Everything I Do: a Robin Hood romance (Rosa Fitzwalter Book 1) (23 page)

The days were dragging along and he didn’t have anyone to confide in. He had written to Sir Hugh repeatedly, receiving no answer, and soon after Rosa’s imprisonment news began to reach him of that worthy’s presence in the isles. Rumor had it that he was nursing a broken heart, and refused to see anyone. The Sheriff thought about it and turned it in his mind a million times, wondering if he should himself inform him of the supposed loss of his daughter or to wait for the disturbing news to reach him in its own good time.

He considered and hesitated, and then finally one day he had hesitated too long.

Late one evening the gates of the castle opened to admit a weary traveler’s horse, which was foaming at the mouth for its soaked rider, Sir Hugh himself, had ridden it to his door at breakneck speed, heedless of the danger.

A few minutes later he stormed into the Sheriff’s rooms roaring in anger and pain, his long black cloak still dripping rain on the floor around his black boots and demanded explanations. Explanations and revenge.

The Sheriff looked upon Sir Hugh’s bloodshot eyes and trembling white lips with secret amusement. He didn’t get up to welcome his honorable guest, as he once would have done. Instead, he leaned back into his favorite tall chair for comfort and prepared himself for a rather unexpectedly pleasant evening.

…

The Sheriff observed the dance of the flames across Sir Hugh’s thin and sullen face. He felt a low chuckle begin to rise from his belly, but suppressed it before it bubbled out. People could be so stupid, he thought. So easily manipulated. So blind.

He had given enough time to the young man seated opposite from him to vent his anger and his accusations. He had listened to him rant on and on about his -the Sheriff’s- murderous deeds, and his merciless, hard heart that had killed his own daughter.

Indeed he was beginning to get bored. Time to change the flow of this one-sided conversation. He leaned forward in his chair, bringing his face closer to Sir Hugh’s and noticing the stubble on his chin and the paleness of his cheeks with distaste.

“Listen to me, boy,” he began as tenderly as he could. “Don’t let your judgment be clouded by malicious slander, don’t let them poison your thoughts. You know me, don’t you?”

“I thought I did,” came the bitter answer.

Nottingham sighed dramatically.

“It is as I feared,” he said feigning resign. “My letters reached you too late. Or maybe not at all. I thought they might be intercepted, but I imagined I trusted my own  couriers…”

“What letters? What are you talking about? Who is ‘they’?”

“Ahhh…” said the Sheriff and fell to staring into the fire mysteriously.

“Tell me, man, don’t beat about the bush so!”

Sir Hugh was beginning to get impatient. The Sheriff smiled inwardly. This was a nice change from the man’s previous accusing words, he thought.

“I was hoping to break it to you more gently,” he said reluctantly. “Her suffering, her… death…” he wiped an imaginary tear from his cheek. “Their role in it. Oh my poor girl, how she must have suffered. And though she was a traitor to me -you see, I know that at last- but still, to die in the hands of those she thought her friends… A death so cruel I can’t even begin to imagine…” he stopped and buried his head in his palms.

Sir Hugh watched him in speechless horror and seemed unable even to breathe.

“How much greater is my hatred for them now I couldn’t possibly begin to tell you, my friend,” the Sheriff continued and his voice trembled with genuine emotion now, “although I had hoped that you would be more on my side than you seem to be.”

“Them? Who are they? What did they do to her?” Sir Hugh shouted, having finally found his voice. He got up, storming about the room, barely able to contain his desperation.

“Why, didn’t you know?” the Sheriff raised his eyebrows incredulously. “They murdered her in the forest, of course. Robin Hood and his men.” He chucked darkly. “To spite me, of all things.”

Silence, ominous and tense followed his cruel statement.

“They…
wha
t? I thought, that is I heard it was
you
who…” Sir Hugh stammered in confusion.

The Sheriff looked at him through lowered eyelashes that concealed his triumph.
Time you felt a little foolish yourself, my friend
, he thought to himself. He shrugged, as if further speech was impossible.

“I thought they were against murder,” Sir Hugh said after a bit.

“They obviously changed their policy for my benefit,” the Sheriff answered easily. “Or else they… they
used
her for as long as they liked and then decided to discard her like an old dog.”

Sir Hugh’s eyes watered in spite of himself as he recalled the way Rosa had spoken of the outlaw, Robin Hood, how her entire face had lit up with pride and loyalty, how she had defied his opinion and ignored his warnings. He passed his palm across his face. No, he had no difficulty believing that the Sheriff was telling the truth, and he was intent on finding out even more of it. As much as he could. 

The Sheriff folded his hands across his rotund stomach as Sir Hugh sat back down, looking even more heart-broken and sullen than before. But at last, he was ready to talk reason.

…

A couple of days before this significant meeting, Robin Hood woke up in the morning with no idea of how close everything, including his very existence, was to being knocked off balance and tumble into the abyss. He did have a huge appetite however and, after his daily ablutions, he decided to walk towards the eating area of the camp and see what was being cooked. As he got closer he noticed that no pleasant smell met his sensitive nostrils and became suddenly suspicious.

Sure enough, the camp was empty.

A few loud snores from the sleeping men managed to penetrate the distance and reach his ears, but that, aside from the chirping of the morning birds, was the only sound around. He shook his head.

Rosa had been at her post almost every day since her recovery, quickly becoming a fixture beside the large cooking pot, the good father Tuck usually sprawled in a plump heap on the grass next to her. The men had gotten so much used to her waking up a good half hour before them, that they no longer noticed it. 

