Lady of Sherwood

by Molly Bilinski

“Regardless.” The Bishop drew himself up in the saddle again, sitting tall and proud. “You shall hang for it.” He gestured for his armed attendants to come forward.

  Robin threw off her cloak, wrenched her bow over her head, and nocked an arrow all in one swift motion. “I think not.”

  The Bishop and his men froze. His beady eyes narrowed, and he growled out, “You.”

  “Me.” She pursed her lips and made the sound of a mourning dove. Branches and brush all around them crackled, as though a great number of archers lay in wait. “And them.”

  The Bishop’s men, fearing an ambush, turned tail and fled. He’d have done the same, except he pulled his horse around too sharply. The animal stumbled. In the process, it pitched the terrified clergyman off its back.

  Jemma strode forward and grabbed him by the collar, hauling him to his feet.

  “The Bishop of Hereford,” Robin said slowly. “Who’s the one who will hang now?”

  Much snapped a length of rope taut between her fists. The color drained from the Bishop’s face.

  “If I had known you haunted this stretch of road, I’d have gone the other way.”

  “Would you now.” Robin smirked. “What you will do is join us for dinner.” She gestured to the deer. “Can’t let good venison go to waste.”

  Will picked up the doe with a sigh. Kitty and Maggie emerged from the underbrush with a laugh. They’d been instructed to make as much racket as they could, and it had worked better than Robin had dared to hope for. They’d run the Bishop’s armed guards off as if the hounds of hell were chasing them, and not a drop of blood had been shed to do it.

  Robin absently wondered what day their luck would run out as she led them through the woods to the other clearings.

  Lia had a fire roaring. Together, she and Will did most of the dressing for the doe and got the meat sizzling in various pans. Both the tinker and Much were careful to keep their hoods up. They still frequented Nottingham, and it wouldn’t do for one of them to be arrested within the walls.

  “Sit.” Jemma plopped the churchman on the ground, and then nudged him in the thigh with her staff. “Stay.”

  “I am not a dog, you heathen.”

  Robin briefly caught Tuck’s eye—twinkling with glee, so much so it made her shiver—and unsheathed an arrow from her quiver as she made her way to the Bishop. Gently but firmly, she tapped him between the eyes with the point. “Do not forget who’s company you keep right now. For we have not forgotten who you are, and what you do.”

  He stared up at her, at a loss for words, and she whapped him lightly on the nose with the arrowhead.

  She wandered off in the direction of Tuck and Will, and once again looked between their resident friar and the Bishop. The horse he’d ridden grazed contentedly nearby under the watchful eyes of Maggie and Kitty.

  When the meat had finished cooking, the potatoes boiled, and they were ready to eat, Lia appeared with Ginny and Graham. The two had become quite adept at looking out for each other, and while Graham still wasn’t a big supporter of flower crowns, he did adore Ginny.

  They sat down together, and it was much the same as any other meal they had in the greenwood. Conversation and Tuck’s honey mead flowed, and they made sure to include the Bishop in on their conversations. Robin wanted to show him they were more than outlaw heathens, and she carefully watched for changes in his expression throughout the course of the meal.

  The Bishop’s eyes widened even further when Much reappeared with a platter of sweetmeats she’d baked herself. She beamed proudly from the depths of her hood at the praise, stammering out a meek “thank you” when even the Bishop complimented her on her skills.

  Robin and the others had shown him nothing but kindness and compassion throughout supper. As the hour grew later, Alan, Lia, and Much gathered up the platters and herded Graham and Ginny back to their home clearings.

  A different sort of quiet settled over them, even as the fire cracked and popped.

  “Was it to your liking, Bishop?” Jemma asked sweetly.

  “This was a fine meal,” the Bishop said after he’d stuffed himself, finishing off a piece of sweetmeat he’d been saving. “I thank you for it, and now I must be on my way.”

  “Not without payment,” Will said, using his knife to clean beneath his fingernails.

  “True,” Robin added. “After a guest has eaten well, it’s customary he ask for the bill. Tuck? Would you care to do the tally?”

