Lady of Sherwood

by Molly Bilinski

  “Is he yours, Robin?” Ginny asked.

  “He’s my baby,” Lia said. She reached out. Graham went to his mother, promptly sticking his thumb in his mouth. “His name’s Graham.”

  Robin glanced at Jemma, who looked as though she’d been hit over the head with her own quarterstaff. She pointed at Robin and said, “That’s why the three of us haven’t ever gone out together. If she goes, you stay with him.”

  “Of course.” She picked up her bow and rested one end of it on top of her foot. “I told you it was something more important than Lia’s life.”

  “What’s that mean?” Kitty asked slowly, one of her arms linked through one of Much’s and Maggie’s, respectively. “Gone out together?”

  “Might as well come clean about it now, aye?” Tuck put in with a wink.

  Alan made himself comfortable against a tree, flagon in one hand.

  Robin looked at each of the girls—from Much’s steady stare, Maggie’s challenging look, Kitty’s gentle curiosity, and Ginny’s wide-eyed wonderment. That was the only expression she shied away from. She was an outlaw, though Gisborne’s reappearance had put a different limit on the kind of outlaw she was.

  “We’re the ones who have been robbing from the rich to give to the poor,” she said finally, softly—like a confession. In her peripheral vision, Tuck nodded approvingly. Jemma wandered over to stand shoulder to shoulder with her in solidarity. “Usually Jemma and me. Sometimes, Jemma and Lia, and then I watch Graham while they’re away.”

  “You two are the ones who keep outwitting the Sheriff and his men, getting away without any bloodshed?” Maggie was clearly skeptical.

  “It’s gotten a little more difficult,” Jemma admitted. “And most likely, will get even more difficult since Gisborne’s back—”

  “I thought you killed him.” Much, blunt as ever, finally spoke.

  “I thought I had.” Robin tucked a strand of hair that had come loose from her braids behind her ear. “I thought—he’s got a scar. So I cut him, but I didn’t…” She looked down at her feet, her hand white-knuckle tight around the upper limb of her bow. “I didn’t do it right. I had him, and I had the knife, and then—then Jemma was screaming, and they were gonna—they were gonna…”

  Jemma’s fingers gently pried Robin’s from her bow. “Easy, love. I’m right here. They didn’t get me. They didn’t do that.”

  Someone inhaled sharply.

  “So, Gisborne’s alive and kicking, and he knows you are, too,” Lia said, setting Graham on his feet where he promptly hid behind her legs. He peeked over at Ginny, who was closest to him in size. “That’ll make things a little complicated.” She put a hand on Graham’s head. “I don’t think we should go back to Nottingham.”

  “Where will we go then?” Kitty asked.

  “Nowhere,” Robin said firmly. “We won’t go back to living within Nottingham’s walls, but I’m not going anywhere. Not while there are people who still need help, and that bastard is still aboveground to make life that much harder for them.”

  “Where will we go, Robin?” Maggie stared hard at her.

  “Here.” She glanced over at Tuck, who smiled approvingly. “In Sherwood. We’ll live in the greenwood.”

  “There’s nothing here, though,” Kitty murmured as she looked around.

  “We’ve done more with less,” Jemma said briskly. She tapped Robin lightly on the shin with her staff. “We’ll make do.”

  “We’ll make it better.” Robin unstrung her bow and looped the string around her wrist. “We’ll make it home.”

  A solitary rider made his way on the road through Sherwood Forest toward Nottingham.

  Robin crouched out of sight a few yards back in the bushes, hood drawn low over her forehead, bow strung and ready. Jemma hunkered next to her with her fingers curled around her staff.

  “I don’t see a purse yet,” she murmured.

  “Won’t be in plain sight,” Robin whispered. “Look at his tack. Well used, but good quality. His purse won’t be where everyone can see it.” She rested her weight back on her heels, bow balanced across her knees.

  Jemma grunted. “How are we doin’ this, then? Too late for one of us to have been thrown from a horse.”

  Robin rubbed the side of her nose in thought. “Toll road?”

  “Make sure I don’t get trampled.” She took a breath, hefted her staff, and stepped out into the middle of the road, a solid, imposing figure even if she was a bit on the short side. Robin shifted enough to see both Jemma and the rider—who had come to a halt—and planted on knee on the ground for stability even as she drew an arrow from her quiver.

