Robin: Lady of Legend (The Classic Adventures of the Girl Who Became Robin Hood) (16 page)

She glanced at where her rivals now stood in small groups within the archers’ tent, quaffing the free ale brought in to slake their thirst, and nattering to relieve the tension. Robin herself had chosen to abstain from both activities, preferring to keep her mind focused, her vision clear, and her reflexes uninhibited by drink. Instead, she leaned back against the wall of the tent and closed her eyes, trying to shut out the ambient noise and calm her nerves.

Once again, Robin was the last to shoot. This time, she had to battle a strong wind that blew the shouts of the spectators into garble and threatened to tear the arrow out from her fingers. The capricious breeze had already wreaked havoc with the aim of several archers, changing its course just when they assumed they had the old wind judged.

Now Robin’s days spent practicing in the Sherwood stood her in good stead as she awaited the almost imperceptible slackening of the breeze—the prelude to a momentary calm before it renewed its charge in a different direction. When that instant came, she did not hesitate, but let her arrow fly through the transfixed air to land with seeming ease near the center of the target.

The herald presented her with the yellow ribbon that signified she was one of the ten to move on, and then the Sheriff stood, signaling a short recess. Those bowmen who had not advanced to the next round gathered their equipment and left the range, nearly all of them heading for the rails to observe the outcome of the match. The spectators already there shifted aside to make room for the archers, deferring their places to those who had contributed to the day’s entertainment.

Robin ducked back into the tent where the other semifinalists were awaiting the next round. After holding so many people all morning, the shelter now seemed disquietingly bare.

In the hustle-and-bustle of the earlier rounds, she had not attempted to assess her rivals. Now she looked them over as critically as she saw they were doing to her.

The most easily recognizable was the Sheriff’s chief forester, Gilbert o’ the Red Cap. He wore the Sheriff’s purple livery, but atop his head perched a red hat, from which he took his surname. It clashed terribly with his outfit, but the forester wore it proudly. His skill and cocky confidence made him the crowd favorite, as their cheers so deafeningly announced each time he had taken his turn. Unless something unexpected occurred, Robin was certain he would be one of the finalists.

She cautiously dismissed a short man in blue: his eyes were cunning, but his hands quivered like a nervous rabbit. True, he had to be an adroit archer in order to have made it this far, but if he continued to tremble with tension, Robin did not see how he would be able to aim well enough to make it to the next round.

Two of the men were peasants—she had seen them shoot and they were indeed very good marksmen. Robin hoped one of them would carry the day if she could not, but she had to concede that it was unlikely. Not because their skill was insufficient for the task, but because as the day had progressed, they had seemed increasingly cowed by the adroit company they kept. Even now, their gazes kept shifting sidelong to the four men standing in the middle of the tent, and Robin turned her head to peer at them as well.

These four yeomen were well attired, and carried themselves with the relaxed confidence of archers who had been to and triumphed in many such tournaments. They seemed well acquainted with each other, and conversed amiably about the day’s shooting. Looking at them, Robin felt her own confidence begin to waver. It had not really occurred to her until that moment that she might not make it to the finals, but as she considered the archers before her, she had to admit that it was more than a slight possibility. Seeking a distraction, she shifted her gaze to the last archer.

She had not seen him before amid the press of competitors and the bustle of the tourney, but now he stood apart from the others with a quiet aloofness. Recognizing him so unexpectedly made Robin drop her bow, her muscles suddenly weak. Several of the archers turned to look in her direction, their stares changing at her clumsiness from speculative to dismissing. Blushing within the folds of her scarlet hood and averting all eye contact, Robin silently scooped up her bow and stood against the tent wall, wishing she were invisible. Her mind was still in shock. What was
he
doing here?

Lords did not compete against peasants—he himself had said it led to overfamiliarity and encouraged people to challenge their lord’s authority. Heaven help her, what if he recognized her? Hastily, Robin double-checked her hood and eye-patch.

Lord Locksley, preoccupied with his own turbulent thoughts, had taken no notice of the scarlet archer’s disturbance. He was dressed as the commoners around him, but he was no commoner, and it shamed him to compete in a tournament for such a plebeian reason as pecuniary need.

