by Edale Lane
"Aye," Robyn said with a nod. She snagged an arrow from her quiver, notched it on the string, and raised her bow into position. Eying the swinging sacks, she let loose her shaft which sailed past the first bag before narrowly missing the second and striking the trunk of the tree. She winced, lowering her weapon.
Gilbert let out a little laugh. "At least you didn't kill the peasant." He took a few steps and pushed the bags to restart their swings. "Do not fret; most people miss their initial try. However, I note your focus seems wanting this morn."
Indeed, Robyn thought. Her concentration was sorely lacking. Still basking in the glow of the evening before, she found it hard to think of anything but Marian… her sensually magic hands, sizzling cherry lips, and full, supple breasts all creamy with a sweet strawberry on top.
No! You have to focus, Robyn commanded herself as she drew another arrow. There is too much at stake; you must get this right! She closed her eyes and breathed deep, wiggling her neck and shoulders to limber up and tried to clear her mind.
"Try again," Gilbert encouraged.
This time Robyn took aim with deliberate purpose. She estimated the timing of the swinging bags then let go the shaft which glided straight into its mark.
"Now there's a fine shot!" Gilbert complimented while he retrieved the arrow. "Take twenty paces back and let's do that again."
"Twenty paces?" Robyn's eyes widened at the prospect.
"The farther away from which you can strike your target, the better, Robin; you know that." Gilbert pushed the sacks and called out as he stepped aside, "Remember to read the wind and adjust for the distance."
Robyn felt the breeze on her cheek as she took aim. She raised the tip of her shaft slightly, waited to count the timing, then let it soar straight past the first bag into the second. "Well done!" exclaimed Gilbert. "It seems you are ready for the next step."
"There's more?" she inquired as she lowered her weapon.
"Back up another ten paces and I will tell you," he instructed. While she was counting off the paces, Gilbert strung up a third sandbag about two feet behind the second. It bore a round dot the size of a man's palm splashed in its middle. "The first two bags are peasants; don't hit them. This last one is the Sheriff sneaking up to murder the peasants. You can't let that happen!"
"Three!" she exclaimed. "From fifty paces? Is that even possible?" She squinted and pointed. "And what is on that third bag?"
An amused grin crossed Gilbert's mouth. "That's his wretched black heart, your target."
She sighed with a shake of her head. "I'll try."
"No you won't!" he demanded. "That is likely to get innocent persons killed. When faced with this situation, you must succeed; otherwise, do not take the shot. Robin, you will strike the bull's-eye and miss the two bags before it."
"As you say," she answered with a nod and took aim. Gilbert set the three bags in motion alternately. Robyn pulled the fletching to her ear and sighted down the shaft. She took a slow breath feeling for the wind, raised the tip of her arrow adjusting for distance, and calculated the rhythm of the swinging targets. In her mind, the bow and bolt became extensions of her will, not tools or weapons, but more like a limb, a part of her own body. Anticipating where the positions of the sacks would be by the time her shot would reach them, she let go. The missile spiraled through the air, whistling past the first and second bags and plunged into the painted splotch on the third.
"Bugger me!" Gilbert allowed, trying not to look too amazed. "Right nice shooting, Robin. But, will all be so calm and quiet for you to concentrate during a battle? I think not! Hey Arthur, Much, Alan! Come lend us your aid!" The three approached, along with a few other curious onlookers.
"What can we do?" Alan asked, his sandy curls sticking out in all directions.
"I need you fellows to make lots of noise, like a fight is going on. And shove each other about, so you can mayhap distract this fledgling marksman," Gilbert explained while he readied the swinging bags for another round. "We'll see how sharp his focus is now!"
A grin tugged at the corner of Robyn's mouth. She understood this was the true test; she must strike her mark in the midst of a battle under uncontrolled circumstances. "Good plan, Whitehand," she said with a nod toward him.
While the lads started laying bets as to whether she could make the shot, Robyn drew upon an inner strength, blocking out everything and everyone save her bow and the swinging bags. The men made clanging noises and shouts and pushed each other around while Gilbert set the targets into action. But Robyn's focus was singular and intense, and when she loosed the arrow, it struck its mark every bit as expertly as it had before.
