“Most lords have not lost what I thought I had lost.” He gave Robin a wan smile. “All that I wanted was to secure a future for my daughters. Instead, my decisions stole both of my daughters from me, drove away my nephew, and lost me my estate. I have learned, too late, the value of happiness.”
“Well, at least you have Will and Marian back now. That has to be something,” Robin offered gamely.
“Yes . . . that is something.”
The melancholy in his voice was almost too much for her to bear, and Robin nearly blurted out her true identity right then and there. Only two years of carefully guarding her secret managed to stay her tongue. There was no point in revealing herself now, she reasoned, especially since it was likely that her father’s sorrow stemmed merely from the impending loss of his estate. Yes, that was it—he was concerned about the Manor; it had nothing to do with her.
“How much do you owe the Prior?” Robin asked him quietly, lowering her voice so that Marian, who was sitting nearby, would not hear.
He sighed. “Four hundred pounds.”
“That is all!?” Robin struggled to keep her voice from rising. “You are to lose your estate over a paltry four hundred pounds?”
“So says the outlaw,” the knight remarked dryly.
“What about your friends, the other nobles? Can they not help you? Can not the King?”
“The friends that I had when I was well-off have left me now that I am poor, and those who would have stood by me fear to do anything that might antagonize the Sheriff. As for the King, he is going on Crusade to Jerusalem and has no money to spare for a poor relation.”
When Robin spoke, her voice shook with anger. “It is a sad day when the only friend a lord can boast is an outlaw. Someday, I will make the Sheriff pay for all the ruination he has caused.” Lord Locksley stared at Robin, startled by her fury, as she got to her feet and sounded her horn. Heads snapped around to look at her, and those further away paused in what they were doing and wandered toward the center of the clearing to better hear what she had to say.
“My people! This honest knight has suffered cruelly at the hand of the Sheriff, and I would help him if I may,” Robin announced. “I wish to give him five hundred pounds from our coffers to buy back and reestablish his noble estate. I am well aware of the enormity of the sum I am asking, so I desire to know: does anyone protest my decision?”
The outlaws looked at each other. It was a shame for any man to lose his home, but five hundred pounds could feed five-score families for a year. Could they justify giving that sum to one man, even if he was Marian’s father?
Finally, David stepped forward. “Robin, you have always led us well. If you say that this lord is an honest man and deserves to have his lands, then it must be so. Do as you think is right.”
Affection for her people welled inside Robin as they murmured their agreement, and she had to turn away for a moment to hide her sudden tears. “Thank you,” she began, but her father interrupted.
“I protest,” he said, rising to his feet. “When I was wealthy, I treated five hundred pounds like it was a pittance. Now that I am poor, I know the value of the coin you offer. I cannot accept such a gift when your charity could help so many others who are in need.”
It was easy to see that he was sincere. His candid words filled the outlaws with awe, giving them hope for a future in which nobles could be so humble.
Robin, overwhelmed with pride for her father, shook her head. “Sir, your refusal does you honor, but please consider: it is my fault for stealing Marian away from you and for placing you in this predicament. You must allow me to remedy the situation. Furthermore,” she continued loudly, when he opened his mouth to interrupt, “you must not forget the many families and tenants who live on your lands. Though the Church is supposed to help people, it is said that the Prior is a cruel master, and your people are sure to suffer under his rule. Refuse to accept this money, and the Prior and Sheriff will accomplish not only your own ruination, but that of your people as well.”
Lord Locksley stared at Robin for a long moment, his brows furrowed in contemplation. Finally, he spoke. “I think, Robin, that you could convince the devil himself to leave off sinning if you so tried. I will accept the money you offer and use it to pay off my debts, but only on the condition of a loan,” he emphasized. “I will pay back your money, on my word as a gentleman and a knight.”
“Then I need not fear to see it again,” Robin said.
