Robin: Lady of Legend (The Classic Adventures of the Girl Who Became Robin Hood) (26 page)

It was as Robin was dancing from one dappled sunspot to another that a tremendous belch reverberated through the trees, making her heart jump in her chest even while her body instinctively froze. Chances were the noise had originated from one of her bandsmen, out hiking or patrolling, but still . . . it never hurt to be cautious. An eructation that brash could very well have come from a forester, or even from one of the Sheriff’s soldiers sent to prowl the forest for outlaws. If the latter proved the case, she would need to warn her people.

Reluctantly, Robin crept through the trees, searching for the source of the giant belch. When at last she found it, she could hardly believe her eyes.

What in God’s good creation is
that
?
she marveled in alarmed amazement, peering surreptitiously from behind a wall of ferns. Just beyond the bracken lay a small glade, and leaning against a bordering ash tree was the strangest creature that Robin had ever seen. Grotesquely misshapen and large, its design did not seem to follow the rules of nature. It was only when a tawny hand unfurled itself from its side and raised a sun-dried strip of meat to its mouth, and yellow teeth parted to rip off a piece before letting out another belch, that she realized she was gazing at a man.

Yet what a man! From head-to-toe he was clad in black horse skin, tanned into leather with the hair still on it. Even his hose was made of the bristly skin. He wore a hood over his head, and from this hood protruded two horse ears, pricked upwards as though they could still listen. He was sitting on the ground with his legs stretched out before him, and his scabbard—also covered in horsehide—stuck out from his hip like a third leg. He seemed to be more beast than man and was altogether a frightful sight.

But it was the malice and danger the man seemed to exude that made Robin want to back away without delay; only her sense of duty kept her in place. As Sherwood’s leader, it was her responsibility to protect the forest and the people within it. She could not turn her back on a potential menace—she must know what he was about.

Before she could rethink her decision, Robin strode into the glade and gave the man her most cavalier hail: “I must say, I have never seen a fellow like you in all my life! Who are you, and why in the name of all holiness are you decked out like a sable horse?”

It took all of Robin’s willpower to maintain her smile as the seconds ticked by and the man made no answer. At last he cast back his equine hood, revealing sharp, raptorial features that seemed oddly familiar, though Robin could not recall ever having seen him before. Two deep-set ebon eyes glared in her direction, even as they squinted at her against the sun, and his pinched mouth curled into a cruel sneer.

“Few fools are bold enough to approach me so insolently. I have half a mind to skewer you where you stand.”

“I do not skewer so easily,” Robin said, letting her hand rest on the hilt of her sword. She felt her heartbeat—already fast—quicken further.

The beast-man gave a short bray of laughter. “Boy, you would not last five seconds against my blade. I have slaughtered men for less trouble than you are now causing. You may thank your tender years and my good mood that I spare your life today.”

Robin did not relinquish her grip on her sword. “I will thank the ground I stand on and the outlaws who guard it—Robin Hood and his band do not take kindly to murder in their honest Sherwood,” she warned, trying to keep her voice light.

“But murder is why I have come,” he said, his lips twisting in a feral grin. “The Sherwood shall be the more honest yet, when its leader lies dead from my sword.”

“You are here to kill Robin Hood.” She began it as a question, but it ended as a statement. She recognized the man now, despite his equine attire. This was Guy of Gisborne, the man who had sought to control the people of Sherwood and who had threatened to have her killed. He had stormed out of the forest the same day she had ascended as its leader, and since that time he had become almost as well known as she, though for vastly different reasons. Deadly and savage, Gisborne performed terrible deeds for anyone who had the coin to pay him. The people of Nottinghamshire lived in fear of him, his cruelty engendering their hatred as intensely as Robin’s charity engendered their love.

“Of course,” Gisborne smirked. “The Sheriff would hardly seek out someone of my talents to dispose of a mere sycophant.

Rage burned in Robin’s chest at his words. This . . .
loathsome
. . . man had dared to violate the sanctity of Sherwood—her Sherwood—for a purpose so vile as murder! That it was to be hers bothered her less than his clear contempt for the people she valued.

