by Shea, K. M.
His kiss was vastly different from King Richard’s. It was longer, yes, but unlike the King, Will would not allow me to be shocked. It was passionate, consuming, and it oddly felt as though my heart were a target and Will had just hit the dead center with a well placed arrow.
It also made me senselessly stupid.
Will finally pulled back and I slumped against his shoulder, unable to form coherent words.
“Maybe it’s just as well it took so long to kiss you,” Will said, his voice rough. “The wait for our wedding would have killed me.”
“Pfehwd,” I said into his throat.
“I agree,” Will said, hugging me closer before leaning down.
Before he could kiss me again Much burst out of the underbrush. “Alright that’s enough. No more kissing! You have to stay a horse length away from her until you’re officially married. I said no more kissing—Will Stutely seize Robyn!” he shouted.
I almost fell over in surprise, but Will Scarlet was holding most of my weight already.
Will Stutely circled us, clucking and lecturing me about kisses and spiritual ruin as more Merry Men joined us.
Will Scarlet laughed and swung me through the air before he set off, carrying me through the forest. “Be useful for once and summon the good Friar Tuck, Much. Tell him he has a wedding to preside over!”
When King Richard left for the Angevin Empire he never again set foot on Britannica’s shores alive. He died five years after I met him, in a siege on the castle of Chalus.
After that Prince John was crowned King John.
He was, as predicted, a tyrant who laid a severe taxation on Britain. He had inherited difficulties to be sure—King Richard’s ongoing feud with France was a heavy burden—but he treated his own followers with ingratitude and was generally lazy and slothful. He angered the Catholic Church because of his marriages and divorce as well as the whole Archbishop of Canterbury episode. Not to mention that he alienated the lower British class with his taxes and forest laws.
That alienation gave his barons the chance they needed to weaken the British crown forever. And as the people’s (secret) champion, I had to help them.
Chapter 10
One Last Ride
I leaned forward and squinted through the trees as my horse, Conniving, thundered along. “We’re catching up,” I shouted to Rodger. Rodger of Wendover. A monk and chronicler.
“‘We’re catching up,’ she said. I’ll have to write that down,” Rodger shouted back, gripping his leggy chestnut horse while eyeing the saddlebag thrown over the front of his saddle. That saddlebag held his inks and papers.
Yes. Rodger of Wendover. A monk and chronicler, and a major thorn in my side. Whose brilliant idea was it for me to drag a scholar with me while trying to change the course of the future?
“I told you already, you can’t write about any of this for that blasted Historic Flowers book!” I shouted back.
“I’m going to call it Flores Historiarum, Flowers of History! And I haven’t started it. Yet,” Rodger shouted, offended.
I rolled my eyes and adjusted my position before Conniving jumped a fallen tree that was in our path. “Why are you with me again?”
“Because Alan-A-Dale and I flipped a coin to see who could watch you root out King John and write about it. He lost,” Rodger said.
“That’s right, Marian would only lend you one swift horse,” I muttered into Conniving black mane. The black horse snorted, as though answering me.
Conniving was a fast horse. He wasn’t as stocky as my previous horses, Crafty, Cunning, and Cranky, but he was as swift as they came.
As Conniving jumped another tree a part of my heart twanged in pain. Years ago, I had spent afternoons with Crafty like this, racing through Sherwood Forest at top speed. But so much had changed since then.
First of all Crafty was dead and buried years ago. Secondly, as I’m sure you have predicted, I was now Countess Robyn Gamwell, the mother of three and wife of William Gamwell, Earl of Maxfield.
Since King Richard’s death sixteen years prior, I had regrouped my Merry Men. Only now we weren’t outlaws in a forest, we were lords in King John’s court. We were stewards in the highest castles. We were ranking officers in the army. We wouldn’t often rob in Sherwood Forest anymore, but we were a bigger threat to King John, now more than ever.
It was the year 1215, and I was out to kill King John’s power.
I meant to seize him and hold him until his barons pranced in and forced him to sign a document called “Articles of the Barons.” The articles themselves were important, but the most significant part of them was clause 61. Clause 61 would establish a committee of 25 barons who could, at any time, overrule whatever King John proclaimed. They could even seize his possessions and castles if they liked.
William, you would know him as Will Scarlet, my husband, had explained the importance of this clause to me time and time again as I threw together a few possessions and set out to hunt down King John so he would sign it.
(The dratted monarch had fled at the first sound of forcing him to sign it.)
“Make him seal it, Robyn,” Will had said, gripping my hand before kissing it, his eyes dark with love in spite of the urgency at the moment. “It will give England a fighting chance again. He’s going to ruin us.”
I snapped out of my memories when Conniving nearly rammed me into a tree branch.
“He wanted to come with, you know,” Rodger called to me, wincing as he bounced on the chestnut’s back.
“Who?” I called.
“William. Your husband,” Rodger replied.
I nodded and felt behind me to make sure my longbow was still properly secured. Riding without Will was like riding with a missing limb. His absence was a gaping hole in my heart. “He didn’t have much of a choice. He’s already under close analysis for being a member of Robin Hood’s band of Merry Men. And someone needed to stay behind and keep things in order,” I said, more to remind myself than to explain the situation to Rodger.