At her request, Will Stutley went down to the band’s treasure cave and brought back the agreed-upon monies. As he handed the bags to her father, Robin could not keep a slight smirk from appearing on her face—one of the bags was the Sheriff’s velvet purse, which had been taken during his recent visit to their camp. The second sack had—until two days ago—belonged to the Bishop of Hereford, by far the band’s least pleasant guest; Robin would never forget the hatred effusing his face when he had addressed her. It seemed appropriate that it was their gold that would help to pay her father’s debts, since it was the Sheriff and a Prior of the Church who sought to despoil him.
Her father received the contributions with stately gratitude, looking as though a thousand worries had been lifted from his shoulders. Holding his head high for the first time that day, he laid the monies aside in order to laugh and joke with her people, asking about their lives in the camp with genuine interest. Logan and Bentworth wrestled for his entertainment, and when the archers began to shoot, Lord Locksley took a turn and beat them all, although Robin declined to compete.
At last, he insisted that he could stay no longer, and Robin rose to lead him back to the main road; to her surprise, several of her men rose with her.
“We have been discussing the matter,” Little John informed them both, “and with your permission, we would like to accompany Lord Locksley to the Priory in case the Sheriff or the Prior gives him trouble. We shall return as soon as we are satisfied that he and his estate are safe.”
“Of course,” Robin granted, touched by their concern.
Lord Locksley seemed unable to speak. Finally, he said in a voice that trembled, “When I set out this day, I never thought to meet with such kindness. I cannot tell you how much I—” He tried again. “It means so much that—” but again, words failed him. In the end, he contented himself with, “If any of you are ever in need, come to me. I will lose my estate and all that I own before I let harm come to any of you.”
Robin brought over his horse from where it had been grazing, while Lord Locksley kissed Marian and Will on both their cheeks, promising to return for their wedding in the spring. Then he mounted his horse and allowed Robin to lead the way back through the woods, accompanied by a retinue of outlaws.
“Fare you well, sir,” Robin said when they reached the High Road, handing him back his reins. “Good fortune and God’s blessings be yours.”
“And yours also, Robin of the Hood. Someday, I will find a way to repay you for all you have done.” Then, placing one hand on her shoulder to steady himself, he leaned down from his saddle and kissed her on the forehead as a father might kiss his son. It was the first time he had embraced Robin since before she could remember, and her mouth fell open in astonishment. Lord Locksley gave her a small smile, and with a tsk to his horse, ambled off towards Emmet, Little John and her men walking at a comfortable pace behind him.
CHAPTER 21
A FATEFUL DECISION
LITTLE JOHN and the others did not return to Sherwood for several weeks, but when they did, it was with great elation over the outcome of Lord Locksley’s dealings with the Prior.
“That old man has some of your cunning, Robin,” Shane remarked to her in admiration, unaware of the truth of his own assertion. “Lord Locksley never lied once, yet weaved his words in such a way that the greedy Prior felt certain he would own his estate before the day was through. The Prior even lowered the quittance price to three hundred pounds, so as not to seem completely without mercy!”
“You s
hould have seen the Prior’s face when Lord Locksley made good on that three hundred then and there!” Glenneth chimed in. “He turned as green as a basil leaf.”
“Any man who can get the better of the Prior is a man indeed!” Murray hailed, staggering to his feet and raising his tankard in a toast.
The outlaws and Robin cheerfully agreed, “Hear, hear!”
* * * * *
Their cheerfulness soon vanished, however, when a capricious turn of nature caused winter to strike before autumn had a chance to fully develop. One day the weather was sunny and mild, the next it was cold and wet, with scarcely a pause in between.
This premature shift in season took the people of Sherwood completely by surprise, and they had to scramble to prepare their camp to survive a lengthy winter. The carpenters among them worked day and night to patch and reinforce those huts that had fallen into disrepair over the summer. Ten men were kept busy at all times gathering firewood to store in the granite caves, out of reach of the blustery rains. Another ten exhausted themselves stocking the winter larder with venison and rabbit, while the tanners worked to convert the pelts into much-needed blankets. Pairs of runners made surreptitious trips to Lincoln Town to purchase wool clothing for the winter as well. Everyone aided where they could.