The clamor ceased, and the lads stared dumbfounded with amazement.
"I don't believe it!" Alan exclaimed and blinked his eyes twice just to be sure.
"And from this distance?" added Much.
Gilbert maneuvered his way down the path to where Robyn and the others stood. With a look of astonished pride, he said, "Son, I never made that shot in training, not with the distractions. You are the master now."
Robyn cast down her gaze and shook her head amidst all the exuberant praise her fellows lavished on her. Then lifting her eyes to his she replied, "Targets are one thing; actual people are another. You have seen true combat and so far I have only been in a few skirmishes, nothing that amounted to life and death. But that is coming."
"Yes," he said grimly. "I believe it is. Which is why, when the time comes, you cannot think of your enemies as people, only as targets. If you for an instant consider their life, loved ones, or any good thing, you will hesitate, a lack of action that will surely get you killed. They are targets, nothing more, for that is all you are to them. You may perform your penance before God anon, providing you live to do so."
Robyn nodded. "I understand."
Just then, a gaunt man in his late twenties with stringy black hair and beard came trotting up to the group panting and sweaty. They turned their attention to him as he stopped short, doubling over to lean his hands on his knees. Arthur Bland reached out to steady him.
"What is it, Aaron?" Robyn asked as she stepped toward him.
"The Sheriff and his men," he let out between gasps for air. "Millhaven."
She nodded. "Aye."
Upon Robyn's return to camp that morning, she had sent out scouts to ascertain which village Giffard would strike, but she hadn't thought it would be this soon.
"Everyone, come hither!" she called out. Recognizing the urgency in her voice, each man and woman stopped what they were doing and congregated around Robyn. "It is time to put our plan into action. The good people of Millhaven need our protection. The Sheriff and his men mean them great harm; they are planning to kill innocent villagers because they want to find me." She cast her gaze over each individual in the crowd. "I will not let that happen! And neither will you. We are all Robin Hood!"
"We are Robin Hood!" the assembly shouted back as one voice.
"Arm yourselves and make ready; we move out in ten minutes." She scanned the group for Will Scarlet and jogged over to him.
"Prithee, you and David of Doncaster go with Isaac to take that wagon load of supplies to Loxley."
Disappointment dampened Will's eyes. "I would rather be fighting at your side, watching your back. I am skilled with my swords."
"Aye," she replied placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. She stepped in closer and spoke with a quiet imperative. "Will, this is very important. I need someone I can trust with this mission. This is our best–mayhap only–opportunity to get these supplies to Loxley. The Sheriff will likely have all his guards with him in attempt to capture me; but if some are left behind you can hold them off."
"Aye, but," her friend protested. "You'll be in great danger. I feel like you are just sending David and me off to do something safe because we are the youngest."
Robyn snickered. "I thought you said I was the youngest!"
Will shook his head with a bewildered expression. "I don't know
what you are."
"I'm not keeping you safe. I need you to do this."
When Will raised his blue eyes to hers they were steeled with resignation. "I'll get it done."
"Gramercy, mate."
*~*~*
Millhaven rested along a sharp bend in the River Trent northeast of Nottingham, not far below the southern expanse of Sherwood Forest. While the city of Nottingham boasted a number of wool pounding mills used in processing the material, Bedfordshire built stone cutting mills to accompany their quarries, and lumber mills were scattered about the woodlands, this peaceful hamlet sprang up around a grain mill, a prerequisite for almost any community. A stone flute had been constructed in the river bend to catch and divert a swift flowing current to turn the wooden paddles of the undershot wheel which rose higher than the mill's thatched roof. The steady slap, splash, and gurgle of the wheel's perpetual motion had become a constant white-noise that the residents barely noticed.
