A Hoboken Hipster In Sherwood Forest

by Mari AKA Marianne Mancusi

  "Aye," Robin says, kicking at the muddy ground with his leather-clad toe. "But you said only what needed to be said. And bravely too, I might add. With little thought to your own situation. I admire your courage."

  "Huh?" I was not expecting this. Was he actually apologizing?

  He sighs before speaking. "Do not think for one moment I am unaware of the poverty and injustice that surrounds this forest, lad. I am not blind. ‘Twere it in my power to make a difference—to do something good—I'd be the first to attempt it."

  "Then why not? Why not give my idea a try?"

  "It sounds simple, but there is risk," he says. "I have seen what Prince John is capable of, and 'tis not pretty. I want to protect my men, and I do not like the idea of putting them in danger."

  "They're grown men, Robin. Surely they should decide for themselves,''

  Robin stares up at the moon, as if lost in thought.

  "I fought overseas during the Third Crusade," he says at last, turning back to look at me, though his green eyes still seem distant, "with many a valiant English knight and our brave King Richard. We fought hard and long, and were in sight of the Holy City of Jerusalem. We thought God had given us victory."

  "But... not so much, I take it?"

  "The climate is unmercifully harsh. And water, scarce. We ran out of food and had no way to replenish our stores. We weakened day by day, until one morning our band was attacked and those not killed were captured. I spent three months in a Muslim prison. Tortured. Barely fed. I thought I would die there."

  "But you didn't."

  "Nay, I managed to escape and make my way back to England. When I got here, I realized I should have allowed them to kill me back in the East."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I introduced myself to you as Robin of Locksley, and so I am—by birth, lord of that land. But when I arrived back from the Crusades, weary and ready to return to the comfort of my castle and people, I realized I had neither left to me.

  "My father was killed, hung as a traitor in his own castle courtyard. A loyal subject to King Richard to his dying breath, he was too outspoken for his own good. Prince John felt threatened by my father's loyalty, his unwavering support for our brave true king and his rash words against the injustices of the current rule. So the prince had him executed." Robin squeezes his hands into lists, a scowl washing over his otherwise handsome face. "The bastard prince then seized our lands, ruling that a traitor's kingdom should be handed over to the throne."

  "That's terrible," I cry. No wonder the guy's so bitter.

  "Yes. When I returned and found my lands taken and my father murdered, I flew into a rage. I was blind with fury—my only thoughts were those of revenge. I gathered up a small army of men who had returned from the crusades with me. Many of them had also lost their lands and were as bloodthirsty as I. We planned an attack on a small castle south of here, where it was rumored Prince John had taken up residence after growing bored of the court at Nottingham. Our spies said he had only a handful of guards watching him, and we thought 'twould be an easy victory."

  "But again not so much, right?"

  Robin's face darkens as he relives what must have been a nightmare for him. "Nay. We were betrayed. Two nights before we planned to attack, I allowed the men to go home to their villages—to lie with their wives and play with their children. I thought 'twould do them good, give them a reason to fight. But 'twas just the opposite. Robert of Appleby, one of my best men and a good friend throughout the crusades, met up with his mistress, and after she plied him with ale he confessed to our plan—aiming to impress her, he said. And impress her he did. Enough to send her straight to the sheriff. When we arrived at the castle two mornings later, they were waiting to ambush us."

  "Wow." That sucks. No wonder Robin's so pissed off at females.

  "For lust of a woman, dozens of fine Englishmen were lost that day," Robin continues bitterly." "Twas a massacre, and I barely escaped with my life. Most of the others were killed."

  "And that's when you became an outlaw."

  "Aye. For weeks I wandered, half dead in my sorrow. I drank too much and barely ate. But then I began to meet men—lost men, like me, outlawed for remaining loyal to King Richard. Unable to go home to their families, or to work to earn their bread. It dawned on me that while alone we were all weak and powerless, together we might create some sort of life. So I gathered them to me and we set up this small village deep in Sherwood Forest. No one knows that we are here, and thus we can live safely, gathering from the land what we need to survive."