“He wasn’t happy your other men got to come,” Rodger laughed.
“Much got permission from his wife and his eldest is old enough to run the mill by himself. Gilbert is on leave from the army, and Little John’s wife practically kicked him off their small manor. I believe she said he would be sleeping with the pigs unless he got King John to sign those papers,” I laughed, feeling a little better. I was very fond of Little John’s wife, Lady Isabella. She was fiery, brash, and as sweet as a newborn filly.
Conniving snorted, white foam dripping from his mouth. Both he and Rodger’s horse were sweaty. The only thing that kept me from worrying that we might not catch King John was that I knew the horse he had taken from the Royal Stables didn’t have the stamina necessary to outrun my Conniving.
“Keep it up boy,” I murmured to my mount.
I grinned when I saw a flash of red dart through the trees ahead.
“This is it. We’ve got him Rodger,” I shouted before unhooking my longbow. My rabbit skin quiver, which was filled with arrows fletched with my familiar grey, speckled feathers, was already in place on my back.
Seconds later Rodger and I burst into a meadow. That’s when I caught full sight of him: King John.
He was in front of us, only a stone’s throw away, riding his horse hard. The animal was slick with sweat and was fairing worse than Conniving or Rodger’s chestnut.
King John was just as bad as his horse. He wore a red cape, and for once he had the good sense not to nestle his crown on his head. However, his hair was plastered to his head, and he kept twisting around. No doubt he had heard Conniving’s thunderous hooves.
“Halt, King John!” I shouted, notching an arrow.
Over the years my archery ability had not weakened in the least, thanks to continual practice. (Being the wife of a pardoned outlaw, even if he was still nobility, gave me a lot of leeway in choosing my hobbies.)
The King squealed and kicked his horse.
I release
d the first arrow, which shot clean through his red cape.
“Good aim!” Rodger complimented, still jostling on his horse’s back.
King John did not stop, although he did emit a rather high pitched scream.
I released another shot. This time the arrow grazed so closely to his head I’m sure I cut off a lock of his hair.
Still King John pressed forward.
I grumbled before shouting to Rodger, “Look out! I’m going to catch him,” I said before unclasping the few saddlebags I had packed. I pushed them off Conniving’s rump, getting rid of the excess weight.
“Come on boy. Run!” I sang to my horse.
He responded beautifully.
Conniving stretched out and picked up speed as we galloped through the meadow.
When we pulled aside the King’s horse Conniving slammed into the animal and I pushed King John straight off the side.
King John toppled to the ground as I turned Conniving around and pulled him into a prancing trot.
King John rolled to his feet and started running for the edge of the forest. In a second I had an arrow notched and aimed. I released it, and it caught the corner of his cape, pinning it to the ground.
King John abandoned the cape, ripping it off his shoulders, and continued to run away, even when I pulled Conniving into a tight circle around him. He victoriously leaped at the tree line, but was forced to halt in his tracks when I nailed him to a tree with a well placed arrow that dug through his clothes.
“No!” King John moaned. “Let me go! I’ll give you anything!”
Conniving blew hard and tossed his head as I uneasily kept another arrow trained on the sweating King John.
“Well done Robyn!” Rodger praised from his horse’s back as the animal walked forward, stopping a short distance away. “And so King John was cornered in Runnymede Meadow,” he said, digging in his saddlebag, pulling out a piece of paper.
I slid off Conniving and slowly ambled up to King John, an arrow still notched in my bowstring. “King John, you are going to sign the Articles of the Barons,” I told him, exhaling deeply. (I was starting to be too old for this.)
“I assure you, Madame, if you release me I will reward you for—,” he froze when he saw my face and squinted. “You are Countess Gamwell, wife to that infuriating Earl of Maxfield. Of course you would be the one to capture me,” he grumbled. “Your blasted husband has no spine against you—,”
“Curb your tongue, King John,” I warned, poking him in the nose with the sharp tip of my arrow. “Lest I become tempted to rid Britain of you forever.”
“I’ll have you killed for your insolence!” King John promised.
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “How many times have you said that in the past, and it’s never come true. Give it up, King John,” I laughed.
“What?” King John muttered as sweat trickled down the side of his face. He was growing nervous and was too frazzled to notice my implication. “Y-you can’t hurt me,” he continued. “Release me, you barbaric woman!”
“Rodger, you have a crossbow?”
“Yes,” Rodger said, almost falling off his horse.
“Load it and keep it trained on King John,” I ordered.
Rodger unhooked the crossbow and did as I asked. “I don’t understand. What are you—oh! Is this the famed call I’ve heard so much about?” he excitedly said.
“Keep your eye on the King, Rodger,” I warned as I felt through my skirts before finding what I was looking for, my white horn.
King John turned ghost white. “No,” he whispered.
I brought the horn to my lips and blew three quick blasts.
“It can’t be,” King John shook.
“But it is,” Rodger assured the shaken man.
“Rodger, shut your mouth,” I warned.
King John was staring at my face with horror. “Robin Hood,” he uttered. “He gave that to you didn’t he? I knew he wasn’t dead! He couldn’t be dead! Every few years another ballad about him would pop out of the woodwork. I’ll have his head when I’m finished with you!” he snarled.
