Robin: Lady of Legend (The Classic Adventures of the Girl Who Became Robin Hood) (5 page)

“Whoever said sleeping on the ground was good for you was
such
a liar,” she winced.

With a groan, she began to stretch as the woodwards had taught her to do, slowly but surely excising the stiffness from her limbs. When she could move freely again, Robin dug around in her sack for something to eat.

The coarse bread she drew out was by now more than slightly stale, but she did not mind. It tasted wonderful. It tasted like freedom. Exhilaration outbalanced her regret, and Robin began to laugh.

The next instant, she clapped a hand to her mouth, her glee vanishing as quickly as it had come. “I sound like a girl,” she whispered against her fingers, horror-struck.

In planning her escape, Robin had not considered the pitch of her laughter or her voice, but now she realized that for her disguise to bear up, she would not only have to look like a boy, but to talk and laugh like one as well. The only question was: could she?

Feeling more than a little absurd, Robin tried to imitate the hearty bellow of Locksley’s head cook, but it sounded breathy and forced to her ears. Her cousin’s cheerful guffaw was beyond her ability as well. In the end, she settled on a rumbling chuckle that was deeper than any sound she had ever produced.

Trying to talk like a man proved even more difficult. No matter what she tried, her voice sounded feigned to her ears and her words stilted. A few times she thought she had finally mastered the trick of it, but then a high note would turn her hopes to dust.

Maybe I should just act mute and have done with it!
she thought in exasperation. Mutes were rare, though, and pretending to be one would draw far too much attention to herself once she started passing through towns on her journey to London. Resolutely, Robin began her attempts anew.

At last, she discovered that by exaggerating her pronunciation, and by speaking as though she were delivering her words from her belly and not her throat, her voice came out sounding natural and deep. True, deep for her was still rather high for a man, but since people would assume she was a boy when they looked at her, Robin thought her pitch would be low enough to avoid suspicion.

She practiced speaking in this new manner until it became instinctive and sustainable. By the time she was satisfied, the sun had sunk low in the sky and the shadows around her grown long. If she planned to travel any distance before dark, she would have to leave now.

It was barely the work of a minute for Robin to gather her things; the sun told her which way was south, and her strides as she walked through the brush were long and confident.

She felt like a knight errant, picking her way through the forest in search of adventure. Feathery bracken tickled her legs, and brushed its thick fronds against her hips. Tall trees soared up above Robin’s head—tapered pines with their waxy, blue-green needles; spindly birches with their peeling white trunks; thick oaks trying to dominate the airscape; broad beech trees, and others that she did not know the names of. Shrubs and ferns filled the spaces between the trees, and where they did not, wild grasses and multi-hued flowers suffused the forest floor.

Life teemed within the verdant growth—squirrels and throstles shook the branches, larks popped out of their burrows to gaze at Robin curiously, and downy brown rabbits darted across her path and then sat, ears pricked and noses quivering, as if to ask what manner of strange creature was this? Robin knew that eventually she would have to kill one of those rabbits for her supper, but for now she enjoyed watching them bound.

More rarely, but most majestic of all were her sightings of the deer that populated the King’s forest. Great red harts and smaller roe deer walked the woods with a regal air, eyeing her condescendingly and leaping haughtily away when she approached, as if they could not bear to be in such an inferior presence.

You are so beautiful
, she thought with awe as a russet stag flitted through the ferns. He paused for a moment as though sensing her thoughts, and she could swear she saw his eyes twinkle at her through the twilight.

“And you know it, too!” she called aloud, her deep tone startling them both.

Soon the sun had set too low for her to comfortably see, and Robin began to look for a suitable place to spend the night. As might be expected, the moment she considered stopping was the moment her feet and calves started to cramp, and the quarter-mile she walked before finding a space sufficiently devoid of tree roots and stones felt twice as long as her entire journey.

Fortunately, obtaining some dinner proved much easier. Robin had barely to wander a dozen yards from her chosen rest site before she espied a large rabbit emerging from its burrow, and shot an arrow cleanly through its neck.

