The Outlaws of Sherwood

by Robin McKinley

  “He seems to be alone,” observed the green man; “perhaps at least he chooses to risk only himself.” He shook his head. “He is a fool, and I’m sorry for it; but then …”

  Cecily said, despite Little John’s fingers, “Then—?”

  “You like this outlaw, don’t you?” said the green man. “And your master does not approve, which is wise of him. Perhaps yon Robin Hood has heard of what the sheriff has in mind if this contest does not catch him, and decided that this is the easier way for the folk he loves and would spare sharing his fate.”

  “Easier?” said Cecily in alarm.

  “Have you heard of Guy of Gisbourne?” said the green man.

  Little John’s head snapped around. The second round was over; the field of contestants was again cut by half; it still included Sir Waleran’s only daughter, several foresters, and the brown-haired man who drew the eye for no reason.

  “Ah, you have heard,” said the green man with satisfaction; “and have heard the right stories too.”

  “I have not,” said Cecily. “Tell me.”

  “Guy of Gisbourne is a kind of paid assassin,” said the green man, with a certain involuntary relish. “’Tis said he is the younger son of an old lord up north who hated him, and since he had nothing to lose, as he saw it, has gone in for hiring out to cut up other folk’s enemies. He was in Palestine for a while, the stories say, and he was sent home in disgrace for being too bloodthirsty. He’d kill off a Saracen they might have held for ransom, and he threw someone’s child off a battlement in Acre because it annoyed him.”

  “The sheriff has hired him to track Robin Hood?” squeaked Cecily.

  “Aye. And his band of cutthroats, all of them as charming and civilized as Guy himself, I believe. Even in Sherwood, Guy will find his quarry; the stories say that Guy doesn’t sleep, and he finds his men by smelling the heat of their blood. I don’t know about that, but there’s something uncanny about him nonetheless.”

  Uncanny. What the bauble-seller had said of Robin.

  The third round went more slowly, for all that there were fewer archers; for each one shot only after carefully lining up the mark and sighting long down the length of the arrow before releasing the string. Several of the foresters missed nonetheless and were disqualified. One of them wanted to argue about it, but the sheriff raised one hand and then made a violent and highly suggestive gesture with the other, and the man subsided.

  Sir Waleran’s daughter, two foresters, and the brown-haired man were left. The watching crowd had a curious kind of hush over it, and there was some movement to press in closer, which sheriff’s men immediately appeared from behind the sheriff’s tent to prevent. The crowd became restless, and the fourth round was delayed a little till it quieted; despite the sheriff’s men, who seemed to have received uncharacteristic orders not to be too rough, the crowd had contrived to shift forward by a few yards. Its edges were now even with the sheriff’s tent.

  Little John, Cecily, and the green man had not moved. They were all three taller than the average, and even Cecily could see over most of the heads of the crowd; and she felt frozen to her place besides.

  “We are not the only ones who think that’s Robin Hood,” said the green man. “There will be trouble if the sheriff tries to take him.”

  It’s not Robin, thought Cecily. It’s Marian.

  The brown-haired man shot last. The target was now set so far away that Cecily could see the center mark only as a bright blot of colour; but she saw when the two foresters’ arrows went wide, and struck outside the blot. The breeze had picked up, and seemed to be coming from all directions at once; and a particularly fierce gust rushed over the crowd as Sir Waleran’s daughter released her string. The arrow should have gone to the heart of the mark, thought Cecily, as the breeze fanned her right cheek; even so it struck within the left edge of the blot. The crowd sighed.

  And the breeze died. In a dead calm the brown-haired man stepped up, sighted tranquilly along his string, and released his arrow. The faintest breath of wind whispered overhead as the arrow struck the center of the target, as if it were in response to the arrow’s flight; as if the archer might be one of the old gods of England come back.

  There was a commotion in the sheriff’s tent, and then a tall man leaped over the barrier, and drew his sword, ringing, from the scabbard he held in his other hand. The scabbard he dropped to the ground as he said, “I challenge you, Robin Hood, to single combat. I, Guy of Gisbourne, have come a long way to face you!”