  "You do have a sweet setup, I must say."

  "So you see, Christian, while I think your ideas are noble and brave and good, I worry that by becoming champions of the poor, we will lose the little peace we have created for ourselves. And with no hope of victory."

  "I understand," I say. "But I'm not talking an all-out war on Nottingham this time. Just a few small robberies here and there. I mean, sure, you and your men are all hooked up here in the forest. But what about the others? Your men's families? The little girl we saw earlier in that cottage? The little boy who almost had his hand cut off? It's in your power to ease their suffering. Do you want to just sit around in the woods, chowing on deer and letting them suffer?"

  He stares out into the water for another moment, grabbing another rock in his fist and flipping it into the pond. It skims the surface a moment before sinking.

  "Mayhap you are right," he says at last. "Those who lived in Locksley, peasants who were always loyal and true, now die of starvation and disease. And I sit, a coward in the forest allowing it to happen." He hangs his head. "My father would be ashamed."

  "So let's do something about it," I urge. "Let's give the sheriff a run for his money. I'll help. It'll be fun, in a way. Outwitting the bad guys and making them look like fools. Showing up in the villages armed with bread and meat. Showering the children with silver."

  Robin smiles a little. "You are right. I can no longer sit by selfishly and watch my people suffer. I am not that man." He turns to look at me, and if I didn't know better, I'd say his eyes look a bit moist. "Thank you, young Christian," he says. "You come to my camp a stranger, but teach me more truth in one night than I have been willing to hear in a year."

  I'm glad it's dark, 'cause I know I'm blushing. And the worst part is, he's looking at me all goofy and grateful. Like, if I were a girl, I bet this is the point where he'd kiss me. But he can't. He thinks I'm a boy. And while some legends have been proven wrong, I’m still guessing Robin probably digs chicks.

  He shakes his head and the intimate moment breaks. He scrambles to his feet.

  "We had better get some sleep," he says, back to his old cocky self, "if in the morn we are going to outwit the sheriff and Prince John."

  I grin. "Sounds like a plan."

  Chapter Six

  Whoooooosh!

  The arrow whistling through the trees announces the arrival of the carriage. We'd been tipped off of their schedule by some friends of Will Scarlet's, and now we're all in place. Ready to rob. I, myself, am lodged quite uncomfortably in a nearby tree, small sword in hand. I've been practicing alongside the men for the last three days, but I don't think this blade will be a deadly weapon in my hands anytime soon. Ah well. We're not out to kill anyway. Just to scare. And rob.

  This had better work. Especially since I'm the one who came up with the plan. Robin's men now think I'm some sort of tactical genius. Of course I can't take complete credit—especially since technically I ripped the entire thing off from a rescue scene in Tristan and Isolde, this medieval movie I watched a while back. But hey, I'd bet my favorite American Apparel hoodie that no one in the approaching coach Netflixed the film, so to them it'll be a complete surprise.

  Then again, Hollywood could have gotten it completely wrong and we'll be screwed. Guess we'll have to wait and see.

  "Wait for it," a hidden Robin hisses to the men across the dirt road. For as much as he didn't want to do this in the first p
lace, all morning he's been like a kid in a candy store. I think deep down thievery agrees with him.

  I'm not so sure about myself, however. To tell the truth, I'm just not adjusting to medieval life in Sherwood Forest as easily as I thought I would. Not that I'm some girlie girl—I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty or anything. But still! There are no beds here. No toothbrushes. And very few vegetarian options beyond wheat bread. I'm sore from sleeping on the ground and my stomach keeps growling its displeasure at the food I send its way. Let's just say I have a medieval version of Montezuma's Revenge and there are no bathrooms to hide and be sick in.

  It's kind of disappointing, actually. I figured I'd be the perfect girl to go back in time. I'm not like Kat—all princess-and-the-pea-like I don't mind living at one with nature. Not that there was a lot of nature in my hometown of Hoboken, but still. Danny and I went to the Catskills a ton of times and I never had a problem sleeping in a cabin.