King John was right, to a degree. I hadn’t completely given up Robin Hood yet. Occasionally Little John and my closest men and I would return to Sherwood to rob for a fortnight or two and make more memories. Alan-A-Dale was usually with us, hence the ballads.
“Where is he?” King John continued. “He’s behind this whole mess isn’t he?”
“King John, I would be more worried about your barons than Robin Hood at this moment,” I smirked.
“Are you sure I can’t write about this?” Rodger complained. “History should reflect the truth!”
“Not all truths. Leave Robin Hood and his Merry Men out of your history compilation Rodger. We make the water murky enough already,” I said, my eyes tracing the edges of the meadow. “There they are,” I said as two horses exited the forest and galloped in my direction.
I waved my hand to greet my second in command and first Merry Man: Little John and Much the miller.
“I told you we needed to catch him. Those barons of his are slow,” I said to my men as they pounded up to us, pulling their horses into skidding halts just short of Conniving.
“I didn’t argue that his barons were slow, I simply thought it might be too dangerous,” Much argued, dismounting with Little John.
“I knew you could catch him,” Little John said.
“Where’s Gilbert?” I asked as my men left their horses and wandered to my side.
“Guiding the barons here. They should arrive in several minutes.”
“Perfect. Rodger, enjoy chronicling your history. I shall see you again sometime in the future,” I said before motioning at Much. “Keep your weapons trained on the King, Much. He’s anxious to get away from his barons.”
“Are you sure you won’t stay?” Rodger asked.
“The barons wouldn’t be suspicious of Robin Hood’s men aiding them, but they might find it odd that it was Countess Gamwell who caught their miscreant King. I cannot afford to bring myself under further scrutiny, Rodger. I have to go,” I said. “Much, please stay behind with Rodger to guard King John. I’ll meet you back in London later tonight,” I said, fixing my horn back into the folds of my skirts. (Traipsing around the countryside in a dress was not entertaining. I still have no idea how Marian managed it for so long when we were stationed in Sherwood.)
I started towards Conniving, Little John behind me.
“Tell him I’ll find him, and I’ll kill him!” King John vowed.
I paused and turned around. “What?”
“Tell Robin Hood that I am coming for him! He can’t hide from me forever! I shall ruin him for this!” King John hissed.
I narrowed my eyes and stalked back towards the monarch. I couldn’t stand it anymore. Someone had to set the lazy, overgrown brat straight.
“Listen to me,” I growled, reaching out to grab King John by the throat.
He cried out but settled down when I squeezed his neck.
“Listen long and hard, King John. Robin Hood is not afraid of you. He’s never gone into hiding, he never ran away from you, he’s been dogging your every step,” I whispered in his ear. “Robin Hood has never let you out of his sight, King John. And I never will,” I said before pushing him back against the tree.
King John looked shocked and confused before glancing at the arrow that held him pinned to the tree. As he stared at the grey, speckled fletching, Robin Hood’s trademark, he finally realized. “You,” he said, his mouth a-gap. “You are Robin Hood!”
I smirked before cruelly laughing. “I am. And I have danced in your courts and eaten in your halls. Be afraid, King John. I can follow you wherever you go. And if you endanger this country any further… I will take care of you,” I uttered before twisting around and stalking away.
I fastened my longbow over Conniving’s back, along with the saddlebags Little John had kindly retrieved.
After securing everything, Little John helped me s
truggle onto Conniving. (Mounting and sitting astride in skirts is a clumsy practice.)
“Remember, King John,” I cheerfully called as Little John mounted his horse. I could see flags and horses moving at the far end of the meadow. “I could have killed you all of those years ago when I robbed your carriage. Sign the articles, my King. Or there’s no telling where I’ll pop up next time,” I said before urging Conniving into a slow canter.
Little John and I rode out of Runnymede meadow, disappearing from sight just as King John’s barons piled in.
“We should make it home in less than a day. I hope Isabella will make her cinnamon bread for me. Ah, that was well done, Robyn,” Little John praised as we pulled our horses into a companionable walk.
“Thank you,” I smiled.
“You should be thankful. Since Alan isn’t here he won’t dare make another ballad,” he teased.
“I’ve had enough ballads to last me a life time,” I groaned.
“But they’re so catchy,” Little John argued before launching into one, his baritone voice echoing through the forest.
“Robin Hood he was and a tall young man,
Derry derry down
And fifteen winters old,
And Robin Hood he was a proper young man,
Of courage stout and bold.
Hey down derry derry down.”
“I really must set Alan on making a Robin Hood death ballad. I’m getting to be too old for this, and I tire of leaving my family for outlaw business. I have a cousin, the prioress of Kirkly. She offered to be the villain of the story and kill me.”
“Aye, I can understand that. I miss Isabella fiercely when we ride. …But, I beg your pardon, who on earth would want to be responsible for ‘killing’ Robin Hood?” Little John asked.
“She’s sort of a nut,” I admitted.
“That explains it,” Little John laughed before singing a different ballad.
“When Robin Hood was about twenty years old,
