By: Molly Bilinski
***
Robin of Lockesly was neither the son her father wanted, nor the daughter her mother expected. When she refuses an arranged marriage to a harsh and cruel knight, the deadly events that follow change her destiny forever. Lady of Sherwood is a unique young adult retelling of the beloved Robin Hood legend.
THIS book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
NO part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Lady of Sherwood
Copyright ©2017 Molly Bilinski
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-63422-228-0
Cover Design by: Marya Heiman
Typography by: Courtney Knight
Editing by: Cynthia Shepp
~Smashwords Edition~
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For my family – Mom, Dad, Heather, Mads, and Jeremy
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Bonus Material
Listen to the wind, child, listen to the Earth. It mimics the moods of those who tread it, and, unlike them, it cannot lie to you.
Robin flicked a stray strand of her tawny-brown hair from her cheek and breathed a long sigh out through her nose. Her father had said those words to her years ago between bouts of archery practice, the pair of them in the same field she sat in now. Such practice was done well away from the prying eyes of the rest of the manor, and most especially from her mother.
Un-ladylike, Sabine would tut whenever she caught the pair of them fletching arrows in the yard. You should be working on your stitching, Rhiannon. Leave this for the boys.
Go, my little Robin. Papa had always called her that. She’d never heard her given name from him. We can fletch by feel and candlelight. Gather your stitching. There’s a good girl.
She looked at her hands, thumb rubbing against the calluses on her fingers formed by her bowstring. Fletching, needlepoint, sewing up wounds—those hands could do it all. She curled her left into a fist and sourly thought, And Mother would like a ring on that one.
With a sigh, Robin played with the end of her thick braid where it trailed over her shoulder. It was a nervous habit, one she’d never grown out of. It drove her mother up the stone walls of the manor whenever she saw it, too.
“Robin!”
She jerked around, one hand on her bow and the other reaching for her quiver.
“Robin.”
Sharp blue eyes scanned the edge of the field and found a dark-skinned, smiling face peeking back at her from the tree line. She relaxed. It was only Jemma.
“Did my mother send you?” Robin called back, twisting lithely to her feet.
Jemma adjusted the wide strip of cloth keeping her abundance of tight black curls back from her face. “She would have—had she known you were gone. Did you forget what day it was, you halfwit?”
“Thursday.” She picked up her bow. “I learned my calendar years a—oh. Shite.” She grabbed her quiver and took off across the field at a run. “Jemma, I’ve—I’ve got—”
Jemma held up a brace of hares, caught by one of Robin’s snares set throughout the woods. “We’ll drop them at the widow’s on our way.” Her other hand held her skirts, rucked up beyond her waist to better free her legs to run, and she sprang away, graceful as a deer, down the barely there path.
They had been running the woods and grounds of Lockesly since they were children, following the wildlife paths and creating their own. Jemma, only steps ahead of Robin, navigated her way through the undergrowth with quick-footed ease. Until she jumped over some tree roots and stopped roughly five feet short of the thatcher’s potato patch, flinging the hares out and back toward Robin.
“Jemma!” She caught them, struggling to keep her feet and not drop anything in her arms at the same time.
“Ladies never look flustered,” Jemma said, smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt. She took the hares back, adding, “Unless we need to pretend to, of course.” She ducked her head and looked shyly up at Robin.
Robin snorted. “I knew Teddy didn’t give you those ribbons at a lower price.”
“Come. Now. I’m going to have to make you presentable when we get back to the manor.” She tugged at Robin’s tunic sleeve, stifled a giggle at her expression, and pulled her along the trodden path toward Lockesly’s village square.
“I’m always presentable.” Robin didn’t twitch as Jemma tugged tiny twigs and leaves from the wild tangle of her hair where it had come loose from her braid.
“Of course you are. You’re never forgetful, either, and you’re very good at finishing tasks.” Jemma brought the fingers of her free hand up and tapped her nose in mock thoughtfulness. “Why, any day now, you’ll finish that bit of needlepoint you started when we were twelve.”
“’Tis a complicated pattern,” she protested. “Very complex. Takes a lot of time.”
Jemma opened the gate to Widow Moore’s little yard and said, quite dryly, “Five years, Robin. That bit of needlepoint has taken you five years, and it’s not finished yet.”
“Four years.”
“Five—your birthday is next month.”
Robin sighed loudly as she unstrung her bow. “Why do I put up with you?”
“Because you adore me and would be utterly hopeless if I wasn’t around.” Jemma grinned, and rapped hard on the door.
Widow Moore, a woman not much older than the two of them but already a mother of three, cracked open the door. She was a mousy woman, small and quiet, more so in the wake of her husband’s unexpected death than before. He had been a tinker, and once the money she’d gotten for his tradesman’s tools—at Jemma’s coaxing—ran out, she’d had a difficult time keeping her family out of poverty. The village helped when they could, though there wasn’t much extra to go around.