  “What’s this then?” the rider asked.

  “Toll stop,” Jemma said primly. “Pay the toll, and on your way you go.”

  He leaned forward. “This is the king’s road. There’s no toll.”

  “There is today.”

  Robin nocked the arrow and breathed out, sighting a sapling oak on the other side of the road. If neither horse nor rider moved, it would sing between the rider’s nose and the horse’s neck. If one or the other did move, well, she hoped it was in the right direction or there’d be blood everywhere, most likely. And maybe a shriek.

  The rider snapped his fingers and sat up. “Ah. You’re of them, then.”

  She readjusted her aim, and then noticed out of the corner of her eye how Jemma’s posture softened minutely.

  “One of whom?” she demanded.

  He chuckled and slid easily from the saddle, mindful to keep the reins in one hand. “Them. Are you her?” He peered forward, as though to see in the shadows of her hood.

  Robin watched Jemma’s body closely, and she saw the moment a different sort of idea crossed her mind. “Stop! Stop right there.” With an arrow still nocked and ready to be drawn and fired, she stepped from her hiding place and out onto the road. “Don’t hit him, Jem.”

  Jemma let out a sigh, along with something that sounded almost like, “It was only gonna be a little thump,” though it was mostly garbled.

  “The Lady in the Hood, I presume,” the man said with a short bow.

  “Oh—oh, that’s an awful name,” Robin whined. “Please tell me no one calls me that.”

  Jemma threw her free hand up in despair. The rider tipped his head back and laughed. Robin’s cheeks flooded with warmth and color, but she tucked the arrow back in her quiver. He wasn’t a threat for the moment, and she was confident enough she could draw before he could lay a hand on either of them.

  “No one calls you that,” he said.

  Robin looped her bow over her shoulder and pushed her hood back. “Good. That’s an awful name.”

  “Some call you Lady Outlaw, instead. Lady Outlaws,” he added, nodding to Jemma. “A whole band of you living wild in Sherwood Forest to rob from the rich and give to the poor of Nottingham. All while under the honorable Sheriff’s nose.”

  Jemma snorted loudly. “That man considered honorable. That’s funny.”

  “Well, then,” Robin said, crossing her arms over her chest. “You seem to know quite a bit about us, and we nothing of you.”

  “William Sutely, at your service. Will, if you don’t mind.”

  “Jemma.” She pushed her hood back and leaned on her staff. “And the blundering idiot over there is Robin.”

  “You knew who we were,” Robin said slowly. “Knew we’d most likely be patrolling somewhere along the road to Nottingham, and knew we’d risk taking on one lone rider with just the two of us.” She flicked her knife down into her palm, and then held it up, pointed at his nose. “Why were you looking for us?”

  Will held his hands up, palms out. “To join you.”

  “We’re not complete idiots,” she snapped. “Everyone knows the Sheriff can’t catch us, and though Gisborne would like my head on a platter, it hasn’t yet been delivered. I’ll be damned if you’re going to be the one to do it. Why were you looking for us?”

  “To join your company,” he said flatly. “To
help right some of the wrong in the world, and bring justice to those who deserve it most.” He lowered his voice, and his brown eyes met Robin’s as he added, “I have never wanted for anything we would consider a requirement for living—food, shelter, clothing. I have never wanted nor struggled for it, and while my uncle would frown upon giving much of his wealth away as charity when taxes in all of England are so high, to forsake it all and live this way is my choice. One I will gladly make.”

  “Pretty words. Do you’ve the heart behind them? To mean it?”

  Will tapped his chest. “I do.”

  Robin put her knife away, and then scrubbed a hand over her face. “I can’t let a potential wolf in sheep’s clothing in amongst my flock.”

  “Of course. That’s why I brought a gift.” His hand moved. Robin had an arrow nocked, drawn, and leveled with his throat before his fingers brushed his waist.

  “Slowly,” she ordered.

  “Oh, aye.” He nodded, inching his hand along to the small of his back. “I’m rather fond of breathing.” He held out a purse. His expression didn’t change though Jemma was the one to come take it from him.

