* * * * *
Was the guard lying? she wondered now. She had not questioned his veracity before, but the more she pondered their conversation, the more it seemed that he had divulged his information far too easily. Had he somehow sensed that something was amiss, and misled her? No one in the history of Nottinghamshire had ever attempted this sort of gallows rescue before, and Robin had assumed (reasonably, her mind defended) that such an action would not be anticipated. But if the guard had suspected her—if he had informed the Sheriff to be on the alert—then her people could be walking into a trap!
No sooner had Robin reached this discomforting conclusion than a cacophony of noontide bells erupted through the town. Over the sound of their resonant peals arose the blare of heraldic trumpets—at first barely discernable, but growing steadily louder as the Sheriff’s company drew near the square.
Robin unhooked her own trumpet from her belt; there was no time to change her plans now. Instead, she sent up a quick prayer asking that the Sheriff remain in ignorance of her plot, reciting her mental “Amen” a mere instant before the gallows party arrived.
The Sheriff came first, looking resplendent atop his dappled white stallion, his suit of purple-and-black satin enhancing the complacent expression on his face; his mouth was curled up in a victorious grin. His entire demeanor crowed that he had caught one of Robin Hood’s men, and it would only be a matter of time before he snared Robin Hood as well!
The Sheriff’s horse seemed to sense its master’s triumphant mood, and snorted loudly, tossing its head. With a dark chuckle, the Sheriff spurred his stallion on ahead of the guards, forcing people to throw themselves out of the way to avoid being trampled. At the very last second, he reined in his steed next to the scaffold not ten feet away from where Robin was standing.
Behind the Sheriff, two-dozen guards followed at a more sedate pace on foot. Although these soldiers wore swords, they kept their weapons sheathed, and their air was alert but unconcerned. In the middle of the escort, a large cart rumbled, its deep wooden frame lurching wildly with the hauling hackney’s every step.
Inside the cart stood Will, his hands lashed to the front rail. Even from a distance, Robin could see the way the ropes cut into his wrists and the deathly pallor of his face. The youth tried to stand tall, but a heavy noose hung around his neck and his shoulders slumped forward despondently. Will’s eyes as they swept over the crowd were devoid of hope; he did not see her.
Robin felt as though icy steel were replacing the blood in her veins, freezing her worry into hard determination: Will was not going to hang today!
The cart lurched to a halt. Two soldiers stepped forward to unhook the back wall of the wagon and lower it ramp-like to the ground, while a third waited patiently for them to finish so he could procure Will from the cart and lead him down to the gallows. But before he could do so, someone else got there first.
“It is not very nice to go off to die without telling your friends goodbye,” Little John quipped, leaping into the wagon. The boy gasped as the strange giant whipped out a dagger and slit the bonds that held him, but Will did not let his surprise slow him from pulling the noose off his neck or leaping out of the cart, his rescuer close behind him.
Little John’s brazen action had stunned the guards, as Robin had hoped it would, but they were quick to recover. As a unit, they drew their swords and advanced on her friends while the crowd watched in confusion. Robin saw Little John seize Will by the shoulder and pull him under the shelter of the cart; it was time—she sounded her horn.
Silver blades flashed in the sun as her bandsmen drew their swords and those nearest began engaging the soldiers. Up by the gate, the twins quickly overpowered the lone porter. A shower of clothyard arrows fell harmlessly upon the cart from all directions, the thud of their shafts making the guards run for cover.
Screams echoed throughout the square—screams of fear, Robin thought, until her ears registered that they were cheers. Someone knocked into her from behind, shouting, “A rescue! A rescue!” and another, “Hey for Robin! Loyal Robin!” and half the crowd now seemed to have joined the fray, pummeling the guards with their fists or whatever was at hand. More arrows fell from the sky, aiming for the empty cart, but the wind caught one shaft and it fell on the hackney’s rump; with a shrill squeal, the horse bolted down the street, the wagon fishtailing behind it and striking a guard to the ground.
It was chaos.
Robin could not see Little John or Will anymore, could not tell if they had been struck down by the guards or the wild cart. She could only pray that they had taken advantage of the confusion to duck away into the mass of fleeing people, and were not lying dead in the street.
Raising her bugle to her lips, she sounded the retreat. The Sheriff was in front of her before the first note could die away, hacking down at her with his sword, striving to fell the commanding bugler.
Robin threw herself backwards, and the Sheriff’s sword shrilled through the air above her head. But now she was on the ground and people were scrambling around her, and the Sheriff was reining his horse ever closer, its hooves flailing toward her with deadly accuracy.
A rescuing arrow whistled through the air towards the Sheriff, flying so close to his face that it left a thin red graze across one cheek. With a bellow of rage, the Sheriff reined back his horse, and in that instant Robin was on her feet and running through the crowd. When she reached the border of the square, she risked a glance behind her just in time to see the Sheriff wheel his horse around on its hindquarters and spur it toward the safety of his castle, not minding who got trampled along the way.
“Time to go,” Nicolas yelled, appearing suddenly at Robin’s side. Together, the two of them raced for the gate while a last flurry of arrows convinced any remaining guards not to try to follow their retreat.