  Little John dropped the attention-drawing blue cloak as Cecily was pulling her bright-red tunic over her head. When she reappeared she saw the green man pulling the laces out of his shirt. “Here,” he said to Little John. “You’ll be a bit less noticeable in this.”

  The crowd had muttered for a moment as the archer named Robin Hood stood a moment blankly, bow slack in his hand, staring at his challenger; then it rushed forward with a roar.

  “Pity he wouldn’t consider just putting an arrow in that man’s black heart and doing England a favour,” said the man who was no longer green. The unlaced shirt barely fit across Little John’s shoulders, but it did make him look less like a wrestler and more like any member of the crowd who happened to be very tall. “Thank you,” said Little John.

  “I won’t look for you at the inn,” said the man.

  It was hard to make their way through the crowd, even with Little John as a battering ram. But then there was a cry, and the crowd heaved backward; Cecily was almost knocked off her feet, but she hooked a hand into Little John’s waistband and hung on. Little John surged forward and to one side, and Cecily broke free and found herself suddenly at the edge of a little clearing, ringed by shocked and frightened faces.

  The archer named Robin Hood was on his knees, his bow on the ground beside him, one hand pressed to his side, where Cecily could see the red drops welling mercilessly between the fingers. The crowd looked from him to the suffused face of Guy of Gisbourne, standing with his sword outstretched, the point of it glazed red. “Stand back!” he cried. “You have this stroke on your heads; would you try for another?”

  At that moment, though, Guy of Gisbourne himself staggered to the side as Little John slammed into him. Cecily snarled, “Your belt, man!” to a gaping minstrel with a trailing sash. She pulled it off him and he made no demur, and she darted forward and caught Marian as she slumped to the ground.

  “Not quite what I anticipated,” murmured Marian.

  “Hold on,” said Cecily, half weeping; “we’re getting you out of here.”

  Marian’s eyes flickered open. “Sess? What an odd dream I’m having. Why have you cut your hair? What odd clothes you are wearing—as if you were a boy. That shirt looks like something Robin’s men might wear. Don’t fall in love with an outlaw, Cecily; it makes you lose your common sense.”

  Cecily bound the sash as tightly as she could about Marian’s ribs and belly. “Press here,” she said to her. “Can you?”

  “My fingers seem so far away,” said Marian. “I will try. Poor child, I am more than an armful for you, aren’t I?”

  Cecily pulled Marian’s other arm around her shoulders, hauled her against her own hip and thigh as best she could, and began to draw her upright, as quickly as she dared; Marian’s face was very white, but her fingers pressed dutifully against the spreading red stain upon the minstrel’s sash.

  No one from the onlookers stepped forward to help Cecily, but none tried to stop her either. She was dimly aware that Little John and Guy were grappling near at hand, and something narrow and shining slithered past her feet, but she dared not drop Marian to seize it. “You!” she said, catching the eye of a young man too slow to avoid hers. “Take that sword and throw it!”

  He stared at her, but Cecily was burning up with fear and sorrow and fury, and after a moment he took three steps forward and picked up the sword. There was a bellow from Guy and a terrible thump as someone hit the ground very close behind Cecily. She let go of Mar
ian’s arm and slid her own under Marian’s knees, and lifted. She had muscles she didn’t know about yet from her quarterstaff work with Little John; and her blood was up, and she lifted her old friend without strain. “Throw it as far as you can!” she cried to the man now uneasily holding the sword. As if compelled by some force other than his own will, he raised his arm stiffly and flung the sword—awkwardly but with some strength—and the crowd beneath its trajectory ducked and swayed away from it like a field of corn under a wind. Cecily started forward with her burden, and the people before her parted to let her through.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Cecily became aware of some commotion on the edge of the crowd. There was still an unbroken circle of onlookers around the space where Marian had fallen, and Cecily, with Guy and Little John at her back, was making in a direction away from the sheriff’s dais. But she realised that as the crowd seemed to have hemmed them in, it was also, in its shock-stricken way, keeping the sheriff’s men out. It had been only minutes since Guy had cried his challenge; the sheriff’s men would start slashing their way through the crowd if it did not give way soon. And as she framed the thought, she began to hear the sound of cudgels cracking across heads and ribs, and to register what the sound was. While the worst of it was still to one side of her, she wondered what she was carrying Marian toward.