“’Tis an omen,” Lot mulled one day, blinking through sodden bangs at the gloaming sky from where he sat thatching a roof. “It has to be. Winter has never come this fast before.”
“Nonsense,” Robin snapped, her temper made short by the storm and her menses. She was eager to finish the roof and get out of the rain. “It is just bad weather; omens have nothing to do with it.”
Time seemed to prove her right, for in spite of nature’s attempt to catch them off guard, her people quickly surmounted their chores, and December found the outlaws as prepared for a Sherwood winter as they had ever been.
* * * * *
Little John struggled to keep sight of his friend as they wended their way through Nottingham’s crowded streets, but it was difficult without the hue of Lincoln Green to guide him—Robin’s simple grey attire blended in with the drove all too well. Attempting to hasten his steps did not help, either. Little John’s bulk usually made people part around him like the Red Sea, but today no one was standing aside. Instead, his size served to impede him as gaps in the throng of last-minute shoppers disappeared before he had a chance to squeeze through. Even so, he had almost managed to catch up to Robin when a small patch of ice made him slip; desperately trying not to fall, Little John staggered into the smithy’s yard.
“Could you not have slowed down a tad?” he complained as Robin seized him by his tunic to help steady him. He quickly regained his balance, and Robin let go; Little John straightened his rumpled tunic, his cheeks tingeing slightly as he glared at his friend.
Robin’s gaze was unrepentant. “You know that everything closes early today.”
“Then you should have done the sensible thing and finished your shopping days ago!” Little John scolded.
“This is the last stop, I promise.”
“Are yeh two gonna keep squabbling, or get whatcha came fer?” the blacksmith demanded. “I close in twenty minutes, whether yeh be ready or ne.”
With a small wink at John, Robin turned away to describe to the smith why she had come. In spite of himself, Little John felt his own lips twitch up in response. It was impossible for him to feign ire at his merry friend for very long.
The blacksmith disappeared inside his shop to retrieve Robin’s order, and seeing that he was not needed at the moment, Little John meandered over to a nearby bakery whose appetizing aroma had been taunting his nose ever since he had turned onto the street.
Robin watched Little John weave through the crowd without envy, glad to be out of the way of the increasingly desperate passersby. Soon all of the shops would close for the twelve-day Christmas holiday—indeed, many stores had already shuttered their doors—and the crowd was hastening to those still open to buy last-minute goods.
Robin glanced at the sack she was holding in her hands. Like the people in the streets, she had foolishly put off making own her holiday purchases for a little too long.
In her bag were masks for mumming and playacting—her peoples’ favorite Christmas-tide pastime. Just before dawn on Christmas Day, the outlaws would don their masks and homemade costumes in the darkness of their huts and then wait until Robin passed by their door, singing and dancing and calling for them to come out. What began as one mummer would quickly grow into a procession that would cajole from hut to hut until everyone had joined, at which point they would gather under the giant oak tree and perform nonsensical theatricals for each other’s amusement. Though the masks in Robin’s sack were less elaborate than they might have been had she bought them weeks ago, they would more than suffice for such entertainment.
Robin’s bag also held her New Year gifts, which she had ordered through Eadom before winter had struck. There was a beautiful amber-and-glass necklace for Marian; a chess set for David, whom she was teaching how to play; a book of carols for Allan; a bottle of vintage wine for Lot; hammered tankards for Will Stutley and the twins; and sundry trinkets for the others. The item the blacksmith had gone to fetch was her cousin’s gift, the last of her commissions.
Robin should have felt satisfied, but instead she felt anxious; the stores were almost all closed for the holiday, and she still had no idea what to get Little John. No gift she had thought of seemed right.
