A Hoboken Hipster In Sherwood Forest

by Mari AKA Marianne Mancusi

  Oh, great. First day in medieval times and I've managed to get myself on a Most Wanted poster. Nice one, Chris.

  "Still, I couldn't just sit there and let them cut off his hand!" I protest.

  Robin's face softens. "Aye. Forsooth, 'twas a selfless deed." He places a hand on my shoulder. "You are a brave lad."

  Thanks," I say, feeling my face heat at his compliment. Or maybe at his touch—it's hard to tell at this point. I wonder if now's a good time to reveal my inner female.

  "Well, fellow outlaw, will you join us for supper?" Robin asks. "I could introduce you to my men."

  Ooh. An invite to hang with the Merry Men. Now we're talking.

  "Sure," I say. "I'd be up for that."

  I decide to skip telling him I'm a chick. At least for now. He might get all protective and want to drop me off at a village where I'll be safe. After all, in these days, women were seen as fragile, delicate flowers not suited for cavorting with outlaws.

  If I have to be stuck in the 12th century until King Richard returns from his crusades, I at least want to live more of the legend before I'm relegated to some medieval kitchen.

  ###

  Argh. My feet kill. I would give absolutely anything right now, even my rent-stabilized apartment, for a pair of Nikes. You won't ever know the pain of walking barefoot through a dense English forest for miles on end, but to give you an idea, it's worse than walking the length of Manhattan in two-sizes-too-small stilettos. Really. I've done both now, so I know.

  "Who goes there?"

  I jump back with a start as a man leaps from the bushes, bow and arrow drawn. Robin only laughs.

  "A bit jumpy are you, Much?" he asks.

  The man lowers his bow and flashes a toothy grin. He's tall and scrawny, with wild blond hair that sticks up in tufts. He wears a gray hooded cloak over a battered leather tunic and trousers.

  "Well, Robin, you canna be too careful," Much says. “The sheriffs men have been in the forest all day—searching for some poor bastard who avoided his taxes, I wager."

  Robin gives me a pointed look. "Much, I'd like you to meet Christian," he says, motioning to me. "Our guest for supper. We shall be roasting one of His Majesty's deer in his honor. If you care to join us, you would be most welcome at our table."

  Much's eyes light up as my heart sinks. Is this a good time to tell them I'm vegetarian? Or that I watched Bambi fifty-four times as a kid and have no desire to leave some poor fawn to face the winter without his mother?

  "Well met, Christian," Much says to me, bobbing up and down in a sort of half bow, half curtsey.

  "Well met," I repeat, deciding to keep quiet about the impending Bambi massacre. My situation is precarious here, and I don't want to appear ungrateful. I won't go as far as actually eating the deer, though; I don't want my PETA membership revoked.

  "We must be off," Robin says. "If we are to reach the lair by nightfall."

  "Hold on a second. Aren't we almost there?" I ask, peering up at the sun, which is still quite high in the sky.

  Robin shakes his head. "Nay, we have some distance still."

  Oh, man. More walking. I don't know if my feet can handle it. I lift my right leg and peer at the sole of my foot. It's black and bleeding. Lovely.

  Robin catches my examination and to my surprise pulls off his own leather boots. "Might be a bit large for you," he says, handing them to me. "But they are all I have with me. When we arrive at camp, I will find you some proper footwear."

  "But what are you going to wear?" I ask, trying to be fair even though I desperately want those shoes.

  He shrugs. "My feet are tough and used to walking." He holds out the shoes and I take them with immense relief.

  "Thank you so much." I crouch down to put them on my aching feet. They're almost four sizes too big and have no Dr. Scholl's shock-absorbing gel inserts, but they're a great improvement over my barefoot status. I can't believe the guy's literally given me the shoes off his feet. Danny would never even give me half the blankets in bed on a cold winter's night.

  Much waves good-bye as Robin and I continue our journey. "I will send an arrow to announce yer arrival to the men," he says in an eager-to-please-the-boss voice. Then he tilts his bow skyward and affixes an arrow with some sort of circular barrel attached to its tip. I stop to watch, intrigued. He sends the arrow skyward and it makes a whistling noise that echoes through the forest. So that's what people did before iPhones.