* * * * *
It was an exhausted but exultant party that gathered in the greenwood that night, returning in twos and threes throughout the course of the evening. Many of them bore minor wounds from the fray, and Edra was kept busy plying them all with unguents, but miraculously, none of those who had gone had failed to come back.
“I am so sorry, Robin,” Will told her, shamefaced, as he nursed a swollen cut over one eyebrow. “I thought she wanted t’ run away with me, but she told ’er father ’bout me instead; ’tis ’ow ’e knew where t’ catch me. I ne’er ’oped ye would—I mean, I did ne expect—I thought I was done f’r.”
“I understand, Will,” Robin told him gently, and she did.
Now that the peril of the day was over and all her men were accounted for and being tended, Robin felt the cold calculation that had sustained her begin to melt away. She started to shake.
“Are you all right, Robin?” Nicolas asked with concern, pausing on his way to fetch Edra some hot water.
“Yes, yes, I am fine. Nice shooting,” she diverted. He beamed at her and gave her a mock salute.
By turns congratulating those men who had fought with her and accepting their own congratulations, Robin managed to work her way out of the camp and into the surrounding wood. She strode through the quiet trees, not knowing what she was looking for—only aware of a rising panic growing inside her chest.
Suddenly her knees could hold her no more, and she dropped to the ground, the fear and anxiety she had suppressed all day breaking free at last in a torrential flood that left her gasping.
For a moment more she struggled against it, but the stress of the day demanded release, and she simply could not hold it back any longer. Alone in the forest Robin knelt, head bowed, and surrendered herself to the quivers that shook her frame long into the night.
* * * * *
She returned to camp the next morning haggard and spent, but able to manage once more the strain of the day before.
As she made her way to her cabin, it struck her that none of the men who had chosen to sleep outside in the warm summer night showed any trace of the catharsis she had undergone; all looked contented and r
elaxed, and some of their faces even bore the remnants of a triumphant smile.
Robin felt a flurry of anger rise up within her, that they could so easily dismiss the fear—the tension—the danger of yesterday’s rescue. Were they so shallow that such an event could leave so little imprint? Part of her wanted to scream, to yell, to demand some recognition of what could have occurred—that they saw it as more than just another adventure—that she was not left to deal with its aftermath alone . . . .
A hand came down to rest on her shoulder. “Are you all right?” Little John asked. He looked as though he had not slept, and she recalled with a start that he had joined her band only the day before. So much had been asked of him since then, and he had done it all without complaint or qualm. He had risked his life for a person he did not know—not out of a desire for adventure or a need to impress, but because it had been the right thing to do. His tone and his expression evidenced that the events of yesterday did not sit lightly on his conscience, and Robin felt great relief to know that in this she was not in fact alone. If anyone could understand what she was feeling, it was he. Yet she hesitated, reluctant to ask this near stranger for more of himself, even if it was just for his conversation.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Little John asked, seeing the desire in Robin’s face.
“I do not wish to burden you—”
“It is no burden. I, too, would be glad of the chance to talk.”
She nodded gratefully. “Walk with me?”
He dipped his head in assent, and the two of them turned their backs on the insensate sleepers and stepped together into the forest.
CHAPTER 13
SEEING RED
THE REST OF THAT summer passed like a golden dream: a rare, sunlit season of memory in a world too often tinged with gray.
Will Stutley’s audacious rescue—not to mention the arrow that scarred Darniel’s cheek and for all he knew, nearly took his life—frightened the Sheriff so much that for a time he kept his soldiers tight around him, leaving the Sherwood virtually free of their presence. Unburdened by the threat of incursions, the people of Sherwood found themselves able to enjoy their pursuits without anxiety.
At Robin’s request, Little John continued to teach her how to use the cudgel—on solid ground this time, much to her relief. Over the next few weeks, the muscles in her back and shoulders ceased to ache from wielding a seven-foot staff for hours on end, and her ribs and head bruised less and less often as she became more proficient at blocking blows. Sometimes Murray would join the two in a recreational bout, but cudgeling held little interest for him except as a lighthearted hobby, and he never stayed long; he was more than willing to let John take over the rigors of Robin’s training.
The other band members, well accustomed to their leader’s prodigious skill at archery, were fascinated to see her struggle to learn the staff. It provided no dearth of amusement to them that even the spindliest lad felt brave enough to challenge Robin to a bout during the evening games, and a refusal from her only doubled their mirth.
Their laughter and friendly taunts only encouraged Robin to work harder, and not a day went by when she and Little John could not be seen practicing together at the edge of the glade. He taught her how to use speed and cunning to win strikes against stronger opponents, how to plant her feet and still her muscles so they would not reveal her next attack, and how to absorb a blow. The first time she felled an opponent during the evening games was a victory sweet indeed.
As the months came and went under his expert tutelage, Robin began to triumph in bouts more and more often, until by summer’s end she could fell even Lot of Lincoln, and he was the camp’s best cudgeller after Little John. Robin never attempted to fight Little John outside of the discipline of their lessons, however—she remembered all-too-well the power he had shown her during their first bout, and had no desire to repeat that drubbing.
