Jemma hesitated, but finally nodded. “I understand. I don’t like it, but I understand.” She held out the purse they’d worked so hard to get. “Are you coming to the Bough tonight? Much asked about you. She hasn’t seen you in a while.”
“That’s because we’re either sleeping at the same time, or gone at the same time. She’s a good girl.” Robin knew Much had done a damn good job being a calm, steady foundation for the other girls after their first move to Nottingham, and then after what happened at The Gilded Crown. She also provided them with a steady, reputable income.
They began walking again. Robin ran her fingertips over the bowstring against her chest. “Should we tell the girls, Jem?” she asked quietly. “About what it is we do? Who we are?”
Jemma reached over and untangled Robin’s hand from her bow, clasping it tightly with her own. “They know who we are, Robin. What we do and who we are isn’t the same thing. The Sheriff wants your head because he believes you killed his cousin, but all of us—all of us—know you wouldn’t kill another human unless you had no other choice.”
“Gisborne being the exception.” Robin shuddered.
“God doesn’t hate you for that. Nor is He going to send you to hell for what you did to that man as retribution.” She ran her thumb across Robin’s knuckles. “That I can promise you.”
If Robin ignored the trees, how they were dressed, and how they had gotten on the metaphorical path they walked, it would have been like one of the many times she and Jemma had strolled hand in hand through the woods near Lockesly. They hadn’t had any other care in the world then, and a part of Robin ached for those days.
“Remember our first robbery a couple of weeks ago?”
“I had to pretend I’d been thrown from a horse I don’t even know how to ride,” Jemma said flatly. “Yes, I remember.”
Robin stared resolutely ahead. “I got my monthly that morning.” Her free hand went low on her belly, where it would have stretched to accommodate a child. “I-I know—this isn’t a life for a child.” She wasn’t aware her feet had stopped moving. “No one should—I’d be a terrible mother for having—but…” Her chest hitched. “I wanted it, Jemma.” She took her hand back from Jemma and covered her face. When she looked again, the other girl stood in front of her. “I wanted it. I wanted that last little piece of him.”
Jemma reached out, and then smoothed her fingertips across Robin’s forehead.
“He’s gone, Jem,” she whispered, hands fisted in the front of Jemma’s cloak. “He’s gone.” She curled forward, sobbing quietly.
“Shhh, lovey.” Jemma held her close, rocking her slowly from side to side. “I know it hurts.”
She leaned into Jemma’s solid warmth and shook apart.
***
I thought practice made perfect, Robin thought wryly, dropping ungracefully into the room at The Broken Bough through the window. She blinked, still surprised to find herself in one piece on the floor, and looked at Much, who was slumped against the wall.
She roused herself and murmured, “Robin,” with a half-hearted wave.
“I’m here. Still alive.” Robin reached over and squeezed her wrist gently. “Sleep, Much. I’ll be here when you wake.”
Much seemed to take that to heart, shifted slightly to make herself comfortable, and dropped right off.
“Should we move her?” She looked over her shoulder at the rest of the girls gathered loosely on the floor.
“No,” Maggie said. “She’ll be fine. She can sleep anywhere.”
Scooting across the floorboards on her rear, Robin moved toward the others. She took her bow from over her shoulder before her bowstring could strangle her. “Hello, lovelies.”
Kitty snorted. Ginny waited until Robin was more or less ready before plopping herself in the older girl’s lap. Robin wrapped her in a hug and breathed deep—Ginny must have had a wash recently, as she smelled of clean sweat with a hint of lavender. She stuck her nose in the side of the girl’s neck and snuffled loudly. Ginny giggled.
“You smell good,” she said between gnashing sounds, pretending to nibble on Ginny’s ear.
“We had bath day yesterday,” Maggie said, unperturbed from where she sat with Kitty’s head resting on her thigh. She tipped her head to the side. “Jemma did my braids.”
“Jem does good work.” Robin rested her chin on Ginny’s bony shoulder, pleased to see the girls were rounding out. They’d been scraping the bottom of the barrel when they arrived at Nottingham, Much’s meager money from the bakery trying to sustain the six of them plus a room to live in. Now, with enough funds to ensure they could eat better—and more often—they were starting to look as they had back in Lockesly, at least in physical appearance.
Looking any of them in the eye revealed a different tale.
“That wanted poster in the market,” Kitty said slowly, her eyes half-lidded from Maggie’s fingers playing at her hair, “is that supposed to be you?”
“It looks like a man,” Maggie added bluntly.
Robin barked out a laugh, and then stole a glance over her shoulder to make sure Much was still fast asleep. “Yes, that’s me.”
“It looks like a man,” Maggie repeated.
“Everyone in that taproom was very drunk that day,” she said blithely. “The drunk have difficulty remembering small details—like what someone was wearing, how tall they were, or what their gender was.”
“To be fair to them, I do very good braid work,” Jemma added. “Robin looks like a man if you stand back and squint.”
“Or if you’re half-asleep,” Kitty chimed in. “That’s a very square jaw you have from this view.”
Robin rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Thank you. I inherited it from my father. Passed down through the ages. All the Lockesly children have it.” She grinned brightly at Jemma’s disbelieving snort.