Inside, the barrel-chested balding miller wearing a tan apron over his natural tunic pulled a chain which opened a hopper filled with wheat. The flaxen kernels streamed down a slipper and fell out onto the massive lower millstone. He aimed the end of the trough so that the grain was evenly distributed while the heavy wheel of the upper millstone, driven by water power, rolled in a circular motion around the lower stone crushing the grain into fine flour. The miller used a hand brush to sweep any stray kernels back under the smashing weight of the big wheel and to direct the newly created flour into sloping grooves in the lower stone where gravity would pull it to pour into open, waiting sacks. The inviting aroma of fresh bread wafted from the next building where the miller's wife was busy baking.
A trio of women were gathered around a merchant's wagon parked near the well in the town center examining his wares. Opposite them stood the weaver's hut. A work area consisting of a pole and thatch structure over a packed dirt floor was open on its southern side for light and air. Under the roof, four horizontal looms were operated by the weaver, his mother, and two daughters. Each sat on a stool working foot pedals while aptly sliding a shuttle through a set of wool threads stretched taut at both ends. After passing the shuttle from side to side, they would slap the new thread tight with a hand paddle that was attached to the loom's frame - all done to the rhythmic pounding of the smithy's hammer from next door.
"Did you hear what Izzy did?" asked one daughter in typical gossip fashion while her hands worked the threads in the loom.
"Izzy is such a featherhead!" replied the other young woman. "She's a featherhead and a fizgig!"
The weaver gave his daughters a disapproving look, but his elderly mother with her ash hair pulled into a tight bun didn't appear to hear their chatter.
The smithy's hammer stopped abruptly, and the weavers perceived the thunder of many horse hooves cantering into their small village. Dust puffed up into clouds, chickens ran squawking in all directions followed by bleating goats, their little bells clanging around their necks. The muscular smithy looked up from the red-hot iron rod to witness the Sheriff of Nottingham, his deputy and twenty armed men pull their mounts to a halt. A young mother snatched up her toddler and hurried into her hovel. The miller closed the grain hopper and stepped outside to see what was happening.
A herald holding a rolled parchment in one fist rang a hand bell with the other. "Hear ye, hear ye!" he cried out in a clear, resounding voice. "The honorable Sheriff of Nottingham, Earl of Loxley, and honorary tax collector for Prince John demands all inhabitants of this hamlet listen to this proclamation."
He waited while timid peasants gathered in the town center. The smithy set down his metal and meandered over wearing a curious expression. The miller, spotted with flour, and his curly haired wife stood across from the weaver's family. A carpenter, a chandler, and several laborers, joined the assembly along with about a dozen women clinging nervously to their small children. Four soldiers came in from the north and east escorting yeoman farmers and sheep herders from the surrounding fields.
Once it appeared they had all arrived, Nottingham nodded and the herald continued. "Be it known that this outlaw," he said unfurling the rolled parchment to display the image of a hooded, clean-shaven man, "is wanted for thievery, treason, and sundry crimes against the Crown. Any person or persons who has knowledge of this outlaw, known as Robin Hood, is required to give account to the Sheriff. Any person or persons found to be harboring said criminal, or lending him or his gang aid, or who knows of his whereabouts and fails to report shall be punished most severely. And any person or persons who accept food, clothing, coins, or any other contraband from said criminal will be found guilty of receiving stolen property and punished most severely. This is the decree of our Honorable Sheriff."
The villagers exchanged glances with one another before returning their eyes to the herald and the Sheriff, but all remained silent.
Sheriff Godfrey Giffard gave a signal with his right hand and he, Deputy Blanchard, and half of the armed escort dismounted.
"What?" Nottingham questioned as he sauntered around the well occupying the town center. Most of the guards on foot surrounded the village cutting off every avenue of escape should any peasant decide to run while two stood beside the deputy to protect the Sheriff should the need arise. "No one has anything to say?" His sable mane which fell nigh his shoulders was animated by a breeze as he cast a menacing glare over the congregation.
The blacksmith, possessing a fearless reputation, spoke first in spite of the tension rising from his gut. "Milord, what can we tell you? I have never seen the outlaw Robin Hood, nor do I know who he is or where he stays. I only know that one morn, when I awoke, there was a bundle on the doorstep." His gaze left the Sheriff and passed over his neighbors as he gestured. "We each had a gift bag with food, blankets, a few coins and sundries, and after discussion we guessed they could have come from Hood. But if it was him, he came in the night and we had no knowledge of it."