He did, however. He noticed the gathering light playing with her hair, he noticed her slender fingers moving nimbly across the pots and pans, he noticed her ready smile and her kind eyes. He also noticed the sharp pang he felt in his heart every time he saw her there, fresh and beautiful like the crisp sunshine, so close to him and yet so completely untouchable, as far away from him as if she was still living in the castle.

How he longed to sit beside her, to talk to her or to simply watch her, drinking in the sight of her. All he could do however, it seemed, was grunt in her direction by way of greeting and go and sit himself in the farthest side of the clearing, stealing glances at her in spite of himself the whole time he pretended to eat.

None of this was possible today however, and he tried not to worry, thinking to himself that she was entitled to a bit more sleep and that her failing to show up didn’t necessarily mean she was unwell.

“No use sitting around and looking at the remains of yesterday’s fire, my boy,” father Tuck’s voice said behind him. “Ain’t going to cook yourself breakfast that way.”

“Just waiting for you, old man,” Robin said, trying to conceal his expression from the friar’s piercing gaze.

“You’re early today,” Tuck observed as he bent down with difficulty to start the fire.

“My empty stomach woke me,” Robin answered waving him away, and tending to that task himself.

“Your girl won’t be here for a good while yet,” Tuck said as soon as the flames rose.

“How do you know?” Robin asked, choosing to ignore the reference to ‘his girl’.

“She’s having her lesson now, that’s how.”

“What lesson? What on earth are you talking about, Tuck?”

“Her fencing lesson, of course.”

Father Tuck glanced over, his wide, good-natured face creaking into an amused smile at Robin’s incredulous expression.

“Are you still dreaming, old man?” Robin said. “Maybe you need your sleep like a babe.”

“’Tis not me who is sleeping, lad,” father Tuck chuckled. “I am not the one who doesn’t know what is going on in my own camp.”

Robin looked at him, blinking.

“What?” he said again.

This time the friar burst out laughing.

“Go see for yourself,” he said at last, pointing at the direction of the cluster of trees the men had created to conceal their sports ground while they practiced at fencing, wrestling, and archery.

“Although I guess,” he went on, “that it might ruin their sport, but you seem to-” His words trailed into silence as he realized suddenly that he was alone.

Rosa was delivering a series of delicate but direct strikes to her opponent, Matt, with her wooden sword, slicing the wind with graceful movements and trying to simultaneously pay attention to Matt’s constant comments, such as: “good, see? Now you have me” or “no, not that way, move your feet, there, no sideways, no, yes, that’s better” and so on, when a voice coming from the bushes made her almost jump from her skin.

“You are never going to master the art of sword-fighting practicing with that oaf,” the familiar voice said, carrying a mixture of humor and sternness.

They both turned to face him.

Robin Hood appeared to be oddly out of breath, as if he had run the whole distance from the camp, and his black eyes were gleaming like embers.

“Hey there, chief,” Matt said cheerfully, pushing his sweat-drenched hair away from his forehead, “good morrow.”

“Nothing good about it, thank you,” Robin said.

Rosa said nothing, she just stood there, wooden sword in hand, watching him staring at her in anger and trying to catch her breath.

“Something wrong, chief?” Matt asked suddenly anxious.

“No more than stumbling into the worst lesson of sword-fight in history, I guess,” Robin answered coolly.

“Oh,” Matt said, turning crimson.

An awkward silence followed. “So what was I doing wrong?” Matt burst out finally. Robin laughed harshly.

“Where is your sword?” he said. “Not that,” he continued when Matt proffered his wooden one, “that’s a toy.”

“I couldn’t fight with a lady with a steel one,” Matt said lowering his voice as if Rosa wasn’t standing right next to him. “Would be too dangerous,” he finished, feeling like a fool.

Rosa began to chuckle.

“I wouldn’t do her the insult of even thinking that,” Robin said indignantly, “let alone saying it to her face.”

“Oh,” Matt said again, at which point Rosa sat down laughing.

“I’ll take over,” Robin said with a finality in his voice that brooked no objection. “Right after breakfast,” he added, remembering his hunger and reaching out his hand to help Rosa up.

She took it, feeling the sparks fly between them even at the mere touch of his hand. She got up, he towering a good head above her, but he didn’t let go. They stood there for a moment, her hand in his, their eyes locked and their breaths coming short as, all around them, the morning light chased the shadows away.

Rosa felt as if a minute longer and she would be forever lost in his eyes and the depth of feeling she saw there. But a fraction of a second later he let go of her hand and said:

“Come on.”

So they went to eat. They returned a half an hour later, Robin holding two real swords in one hand and a dozen arrows in the other. On his back was strapped his beloved longbow, reaching almost to the ground, and next to it a smaller one, the one Little John had taught Rosa to make. Rosa’s heart beat wildly.

…

“I can’t,” Rosa said finally, after taking some time to debate whether there was a way she could pretend she knew what she was doing with the bow and arrow she had in her hands. But no, there was no way around it. She couldn’t, and so she told him.

Robin’s brow furrowed.

“I have tired you,” he said, examining her face with concern.

They had spent no more than half an hour fencing before Robin was satisfied they could move on to his favorite sport. He had given her some time to rest, but now he was wondering whether he had already pressed her too far.

He passed her the flask of water they’d carried from the camp and she drank thirstily, realizing that her lips were suddenly dry.

“No,” she said slowly and put the cap back on the flask.

“No?” Robin repeated stupidly, for he could think nothing more at that second than the tantalizing way a few droplets of water still hung from her red lips. He shook himself out of his trance abruptly.

“I just can’t do it,” Rosa said again.

“You can’t bend the bow? Is it too… Let me see.”

She gave it to him with a rueful smile.

“Oh, I imagine I can bend it all right,” she said. “The problem is, I don’t know which way to bend it so that the arrow doesn’t land in my foot.”