Robin: Lady of Legend (The Classic Adventures of the Girl Who Became Robin Hood) (22 page)

He grunted an acceptance of her logic, though Robin sensed he would always favor a stout cudgel over a blade. Of course, she knew there was another, truer, reason why she kept her sword by her side, but in spite of all the tales she had shared with Little John, including the fierce despondency of her initial days in the Sherwood, she could not bring herself to discuss with him Will’s sword. Not that it mattered. She wore the blade out of habit now, rather than from conscious thought. If it also served as a reminder of the cousin and home she had left behind, well, that was nobody’s concern but her own.

“Are you coming or not?” Little John demanded impatiently, already on the bank. Robin finished crossing the last few rocks and leapt down to where he was standing.

“I doubt that Eadom has better customers in all of Nottinghamshire than the two of us,” she said as they strolled through the forest. “Are you going to be able to fit enough ale into that sack of yours? The men will not be so willing to forgive us if we run short a second time.”

“They will fix their brewing barrel the quicker for the lack of it,” he replied, unconcerned.

The sun was at its apex by the time they reached the High Road. From this point the Blue Boar Inn was a mile’s easy walk, and the two friends’ long strides began to make short work of the distance.

“Who do you reckon that popinjay is?” Little John asked with interest as they neared the Inn, pointing to a figure ahead of them on the road.

Robin peered at the traveler, amusement growing within her as she surveyed him. The man was walking in the same direction as they were, but at a slower pace, his steps ambling and measured. His gait seemed oddly familiar, but for the life of her she could not place him. Robin certainly would have recalled a character like this!

From head-to-toe he was covered in scarlet cloth; his hose was a deep red, his jacket and tunic a slightly brighter shade. He reminded Robin of a vermilion floret, so starkly did he stand out against the dusty countryside. A long feather loped backwards from his crimson cap, its tail tickling the edges of his honey-hued hair.

Rather than swinging his arms about like a normal traveler, his hands were occupied in front of him, and his elbows kept lifting every few moments as though he were holding something up to his face. As they rounded the last bend to the Blue Boar Inn, they grew close enough to guess at what he held.

“Is that a . . .
flower
. . . in his hands?” Little John asked in a slightly strangled tone, as though he were trying not to laugh. “Have you ever seen such a dandy fellow?”

Robin did not bother to check her own chuckle. Whether because the man had heard them or merely because he had reached the inn yard, he halted. With a heavy sigh, he let his arms drop, and Robin saw the flower he had held flutter to the ground. Then showing more intention than he had the entire time they had observed him, he disappeared inside the inn.

As she and Little John reached the yard in turn, Robin glanced down to see what the man had dropped.

It was a white primrose, more specifically a cyclamen. Robin recognized the telltale petals from her youth—a bush of them had grown just outside her window. As she recalled the childhood rhyme associated with the flower, she felt a surge of sympathy for the scarlet dainty:

If you want to keep a merry fellow

Then dare to give a primrose yellow

But if his love is not for you

Then white’s your color—alas, adieu

* * * * *

“Back again, are ye Robin?” Eadom asked her conversationally as she approached the counter. “That cracked cask of yorn is ne fixed yet?”

“They are carving another vat even now,” she explained. “I reckon it will still be a day or so before Nicolas can get the beer brewing again.”

“Not that Nick’s brew could ever trump a cup of
your
humming ale,” Little John informed the innkeeper loyally.

“Humph,” Eadom responded, looking pleased. He took the sack of empty skins from Little John as Robin fished around in her waist sack for some coins.

“Never have to worry with ye, do I, Robin?” he said, taking the money from her. “Ye and yer men always have coin to pay yer bill, and then some.”

“People been giving you a hard time, Eadom?” Robin inquired, leaning against the counter.

“No more’n usual. People come here to drink away their woes, but usually just end up drinking themselves into more of them.”

“And by woes, you mean debts,” Little John said shrewdly. He drew out another coin. “I know these skins take a while to fill, so why not hand me a flagon of Malmsey in the meantime—I am in the mood for a drink myself.”