He had never been particularly wealthy, but he had always managed his manor well, and had never expected to face true financial distress. But when his eldest daughter had run off so unexpectedly, he had been left to pay the wedding forfeit . . . enough to make even a rich man’s coffers grow tight. A solid gold arrow would go far toward dispelling his manor’s fiscal strain.

At least, he thought gratefully, the Sheriff had been willing to forgive some of the mulct he was owed, provided he still received his desired alliance with the Locksley family. Soon the whole rotten deal would be closed.

And who will be left for me then?
Lord Locksley gloomed.

The summons of a trumpet interrupted his thoughts, calling them all back to the range. Robin was the first out the tent flap. As the archers lined themselves up on the field, she made certain to position herself as far from her father as she could.

Her gaze turned toward the Sheriff, who was leaning forward in his gilded chair and watching the archers with far more intent than he had thus far that day. From this distance, Robin could not see the features of his face, but it was easy to imagine the Sheriff’s frown of displeasure as he realized none of the ten wore the hoped-for Lincoln Green. He bent his head towards the herald at his right; whatever the man said, Robin felt certain the Sheriff’s frown only deepened.

“You will shoot two arrows each,” the herald at their end was instructing. “The finalists will shoot three. Closest to the center of the target wins.”

The archers nodded and strung their bows, their faces set—even the blue-clad yeoman looked poised; Robin attempted to match their expressions as she strung her longbow. She had to try twice—the first time her fingers, suddenly slick, slipped.

During the earlier rounds, the crowd had booed and cheered for their favorites, hooting wildly at the foul shots and hurrahing a shaft well aimed. Now they were silent, eerily so. The only sound was the twang of strings as the archers took their shots one-by-one, and the distant
fwumps
as their arrows struck the targets.

Twenty twangs and twenty
fwump
s later, the spectators on both sides of the range broke their silence with an enormous roar of appreciation. Surely these were ten of the finest archers in all of England! At 250 paces, all ten had managed to lodge their arrows within the middle ring of the target. What a shame that only three could advance!

From where Robin was standing, it was impossible to tell which arrows lay the closest to the target’s center. Her heart told her she had shot well, but was well good enough?

Her gaze cut towards her father; he was the very picture of serenity, calmly leaning against his bow as he awaited their results. She wished her thoughts could be as serene, but instead, doubt plagued her; the words he had spoken to her during their last real conversation together echoed in her ears:

“You seem to think you are a man . . . . You are nothing but a girl, and it is high time you faced that fact.”

What if her father was right? What if she was wrong to compete like this, to think of winning against men like this, she, a mere girl? She knew society would find her so, that she would be shunned, imprisoned, perhaps even killed if the truth were known. If she lost (
when she lost
, a part of her whispered) would her people surmise that she was not all she pretended to be? Would they desert her?

A runner arrived bearing the arrows of the three most accurate shooters; Robin accepted hers from his hand, slightly dazed. Those who had not qualified were falling back, their role in the tournament finished. Rather than leaving the range, they lingered behind the finalists, waiting to see who would take home the golden prize.

Robin glanced at the other two finalists left on the field. Gilbert o’ the Red Cap was one, looking very smug. The other man was her father.

Once again, Robin was twelve, preparing to do battle with her father for the right to learn the archer’s art. As with that time, she would shoot well. As with that time, she would lose. Exuberant cries told her that Gilbert had shot the first of his three arrows. It was her turn.

“Come on, Robin, you can do this,” she muttered to herself. But instead of focusing on the target, she allowed her eyes to flicker toward her father, who she saw was watching her keenly. The pressure of his gaze made Robin hurry her shot, and she misjudged the wind; her arrow, instead of landing in the middle of the white core, blew aside to land a finger’s breadth further from the center than Gilbert’s shaft. Cursing herself for her clumsiness, Robin watched her father methodically draw back his bow and shoot, his arrow piercing the white core precisely opposite that of the Red Cap’s.