Now for the part she hated. Darah had made her learn how to skin, gut, and cook a variety of animals, in case her husband (“Assuming,” the woman had frequently stressed, “that there
is
someone willing to marry a girl who cannot even embroider!”) could not afford to keep servants. Robin did not mind the cooking, but she found the gutting repulsive.

“Let us just get this over with, shall we?” she suggested to the rabbit, turning it over in her hands. But when she reached into her sack for her dagger, Robin discovered that she had forgotten to pack it. Cursing herself for a dolt, she unsheathed Will’s sword, but quickly found that attempting to wield the blade with one hand and hold the rabbit steady with the other was not only a frustrating task, but a nearly impossible one as well. In the end, she gave up and—muttering imprecations against all blades—tugged an arrow from her quiver and used its sharp tip to skin and gut the coney instead.

That unpleasantness done, Robin built a small fire and found a pair of sticks to spit the rabbit on. Soon the aroma of sizzling juices was wafting through the forest, and Robin had to sit on her hands to keep from seizing the meat off the spit before it had finished cooking. After what seemed like an eternity to her hungry belly, the rabbit was ready to eat. Just as she was rising to remove the meat from the fire, a boisterous voice called out:

“Ho, there!”

Robin whipped around, seized her bow, and nocked an arrow before the greeting had a chance to die fully away. The man who had entered her camp looked startled.

“Hold off,” he called, raising one hand in benign defense. His other hand held a stout cudgel, which he leaned against as he watched her. His eyes were keen. “I mean you no harm, lad.”

“Who are you?” Robin demanded suspiciously, not lowering her bow.

He smiled broadly, showing teeth that gleamed in the firelight. “My name is John Little. Who are you?”

“Robin,” she replied automatically, and then chided herself for not having thought of a pseudonym. In fact, why was she telling this stranger her name at all?

“Well Robin, I—hey, your rabbit is burning.”

“Oh!”

Dropping her bow, she seized her makeshift spit and pulled the rabbit off the fire, wincing as it burned her hands. Too late, she realized that she had let down her defense, but when she whirled back around, the stranger had not moved. He stared at her curiously.

“Um, would you like some?” she asked, self-consciously holding out the rabbit.

Without the aid of a trencher or cloth, the coney was messy to eat, but tasty enough that neither person cared. They sat on opposite sides of the fire, which allowed Robin to surreptitiously study the stranger over her food. If he noticed, he gave her no sign, and let her look as much as she needed.

Robin knew herself to be tall, but this man was a giant—she might just come to the top of his shoulder if they stood side-by-side. Those shoulders were broad, his build muscular, yet trim. Golden hair curled tightly against his neck and glinted on his arms, and formed a thick beard that framed his face. That face held a nose that was slightly crooked, faded eyebrows, and high cheekbones; his eyes were pale blue.

Robin thought she should be frightened of a man like this, but oddly, she was not. Maybe it was the way he smiled as he ate his food, or the unconscious way he ran his hand through his hair. He had greeted her as if he had nothing to fear, in spite of her nocked arrow. And he had not tried to take advantage of her distraction with the rabbit. She did not trust him, of course, but she no longer felt threatened by him, either.

“So,” he said lightly, breaking her out of her thoughts. “Am I to be let live?”

His facetious question made her mouth quirk up in a small smile. “I would hardly feed you otherwise.”

He laughed. “Indeed, we must not waste good food.” His grin was infectious, and Robin felt her own smile broaden in response.

“There, that is better. Even outlaws should have a sense of humor.”

“I am no outlaw,” Robin answered hotly.

“A forester then?” John asked dubiously.

“No.”

John Little frowned. “Yet you carry clothyard arrows,” he observed.

“Is that a problem?”

“It is if you are not a forester. Carrying unblunted arrows means you are here to hunt deer, and only the King’s foresters can lawfully kill deer in the King’s forest—well, foresters and nobles, but no one would mistake us for that! Where are you from, that you do not know this?”

“Oh, um, from Doncaster,” she said, naming a village far to the north.