  “Certainly.” Tuck turned a sly smile on the Bishop. “As men of God, we’ll do right by each other.”

  “Certainly,” the Bishop agreed.

  “Your purse then, good Bishop,” Tuck said. “And your saddlebag.”

  The Bishop bristled. “The purse—and its silver pennies—you may have. That saddlebag contains dues from the tenants of the church’s land, and therefore belongs to the church. You shall not touch it.”

  “Dues from the tenants?” Jemma asked incredulously. “How many did you turn out into the night in order to get it?”

  “They should have prepared better. Rents do not lower—they only rise.” He shrugged. “Any good farmer knows to accommodate for it.”

  Robin looked not at the bishop in that moment, but at Tuck, who was nearly incandescent with anger.

  “How dare you,” she snarled, rising to her feet with her fists clenched at her sides. “How dare you sit there and pretend to be a man of God when you are nothing but a man of greed.”

  Much leaned toward Will as the friar stalked across the space toward the other clergyman. Robin felt as though the entire forest were holding its breath.

  “The good people of this world need—nay, deserve—a better bishop than a money-hungry worm of a man,” she said, using her temporary height advantage to loom over him. “They deserve better than a man who would take every last penny from them and watch them starve while his coffers fill and he hoards his wealth like some great wyrm of old legend.”

  Jemma grabbed a handful of Robin’s sleeve while Robin watched, open-mouthed, as Tuck seized the front of the Bishop’s robe in her hands and jerked him forward.

  “The people of this good country deserve better,” Tuck said, and though her voice was quiet, her rage was palpable. “God deserves better, you filthy heathen fraud.” She dropped the stunned bishop, and then stalked off in the direction of the horse to presumably get the saddlebag.

  “Watch him,” Robin murmured. After gently detaching herself from Jemma’s white-knuckled hold, she jogged over to where Tuck stood with her face pressed against the horse’s neck. If the others were able to hear them, well, Robin doubted any of them would say anything.

  “Hell of a temper you’ve been keeping tucked away, Friar,” she said, resting one end of her bow on the top of her foot.

  “Mostly righteous anger, I assure you,” Tuck said. She didn’t raise her head. “It’s men like him who…” She trailed off.

  “It’s men like him who made you leave the convent.” Robin thrummed her bowstring with her thumb. “You couldn’t stand the thought of someone like him having so much power and influence over those who didn’t have a chance to stand up for themselves.”

  “He’s no man of God, sure as I’m no man,” she said softly. She freed the saddlebag and draped it over one shoulder. “I never could stand that.”

  “I don’t think anyone with a good heart and a conscience could stand injustice in any form.” She glanced over her shoulder as she said it, her eyes falling first on Jemma, and then on the Bishop. “I certainly can’t.”

  Tuck snorted quietly. “And that’s why you’ll be trying to right the wrongs of the world until the day you die.”

  Robin giggled. “I’ll be trying to convince Saint Peter he’s not doing enough from his place by the gates of heaven.”

  “Now that I’d like to see.”

  She jerked her chin in the direction of the Bishop. “I think it’s time we send our friend on his merry way.”

  “Aye—a few hundred p
ounds poorer, by the feel of it.” Tuck took the horse’s reins and followed Robin closer to the others.

  Jemma prodded the Bishop to his feet with her staff.

  “Time for you to be on your way,” Robin said, looping her bow over her shoulder and taking the reins from Tuck. “The money you’ve given us will be distributed back to the poor you took it from, and the rest we’ll keep in memory of the time the Bishop of Hereford joined us for a wonderful dinner. To make sure you won’t get lost in the forest, we’ll see you back to the road. From there, you can go wherever you see fit.”

  “I’ll be going to Nottingham,” the Bishop spat as he climbed into the saddle, “to have an audience with the Sheriff.”

  “Give him our warmest regards, then,” Will said briskly.