“This one is on the house, then,” Eadom said, handing him a flask with a grin that was absent several teeth.

“Thanks, Eadom,” Robin said as Little John took the flask. “Give our regards to your lady.”

Little John was preparing to sit down at a table, but Robin caught his arm.

“Let us go sit outside,” she suggested. “It is too pleasant a day to stay in here.”

“We are always outside,” he complained, but followed her out the door and into the yard.

Rather than sitting on the benches in front of the inn, Robin chose instead to recline on the soft greensward by the path, out of the shade. The day was pleasurably balmy, and the unfiltered sun felt delightful on her upturned face. The sun’s rays simply could not
reach
through the branches of Sherwood like this.

John gave a deep groan as he settled his long limbs onto the ground next to Robin, who used that moment of distraction to seize the flask from his hands and take a long swig.

“
I
paid for that,” Little John protested affably, seizing back the wine before she was done.

“And who do you think pays
you?
” Robin retorted, stretching out upon the grass with one hand thrown over her eyes to dim the light; she chose not to point out that the wine had been free. “Wake me up when Eadom is finished.”

She did not really intend to go to sleep, but after a while she began to drift off. The sound of birds calling to each other kept flitting in and out of her consciousness, punctuated by the occasional clop of a horse ambling into or out of the yard. At one point, she thought she heard Little John murmur something about checking on the ale, and the crunch of gravel as he got up and walked away.

Minutes later—or was it hours?—Robin grew dimly aware of a returning crunch, and the sound of footsteps halting beside her. Without warning, she was lifted off her feet by the neck of her tunic and slammed painfully into the wattle fence that surrounded the yard.

“Where did you get that sword?” a man hissed in accusation. Robin blinked against the sunlight, her mind half-dazed, black spots dancing across her vision as she tried to fathom what was happening. Her attacker’s grip on her liripipe tightened, choking any possible answer.

Suddenly Little John was there, throwing the man off Robin with a roar.

Able to breathe once more, Robin pulled herself off the rail, straightening her tunic and her hood with one hand and awkwardly extricating her sword from its tattered sheath with the other.

What a way to wake up!
She had been a fool to let down her defenses for even a moment, especially in Eadom’s sunlit yard where any soldier might see her. Had she learned nothing from Will Stutley’s capture?

Finally winning the blade free of her scabbard, she steadied herself and walked forward slowly, her steps turned tentative by her sun-speckled vision. Her eyesight was sufficiently clear, however, to see her assailant double over from Little John’s forceful blows to his stomach, and the crowd of onlookers who had been drawn outside by the shouts.

“John, stop! Stop!” she cried. Little John landed one last punch before subsiding.

Robin walked over to the man who was now kneeling in the grass, retching dryly. It was the scarlet stranger. “What does this sword matter to you?” she demanded coldly, pointing the tip of the blade at his neck. The man’s eyes fixed on the fantastical etchings.

“Sword—my sword,” he gasped. “Gave it—stolen—if you—I will kill you—” His words were broken, his tone despairing even as he threatened. Robin’s knees began to tremble.

“Who are you?” she breathed, seizing the man by the chin and forcing him to look up.

It was Will.

CHAPTER 14

REUNION

“WILL? OH MY God,” Robin gasped, covering her mouth as realization hit her. “Will
Gamwell?
”

She dropped to her knees in front of him.

“How do you know—who are—Robin?” Will wheezed, meeting her eyes in confusion as the familiarity of her gaze vied in his mind with the pitch of her voice and her attire. After a moment’s anxious scrutiny, recognition registered upon his face, and he gave her a grin of delighted relief.

“You know this varlet, Robin?” Little John demanded from somewhere to her left, watching warily as his friend aided her attacker to his feet. Robin came back to herself with a start.

“He is my cousin. We have known each other since we were little . . . little boys,” she explained. She tightened her hold on Will’s arm as she said the last part, hoping he would realize her word choice and not give anything away. His eyes widened slightly in bewilderment, but she saw that he understood.