Perhaps something store-bought is the wrong way to go, she sighed, running a discontented finger along the blacksmith’s anvil. Well, I still have six days left until New Year’s. Surely I can think of something to give him before then.
The blacksmith returned. Hastily, Robin snatched her hand off the anvil and wiped it on her tunic, leaving a large sooty streak behind.
“This here beauty was a real pleasure to make,” the blacksmith told her proudly, smiling through the grime on his face. He angled the sword in his hands to show her the dragons and fairies he had carved into the steel, their engravings filled with gold. “I do ne get much call fer etchings like these. Too expensive, fer most.”
His grip on the sword suddenly tightened, as though it had occurred to him to wonder how a forester was going to pay for such a weapon. Robin withdrew a placating purse from her tunic and dug out some coins, which she placed on the anvil.
“Four shillings as agreed, and another for making you rush so close to Christmas.”
“Er, that sounds about right,” the blacksmith said, blinking at the size of the tip. He snatched up the money quickly so that Robin could not change her mind, and disappeared into his forge. A moment later, he returned carrying a black scabbard with faded gold etchings on it, into which he slid the sword. Then he wrapped them both in cloth as carefully as if he were swaddling a baby, and handed the bundle to Robin.
With a nod of thanks, she took her cousin’s gift from him and stuck it under her arm, heaving the sack with the rest of her presents over her shoulder and knocking her quiver askew in the process. Biting back an oath, she resettled her pack, wishing she did not have her own weapons to juggle as well as her gifts . . . but with winter came wolves and despite the inconvenience, it was wise to be prepared. Still struggling to balance her load, she wished the blacksmith a Merry Christmas and went to find Little John.
He was waiting for her outside the bakery a few yards away. In his hands were two oaten cakes, one of which he handed to Robin. Without asking, he plucked her purchases out of her hands and placed them inside his own large sack, already laden with barley sugar for the youths and wassail honey for the adults. He hefted the bulging pack over his shoulder as if it held but a feather.
“I was managing fine on my own,” Robin protested self-consciously.
John raised an eyebrow at her. “Do you want them back?”
“No!” she said hastily. “I will let you carry them—just to teach you your folly,” she teased, taking a large bite from he
r cake. “Shall we go?”
They had almost reached Nottingham’s western gate when the deep tolling of bells resounded through the town, bringing Robin to a sudden halt.
“What is it?” Little John asked, puzzled.
“The bells . . .” Robin began wistfully, a half-forgotten desire gripping her heart.
Little John waved a dismissive hand. “They are just marking the four o’clock. It is nothing to worry about.”
Robin shook her head. “Those are church bells. I have not attended Mass in such a long time . . . . I had not realized how much I missed it until I heard those peals. I know that service is not for a few hours yet, but it is Christmas Eve; I would like to go.”
John gazed at Robin as though she had gone daft. “Those bells must have affected my hearing—for a moment, I thought you said that you wanted to go to church. Only, I know you of all people would never suggest such a foolish thing.”
“Well, I did,” Robin defended. It hurt her that Little John was so quick to dismiss her desire. “I want to go and I mean to go. I will be back in time for the boar hunt in the morning, worry not.”
Little John grabbed her by the arm before she could take more than one step away. “Was there more in that cake that I gave you than oats?” he demanded. “You cannot go into church, especially not on Christmas Eve! Do you know how many nobles and soldiers will be there? I will not let you.”
With difficulty, Robin shrugged off his arm. “It is not your choice,” she snapped. “It is mine, and I will thank you to remember that!” Before a stunned Little John could protest further, she turned and stalked up the road toward St. Mary’s church.
Little John narrowed his eyes after her. “Women,” he muttered, and turning his back on Robin, strode out the gate and down the road towards Sherwood Forest.
Robin: Lady of Legend (The Classic Adventures of the Girl Who Became Robin Hood) Page 26