  Robin nocked an arrow as an extra precaution. Tuck took the reins, and they started back to the road. She spent the entire walk stifling giggles, as every time the Bishop so much as looked in Jemma’s direction, she blew a raspberry back at him or whacked him lightly in the shin with her staff.

  And yet, coiled in the back of her mind like a snake waiting for the right time to strike, was the thought of when, exactly, their good fortune would run out—and what it would cost them when it did.

  I can’t tell him.

  Thwack.

  I couldn’t let him die.

  Thwack.

  I can’t tell him.

  Thwack.

  I fell in love with him.

  And for the first time in years, Robin’s arrow missed where she’d aimed it by more than a quarter of an inch.

  She froze, her chest heaving, and stared. Her bow was the same solid weight on her arm it always was, the string taut beneath her fingers. Still staring at the arrow just shy of the bull’s eye, she rested one end of her bow on the top of her foot and gently leaned on it.

  Her archery was as essential to her as breathing. It had gotten her through the darkest days in the aftermath of her father’s death. It was her last remaining tie to him, apart from name he’d given her.

  “My little Robin,” she whispered thickly. She’d wanted nothing more than to make him proud of her, the daughter he’d been saddled with instead of the son he wanted.

  He’d loved her all the same, and he’d made sure she’d known it from the beginning.

  Mother loved you, too, the little voice in the back of her head whispered. Gisborne came for you, and she didn’t give you up. She could have, but she didn’t.

  The last words Sabine had ever heard her daughter say to her were, You’ve a whore for a daughter now, Mother, and the possibility of a bastard for a grandchild. I regret nothing. Try as she might, Robin couldn’t clearly remember the last thing her mother had said to her. A part of her—the part that ached deep in her belly—hated herself for it.

  She sniffled and wiped hastily at her cheeks with her free hand.

  “Robin?”

  Her shoulders stiffened. She hadn’t expected company, and while the presence of one of the girls would have been all right, she wasn’t sure if she could handle Will’s. Not when all she seemed to want to do when around him was open her mouth to tell him she loved him.

  “Jemma said you were out here, and I—I need to ask you about something.”

  Robin took a deep breath, did her best to compose herself, and finally turned around to look at him. “Ask about what?”

  “The fever I had from the wound in my leg,” he said slowly. “What happened?”

  “You were very sick.” She set her bow on the ground, and, in the hope he wouldn’t push for details, went to collect her arrows from the target.

  “I remember bits and pieces, Robin.”

  She paused, her fingers wrapped around an arrow shaft.

  “I remember the stream.”

  Robin refused to look at him. She stared at the tree in front of her, instead.

  “You stayed with me,” he said softly. From the warmth near her back, he was right up behind her. “Throughout the entire thing, you stayed with me, and you got in the stream with me. I remember the touches, meant to soothe and comfort.”

  Fingertips hesitantly touched her sides near her hips, and she turned when he applied slight pressure. She swallowed thickly and tilted her head up, teeth buried in her lower lip.

  “I remember the kisses,” he whispered, ghosting his own lips across her forehead. “But most of all, what I remember best, is how you sat beside me from beginning to end and refused to let me die.”

  “I couldn’t do it,” she murmured. “I couldn’t—I couldn’t say goodbye.”

  “So say hello, instead.” Slowly, and giving her plenty of room to move if she wanted to, he dipped his chin and pressed his lips to hers in the barest definition of a kiss.

  Robin made an embarrassing sound deep in her throat, grabbed a fistful of the front of his shirt, and pulled him closer. Will laughed softly against her lips, bracketing her between his body and the tree.

  I can’t tell him. “Wait.”

  Will took his hands off her hips and stepped back to give her breathing room.

  “I—I’m—I need some air.” She winced. “A walk. I need—I have to go.” She brushed by him. In her haste to get away, she nearly stepped on her own bow.

  “Robin.”

  She paused and looked over her shoulder. His expression was carefully hopeful.

  “I’ll still be here when you get back.”

  It made his position on the subject perfectly clear, and it also put the decision back on her. He’d made an offer, and he would wait until she was ready to either accept or reject it. The chance for rejection was slight, but Robin couldn’t bring herself to agree. Not yet.