“We’ve more than we needed,” Jemma said softly, holding up the brace of hares.
Robin stayed silent. The widow was fickle about some things. If Jemma gave her the hares, it was a kindness. If she did, it was charity.
“Thank you, Miss Jemma,” Widow Moore whispered. “You’ve a beautiful heart.”
R
obin leaned forward slightly, to better see over Jemma’s shoulder, and smiled at the small, round face peeking out from under his mother’s elbow.
“Beautiful as yours, Widow,” Jemma said quietly. “Though you’ve more love to share and grow.” She reached out and gently tweaked the little boy’s nose; he retreated with a giggle. “I’ll come back in a day or two, see how you’re doing.”
“I’m sure I can find something, a sweetbread or some such, for you and your mistress.” Widow Moore smiled fitfully, as if she wasn’t used to the expression anymore. “Thank you.” The door shut.
Robin tucked her bow up under her armpit in order to wind her bowstring around her wrist as they left the widow’s small yard.
“You set the snares again, yes?” Robin murmured as they walked quickly, turning down the smaller, more winding ways between the houses in an effort to reach the manor quicker.
“Of course.” Jemma sidestepped a chicken coop with ease. “We’ll have more than we need, again.”
“It’s a very good thing my mother hates the taste of rabbit, then, isn’t it?” She hopped a low stone wall, and then turned reflexively to give Jemma a hand going over with her skirts. She refused, eyebrows raised. Robin looked around and found one of the butcher’s lads staring at them with interest.
“It could be on the table this evening,” Jemma reminded her. “You’ve a guest.”
They followed the hedgerow along the side of the manor, and broke out into a run as soon as the gate by the stables came into view. Robin knocked one of the staves into the hedge in her haste, nearly tripping over Jemma when she stopped to look back.
“Here, Mistress. I’ll take those.” Scarred hands relieved her of bow and quiver, and she spared a smile for Thom even as Jemma all but pushed her toward the kitchen door.
“We took a bath up to the mistress’s room,” Ellie, their head cook, said as the pair of them tumbled into the warmth of the kitchen. “Mara laid out her gown already.”
“And my mother? What of her?” Robin asked, pulling back against Jemma’s insistent tugging on her wrist.
Ellie snorted. “She thinks you’ve been closeted away in the church all mornin’.”
She grinned widely. “Bless you, Ellie. Bless you.” She let Jemma haul her up the back staircase. The two of them hurried down the hallway on tiptoe past her mother’s room, and then into Robin’s chambers. The tub of water stood invitingly by the fireplace. Robin caught her head briefly in her tunic in her haste to remove it, and then tried to pull off her breeches without first discarding her boots.
“Breathe,” Jemma commanded. She twirled Robin around and gave her a gentle shove toward the tub even as she bent to gather her clothing. “We haven’t got all day.”
Robin swung herself over the edge of the tub, flailed with a yelp, and then wound up abruptly on her bottom, cold water up to her collarbones. “Shite!”
“Problem?”
“It’s freezing!” She shoved her hands under her arms with a shiver. “Ellie said it would be warm.”
“Ah, no, my lady,” Jemma said primly, sounding every inch the proper lady’s maid and servant she was half the time, and usually only when someone was looking. “She said there was a bath for you up here. She did not say how long it had been sitting here.”
“Oh. Did she? Hadn’t noticed. Thank you,” she added as Jemma tossed her the bit of scented soap they still had left. She made sure to scrub behind her ears, and then undid the bit of twine at the end of her braid for when she dunked her head under. Pushing wet hair from her face, she asked, “What gown did Mara lay out? My favorite?”
Jemma turned, holding the garment up in front of her. “Your mother’s favorite.”
Robin buried her face in her hands to muffle her swear. She heaved a sigh. “What are the chances my mother hasn’t seen the choice? Can we get away with my favorite?”
“You’re to be in the company of both your mother and her guest for quite a long time,” Jemma reminded her. “How long would you like her to be irritated with you?”
“I’d like a lot of things,” Robin said slowly. “Many of them not meant for me, too.” She stood, shrugging gratefully into the robe Jemma held out for her as she climbed from the tub. Catching her friend’s hands in her own before she could pull away, Robin waited for Jemma to meet her eyes to say, “I’d free you. In a heartbeat. I would hand you your freedom and follow you wherever you wanted to go.”
“Robin,” Jemma whispered.
“I promise. I would, I promise. No one, regardless of their skin color or birth status, should be a slave to another.”