Anger warred with rationality, and Robin fought to remain calm. Gisborne clearly did not recognize her; if she were careful, she could exploit his cocksure temper to gain important information without giving herself away.

“How will you know Robin Hood when you find him?” she forced herself to ask.

Gisborne laughed. “I remember his build, and though I may not recall the face he shadows, it is all the better for me: I will simply kill every likely man in the Sherwood until there is none left who might be he. After all, be it one murder or one hundred, it makes no difference to me, and each outlaw I kill will fetch its own reward. Why should I be selective and risk missing my prize, when I can earn a Wolf Head’s bounty on them all? So run away little boy, before I decide your stature reminds me too much of that hooded man’s, and you should die this day as well.”

His callous words drenched Robin like a cascade of boiling oil. Before she knew what she was doing, she had cast her bow aside and drawn her sword, her anger squashing the voice within her that screamed she was being a fool and to flee while she still could!

“If someone is to die today, Guy of Gisborne, it will be you,” she told him in a voice that shook with fury, stepping towards him out of the sun’s glare. “I have killed only once before, and remorse for that death has haunted me every day since. But you . . . you kill without mercy, for pleasure and for pay. How many lives have you destroyed? And now you come here to destroy again. Well, I will not let you. I will fight you, Guy of Gisborne, and I will slay you if I must to protect the Sherwood and all those within it. Stand up and draw your sword, if you are a man, or else I will whip you like the gelding you are, for I am Robin Hood!”

Astonished by her hot words, Gisborne could only stare. Then with a roar of recognition, he leapt to his feet and drew his sword, swinging out at her with flashing might.

Robin barely got her sword up in time. Pain lanced through her arm as she blocked the forceful blow, her whole body trembling as she strained to hold off the heavier man. She thanked all the days she had spent in cudgeling practice, which gave her the strength now to fend off his blows. But how many more could she block? This was no comrade she sought to fell, and while a rap from a cudgel might mean a bruised rib, a rap from this sword would mean death. As Robin parried Gisborne’s crippling blows, she feared that he would indeed bring about her end before this bout was finished.

Suddenly, miraculously, Gisborne seemed to stagger, and Robin hastily lunged in for the kill—but it was a feint! She tried to correct her stance, but it was too late. Overbalanced, Gisborne’s next blow sent her tumbling, her sword knocked from her hand. Desperately, Robin scrabbled for the dagger at her hip even as her left hand swept the ground for her sword. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the flash of Gisborne’s sword as it arced down towards her, and instinctively, Robin raised her outstretched arm to block it. Her reflex and the bracer she wore saved her life—although the blade bit deeply into the leather, the arm guard deflected the blow and the sword sank not into her heart, but into her shoulder instead.

She screamed, and as she screamed Robin lashed out with her right hand, and her dagger scored deeply across Gisborne’s face. With a yell, he wrenched his sword out from her shoulder. One hand clutching at his bloody face, he raised the blade high with the other, prepared to loose the fatal blow.

A great staff descended through the air, whistling shrilly as it struck the blade from Gisborne’s hand. The staff whistled again and dealt a blow that would have cracked a greater man’s skull, and would have cracked Gisborne’s if he had not been wearing a cowhide cap under his hood that absorbed most of its force. Instead, the blow sent him staggering. Blinded by blood and by pain, he lurched away from this new attacker, not even bothering to reclaim his sword as he fled.

Little John wanted desperately to chase after the man and finish him off, but Robin moaned and he dropped to his friend’s side. Robin’s face was taut with pain, her breathing shallow and gasping.

“It is just a scratch,” she choked out. “I am all right.”

“Of course you are,” Little John said, panic rising within him as he tried to stem the flow of blood blooming against Robin’s chest. “As you said, it is just a scratch.”

But there came no reply.

* * * * *

When Robin awoke, it was night, and only the gentle twinkling of stars through the treetops separated this darkness from the realm of the unconscious. Stars, and the hiss and pop of a burning fire, commingled with the scent of roasting rabbit convinced her senses that she was alive.