  But this is much harder than I figured. I'm tired, dirty, depressed and even bored. I feel like I'm attending some horrid summer camp and there's no way to call Mom and beg her to come pick me up. Not that my mom would have ever interrupted one of her drug-induced trances to hop in her Volkswagen bus and retrieve me.

  I mean, what am I doing here? Three days and I'm no closer to accomplishing my mission. How long before King Richard returns? What if it's not for a year or something? Am I really going to have to hang out in Sherwood Forest for a year? And what if Robin's right and the sheriff catches us all? Will they hang me? And if they do, will I pop back into the 21st century? Or does death here mean death back home as well? Ugh.

  While I'm at it, has time passed in the present? Am I missing work without calling in sick? What if they fire me? Photog jobs are so hard to come by—that's why I'm working at that silly fashion magazine and not, say, Rolling Stone, to begin with. Same with Kat. Monday morning neither one of us will show up to work. Will people think something horrible happened to both of us? Will they call out the National Guard? Will we be featured on milk cartons? Or do you have to be gone at least a year to get on those?

  Will La Style do a full-page spread on Kat's and my mysterious disappearances—a tribute to their two employees gone missing on the job? Oh, wait, probably the beautiful, stylish Kat will make the front cover. I'll be reduced to a brief mention in the article. So help me, if they call me her sidekick….

  "They're here!"

  The dusty cloud and thunderous sound of hooves against dirt brings me back to reality. (Though whoever thought I'd call 12th-century England my reality?) No time to mourn my past life now; I got these men into this situation and now I've got to get them out alive. Alive and with gold, hopefully.

  "Now!" Robin cries.

  The archers in the surrounding trees loose their arrows, which fly past the front of the carriage; causing the horses to come to a screeching halt, rearing up on their hind legs, frothing at the mouth. The two mounted guards riding alongside draw their swords and scan the woods, while the plump, bearded driver wrestles for control of his team.

  "What was that?" he cries.

  Time for phase two. Will Scarlet urges his white mare out of the woods and into the road. He flashes the guards a big smile and a wave of his red-plumed hat, then turns and gallops off as fast as his horse can carry him.

  Sure enough, the guards give pursuit, just as I'd hoped, leaving the carriage completely defenseless. The rest of us jump out of the trees and into the road, surrounding the conveyance, knives out and bows drawn.

  "Please, please! I have children at home!" the driver cries, his face pale and his eyes wide with fright. I feet a bit sorry for him—he's just a working stiff, after all. But hey, this is why you don't work for the bad guys.

  "Be silent but not afraid. Our aim is not to hurt you," Robin says, walking around the carriage with a bit of a swagger. "Just to relieve you of all your worldly possessions."

  An older fellow with a well-trimmed white beard and a fine red silk tunic pops his head out of the carriage window. "What is the meaning of this?" he demands angrily.

  "Consider it a toll," Robin says sweetly. "You have heard of tolls, have you not? Well, to cross through Sherwood Forest, you must now pay one."

  "And what is this toll? And by whose order?"

  "The toll is every piece of silver you have on you. Jewelry will do as well." Robin grins, grabbing the man's arm through the window and sliding a gaudy jeweled ring off his fat finger. "And who am I?" He lets out a confident laugh and flashes an arrogant grin. "Why, I am Robin Hood, Prince of Sherwood Forest, of course!"

  Ooh. I shiver a bit, and not from the cold, either. He sounds so grand when he says that, it gives me goose bumps. Now this is the stuff of legends. And I made it happen! Not to mention I convinced him to start calling himself by the infamous "Hood" name. How cool is that?

  The rich guy doesn't need too much more persuasion. He gladly hands over the goods. Well, gladly might be overstating a bit—he does grumble a bit about thieves and forests and the Sheriff of Nottingham's bloody incompetence as he produces a gold chain, a few more rings, and a large silk bag stuffed full of silver pennies. But all in all he's a pretty good sport about the whole thing. Guess when you're surrounded by men with bows you don't have much choice.

  A few minutes later, Will Scarlet trots back into view, a big smirk on his clean-shaven face. He led the guards into a clearing, he says, where some of the merry men were waiting in grass-covered pits, just as I'd told them to. As the guards approached, the men leapt from their hiding spots, bows drawn.