  Robin nods to Much, then pulls a long white rag from his sack and turns to me. "I am afraid I must blindfold you for the remainder of the journey," he says apologetically. "We cannot have strangers knowing the way to our hideout."

  "You think you're going to put that over my eyes?" I say, staring at the nasty, stained piece of cloth. Ewh. I take back all my "isn't he nice to give me shoes" thoughts.

  Robin laughs. "‘Twill not kill you."

  Maybe not, but I can only imagine the potential zit factor. I mean, who wore this before me? So help me if I get a sty. But I sigh and give in. After all, I don't have a lot of alternatives at this point.

  Robin moves behind me and places the rag around my head, tying it in the back. I can feel his breath on the back of my neck as he concentrates on the knot. Instant goose bumps.

  Why the heck am I so damned attracted to this guy? Is it simply the bad-boy factor? He's an infamous outlaw, after all. Or maybe it's my practically single status. I can't exactly remember the last time Danny and I made love. He'd come home saying he was too tired and I, the good wife, had bought it and gone without. I hadn't realized the fatigue came from banging Waitress Wanda, or I'd have gone out and found a way to tire out myself.

  With my vision now completely obscured by the nasty and probably unsanitary rag, Robin takes hold of my elbow and leads me down the path. It reminds me of those old team-building games they used to make you play at work. Where you had to trust the other person. Being blindly led by a practical stranger who every once in a while whispers for me to step up, step down, veer left or right. It feels rather intimate, actually.

  After about a half hour it's no longer intimate or sexy or fun. In fact, it sucks. His camp or lair or whatever he calls it is evidently in the East Bumfuck zone of Sherwood Forest. Either that or he's taking me the long way round to make sure I really have no clue where the place is.

  "Are we there yet?" I ask.

  "Almost."

  I'm relieved at that until I realize, five minutes later, we're still walking. What's his definition of almost, anyhow? Almost, a few more paces? Or almost, just a mile or two more down the path?

  "Are we there yet?" I can't help but ask again. I know, I know.

  I can hear his exasperated sigh. "Almost."

  But still we walk. And walk. And walk. You know, when I said I wanted to swing by and check out his camp, I had no idea it'd be located in another time zone.

  "Are we there ye—?"

  He huffs, stops walking, and whips off my blindfold. I blink a few times as my eyes adjust to my surroundings. "Are we here?” I ask, looking around. If we are, it's not much of a camp. In fact, it doesn't look like any camp at all. Just a bunch of trees.

  "I..." Robin turns around, shielding his eyes as he looks to his left and then right. "I think I might have taken a wrong turn somewhere."

  "What?" I cry. "You mean we're lost?"

  "Nay!" he retorts. "We are not lost."

  Oh, no. Of course we're not lost. No man on the planet, medieval or modem, would ever admit he doesn't have the slightest clue where we are.

  "Look, there's a hut over there." I point to a building in the distance. "Why don't we ask them where we are?"

  "Nay, I will not."

  I don't know why I even bothered suggesting it. Of course he's going to refuse to ask for directions.

  "Oh, quit being such a baby," I chide, making strides to the small dwelling. "We'll just ask them approximately where we arc. Get your bearings. Then you can play woodsman again."

  He doesn't a
nswer, but falls into step behind me. I guess that's something. Men are so damn stubborn sometimes. Okay, most of the time.

  We reach the cottage and I lift a hand to knock on the door. Calling it a cottage is being kind, by the way. It's made of rotted logs, caked with crumbling mud and a thatched roof—which seems a total fire hazard, if you ask me. Does someone really live here?

  "Go away!" cries a raspy female voice from inside. "I already paid me tithe."

  I glance over at Robin, who shrugs back.

  "Ma'am, we aren't tax collectors," I say. "We're travelers and we're lost. We were hoping you could help us figure out where we are."

  The door opens a crack and I can see an eyeball. A woman glances outside. "Yer not with the sheriff?" the voice asks, still suspicious.

  "Hell no!" I say. "His men tried to kill me earlier today. I can't stand the guy."

  The door swings open, revealing an extremely pregnant woman dressed in gray rags. Two barefoot rugrats cling to her legs.