“I thought when I saw—that is, I did not expect—I thought you were in London,” Will said hopelessly, still dazed to find Robin standing before him.

“Plans changed,” she said succinctly, keenly aware of the guests from the inn who had gathered to watch the fight, and were now attending their conversation with interest. “I will explain everything shortly, but not here. Did Eadom give you the ale?” she asked, redirecting her attention to Little John.

“Yes,” he growled, retrieving the sack he had dropped to come to her rescue; his suspicious glare never left the scarlet-clad man. “Your cousin, eh?”

“
Later
,” Robin insisted. With one last glance at the gawking guests, she gripped Will by the shoulder and steered him out of the yard and down the path, Little John trailing closely behind them.

* * * * *

“You mean to tell me that
you
are Robin Hood?” Will demanded in an incredulous whisper, still not able to believe it.

The two cousins were back at the camp, sitting in the bower beneath the great oak tree and talking in low voices. Robin had filled Will in on all that had transpired for her, and he did not seem to know whether to be scandalized by her charade or impressed that she had pulled it off.

“Believe it, fair cousin,” she said, stretching out a hand and indicating the camp with a grin. That grin faded slightly as she caught sight of Little John. He was sitting stiffly on a log a respectable distance away, carving a new staff and casting dour looks at Will. When he perceived Robin watching him, he glanced away.

“I do not think he likes me very much,” her cousin noted, following the direction of her gaze; he winced a little as he moved, his ribs still sore from Little John’s well-placed punch.

“Well, you
did
try to strangle me,” Robin pointed out.

A rueful grimace twisted Will’s mouth. “I suppose I did lose hold of myself when I saw that sword. You have no idea what I thought had happened to you—no, keep it,” he said, raising his hands to deter Robin’s guilty motion as she made to return his blade.

“But it is yours,” Robin protested, even as her hands clutched at the scabbard. Will saw the faint whitening of her knuckles, and shook his head.

“You will need it now more than ever, with the company you keep. Although if you keep mistreating it, I may just change my mind.”

“I do not mistreat it!” she denied vehemently, and then saw his mouth twitch. “You are impossible,” she sighed, and laid the sword back down. Without realizing it, she glanced over to the side—Little John was watching them again.

“Your friend seems . . . very protective of you. You are just friends, are you not?” Will demanded, the mock ferocity in his voice not quite masking the genuineness of his inquiry.

Robin laughed, trying to appear nonchalant even as her stomach leapt and her cheeks warmed within her hood at the question. “Of course we are! As if we could be anything else. Anyway, he is my right-hand man, and he is probably just trying to make sure you do not attack me again.”

“Or perhaps he fears that with your cousin here, you will no longer need him as much,” Will supposed, entirely serious.

Robin shook her head at the absurdity of that notion. “Do not be ridiculous. But, speaking of odd behavior, it is high time you told me why you were headed toward the Blue Boar Inn—on foot—dressed in
that
and sighing like someone just died.”

To her surprise, it was Will’s turn to blush. “I was going to London,” he confessed. “I could not stay, not when—I mean, I could not bear—surely you understand?” he demanded, strangely defiant. “I could not stay, knowing that
he
would be there.”

“That who would be where? What on earth are you talking about?” Robin asked, completely confused.

Her cousin stared at her in amazement. “You mean you have not heard?

“Heard what?”

“That Marian is to marry the Sheriff of Nottingham.”

“WHAT?”

Robin leapt to her feet, her voice far from hushed. All around the camp, people turned from whatever it was they were doing to stare at her outraged eruption; John half-rose to his feet. Desperately, Will tugged at Robin’s hand, pulling her back down onto her seat.

“I thought that you knew,” he said in a fast whisper. “The whole shire knows. When you ran away and broke your engagement, your father was forced to pay recompense to the Sheriff, and Darniel demanded that Marian be part of it. He still wanted his blood alliance with Lord Locksley, you see, and Lord Locksley felt honor-bound to comply. The marriage was postponed for a while—I am not sure the reason why. But now Darniel stands to get everything.”