took mine again, tight. “Hurting you is the best way I know to punish myself. And, despite that I’m not much proud of it, I can’t truly control myself when I see you even looking at John.” He chuckled. “Or Jenny Percy.”
“Christ, you’re a stupid boy,” I said, shaking my head.
“And you still haven’t said what I want to hear.”
I met his eyes. “What do you want to hear?”
“If I’m a fool to even think about you.” He looked down. “If you’re with John.”
I smiled a little. “Are you a fool? Of course. I ain’t the sort of girl you ought to have. The sort you deserve.” I pressed my mouth to his knuckles, then looked up to his ocean eyes. “But tucked inside of you is the only place my heart’s ever been at home.” A grin took over my mouth. “And I weren’t never with John.”
His fingers loosed mine, and before I could cry their loss, his trembly hand slid over my cheek. “I’ll keep your heart, Scar,” he whispered. “If you keep mine.”
I nodded. Fair shy, I touched his face, running over a bruise on his cheek. He let me, closing his eyes and dropping his hands from my face as I touched his skin.
“Gisbourne won’t stop looking for me, even with the Sheriff gone.”
His hand gripped my knee. “You can’t ever go back to him—you know that, yes?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “He won’t have such an easy time of it now. The new sheriff won’t be named for a while, and until then, the land reverts to King Richard—and Prince John’s care while he’s away. Gisbourne lacks authority here now. And when a new sheriff is appointed, they’ll have to start with rebuilding the keep. We’ve got time.”
He groaned, and my lip twisted. “Do you want to rest?” I asked.
Rob nodded, and I helped him lie on his side, lowering him down to his pallet by the fire. Moving closer to him, I hung there, unsure and leaning over him. I were fair shy to do it, but I kissed his cheek.
He caught my hand and tugged me closer before I moved away. “Stay here,” he said. “Please.”
“I wouldn’t go nowhere,” I told him.
He tugged again. “Stay here,” he said, and kept tugging till I were against him. He pulled my hips against his, my back to his front, and held on tight to me. His breath huffed into my hair and shivers broke like fire sparks all over my body.
I squeezed his hand. “We’ll keep fighting. For the people, and for you and me.”
“One day, we’ll all be free.”
I sighed, looking at the glowing tongues of the fire. “Or we’ll be dead. But then, I suppose that’s a kind of freedom too.”
He twisted our fingers together again. It seemed to be how he best liked my hand, like we could tie us together as easy as braiding fingers. “Let’s try not to be quite that free, Scar.” He were quiet for a moment, and his nose nudged my head. “Should I be calling you Marian now?”
I sighed. “Not sure. I never wanted to be Marian, but it’s not as easy as just saying I never were. Or that all I am is Scarlet.”
“Maybe I’ll call you Lady Gisbourne.”
“You can try. See how long you live.”
He pulled me closer, and I took a breath, letting my shoulders roll back against him. His breath went slow and even, and it settled in my chest till I breathed the same. I were cut and clobbered, but holding his hand, deep in Sherwood, even as a married woman, I never felt so safe, and I never felt so free.
A Robin Hood Sampler
READ
Lasky, Kathryn. Hawksmaid: The
Untold Story of Robin Hood and Maid Marian. New York: HarperCollins, 2010.
Lawhead, Stephen R. Hood. The King Raven Trilogy, Book 1. Nashville, TN: Thomas Nelson, 2006.*
Lawhead, Stephen R. Scarlet. The King Raven Trilogy, Book 2. Nashville, TN: Thomas Nelson, 2007.*
Lawhead, Stephen R. Tuck. The King Raven Trilogy, Book 3. Nashville, TN: Thomas Nelson, 2009.*
Lee, Tony, illustrations by Sam Hart and Artur Fujita. Outlaw: The Legend of Robin Hood. Cambridge, MA: Candlewick, 2009.
McKinley, Robin. The Outlaws of Sherwood. New York: Greenwillow, 1988.
Springer, Nancy. Rowan Hood: Outlaw Girl of Sherwood Forest. New York: Puffin, 2002.