“Do you know the other outlaws, then?” Ginny asked excitedly, twisting in Robin’s loose hold in order to see her face.
“What other outlaws, love?” Jemma asked.
“The ones talked about at market.” Maggie didn’t look up from her hands, trying to copy one of Jemma’s braids.
“You go to market?” Robin poked Ginny in the ribs, right where she was ticklish.
“We go, we watch, and we listen.” The little girl lowered her voice. “We pretend we don’t know Lia when we go by her stall. She’s said our listening skills were improving.”
Robin looked up at Jemma, who mouthed, “Eavesdropping,” with a shrug.
“So what have you heard? About these other outlaws?”
“They rob from the rich and give to the poor,” Kitty said, much more awake now. “They’ve helped a family a few streets over pay their taxes in order to keep their house.”
“How do they know who to help?” Jemma asked.
“Someone makes them a list. The candlestick maker thinks they have someone in the Sheriff’s guard who’s helping them.” Maggie shrugged.
That’s a hell of an idea, though we’d never pull it off. Robin let Ginny resettle again, and then propped her chin lightly on top of the little girl’s head. “What does everyone else say?”
“The butcher thinks it’s a ghost,” Kitty added. “That no one can rob that many people without getting caught, especially now that the Sheriff knows about him.”
“Or her,” Maggie chided gently. “Outlaws can be women. We’ve two of them here with us now.”
“Much says the baker doesn’t know whether to trust this outlaw, but that it’s good for Nottingham.” Ginny, in a clear imitation of Much pretending to be the baker, said, “He protects us better than the Sheriff.”
“They don’t take from those who can’t afford it.” Maggie looked down at the fledgling braid in Kitty’s hair with a grimace. “And they don’t take everything—they don’t put someone into poverty to help someone out of it.”
“Sounds like this mysterious outlaw has a good moral compass, then,” Robin said.
“We wondere
d—because you’re an outlaw—if you’ve met this other one.” Kitty stared up with hopeful eyes.
“There are a lot of people in Nottingham,” Robin said. “And outlaws don’t want a lot of people to know what they are. It could be anyone.” She shrugged. “You may see them every day at market and not know it. We have to be good at blending in.”
“We all have to be good at blending in.” Jemma looked at each girl in turn. “That’s what keeps us safe.”
Robin nodded sagely, trying to let Ginny’s warmth in her arms soothe away the knot in her chest.
***
“Your wanted poster still looks like shite,” Lia said perfunctorily the next afternoon.
Robin, hiding in the shadows in the back of the stall and well out of the way of any casual passersby, snorted. “That’s what the girls have said.”
“They’re clever girls, with brains in their head.” The tinker turned the pot in her hands over, checking her work, and laid it on the counter. “How long do you think you can keep this secret from them?”
Robin crossed her arms over her chest and looked at her boots. “They already know I’m an outlaw. That’s no secret.”
Lia picked up one of the blades on display and inspected it. “That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it. Don’t be an idiot—it’s not a good look on you.”
Refusing to rise to the bait, Robin instead said quietly, “Most of us have lost our innocence—the one we had as children in a world that couldn’t harm us—but I’ll see that Ginny keep hers a little while longer yet.”
“Aye, she’s a good girl,” Lia agreed. “But the others, they’re of age. They can make decisions for themselves, too,” she added pointedly.
Robin made a sound low in the back of her throat and scuffed at the dirt beneath her feet. She and Jemma had always offered the girls a choice, presented them with the whole situation, and let them make up their own mind about what they wanted to do.
This felt different.
They wouldn’t hesitate, she reasoned. They wouldn’t think about it. They’d say yes, and then where would we be? A band of outlaws now instead of two or three.
The girls would do anything for one another, and Robin wouldn’t be the one to give such a loyalty the option of turning deadly.
“I’ll think about it,” she said, mostly to appease Lia. “I’d rather not, but I’ll think about it.”
“All I’m asking,” the tinker muttered.
***
The rumors took on a life of their own, billowing and permeating the very culture of the people of Nottingham—specifically the poor, those first on the list to be helped by Robin, Jemma, and now, more frequently, Lia. Rumors spoke of hooded figures, a knife thrower, and the best archer ever seen in the whole of England.
Robin couldn’t help but smirk a little proudly at the last one.
***
“No, no—move the other one over the middle one.”
Robin bit her tongue, and, without losing the sections of hair she’d already made, did her best to follow Jemma’s instructions. Much, who had generously loaned herself out to be Robin’s first try, hummed happily and went back to picking her way through one of several books Jemma had pilfered from their latest unwilling beneficiary. It was a bit beyond her rudimentary reading skills, but whenever she got stuck, she just pointed to the word, and someone would help her with it.
“This one?” Much asked, holding the book above her head.
Jemma squinted, her attention momentarily divided between Robin’s fingers and Much’s reading. “The one starting with r?”
“This one. With the s.”
Robin glanced up. “Severe.”
“Oh.” Much returned the book to its previous position. “What’s it mean?”