“The lady of the manor is the only one who can change what I am.” Jemma squeezed Robin’s fingers. “Until that is what you are, we are who we have to be.”
Robin shivered.
Jemma smiled brightly, if a little falsely, and swung their joined hands side to side as they had done many times as children. “Let’s get you into that gown and perhaps looking like a lady should.”
“Only if you’ll do my braids again,” Robin protested, wrapping the robe more securely around her and settling sideways on the chair so Jemma could get to her hair. “Like you did at Christmastide?” Her eyes fluttered at the gentle touch of a comb. “Mother liked those, too.”
“She did,” she agreed softly, fingers moving deftly through Robin’s long hair. “I think she liked the sight of you happy more than how you looked.”
“I’ve always tried to make her happy.” Folding her hands in her lap, Robin listened as the shouted greetings outside grew louder as their visitor drew closer. “I don’t think I’ve always succeeded.” She turned toward the window. “Do you remember who our guest is today?”
“Yes,” Jemma said as she carefully positioned Robin’s head just so and began to braid. “Sir Guy of Gisborne.”
Robin swept into the great hall with more hurry and less regality than her mother probably would have liked. She glanced over her shoulder, moving only enough to show Jemma the first two fingers of her left hand were crossed. It was their symbol for patience and good luck, and Robin knew she’d need more than she’d been born with for this situation.
Jemma shut the doors with a soft, but solid thump.
Robin approached them slowly, dipping her chin to acknowledge her mother first. Sabine looked on with all the bearing of royalty, and Robin heaved a small sigh of relief when her features softened, evidently pleased by what she saw.
“Sir Guy of Gisborne,” Sabine said with a small smile, “may I present to you my daughter, Rhiannon of Lockesly.”
Guy, half a head taller than Robin, turned his dark eyes on her. His angular features reminded her of a hawk circling for its prey, and there was an edge of cruelty to the set of his mouth.
Robin offered him her hand, as was custom. Through sheer force of will, she didn’t shudder at his touch.
“My lady,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “You are more beautiful in person than I could have imagined.”
“You are too kind with your praise,” she said. She brought her arms down against her sides again, discreetly wiping her palms against her dress. “May I ask what brings you to Lockesly, Sir Guy?”
“I have heard the farmland here is fertile, and the market does good business. Tradesmen come down from as far as Nottingham to seek the blacksmiths and bowyers of Lockesly.” Guy rested a hand on the nearest trestle table, seeming to admire its craftsmanship, though his eyes kept darting back to her. “It has often been said there are many women of eligible age, as well.”
“Well,” Robin said brightly, even as she coaxed her fingers not to clutch at her gown. “I’m sure any one of them would be glad to have your attentions. There are a few very lovely maidens in the village. The baker’s daughter is especially pretty.”
“I am sure of it,” he said easily. He beckoned her to sit, and then helped her unnecessarily onto the hard wooden bench. “But none as beautiful as their Lady Rhiannon.”
She swallowed
thickly, her back ramrod straight as he sat across from her. Her fingers itched for her arrows. She had a habit of twirling one as she thought, and Sir Guy of Gisborne made her mind scramble to stay one step ahead of his smooth words and sharp eyes.
“I’ll have a servant fetch us some wine,” Sabine said quietly, an odd little half-smile Robin had never seen before playing at the corners of her mouth. “Perhaps a little something to tide us over until tonight’s feast, as well.”
“Of course.” Robin gripped her hands together, thumb stroking absently over the bowstring still wrapped around her wrist, and focused on keeping her expression sweetly neutral.
***
At the very edge of the village, tucked almost back into the woods themselves, stood a small cottage. A single candle burned in the window, even at the late hour, and it was to the rough-hewn door on the left of it that Robin and Jemma made their way stealthily through the night.
Robin jiggled the handle, a trick she’d known since childhood, and then opened the door only wide enough for the two of them to slip in. A young man, not far out of boyhood, looked up at her through his fringe of dark hair as he sat at a scrubbed wooden table. The fireplace behind him—burned low but not yet banked for the night—provided enough light for the three of them to see by.
“Shouldn’t ladies of fine reputation be at home in their beds, sound asleep?” he asked.
“Aye,” Jemma said dryly. “And shouldn’t a wood carver need a little more light to ensure he has all his fingers come morning?”
He held up his hands, fingers spread wide. “Oh, well, look at that. All ten, still there.”
She snorted and said, “You’ve always had a shite sense of humor.”
“Least I’ve got one.” He tipped his head, peering around her. “Robin?”
Robin leaned her bow carefully against the wall and breathed out slowly through her mouth. Her shoulders hunched, and when she met Marcus’s eyes through the half-light, she let go of all the frustration and fear she’d kept bottled for the better part of the day as tears started to roll steadily down her cheeks.
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