  Instead, she swallowed past the ache in her throat, whispered, “Thank you,” and disappeared into the greenwood as fast as she could manage.

  ***

  If Jemma were there, she’d whack her in the shins with her staff for being an idiot and thinking she could run from her problems.

  But I’m not running; I’m merely walking quickly in the opposite direction. Robin could practically hear Jemma’s voice yelling Semantics! while also aiming once more for her shin.

  Marcus would tell her to breathe, and to go shoot some arrows to get out of her own head for a little while.

  Sabine would tell her ladies of standing didn’t get flustered. Instead, they quietly planned, and perhaps she’d like to try it while finishing her needlepoint.

  Robert would have taken her to the field, sat her down, and told her to just listen to the wind and the earth because while it could mimic those who tread it, it couldn’t lie to her.

  But what would she herself say? What would Robin—or more accurately, Rhiannon—say to her?

  That heart of hers hadn’t once led her astray. Robin could almost see her on the road in front of her, a little girl with long, tawny hair. Herself, back before she’d become more Robin than Rhiannon.

  What would that little girl think of her now, all these years later?

  She’d be proud, her heart whispered to her. She’d be proud to be you. So you should be proud to be her, too.

  She was who she was, and no amount of wishing things had been different was going to change it. Turning slowly in a circle verified Will hadn’t followed her, and she had half a mind to go back to him and finish what they’d started by the tree. Warmth flooded her cheeks and pooled in her belly at the idea. She giggled.

  The giggle turned into a full-blown laugh, and it was a relief to let it wash through her.

  “That’s it. I think she’s finally gone ‘round the bend.”

  Robin looked up to see Much, Ginny, Kitty, and Maggie standing there. The three older girls wore flower crowns—Ginny had gotten quite adept at them since they’d moved out of Nottingham proper into Sherwood Forest—and they wore their ribbons in their hair. The same ribbons she and Jemma had gotten for them after the manor had burned. Just because they could.

  “No,” she said between giggles. “I haven’t. I�
�I just… I’m all right. I promise.”

  “Did you talk to Will?” Much asked. “He was looking for you.”

  “Yes. He did.” Robin finally got herself calmed down and smiled. “He did.”

  “Did you kiss him?” Ginny stared bluntly up at her, the hopeful expression on her little face nearly heartbreaking.

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Aye. I did.” She didn’t stop to think about the various reactions she might get. She knew Will and Maggie had an odd, close sort of friendship, and he could banter with Much without batting an eye.

  What she wasn’t expecting was for the four of them to rush her, and in their efforts to hug her, knock her completely over in the dirt.

  “Finally,” Kitty squealed in her ear.

  “Lia thought you’d never get on with it,” Maggie said, practically sitting on Robin’s midsection. “Said you were gonna ignore it until the sky turned purple.”

  “It was complicated,” Robin protested. “Love is complicated.”

  “Jemma says it isn’t,” Ginny said primly. “She says your stupid head makes it complicated, but when you tell your head to shut it and listen to your heart, you’ll do all right.”

  Dumbfounded, Robin stared. When she finally found her voice, she creaked out, “I am going to have a talk with Jemma, because that—that is… I don’t know what that is, but I’m going to have a talk with her.”

  “Better bring your bow,” Maggie muttered.

  This sent all of them off into fits of giggles again, until Robin felt the ground begin to shake through the hand she had pressed to the road.

  “What? What is it?” Much untangled herself from the human knot and began helping the others up. She set Ginny on her feet and nudged the girl behind her.

  “Horses.” Robin put her ear to the ground. “A lot of them. Five or six, maybe.”

  “A carriage?” Kitty asked.

  “No.” She reached for her bow only to remember she didn’t have it. She’d left it back by the tree with Will. She didn’t even have a knife.

  The road turned sharply ahead, and Robin jogged toward the bend. She edged out, and the sight took her breath away. Riders dressed in black bore down on them, the Bishop of Hereford in their midst.