“It’s another word for very, only meaning more than very,” Jemma said. “Fold the one in your left hand over the other—no, not that one—there you go.”
“Kind of like very, very,” Robin clarified as Much’s shoulders began creeping up around her ears, a sure sign she was confused. “Um… say you steal a ribbon from the lady in the market, but you’re caught, and they hang you.”
“Hang you for stealing a ribbon?” Jemma repeated, staring at Robin.
“That seems like an awful price to pay for something like a ribbon.” Much allowed Robin to position her head again.
“Right. That’s a severe punishment for that kind of crime.” Robin glanced at Jemma, eyebrows raised.
“Oh. I get it.” Her shoulders relaxed, and Much once more returned to her book.
Satisfied, Robin took a critical look at the mess of hair around her fingers and sighed. “Jem? Should I start over?”
Jemma leaned over and viewed her work with a snort. “That might be for the best.”
With a longer, more exasperated sigh, Robin undid all her work and gently shook out Much’s hair. The other girl made a noise of contentment deep in her throat, leaning back until her shoulder blades butted up against Robin’s kneecaps. In order for all of them to be as comfortable as possible—considering the process might take hours—Much sat on a cushion on the floor while Robin had her legs folded in front of her.
“Be patient with it,” Jemma said as Robin started again, beginning with repositioning Much’s head the way she needed to.
“I am patient,” Robin muttered, color rising up her neck.
“That’s funny.” As Much didn’t clarify anything after her soft statement, neither girl on the bed knew if she was speaking about what had happened in her book or Robin’s declaration of patience.
The door jiggled. The lock clicked, and it opened enough for Ginny to squeeze through. She had something clenched in her fist as she crossed the room, clambering excitedly up on Robin’s other side. Kitty followed more sedately, and Maggie ensured the door was locked before she sat next to Much, reading over her shoulder.
“What have you got there, Ginny?” Robin looked helplessly between the sections of hair she had between her fingers and the one she needed to incorporate into the braid. She murmured, “Shite.”
“We saw it in the square,” she said proudly, handing a rolled-up bit of parchment to Jemma. “It’s a poster for a contest.”
“An archery contest,” Jemma said slowly. “The winner gets two hundred and fifty pounds, and a golden arrow.”
“Isn’t that all of your reward money?” Much moved the book in her lap so Kitty could see better.
“It is. This has to be right this time, Jem.” Robin made slow progress.
“It looks promising.”
“Robin could win it,” Maggie said. “She could beat that other archer, too. The other outlaw.”
“It’s not whether Robin could win it or not,” Jemma said slowly. “I’ve no doubt she’s the best shot in Nottingham, certainly, maybe all of England.”
“Maybe all of England?” Robin finally—temporarily, at least—gave up on braiding Much’s hair, and began running her fingers through it to help ease out the kinks instead.
“Probably all of England,” Jemma conceded, rolling her eyes. “Don’t let it get to your head.”
Robin looped her arm around Ginny’s shoulders, tucking the younger girl close. “It’s a risk to go, yes, but it’s a risk every time we… wander out in Nottingham proper. We have to be smart about it. And have a plan in place in case something goes wrong.” She glanced meaningfully at the others in the room.
“We’ll talk with Lia,” Jemma said. “See if she’s got an idea.”
“We promised you earlier, when we first came to Nottingham, that you’d always have one of us.” Robin rested her cheek against Ginny’s soft hair. “We’re not going to break that promise.”
“Oh, we know that,” Kitty piped up from her position on the floor, her and Much now stretched out with the book in front of them. “And we want to be there when you win that golden arrow.”
“We’re going to be there,” Maggie added, dropping down on Much’s other side. “What�
�s this one about?”
“Hell if I know,” Kitty answered. “There’s a frightening lack of pictures.”
Even if the worse came to pass, Robin knew the girls would be all right. She doubted they’d settle for anything less.
The morning of the archery contest dawned bright and clear. Robin, with her hair braided and pinned, the length of it neatly hidden away and further out of her face with one of Jemma’s cloth strips, wore a hood of dark blue. She wasn’t about to make his search easier on him by wearing her usual forest green.
In the wooden stands of the parade ground sat the girls all in a row, capped at either end by Jemma and Lia. Robin had instructed them not to cheer too loudly for her, lest they draw attention to themselves, but it made her smile to know they were there.
Robin came limping in with other archers—another tactic to make her less recognizable—and pretended to lean heavily on her bow. On the other side of the field, some hundred yards away, was Sherwood Forest. The targets they’d be shooting at stood in front of the greenery, the spectators behind them, and the tent for the Sheriff and his honored guests was to her right.
Trumpets sounded. Robin slouched a little more as the Sheriff strode out along the platform designed to keep him and his cronies off the damp grass.
“Whoever wins this contest wins this golden arrow and the prize money,” he bellowed from his barrel chest. “Also here to judge with me is the honorable Sir Guy of Gisborne!”
She was sure she’d heard wrong. Or maybe it was the ringing in her ears and her heart thundering against her ribs that drowned everything else out.
“No,” she whispered. “No—it can’t be…”
Lady of Sherwood Page 10