John looked skeptical at her answer, but did not press. Courtesy might dictate that travelers offer food and fire to one another, but that was where their obligation ended. If this Robin lad chose not to state his true home, well, that was his right.

“I suggest you keep your arrows in your quiver, then. Otherwise, the next person you point them at might arrest you for poaching,” he advised.

“But I have killed no deer!”

“You will never be able to prove it. Those shafts will condemn you before any magistrate. Of course, that assumes the forester who catches you even bothers to take you in. Most would just shave your ears off there and then.” Seeing her expression, he added kindly, “Do not take this the wrong way, lad. I am just trying to warn you, lest you get into trouble.”

“Thank you,” Robin said. “I will be more careful from now on.”

John Little nodded. “Are you traveling far?” he asked, some part of him uneasy for the youth with the innocent eyes.

Robin shook her head. “Just to Radford,” she lied, naming the next village in her path.

“I am headed there myself,” he yawned. “I plan to win some provisions at their fair.”

“What are you competing in?” Robin asked curiously.

“Cudgeling.”

For the first time, Robin realized that the staff by his side was not a walking stick, but a weapon.

“I daresay you are going for the archery contest. I hear that the Sheriff is offering a fat butt of wine to the winner,” John Little surmised.

“Erm, yes. Yes I am.”

“Good. We can travel together.”

Robin did not see how she could refuse without betraying her story, so she just nodded. In truth, it would be nice to have someone to travel with for at least part of the trip . . . safer, too. She could always slip away once they reached Radford.

Brushing his hair back from his eyes with a sleepy smile, John Little stood up and began to tear off fronds from a nearby fern. Once he had fashioned a decent-sized headpad, he lay down upon it with a groan. Robin copied him, trying to make it appear like she utilized fern pillows all the time.

The fire popped; Robin mused drowsily that it would die soon and she should feed it, but the night air was warm and there was no real need. Besides, she was comfortable. She shifted slightly, and a sharp rock dug into her back. So much for comfort. With a small sigh, she reached behind her and tossed it away.

“Good night, Robin,” John called softly, his body a mere lump of shadow against the flickering embers.

Her reply was a sleepy whisper, “Good night.”

* * * * *

To her delight, Robin found that she enjoyed John Little’s company. He talked merrily as they walked, naming trees and animals for her benefit. Often he made jokes—he had a wry humor that he was not afraid to ply at his own expense as well as at hers. She discovered that he was a farmer from Mansfield, which explained his broad shoulders, and that he hoped to get noticed by a lord at the fair and to earn a position as a retainer. Casting a look up at John—she actually had to look up to talk with him!—Robin chortled softly to herself.
How could a person possibly
not
notice John?

Sometimes they passed other travelers in the forest. A few, like John, were simply shortcutting their way through the Sherwood; others looked like they might be permanent residents. Fortunately, no one paid the duo more heed than it took to give a brief greeting or a nod. Robin doubted that this would have been the case had John’s towering presence not been beside her, and once again she was grateful for his company; she would be sorry to part with her loquacious guardian when they arrived at Radford tomorrow.

* * * * *

“What is it with these accursed pebbles?” Robin griped, pulling off her boot for the third time that afternoon. “Do they see my shoe and think:
Here comes a good piece of calfskin, let us hitch a ride and see the world?
I mean, honestly!”

“Radford is hardly the world,” John remarked absently. He was standing beside Robin, but his head was turned away, and he was peering intently into the trees.

“To a pebble, I am sure it is the universe and beyond. What
are
you looking at?” Robin demanded irritably, stomping back into her boot.

“There are people out there,” John told her. “Hush.”

She obeyed. Now that she was quiet, she could hear the rise and fall of voices, and when she looked at where John was gazing, she saw distant flashes of color between the trees.

“Foresters,” he informed her quietly. “Patrolling the verge. Keep your arrows in your quiver.”

“I was planning to,” Robin replied, a little indignant that he thought she needed reminding. All the same, she strung her bow. “Why are we whispering? They are only foresters.”