“John?” she croaked, straining to sit up. Immediately, her shoulder exploded in agony, pain clawing its way into her stomach and making her head reel. Robin saw the stars begin to disappear again, and she struggled mightily to hold on to consciousness.

“I am here,” he said. “Be still.”

There was something odd about the way he spoke the words, but Robin could not distinguish the change through the roaring in her ears. All that mattered was that Little John was here.

“How did you find me?” she coughed. If she held herself very still, the roaring in her head quieted, and the pain in her shoulder subsided to a dull shriek.

“I was on my way to Lincoln Town. I heard the battle and went to see who was fighting with
swords
in the greenwood. Then I heard you yell.”

“It is lucky you came by when you did,” she sighed. Talking was torture, but she had to know. “And Gisborne? What happened to him?”

“Was that who it was?” Little John asked, startled momentarily from his mood. “He has gone. Run away.”

“He will have gone back to the Sheriff,” Robin brooded. She turned her head as much as she could without moving her shoulder, trying to bring Little John into better focus. He was sitting on the far side of the small fire, his face masked by shadows. Though she could not see his eyes, she felt the force of his gaze boring into her; without any perceivable reason, she suddenly felt uneasy.

Something niggled at Robin’s mind. She pulled in her chin as best as she could to look at the wound that had almost taken her life. Little John’s cloak lay over her like a blanket; it had fallen away slightly when she had tried to sit up, and no longer quite concealed the strips of her tunic—now stained a dark crimson by clotting blood and antiseptic wine—that had been used to bind her wound.

“Oh, dear,” she gulped, realization striking her as painfully as had Gisborne’s sword. “John—”

“Who are you?” he asked, his tone so cold it made her heart freeze.

“Robin,” she replied.

“Do not lie to me!” Little John shouted, losing control at last and jumping to his feet. Robin braced herself to keep from cowering away, ignoring the pain in her chest. “I trusted you, and you have been lying to me from the first.”

“I did not lie!” she answered hotly. “You just assumed the day I met you that I was a boy.”

There. She had said it. In all of her daydreams and night dreams about telling John the truth, she had never imagined that it would come out like this.

They glared at each other across the fire.

“An easy assumption to make, when you go around dressed as a man and acting like one,” he said in icy anger.

Robin bit back a heated reply. He was right to be upset, but she could not endure the betrayal she heard in his voice. An acrid scent distracted Robin—she glanced over at the fire and saw that the small coney was alight, its flesh charring before Robin’s eyes.

“Your rabbit is burning,” she said, trying to match the coldness in Little John’s tone.

He started slightly at her statement, her words echoing through him like a half-forgotten memory. With one booted foot, he kicked the rabbit away from the fire, knocking down the makeshift spit and causing the logs to erupt with sparks.

“Do not change the subject,” he said.

“What would you have me say?” she asked. “Yes, I lied! My father wanted me to marry the Sheriff, so I ran away. I did not ask for you to join my campfire that night, or for Will Stutley to follow me home, or for all those people to come to me, or for you to join my band. It just happened! And I have been dealing with it all as best I can.”

“What kind of band is led by a woman?” he demanded in disgust.

“Would you rather it have been led by Gisborne?”

He was silent. Robin pressed on:

“Look me in the eyes and tell me, John, that I have not done well by all of you. Tell me that you were all better off without me. Tell me that you would still have sought to join our band if it were not the band of
Robin
Hood!”

Robin was wheezing; the effort of speaking so forcefully left her racked with pain and short of breath. Still she held Little John’s eyes, refusing to look away as he studied her. Finally, his shoulders relaxed just the tiniest bit, and he sat back down.

“I may not be a man,” she went on, speaking softer, “but I am still the Robin you knew. Do not throw away everything we have worked for, everything we have achieved, just because my gender is different than yours.” She was speaking of their friendship as much as the band, and she saw the awareness of that in his eyes.

After a moment, Little John reached over and picked up the singed rabbit, brushing celadon grass off the meat.

“Would you like some?” he asked, his tone carefully bland.