  "I beg yer pardon," she says, and she motions us inside. "But as ye know, these are desperate times.”

  "Aye," says Robin. "They are indeed."

  Easy for him to say, I think, as we walk into the hut. He's going to be chowing down on roast deer tonight. Selfish jerk.

  The hut's interior is depressing, to say the least. It's tiny, for one thing. Way too tiny for a woman and two kids, with anther on the way. The floor's made of dirt and there's a straw pallet in one corner with a few ratty blankets on top. Is that where they all sleep? A large earthen pot sits atop a smoky, smoldering fire. Church mice would feel well-off if they saw this woman.

  I feel so bad for her. Talk about extreme poverty! I mean, I thought I had it hard when they shut off our cable after Danny was laid off and we couldn't pay the bill. I can't imagine living in this squalor. And worse, having children live in this squalor.

  As Robin asks the peasant woman for details on where we are in the forest, I feel a tugging on my leg. I crouch down to eye level of the dirty but sweet-faced little girl in front of me.

  "D'you have any food?" she asks, sticking a grimy index finger in her mouth. I wish I had found time to retrieve my camera bag from the other side of the river before running for our lives. I know I had some sanitary wipes in there. That and granola bars. "I'm hungry."

  Poor kid. My heart aches for her. If the others in Nottingham are half as bad off as this family... How could the Prince allow this to happen? How can he sit in his castle, enjoying his jewels and servants and fine dinners while these children die of starvation?

  I can see why Robin Hood felt it so important to redistribute the wealth in this godforsaken place. Well, the Robin Hood of legends, anyhow. The real life Robin seems much more interested in getting back to his camp so he can fry up a nice fat deer and pig out. I decide that if we're anywhere near his camp now, I'll sneak out and determine a way to return to this hut with my portion of meat.

  "Hang in there, sweetie," I say, kissing the little girl on her forehead. "I'll try to bring you some food."

  That's it!

  Inspiration strikes as I rise from my stooped position. That's how I'll spend my time in Sherwood Forest while I'm waiting for the King to return. If Robin's not up to the task, fine. I can organize a little robbing from the rich and giving to the poor myself. Maybe I can even recruit some of the less selfish merry men to help me.

  I can see it now: Chrissie Hayward, Princess of Thieves.

  I kind of like the sound of that.

  Chapter Four

  The blindfold goes back on as soon as we leave the vicinity of the hut. I try to protest, saying if he doesn't even know where we are, how the heck does he expect me to? But I might as well be trying to talk to a Patriots fan on Superbowl Sunday while Brady has the ball for all the attention I get.

  "If I were to lead you to my lair without a cloth 'round your eyes, my men will think I've gone soft," Robin explains, sounding almost apologetic. "And power is such a tricky lass—to be kept under a tight lead. Should I show weakness, some other man, perhaps, would rise in challenge. And we do not want that, now do we young Christian?"

  Okay, fine. I guess he's got a point there. So I let him lead me, praying we won't get lost again and that the camp isn't too far from here. I've only got so many miles left in these shoes. And when I say "so many," I mean less than one. If that.

  But luck thankfully has gone from über bitch to a lady once more. Not ten minutes later, Robin lifts the cloth from my eyes.

  "Behold," he says, with a gallant sweep of his arm. "My forest home."

  I blink my eyes a few times, getting used to the light filtering through the birch trees, then scan the area. It's a small camp. Below me lie dozens of weather-beaten grey tents and dilapidated wooden huts with thatched roofs. Ladders built into the trees lead to crudely built lookout posts above. In the center, a huge stone fire pit boasts a blaze that's currently giving off way more smoke than fire. It's not half as impressive as the Robin Hood secret hideouts I've seen in movies, but hey, the apartment in Friends didn’t look much like my first New York City place, either. Real life can be depressing like that.

  Dozens of men mill about the camp. A few tend the fire, others chop wood at the outskirts. A stablehand feeds oats to a few chestnut-brown mares that stand tied to a tree munching contentedly. At one end of the camp someone's set up some targets and several men are honing their bow and arrow skills. Others are being less productive, sitting around with what appears to be a beer keg, mugs of frothy brew in their hands. That'd be Danny if anyone ever sent him back in time. He'd figure out a way to spend the entire trip drunk as a skunk.