"So, you admit to receiving stolen goods!" Blanchard seized the opportunity. "You must surrender them at once."
"We didn't know they were stolen," declared the Miller, a shadow of gloom falling over his formerly cheerful countenance.
Godfrey continued to meander his way around, scoping the layout of the village and skimming his gaze along the rooftops.
"Why did you not report these… gifts?" he asked still scanning the vicinity. "Even if they were legally obtained, ten percent belongs to the church, ten percent to me and another twenty to the crown." Then his onyx eyes spied the blacksmith's hammer lying on its anvil in his open-sided shop.
While various voices repeated what the smithy and miller had said, Nottingham picked up the mallet, testing its weight in his hand. As he strolled back into their midst, he motioned to the two guards flanking Blanchard and pointed to the brawny smith.
"Receiving stolen goods is no better than thievery," he stated nonchalantly.
The burley man's eyes widened and he tensed as the lackeys in black leather and chain mail led him to stand before the Sheriff beside the village well. "My lord," he said shakily, then swallowed. "On my oath, I didn't realize the lot was stolen, nor do I have any knowledge of Hood. I am an honest man, and would tell you if I had such knowledge."
Godfrey inclined his head. "Mayhap you would, but punishment must be meted out, examples made. Stretch out your right arm."
"Milord?" Sweat poured from his thick brow as his ale tinted eyes pleaded. He started to comply, but one of the soldiers grabbed his arm roughly and slammed it onto the stone wall of the well. "I will pay you every copper owed!"
Nottingham stroked his beard and again scanned the edges of the wood. "One punishment afforded to thieves is to lose a hand," he mused. "But since you didn't actually do the stealing yourself, I may show mercy." Just as the smith's muscles began to relax, Godfrey jerked up the cumbrous tool and slammed it down onto the stunned man's outstretched appendage.
When he cried out in pain, the two guards released him and he clutched t
he crushed extremity to his chest. His anguished face turned up to the Sheriff's aspect of stone. "My hand! Bloody hell! Oh, God's teeth, how am I to work, to feed my family?"
The Sheriff dismissed the peasant's cries. "Why do you need to labor? You have Robin Hood to feed you."
The brawny smith stumbled back to his family and chanced to glance down at his red swollen hand, its digits splayed unnaturally as pain throbbed like the clapper ringing in the colossal church bell at St. Mary's. A lanky lad in his early teens and a petite blond woman drew to his side to comfort him.
Godfrey shot him a slant of disdain. He loathed peasants. They were unlearned, uncouth, foul-smelling, dirty creatures who regularly required a lashing to be motivated in their work. Passing a haughty gaze over the lot of them reminded him that they also reproduced like rabbits. A lazy, worthless class of reprobates whose only purpose was to provide food and labor for their betters. And while he understood full well they could not be trusted, he supposed that this crowd may actually be telling the truth. But that was beside the point.
"Now that I have your attention," he stated, "I hope that the rest of you will be more forthcoming about the person and whereabouts of this outlaw." He strolled up to the weaver's family. "You appear more intelligent than that rubbish," he said tilting his head toward the blacksmith. "Tell me about Robin Hood."
The weaver stepped in front of his mother and two daughters protectively, his stature like a stick-bug alongside the tall, well-honed Sheriff. "My lord, John speaks the truth," he implored. "We have never seen nor spoken with this man; how could we hope to guess where to find him? How do we even know 'twas he who bore us the gifts?"
Nottingham taunted the frightened tradesman. "Ah, yes, mayhap it was brownies or fairies who brought the food, or yet elves or leprechauns who supplied the goods and coins." Then his visage darkened along with the tone in his voice. "Do you take me for a fool?"
"No, no, God in Heaven, no!" The weaver dropped to his knees in show of his submission. "But verily, I know nothing about Hood!"