*denotes books for adults
WATCH
The Adventures of Robin Hood. Directed by Michael Curtiz and William Keighley. Burbank, CA: Warner Brothers, 1938.
The Real Robin Hood. Directed by M. David Melvin. North Hollywood, CA: Herzog & Company, 2010.
Robin Hood, Seasons 1–3. Directed by Foz Allen and Dominic Minghella. London: BBC, 2006–2009.
Robin Hood. Directed by Wolfgang Reitherman. Burbank, CA: Walt Disney, 1973.
Robin Hood. Directed by Ridley Scott. Universal City, CA: Universal Pictures, 2010.
Robin Hood: Men in Tights. Directed by Mel Brooks. Los Angeles: 20th Century Fox, 1993.
Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. Directed by Kevin Reynolds. Burbank, CA: Warner Brothers, 1991.
SURF
Robin Hood: The Facts and the Fiction www.robinhoodlegend.com
“Who Was Robin Hood?” History.com video, 3:16 www.history.com/topics/robin-hood/videos#whowas-robin-hood
Acknowledgments
I knew I wanted to be a published author when I was in the first grade; all along the way, I’ve found naysayers and rejections aplenty, but what has really stuck with me is the true generosity of spirit that so many people have offered me. This list is a shabby microcosm of all the people who truly deserve my thanks.
To my superstar agent, Minju Chang, thank you for being the first one to believe in Scarlet. Your enthusiasm and passion have gotten us this far, and I’m so grateful.
Thank you to my amazing editors, Emily Easton and Mary Kate Castellani, who both loved Scarlet as she was and also saw ways to make her shine that little bit more. You both inspire Wayne’s World-esque” I am not worthys”!
Thank you to the rest of the team at Walker and Bloomsbury, including Jennifer Healey who, as a copy editor, picks up on things that my mind can’t even process (I used that word how many times?), the foreign rights team, and the design and marketing teams. I’ve heard it takes a village, but in reality it just takes one amazing publishing house. Thank you all for being a part of it with me.
To Panera Bread—refillable Diet Coke and/or tea is a godsend. Cheers. To the W Boston hotel, thank you for letting me write in the wee hours of the morning.
To Alex, Iggy, Ashley, Nacie, Leah, and Renee—beta readers, test dummies, cabinets that I throw emotional pasta against, you are unconditional friends who cheer me on, support me, distract me, and occasionally give me vivisection faces when you know I’m wrong. Nothing but love.
To Connie Chapin, Greer Underwood, Meaghan Delahunt, John Burnside, Debbie Harris, the incomparable and very much missed Catherine Doyle, and all the other English teachers who have supported and taught me, I was forever changed by the love you have for your profession. Your students are listening, and you are changing their lives. Thank you.
To Kev and Mike—whoever thought my biggest cheerleaders would be two dudes? Thank you for always standing beside me and laughing at me until I remember to laugh at myself. Best brothers ever.
To my mum, who knew with absolute certainty that this day would come and yet also acknowledges that it’s a bit of a miracle that it did; and to my dad, who gave me a great education, love, encouragement, and a total addiction to books (but I still don’t want to read Stranger in a Strange Land. Sorry, Dad!). You both taught me what joy there is in the written word. Thank you.
Author’s Note
Why did I want to retell the story of Robin Hood when there are already so many different versions and interpretations of the Robin Hood legend? Between the numerous books, TV shows, and movies, there’s obviously already a lot of material readily available. Yet it’s a story that gets continually retold in almost every generation.
I felt compelled to write Scarlet because I really love Robin Hood. I have always been fascinated with him—the pain he must have endured, and how tough and strong he was—but especially because he was tough for the people he loved and strong because of their love. That was the best part. My Robin is a little younger and perhaps a little moodier than most Robin Hoods, but I couldn’t change much else about him—because I have loved every juicy detail I could collect about the classic Robin Hood legend.