  “God above,” she breathed when she opened it. “Where did you get all this?”

  “The Bishop of Hereford is a charitable man when he needs to be.”

  “The Bishop of Hereford is a horse’s ass,” Robin said, the tip of her arrow never wavering, “who bleeds the people dry in the name of God and assures himself of his place in heaven. He’d see us all starve to do death before he parted with so much as a penny.”

  “His carriage is heavily armed,” Jemma said. She had both hands wrapped around her staff, the purse secreted away somewhere on her person. “We’ve seen it pass more than once, and we’ve always left it alone. It’s not worth the risk.”

  “That’s from his private stock.” Will’s chin jutted defiantly. “Go into Nottingham tomorrow, and you’ll hear the rumors.”

  “And do what with you in the meantime? Take you home with us?” Jemma shook her head. “Wolf in sheep’s clothing, indeed.”

  “On my honor, I’m not here to hurt you—any of you.” He gestured around him, nearly smacking his horse in the nose. “There’s no trap set. Nothing but good intentions, I promise you.”

  Robin lowered her bow and sighed. “Good intentions or no, I’ll not put the girls and Graham at risk.” She put the arrow back in her quiver, and then rested one end of her bow on the top of her foot. “You’ll prove those intentions, on my terms. Until then, consider yourself a closely watched guest.”

  “Wrists out, please,” Jemma said with a sharp smile, a length of rope in her hands. She leaned in close as she bound Will’s hands and forearms together, murmuring, “The first hint of treason from you, and I’ll kill you myself. Understood?”

  Will stared back at her and nodded once.

  “Good.” She smiled brightly, grabbing a fistful of his jacket at the arm. “Come along, then.”

  Robin took the horse’s reins, and the four of them started down the road again.

  “Sit there, don’t move, and don’t scare the small children.” Robin unstrung her bow and coiled the string around her wrist.

  Will sat heavily at the base of a large oak as instructed and looked up at her. “Small children?”

  Jemma knocked him gently on one kneecap with her staff. “Behave.”

  With both her hands free—and bow and quiver resting near the small, smoldering fire pit in Tuck’s yard—Robin tended to the horse while Jemma headed down the path that led to the clearing.

  “Is she your servant?” Will asked as the quiet descended between them.

  “She was, in the eyes of the law,” Robin said. She carefully dropped the bridle on the ground by her feet.

  “And in your eyes?”

  She shot him a look as she moved to uncinch the saddle. “A sister. The very best friend anyone could ask for.”

  Voices and snatches of song could be heard from the direction of the clearing.

  “We’re family,” Robin said simply, removing the saddle. “There is not anything in this world I wouldn’t do for Jemma and these girls.” She ran her fingers over the horse’s hair and met his eyes over the animal’s back. “I’d kill for them, if I had to. In a heartbeat.” She slapped the horse on the rump. It meandered over to a patch of grass and bent its head.

  Will rocked his shoulders into the rough bark and looked away first. He did so in time to see a child take a running leap straight for Robin’s midsection. She caught him easily, settling him on her hip.

  “Ginny got hold of you, didn’t she?” she asked, carefully inspecting the flower crown resting in Graham’s hair.

  “Tricked me,” he murmured into her neck.

  “Robin! Robin! Did’ya see what I made?” Ginny skidded to a halt in front of her and pointed up at Graham.

  “You’ve gotten better at them.” She brushed hair away from Ginny’s forehead to better see her face—smiling and streaked with dirt, as usual—and grinned. “Are the others coming?”

  “With Jemma and Alan” she said. She reached up for Robin’s free hand.

  Robin gave it to her gladly and knew the moment Ginny had spotted Will. She grew silent, and then positioned herself slightly behind Robin’s legs.

  “He’ll not hurt you.” Robin gave the smaller fingers a gentle squeeze.

  “You brought back a man?” Kitty asked.

  “Couldn’t let the poor bastard wander off and get lost, now, could they?” Maggie smiled slyly.

  “These are—they are your band of outlaws?” Will looked between Jemma and Robin in confusion.

  “Not what you expected?” Robin asked bluntly.

  “Not quite.”

  “They’re clever girls,” said a new voice. “With brains in their heads.”