  And suddenly there was someone at her elbow, and a voice she knew said, “This way.” She had begun to follow before she identified the voice: it was the green man. “I’ve brought our waggon close up. Hurry.”

  She hurried; he went before her, to ease her way as he could. They broke through the edge of the crowd; there was one sheriff’s man immediately visible. He turned toward them, raised his staff, and opened his mouth to give a shout; but his eyes went blank, his jaw fell slack, and he crumpled forward on his face. An acrobat in yellow hose was standing just behind him, a rock in his hand.

  The confusion at the edge of the crowd would be a wide-scale brawl soon. Under almost any other circumstances so many sheriff’s men and foresters could have brought a crowd even this size quickly under their control, but the circumstances were unusual. Many local folk, and some not so local, had a soft spot for Robin Hood equalling the hard spot of grudge they bore toward the sheriff; and a few of the visitors had seen their own villages burnt by Guy of Gisbourne and were inclined to appreciate the possibility of seeing him brought low.

  Another man in livery came rushing up toward his fallen comrade, and a member of the crowd who had till then been watching idly thrust a foot out at the last moment. The man fell sprawling, rolled over, and sat up to shout at the one who had tripped him, or for help; but he disappeared from view as several of the crowd jumped on him. The brawl was beginning.

  Where was Little John? thought Cecily, as the green man said again, “Hurry. Shall I take him for you?” Cecily shook her head and made her feet go faster. The sword was gone, but what if Guy had a dagger hidden? Many of Robin’s outlaws did; would not an outlaw-hunter do the same? The tumult around her was growing; soon Little John would not be able to get out even if he was hale enough to try. What if—

  “Here,” said the green man, and touched her elbow. A small, brightly painted if a trifle worn-looking caravan was pulled up just before them, drawn by an elderly and shaggy pony. The canvas curtain at the rear of the waggon was pulled to one side, and several minstrels and acrobats stood near.

  “It was my master you wanted to steal,” gasped Cecily; Marian was taken out of her arms and lifted gently into the dark interior of the waggon.

  “If we have you, he is sure to follow,” said the green man, with a flicker of humour. “Now you.”

  Cecily stepped up to the waggon. Perhaps they were being stolen; but she could not get far without help, not with Marian hurt and … “But where is he?”

  “I am going to look for him. You stay under cover; you’ve been noticed.” He smiled briefly. “If you could order folk to toss pennies the way you order them to throw swords, you would be even more valuable to us than your master.” He said to the others: “You start out of here. There’ll be others leaving, to get away from what’s going to be a grand mopping-up once the sheriff gets the upper hand. Gerard, you come with me.” The green man and the man in yellow hose made off purposefully toward the spreading mêlée. Small knots of fighting men were separating from the crowd and rolling individually on the turf; there was a great deal of noise, and the green man had almost to shout.

  “You heard ’im, love,” said one of the women of the troupe. “You get in there now.” There were chucking noises and the slap of reins to get the pony moving, and the waggon began to lurch forward. But Cecily, rather than ducking through the canvas doorway, stayed on the outside step and put a hand out to cling to the frame, still looking toward the shattering crowd.

  “I know,” said a young man in a short embroidered surcoat. “He can have my spare suit, and then he can walk abroad with the rest of us. Make way,” he added, and jumped lightly onto the frame beside Cecily.

  “If he promises to mind his manners,” said the woman anxiously, looking back over her shoulder; but there was no one visible in livery, or none unoccupied enough to give another players’ waggon any trouble.