Little about Robin is known for sure. Some historians believe that Robin Hood must have been an outlaw in the twelfth century; others insist it was a name given to many outlaws in early medieval times. Most legends place Robin in Sherwood Forest, but there are historical references to many different parts of England. There is no one person historians can agree was the real Robin Hood. If he did really exist, historians believe that he could have lived at any time during a roughly two-hundred-year stretch from the twelfth to the fourteenth centuries. His title, history, and personal ethos all vary dramatically, but the one thing that remains the same through all Robin Hood stories is that he robs the rich to give to the poor.
Whether or not Robin participated in the Crusades, the story is typically set during the time of King Richard I, when England had a heroic king who was never at home, and King Richard’s jealous brother Prince John was left to manage the country. This fits so well because Prince John did in fact heavily tax the people of England to pay for King Richard’s ransom at the end of the Crusades (he was captured by an Austrian duke who, frankly, was kind of kicking him when he was down, but that’s another story)—even though John didn’t really want his brother to come back to England. I’ve thought a lot about the kind of ruler John must have been to allow for an environment where Robin Hood had to exist. He may not be directly involved in Scarlet’s story, but he is the driving force behind the deterioration of Nottinghamshire’s situation.
Within the last hundred years, most Robin Hood stories have featured Robin as an outlaw, typically a former noble, who resides in Sherwood Forest. There’s a little wiggle room with the cast of characters (Little John, Will Scarlet, Friar Tuck, Much, Allan A Dale, to name a few); as versions pick and choose and reinterpret, I’ve certainly done the same. Traditionally, the stories see Friar Tuck as a drunken monk, Little John as a brawny woodsman, Much the Miller’s son as the quintessential villager, and Will Scarlet as Robin’s closest friend. Will Scarlet is always shown with his knives, usually wearing red, and often portrayed as the moody or more mysterious one of the band. To each of these traditional characters I’ve made my own adjustments so that I could portray one way that Robin’s story might have begun: Tuck is a slightly drunken barkeep, Little John is still brawny but has a heart beneath his flirtatious exterior, Much is (I hope) more complex but still the one who best fits in with the townspeople. Then there’s Scarlet—mysterious, moody, and handy with knives, she’s obviously connected to the legacy of Will Scarlet and yet wholly different. Other characters, like Allan A Dale, aren’t in Scarlet because at the time of my story, Rob is still a young man and hasn’t met many people beyond the local townspeople and his fellow Crusaders. John and Much, however, are—in modern terminology—his “boys.”
I also took liberties with the rest of the history, ballads, and interpretations that have come before mine—especially regarding Marian, and, by proxy, my dear Scarlet. Reading the stories and watching the movies, I always found Marian problematic because, though I had a crush on Robin, I could never see myself as Marian. She was always doe-eyed and waiting to be rescued—not exactly something I identified with, nor what Ro
b really deserved. Come on, a simpering maiden for the dashing, brave, angsty Robin Hood? To me, true love is about finding someone who not only sees and accepts your demons but also is willing to step up and fight them when you stumble. Marian couldn’t do that for Robin, but Scarlet certainly could.
I am intrigued by the idea that history could have been rewritten to take a girl named Scarlet and, over the centuries, turn her into Will Scarlet—one of Robin Hood’s Merry Men. I like to think of history as a very long game of Telephone; it’s never going to come out at the end exactly (or even close) to the way it started. So as the legends and ballads got passed along—and because there’s a long tradition of writing women out of history and an inability to believe that a mere girl could do all that Scarlet does—people heard the story wrong and passed along their changed versions of it.
Is it possible that Will Scarlet might have been a girl? Absolutely. Like I said, there’s virtually no historical fact, and the legends mostly started from ballads that were spoken and changed several times within the course of a day, much less over centuries. Women like Eleanor of Aquitaine prove that medieval women could be tough and smart and incredibly cunning. So why couldn’t Scar really exist?
There will always be people who think a woman—especially a young woman—isn’t capable of all that Scarlet believes she is. I don’t buy it. If history didn’t leave a place for a strong (and yes, sometimes unbelievably grumpy) young woman to exist, then it is my pleasure and delight to shake things up and start making some revisions.
Copyright © 2012 by A. C. Gaughen
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
First published in the United States of America in February 2012
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