  Robin set Graham on his feet so the little boy could run to his mother, and then nodded to Lia. “We’re the Outlaws of Nottingham. Lia and Graham, Ginny, Jemma, Maggie, Kitty, Much, Alan, and our Man of God, the good Friar Tuck.” She pointed to each girl as she said her name, and then looked over her shoulder. “Tuck might be out back with his bees, at the moment.”

  Alan snapped his fingers, and then made a series of hand motions.

  “Tuck makes a fantastic honey mead,” Lia said once Alan’s movements came to an end. “Aye, he does. And who’re you?”

  “William Sutely,” Robin answered for him. She glared him back against the tree. “Wants to join us to rob from the rich to feed the poor.”

  “Says he robbed the Bishop of Hereford,” Jemma added.

  “Listen to the rumors in Nottingham tomorrow,” Will said. “They’ll tell you I did.”

  “That’s a tall order,” Lia said slowly, still holding Graham’s hand. “The Bishop of Hereford is a right piece of work. There’ll be a hefty price on your head if that’s true.”

  Will shrugged.

  The tinker looked between him and Robin, then snorted. “I’ll get the girls to get supper going, and we’ll set an extra place for our guest.”

  “Thank you, Lia.” Robin waited until the others had wandered off to crouch in front of Will. She gripped him gently but firmly by the chin with one hand. “I’ll do anything for those girls and that little boy. And don’t you forget it.”

  He swallowed thickly and croaked, “Of course, my lady.”

  Highly unsettled, Robin stood and walked away.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Lia said with a short whistle. “The son of a bitch was telling the truth.”

  Jemma rubbed her forehead with one hand and muttered, “You kiss your child with that mouth?”

  Unrepentant, Lia shrugged. “His wanted poster doesn’t look a thing like him, though.”

  “Robin’s doesn’t look like her, either,” she pointed out, nudging Robin’s calf with the toe of her boot.

  “That’s because the good Sheriff can’t quite wrap his head around being bested by a woman,” Robin said flatly. “I think he thinks if he do
esn’t acknowledge it, it’ll go away.”

  Lia snorted. “Typical man.”

  Robin tuned out the good-natured bickering between Lia and Jemma—a frequent occurrence now, considering Lia had mostly given up her flat in Nottingham to live with them in Sherwood—and studied Will’s wanted poster a little closer. She had to squint to even get a passing resemblance, though even if she stood next to her own, anyone would be hard-pressed to say it was the same person.

  She looked between the posters again and muttered, “Huh.”

  “What?” Jemma and Lia asked together.

  “Look at this.” Robin glanced around to make sure they were still alone in the early morning pre-dawn light, and then reached out to tap the parchment. “The price on my head’s gone up—six hundred pounds—and while they’d prefer to have me alive, they wouldn’t mind if I was dead.”

  “Gisborne’s doing, probably,” Jemma said, leaning on her staff.

  “There’s no such line on Will’s,” she continued. “The Bishop put out quite the reward for him, but it’s noted that he should be taken alive at all costs.” She rested one shoulder against the side of the building and folded her arms across her chest. “What else does he have that the Bishop’s looking for?”

  “Was there anything else on his person?” Lia asked.

  “No.” Jemma shook her head. “Not even a purse of his own. He came to us with nothing.”

  Robin worried her thumbnail between her teeth and mulled it over. His story had so far checked out, although she was more than mildly curious why the Bishop wasn’t baying for Will’s blood the same way Gisborne and the Sheriff were for hers.

  Ours, her brain corrected, watching as Lia and Jemma continued to discuss the matter while also needling each other. At least Jemma’s, Lia’s, and mine. They don’t know about the others. They won’t know about the others.

  “Women,” Jemma said sharply, breaking Robin out of her thoughts. Robin looked over in time to watch her features soften as she added, “Robin and I haven’t been considered girls in a long time now.”

  “The manor burning to the ground put a rather definitive end to it, I think.” Robin pulled her hood lower over her forehead. “I still don’t trust him about as far as Jem can throw him, but I don’t need to hide in the shadows of a tinker stall to hear the market rumors when a wanted poster tells me what I need to know.” She shrugged. “He’s an outlaw. Same as I am.”