  The young man in the surcoat was making rustling and gentle thumping noises; Cecily turned around in time to be hit in the face with another embroidered surcoat, though not so fine a one as what the young man was wearing. “Put that on. You’ve become my twin.” He frowned, staring at her chest, and Cecily nervously put her hands up to where her bound breasts were. “You’ve blood on your shirt,” he said. “Here—wipe it first; I don’t want it on my coat.” She took the rag he offered her, but they both turned to where Marian lay. There was a small dark figure crouched beside her—Cecily had a moment to notice how very full the waggon was—who was drawing some kind of coverlet over her.

  “Do you know any doctoring?” Cecily asked; but the young man shook his head. “Dislocated joints and cracked ribs, that’s about all. Bind ’em up and leave ’em alone. Not sword wounds.”

  Marian moaned, and the small dark figure put out a small hand and wiped her face with a cloth. “Annie’ll do what any of us can do.” Cecily noticed that Annie’s other hand was pressed against the pad of bloody cloth on Marian’s side and stomach, that once had been a minstrel’s sash; the coverlet was rumpled to one side to leave the wound clear. “Are you going to put that coat on and help us look for your master or not?”

  Cecily put it on, and they left the waggon together. “Try not to look so wild,” said the young man. “You look guilty of any crime.”

  Cecily tried to relax her face. “Why are you doing this for us?”

  The young man shrugged. “Our master—that’s Henry, who you were with—liked yours.” He gave a brief grin. “Takes all kinds. Henry doesn’t usually like getting bent backwards and forwards like a stick of dried meat being torn in half, but we have been looking for a strong man to help in our tumbling, and your master didn’t hurt him, and he could’ve. That’s what really got Henry’s attention. And …” He paused. “We’ve come across Guy of Gisbourne’s trail once before; two friends of ours died of it.”

  He looked around. “Mary’s not watching—come on, quick.”

  They bolted back for the crowd. The young man might have tried to lead her, but she never noticed; she burrowed into the ranks of struggling men like a badger into the side of a bank; and the young man followed her or didn’t.

  She was smacked and kicked and thrust this way and that; she heard a seam of her coat rip. She lost track of which way she was going, and she half-paused, as much as she could in the human maelstrom. that seethed around her. Then she heard a familiar shout, and turned toward it.

  The shout was one of warning, and it was not addressed to her. A little knot of foresters had hold of Little John—she saw him now. One of his eyes was swollen nearly shut, and blood ran down his cheek, and the foresters clung to him like hounds at a boar. T
he man he shouted at was the green man, who ducked aside in time for another man to bowl past him, lose his balance, and plummet into Little John and his attackers. Little John went down.

  Cecily found herself on her hands and knees, groping for rocks. Her knee found one, her hands two more; she stuffed them violently into her pockets, which had not been made for such use. Then her groping hand found a greater prize—a knife; and her fingers grasped it just as an accidental foot caught her under the hinge of her jaw and tossed her over backward.

  She clung to the knife, though when she staggered to her feet and opened her hand to examine her prize she discovered that the base of the blade had sunk into the base of her forefinger, just above the palm, and her hand was slippery with blood. She wiped it down the side of her borrowed coat, and dove back into the human sea, aiming for the point where she had last seen Little John.

  She almost tripped over him. Her jaw hurt and her head felt funny; she stood swaying on her feet a moment, waiting for the mass of green forester backs to come into focus as separate human bodies. She fished out one of her rocks, waited for an opening, and flung it with all her strength at the bare throat of one of the men. He collapsed, rolled to one side, and lay still without a sound. She saw one of Little John’s legs come into view as the man fell away. The leg drew itself up with a snap and kneed a soft spot in another man, who gasped but did not let go. As he threw his head back, another of Cecily’s rocks caught him full square in the cheek. He gave a gargling cry, and let go of Little John to paw at his face.

  Little John half-rolled; there were only two clinging to him now—one of them looking wildly around for reinforcements. The other man seemed to be clutching at something she could not see; he had an arm around Little John’s neck, and clung to him so tightly she could not get a clear shot with her last stone. Someone else knocked into her from behind, and when she turned back again she’d come some way around the edge of the space where Little John was fighting for his freedom, and now she could see what the man clinging to his back was groping for: a knife.