Little John, for his part, knew next to nothing about archery, and Robin was eager to teach him . . . but she quickly discovered just how recalcitrant a student Little John could be.
“Everyone has to know how to use a longbow,” Robin contended for what felt like the hundredth time. “It is the law!”
“I never bothered with it when I was a law-abiding citizen, and I fail to see why I should bother with it now,” Little John argued petulantly. “A blackthorn staff is a good enough weapon for me.”
“All my men have to learn,” Robin argued back. “It is common sense. A cudgel is next to useless when robbing a convoy or hunting for food.”
He shook his head in stubborn refusal.
Robin switched tactics. “Look at it this way: I let you teach me how to cudgel, it is only fair you let me teach you how to shoot.”
“Learning how to cudgel was your choice. Not learning how to shoot is mine.”
“Well, it was your choice to join my band,” Robin announced in exasperation, “and if you want to stay here, then you are going to have to learn how to use a bow!”
At the stubborn set of his chin, Robin stormed away, angry at having to bully her friend in order to benefit him.
She avoided Little John for the rest of the day, both out of annoyance and because she was afraid that he would be vexed with her for having lost her temper. She could not have said why it bothered her so much—she did not have a problem giving orders to any of the others, even when they questioned them (as they sometimes did). But the contretemps with Little John had left a taste like sour curds in her mouth, and for some inexplicable reason Robin felt guilty.
Little John finally had to ambush her attention, plopping down from the long boughs of the oak tree right in front of her and making her drop the brace of rabbits she had been handing over to David to cook.
“So are you going to teach me how to use a bow, or not?” he demanded, arms akimbo.
Robin tried to gather her startled wits. “Well, I suppose if you insist on learning,” she drawled.
The fierce expression on Little John’s face crinkled into a small smile.
Relief flooded Robin that he had forgiven her their argument. Picking up the rabbits, she handed the brace to a confused David and then seized Little John by his shoulders, propelling him with effort toward the camp’s makeshift range. “Your first lesson starts now.”
* * * * *
“I thought killing the King’s deer was against the King’s law?” Robin teased Little John the first time he succeeded in bringing down a doe.
“Mayhap it is,” he answered, returning her smile.
Robin surveyed his kill with interest, noting how little blood there was—the arrow had gone straight through the heart, dispatching the deer instantly.
“Sometimes I think I made a mistake in teaching you how to shoot,” she informed him, shaking her head. “You may rival me yet.”
To everyone’s surprise, not least of all John’s, the giant had turned out to be a natural bowman. Within a week of nocking his first arrow, he had surpassed some of those who had been practicing archery their whole lives. Within a month, he was outshooting the twins two times to one. Only Robin could still beat him consistently, and even then, not always. Fortunately for her, Little John’s rate of improvement seemed to be leveling off, so she might yet retain the title of Master Archer.
Little John’s archery skills were not the only thing to improve around the camp that summer. The other band members saw the change in Robin before she noticed it in herself. Whereas before her sense of good humor had always been checked by a sober gravity, now her smile rarely faltered and her laugher rang out constantly. One day, David remarked to Robin that she seemed especially merry of late, and that evening as she lay in her fern bed, she reflected over his words.
It was certainly true that she felt happy . . . but why should that inspire special recognition? Had she not always been happy? Deeper introspection revealed that no, she had not. She might have professed cheery spirits and brandished bright smiles, but they had only served to mask the lonel
iness she had felt. Though she had friends—lots of them—those she had felt closest to had others who came first. David had his wife and child, Will Stutley had his circle of rambunctious friends, and the twins of course had each other. The other outlaws saw her as their leader first and foremost, and though they liked her and admired her, they were always a little distant from her, too.
With Little John, however, things were different. There was no distance between them. He was never reserved with her, as he could be with others, and he sought out her company even over his brother’s, delighting in a friend who took as much pleasure from the world as he did. Often they would hunt together, bypassing herds of deer just so they could perpetuate a conversation. At mealtimes, he would sit at her right hand and they would banter and tell jokes and stories long after the others were done.
The camaraderie each felt was as natural as it was strong, and Robin realized now how much it had filled the void inside her. With a sigh of deep contentment, she rolled over and fell asleep, her last conscious thought a prayer of gratitude for her friend.
The summer waxed on as peacefully as before, but to Robin’s dismay, her feeling of fulfilled friendship did not—it started to change. Alarmed, Robin tried to push away the strange sensations John was awakening inside of her—the faint jolt in her stomach each time their eyes would meet, the way seeing him automatically made the day seem brighter—without discernable success.
It is just friendship, she told herself sternly. Of course that is all I feel. John is my friend, my truest friend. It is useless to feel anything else—he thinks I am a man, for goodness’ sake!
What would he say if he knew the truth? she wondered one night in a reckless moment. What would he not say!
Robin pummeled the ferns that made up her bed. She needed to squash these yearnings right now! Already they were threatening to burst out from within her, and to let them continue to grow was to risk revealing her identity and shattering the life she had built for herself.
Robin: Lady of Legend (The Classic Adventures of the Girl Who Became Robin Hood) Page 16