The herald gave a short blare of his trumpet, and the three prepared to shoot again. As she awaited her turn, Robin grappled with her concentration, reclaiming it with some success just before she shot. This time, her arrow landed two finger-lengths closer to the center of the target, and several barleycorns in front of Gilbert’s second shaft; her father’s next arrow landed slightly behind hers.

The Red Cap stared at the target: the scarlet archer’s last shot was perilously close to its center. To be assured of the win, Gilbert would need a bulls-eye.

Taking a deep breath that whistled through his wide-spaced teeth, he nocked his arrow, placed the tip of his bow by his instep, and drew the string full back to his ear, all without taking his eyes off the target. When he let go, his arrow flew straight and true to lodge in the black center dot.

“Oh my,” Robin gasped, stunned by such marksmanship. Lord Locksley glanced at her sharply, but said nothing.

The crowd was cheering wildly—they were certain that Gilbert had won. The herald gestured for Robin to take her final shot.

She took up her stance and nocked her arrow, drawing back her bow. The target seemed to quiver in front of her—but no, that was only her hand shaking her bow. With great effort, she let the string go slack and unnocked her arrow.

Fully cognizant of her father’s gaze, Robin struggled to push aside all the fears and doubts that his presence had raised within her. She pushed aside, too, the surprised murmurs of the crowd as they wondered at her hesitation.

I am Robin
, she chanted to herself.
I am Robin Hood.
I
lead the Merry Men of Sherwood. I am an archer in my own right . . . and I will win this day!

So swiftly did she move then that men later swore they could not even blink in the time it took her to re-nock, draw, and loose her arrow. Their first indication that something had occurred was the unexpected sound of splintering wood.

“My God,” the Red Cap gasped. “He done split my arrow!”

Silence suffused the range for a moment longer as the crowd registered what had happened; the next instant, they let out a colossal cheer. The tumult was so great that the herald could not make himself heard, and gestured almost apologetically to Lord Locksley for him to take his shot.

Lord Locksley gazed at the upstart clad all in scarlet, disturbed by a familiarity he could not name and would puzzle over for weeks to come. “Nay,” he said at last, into the crowd’s eager hush as they watched him unstring his bow. “I will shoot no more this day. Yon lad has beat us all.” Without another word, he turned and walked away.

At this display of gallantry, the crowd’s ebullient shouts rose so high that people as far away as Radford Town looked into the sky to wonder at the sudden thunder.

Gilbert hesitated, his expression warring between upset and awe, and then he shook his head. “Well done,” he conceded, clasping Robin’s hand.

After that, everything happened very fast. The herald seized Robin by the arm and propelled her across the field toward the Sheriff’s tent. People strained over the wooden barriers as she passed, fighting to touch her sleeve and craning to better see the winner. Robin felt her head spin at their praise, and her heart pound with pride at her accomplishment.

They came to a halt in front of the Sheriff, who did not stand to greet her, but sat surveying Robin with a calculating stare. Phillip Darniel was just as she had remembered him: a wolf, for all his chiseled features. Suddenly, his mouth contorted into a feral grin.

“Masterful shooting,” he announced loudly, making Robin collapse inside with relief. She had feared for a moment that he had recognized her. “My friend Sir Amyas insists he has never seen its like in all his eighty years.” The Sheriff gestured to a wizened old man on his left, who beamed at Robin happily.

Sir Amyas opened his mouth to say something, but the Sheriff cut back in. “The prize is yours,” Darniel informed Robin, handing her a heavy silk cloth. She pulled the wrappings back and held up the weighty gold arrow for all to see—the resulting din was deafening—and then rewrapped it and tucked it inside her quiver. The Sheriff watched all this from beneath hooded lids.

“An archer of your caliber need not be content with such a paltry reward,” he declared without warning. “I have a bigger prize to offer you.”

“What is that, sir?” Robin inquired, feigning innocent interest.

“There is an outlaw who has been harrying my people. He has no respect for rank or title, and the common people fear him so much that none will undertake my warrant. I will give you your weight in gold, if you will bring this bold outlaw to me.”