  "Your guards are tied to birch trees not far down the road," Will informs the coach driver, who still looks a bit shaken. "You had best rescue them, for they seem quite displeased by their current situation.”

  "You are letting us go?" the driver asks, his voice betraying his disbelief. Jeez. Did he think we were going to kill him or something? These are definitely harsh times.

  "But of course," Robin says, bowing low. "As I said before, 'tis merely a toll to pass through this fine forest. We ask no more than is due to us."

  "Thank you, thank you," the driver says, bowing back.

  Robin leans over and whispers something to the man, then surreptitiously slips a couple of silver coins into his palm. The driver starts in with even more blubbering thank-yous, until Robin presses a finger against his lips.

  "Go and fetch your guards," he instructs.

  The man flicks the reins and the horses take off down the road, the sound of hooves and the cloud of dust fading into the distance.

  Robin's men erupt in cheers.

  "We did it!" cries Little John, raising his meaty arm in triumph.

  "That was perfect!" cries Much the Miller, dancing around the road.

  "I must sing a song about it," Allan a Dale declares.

  Everyone covers their ears.

  "Songs and celebration shall come later, lads. Today our quest is far from complete," Robin interrupts, looking flushed and happy. "Now we must take this treasure and bestow it upon starving villagers." He holds up the sack of coins. "Any suggestions as to who should be the first to benefit from our crimes?"

  Several villages are named, but in the end it is decided that it will be a small town just outside Sherwood Forest that will get the goods this time around. Several of the men have families there. Not to mention the village is the opposite direction from the way the carriage is headed. Good plan.

  We make our way to the village on foot—there aren't enough horses to go around and everyone wants to see the villagers' faces when they're presented their newfound riches. It's a long walk—like the length of Central Park—and I'm soon wishing I'd been more vocal about which village we picked as the recipient of our generosity. Like, sure they loved their families, but I love my feet.

  Just as I'm ready to beg for a few minutes of downtime, we step into a clearing, which strikes me as very familiar. Then it hits me. The river where I bested Robin in the log fight is near here.

&n
bsp; Ooh, I can go retrieve my camera bag!

  "I, um, have to go to the bathroom—er, relieve myself," I say. gesturing into the woods.

  Robin nods. "Very well, Christian."

  "You guys can go off ahead, I'll catch up."

  Keeping an eye on which way they head, I run over to the shore, walk nimbly across the log, and locate my bag. Thank goodness no one else came along and stole it. I check its contents. Camera, check. Credit cards, check. Vial to fill up with blood from the Holy Grail, check. I stuff the camera bag down the tunic shirt they gave me to wear and hope they don't notice the bulge. The last thing I need is to be forced to explain the inner workings of a Nikon digital camera to a bunch of medieval Britons. I do, however, want to try to secretly take some pictures in case I ever get out of here.

  Beep! Beep!

  Yikes! My chest starts beeping the second I start back over the log. I run back the other direction, reaching down my shirt, into my bag and pull out my cell phone.

  I have a message?

  How did I get a message? There's no way a cell phone would work back in medieval times. No cell towers. And I know I didn't have a message before I left; I checked, looking to see if Kat had called me. Not to mention, the phone's been sitting in the woods for three days. Surely that's drained the battery.

  I'm about to check voice mail, but before I can, my phone erupts into song and I almost drop it. I hope the merry men took my advice and kept moving, 'cause the Arcade Fire tune is going to be a tad hard to explain.

  I stare at the phone as it chirps away. How the hell is it ringing? Impossible, yet….

  "Hello?" I ask, clicking the Send button and putting the receiver to my ear. After all, impossible or not, this could be an important call, right?

  "Chrissie? Is that you?" The voice on the other end is static-distorted but most definitely recognizable.

  "Kat?" I cry, for once overjoyed to hear my coworker's nasal Brooklyn accent.

  "Chrissie, thank god! I've been calling you forever. Where have you been? What did Nimue say? Is she going to get me back from the future?"