  Not that I'm thinking about Danny. After all, I'm back in time a thousand years with a legendary outlaw who thinks I'm a choirboy. Not to mention my mission to find the Holy Grail. That's gonna take a bit of focus, most likely, seeing as it's only the most insurmountable quest in the history of the world. Therefore, all thoughts of ex-husbands, positive or negative, need to, like Elvis, leave the building pronto.

  Robin grabs the curved horn that dangles from his leather belt and blows into it. At the deep, almost mournful sound, the men drop what they're doing and direct their attention to the hill where we're standing. Power may be a "tricky lass,” but as Mick Jagger once said, Robin's got them under his thumb.

  "We have a visitor," Robin announces to the group—in case, I guess, they assumed the strange person standing next to him was a dear friend they'd forgotten they had. "Young Christian has succeeded in angering the good Sheriff of Nottingham this fine day, and has thus been invited to dinner."

  His words spark cheers from the gang. Cheers for me! How cool is that? I pissed off the sheriff and now I'm instantly the It girl (er, boy) with the outlaw contingent.

  "Does this mean we eat venison tonight?" calls out one man from the back.

  Hm. Then again, maybe they don't give a damn about me and my adventures and are just hungry. Oh well.

  Robin chuckles, his green eyes flashing with amusement. He really does have great eyes. Not that I'm staring at them or anything.

  "But of course, my good sir," he says. "We'd be ill hosts indeed to have an enemy of the Sheriff of Nottingham dining on berries we foraged from the forest."

  Even though in this case she'd prefer berries foraged from the forest. Or, I think wistfully, some Franken Berry cereal to munch on....

  The camp erupts in excited murmurs—probably arguing who gets the leg meat and who's dining on the vital organs. Robin narrows his eyes, seemingly displeased by the ruckus.

  "Did your mothers raise you as Saxons?" he demands, which I'm assuming he means as an insult. The camp falls silent again, the men properly rebuked. "Or would you care to introduce yourselves to our guest?"

  I hear a few muttered apologies amidst a few more muttered protests over the Saxon barb. Finally, one man steps forward. And when I say man, I mean a jolly green giant. If he had been born in the 2!st century he'd be a linebacker for the Miami Dolphins
. He's got to be at least seven feet tall with the broadest shoulders I've ever encountered. He has bushy black hair that's probably never seen a comb, chubby cheeks, and a beard so thick a bird could build a nest in it. He's wearing a belted leather tunic that must have taken the skins of a half dozen deer to fit all the way around his massive circumference.

  I smile to myself. That's got to be—

  "I am John Little," he says, patting himself on his burly chest with large hands. "Though thanks to Robin here, most now call me Little John."

  Aha! I was right. Little John. Robin's right-hand man. His lieutenant. A big and burly oaf, good-hearted if none too bright. Played by a bear in the Disney cartoon.

  "And I am Allan a Dale," says the next man. He's tall and thin, with an almost effeminate face and beaklike nose. He wears a feathered cap and carries some kind of harplike instrument in his delicate hands. He strums a chord before speaking again, the notes decidedly out of tune, though I'm no Jimi Hendrix myself, so I shouldn't judge. “The minstrel who entertains this ragged band of thieves."

  And then, out of the blue, he breaks into song:

  "Good Christian has come to our lair,

  He has not been eaten by a bear.

  He angered the good Sheriff of Nottingham

  A man that likely has no mum."

  Huh. Well, not exactly something the American Idol judges would thumbs-up, perhaps, but I guess I should cut him some slack, seeing as he made it up on the fly.

  I clap my hands, all good vibes, and he bows low. "Thank you, sir," he says, and I can see he's blushing a bit. Makes me glad I didn't go with my initial reaction of hands over my ears to stop the pain. But hey, I've sat through worse on open mic night down at EarthMatters.

  I wonder if he ever sings songs about what a coward Robin is, like his Monty Python and the Holy Grail counterpart. I could totally give him the 'defeated on the log by a simple gymnastics trick' anecdote if he needs new material.