by Nicky Raven
“Do it,” she said. “Prove to everyone how brave and chivalrous you are. Kill an unarmed woman.”
Martel hesitated.
“I strongly suggest you don’t,” said a voice from behind them all. In the intensity of the moment no one had heard the horses draw up behind them. The sheriff was at the head of them, staring at Martel, waiting to see if the knight would defy him.
Martel wavered, turning to his men for support.
“No use looking at them, Sir William,” said the sheriff. “Unlike you they can see the column of two hundred mounted guards approaching behind me. I thought I’d come on ahead, I didn’t want to miss the fun.”
Martel took a deep breath and drew himself together. The dead silence was broken only by the whimpering of a child aboard one of the wagons.
“My lord,” started Martel pompously, “we have arrested the notorious outlaw, Robin of Locksley. He is here, a prisoner, awaiting your justice.”
“Poppycock!” cried the sheriff. Marian, in one of those strange moments that sometimes happen in the midst of a crisis, giggled to herself and wondered just how often the sheriff used his favorite word.
“This has nothing to do with me,” said the sheriff menacingly. “It was not justice you and Gisburn were seeking, it was revenge. Revenge for being made to look like the cretins you are.”
“My lord!” shouted Martel, looking genuinely offended.
“Shut up, Sir William,” roared the sheriff, even louder. He may have been a small man, but he had a big voice. “Before I order my men to cut out your tongue for insolence and disobedience.”
He waited for any further argument, but Martel chose to hold his tongue rather than lose it.
“Release that man,” said the sheriff to the men holding Robin; in truth, the remarkable turn of events had broken their concentration and they had long since relaxed their grip on his arms. “And the rest of them,” continued the sheriff, gesturing toward all the outlaws held captive.
The sheriff dismounted and walked over to Martel. He took the knight’s sword from him and Martel flinched as if expecting a blow. The sheriff laughed and thrust the sword into the soil by the roadside. He gave Martel his instructions quietly, and menacingly.
“You will go to London, Sir William. There you will offer your services to the military orders and leave for the Holy Land.”
Martel hung his head; he was beaten now, and he knew it.
“Your brother Roland will make a far better job of running Ashby Castle,” continued the sheriff. “He has the advantage of a brain.”
The sheriff turned to Robin and Marian. As he walked past Gisburn’s body, he looked down. “Only an incompetent could fall on his sword,” he remarked, fighting the smile that was agitating the corner of his mouth. He looked at Marian. “I am sorry he has ruined your gown, my lady.”
Marian sobbed, and would have collapsed had Robin not caught her.
“I am sorry for the loss of your men, too, Locksley,” the sheriff added, “I was about to offer most of them a post in my guards. I have a full pardon for you in my pocket, granted by the newly returned King Richard. My guess is that Gisburn got wind of this and tried for a last throw of the dice.”
“He threw badly, my Lord Sheriff,” said Robin.
“He did most things badly, Locksley,” agreed the sheriff with a nod. “At least with him gone I have a home and a title fitting of your birth to bestow on you. Locksley Hall is yours again.”
A cheer went up from the outlaws within earshot, and Marian managed a weak smile before burying her head in Robin’s chest again.
“And Locksley . . .” said the sheriff.
Robin looked at him over Marian’s head and raised his eyebrows.
“Make sure . . . you know,” the sheriff gestured at Marian.
“Yes, my Lord Sheriff, I know,” said Robin with a smile and nod of thanks.
The sheriff walked away, pausing to absent-mindedly ruffle the fur on Damson’s neck. The old dog growled suspiciously, but kept his teeth in his mouth.
“Fine dog, that,” shouted the sheriff over his shoulder.
Robin had understood the sheriff’s gesture, and after a brief courtesy visit to ask old Sir Walter’s permission, he asked Marian the very next day if she would be his wife, now that his lands and title were restored. They stood in the small castle garden for a moment while Marian smiled and cried and bit her lip to stop herself from crying—and then cried again, while laughing at the same time.
“Silly man,” she said, a happy smile on her face. “It’s not titles or land I want, it’s you.”
“Always and forever?” he asked.
It had started to drizzle. Marian pulled her cloak tightly around herself, and reached up to draw Robin’s hood over his face.
“Always and forever, Robin Hood.”
*
Chapter Seven
Epilogue
ighteen months later Robin and Marian were sitting in another garden, the one at Locksley Hall, when Friar Michael puffed into the room. It was the friar who had put his trust in the sheriff and told him of Gisburn’s little scheme all those months ago.
Friar Michael announced excitedly that they had an unexpected visitor, but before he could tell them who it was, a booming voice from behind him gave the game away.
“Don’t make such a drama of things, Tuck!” laughed John, as he filled the doorway with his massive frame.
Marian squealed and ran to hug their old friend. Damson gave a happy bark and hauled his arthritic limbs out of his warm basket. Robin managed a more composed greeting.
“How is my Lord of Ivanhoe?” asked Robin. He had fought alongside William of Ivanhoe, Cedric’s son, and was pleased when he’d won back his lands, just as Robin had. The old man had passed away soon afterward, so now John served the son.
“He’s as good a man as one could hope to work for, present company excepted,” said John.
Marian looked over John’s shoulder to where a cheery-looking woman stood behind them with two small children. Marian looked at the giant former outlaw.
“John?” she asked, curious, “have you something to tell us?”
John beamed and beckoned to the woman and children.
“I’d like you to meet my wife, Aileen,” he said proudly, putting his arm protectively around Aileen’s shoulder. She blushed and curtseyed. “We were sweethearts when we were young,” explained John, “but then I went off to the wars, so Aileen married, thinking I would never return. Her husband died two years ago, and when I went back to Lord Ivanhoe it was as if we’d never been apart.”
“And these beautiful children?” asked Marian, kneeling to greet the youngsters, who were desperately trying to hide behind Aileen’s skirts to escape Damson’s insatiably curious nose.
“They’ll be Aileen’s . . .” started Robin, but John cut him off.
“No, no,” he said, and a sad look passed briefly across his face. “These two scallywags were two of the children Marian cared for, barely more than babes they were then.”
Marian nodded, and her eyes suddenly misted with tears. She looked at Robin.
“Can’t you see?” she asked him. “It wasn’t so obvious when they were small but now . . .”
Robin saw it.
“The red-haired boy,” he said.
“And the dark-skinned girl,” added Marian, finishing the sentence. She looked at John. “They’re Will and Alyn’s, aren’t they?” she asked.
“Robin, Marian,” said John by way of reply, “meet Little Will and Elena.”
“Little Will,” said Robin, offering his hand formally to the scarlet-haired boy. “And Elena,” he added, scooping the shy young girl into his arms.
“You will both be welcome at this house to your dying day. I knew your mother and father, you see, and they were very, very great friends of mine.”
About
the Artist
nne Yvonne Gilbert was born and raised in Northumberland, England. As a chil
d, Yvonne (as she likes to be known) was enthralled by the illustrations in the books of fairy tales that her mother would buy her from jumble sales. Little did she know what effect they would have . . .
After going to art college, Yvonne became an illustrator in 1978. Her work is highly successful, winning many awards, and is held in the private collections of Arnold Schwarzenegger and the late HRH Princess Margaret.
The legend of Robin Hood played a part in Yvonne’s life as she grew up. She remembers watching The Adventures of Robin Hood on a black-and-white television set and insists she can still sing the theme tune to this day. Perhaps inspired by what she saw, a trip to Sherwood Forest gave the young Yvonne a chance to search for any traces of the real outlaw. As she now says of that trip, “goodness knows what I expected to find, but it would still be nice to imagine he really did exist, once upon a time.”
She has previously collaborated with Nicky Raven and admires the way he takes a modern, realistic approach to familiar characters. Inspired by Nicky’s portrayal of Robin and his men as battle-hardened veterans, Yvonne was keen to give her Robin a lived-in face and the physique of a man who would be able to fight and survive. Inspiration also came from friends and family, who Yvonne photographed in costume as they acted out the parts of the main characters. This included her brother-in-law, who she jokes was more than happy to gain a few pounds in weight for his role as Friar Tuck!
Yvonne chose to illustrate this book using colored pencil overdrawn in ink. She also decided to stick to a color palette that mainly consisted of greens and browns, in keeping with the natural setting of the story and also the traditional “Lincoln green” worn by Robin and his men.
The story of Robin Hood may only be the stuff of myth and legend, but, in Yvonne’s own words: “All good fantasy has to have a solid grounding in reality to work. I hope I’ve managed to include enough detail to make my characters believable.”
