Robin: Lady of Legend (The Classic Adventures of the Girl Who Became Robin Hood) (30 page)

The Sheriff’s hands clenched into fists of hatred in his lap as his horse ambled after the jaunty youth. No wonder he had never caught Robin Hood before. He could scarcely believe that this scurvy lad, this . . . this fair-faced
boy
, was the bane of his existence, the scourge that had plagued the good folk of Nottinghamshire and himself for so long! If word of this got out, he would be a laughing stock. It would mean the end of his career as sheriff . . . assuming that he survived the night. It galled Darniel to no end that the only reason he was still alive right now was because his foe had ordered it.

These thoughts so preoccupied the Sheriff that he scarcely noticed that his outlaw captors—rather than reveling in their victory—were walking beside him in somber silence. No one seemed inclined to look at the Sheriff directly, preferring to shoot him surreptitious sideways glances instead.

At last the procession came to a halt, and the Sheriff was startled out of his brooding by the sight that met his eyes. Phillip Darniel had never troubled himself to imagine what an outlaw camp might look like, but if he had he would have pictured men strewn about the ground in drunken slumber, half-eaten carcasses littering the turf, and golden coins winking in the sunlight. The orderly, peaceful hamlet that greeted the Sheriff was completely beyond anything he might have conceived.

Its residents had obviously been waiting for him. The men stood at silent attention beside their cabins, their womenfolk kept slightly behind them. The people’s noiseless stares sent prickles down the Sheriff’s spine. Even their children watched his passage quietly—one man held a young toddler who gazed at him with wide brown eyes, a plump fist stuck in her mouth.

“Please sit,” Robin said, giving Darniel a small bow and gesturing toward the base of a tall oak. Her voice seemed overloud in the silence.

The Sheriff hesitated for a moment, feeling the weight of ten-score eyes upon him, and then he dismounted his horse, taking the seat that Robin had indicated. A glint of yellow caught his eye—dangling above his head was a golden arrow. A taunting rhyme began to dance in his head, and the Sheriff glared at its author with newfound hatred, his mouth tightening into an impossibly thin line.

Seemingly undisturbed by his glower, Robin sank down onto the ground beside him. The Sheriff flinched away; she pretended not to notice. “Come, men!” she called. “Where is our hospitality? Our venerable Sheriff provided me with a lavish feast this afternoon, and I shall be shamed if we of the Sherwood cannot do the same for him!”

As if her words were the countercharm to some great spell, the camp’s strange stillness abruptly broke. Those on serving duty immediately began to bustle about, seizing wooden platters and placing slabs of meat upon them, filling horns full of sack and ale, and finishing the supper preparations. Those who were not on duty that evening took their seats; Will Gamwell sat down in his normal place at his cousin’s left, and Little John settled on the Sheriff’s right side like a guard. Both of them shot Robin dubious looks that seemed to question the sanity of her actions, but neither of them voiced their doubts aloud.

Marian had no such reservations. “Why did you bring him here?” she demanded in a too-loud whisper as she handed Robin her food. “Now he knows where to find us; he will bring back his men and hunt us down—”

“I was very careful,” Robin assured her sister, patting her hand. “He will not be able to find his way back here. Trust me to know what I am doing.”

The Sheriff watched their interaction, his gaze growing blacker as he realized that his abducted fiancé was in fact a willing consort to Robin Hood. He ignored the trencher of meat that another server was holding out to him; exasperated, the man set it down on the ground in front of the Sheriff and stalked back to the fire.

Sneering at Marian, the Sheriff demanded loudly, “Tell me,
Lady
Marian, do you serve all the men of Sherwood, or do you save such tender meat for Robin Hood alone?”

Marian flushed and drew away from her sister. Will half-rose out of his seat, but Robin seized him by the arm before he could stand and issue a challenge, pulling him back down.

“I would mind my manners if I were you, lord Sheriff,” she suggested in a nonchalant tone. “Steel blades cut deeper than steel tongues.” Robin took a deep bite from the meat on her trencher, deliberately letting its golden juices run down her chin. “Do eat up, Sheriff. You would not want to insult our hospitality.”

With a mouth puckered so tight that it was a miracle he could fit aught inside it at all, the Sheriff of Nottingham picked up the meaty bone and took a contemptuous bite. Robin pretended not to see his expression alter over the next few mouthfuls from mutinous compliance to delighted consumption. Phillip Darniel was neither a forester nor nobility and had no more right to the King’s deer than a peasant—venison was not meat that
he
would scorn to eat with impunity!

And venison was just the start of the meal. Rabbit-and-onion pasties, boiled capon, and a delicious honey-and-curds dish soon followed in succulent succession. It was a fine feast indeed, and Robin wished that her people could be as lively and merry as they usually were at their mealtime gatherings, but the strange quiet that had gripped the camp ever since the Sheriff’s entrance persisted even through their supper.

Have I made a mistake?
Robin wondered, not for the first time. She had wanted to show the Sheriff the livelihoods he had stolen—to make him see her people as children, wives, and husbands, not outlaws. She wanted him to feel some remorse for those he had ousted from their proper place in the world, and to engender some respect for the lives they had managed to forge here. But the Sheriff looked only at the food he was eating, or at the space above the congregation’s heads. And her people, with their quiet whispers and sidelong glances, were hardly the picture of a happy and healthy community.

Somehow, I have to make him see them as I see them
, Robin thought desperately.
I have to make him at least
look
at them.

Robin nudged Will with her elbow and stared meaningfully at the cudgel lying propped up by Little John’s side. With a sigh, Will Gamwell put down his unfinished pasty and got to his feet.

“Shall we have a bout, Little John?” he asked loudly, helping his friend up and handing him his cudgel. Immediately, the atmosphere in the camp shifted. A fight between Will “Scarlet” and Little John was always a treat, and lately a rare enough occurrence that the mere suggestion was enough to enliven the people with eager anticipation.

Will led Little John over to the sparring ring in front of the fire, accepting a cudgel from David along the way. As one, he and Little John settled into their stances, their eyes locking on each other with an intensity that suggested their camaraderie would not prevent them from giving their best to the contest.

Indeed, the match was everything that a sportsman could desire. By the fourth or fifth cracking blow, even the Sheriff was riveted, his food lying forgotten in his lap.

When Little John seized the victory a half hour later, Robin was relieved to hear the Sheriff’s boisterous baritone join in cheering the prowess of the fighters. Other sparrers sprang up to replace Will and Little John, engaging in their own spirited bouts of wrestling and cudgeling. The people applauded their antics, glad to have a focus for their attention that was not the Sheriff. Darniel for his part cheered and groaned right along with them. He was a sportsman at heart, and shrewd fighting never failed to fill him with heady gladness, so that he unwittingly cried, “Well struck! Well struck!” and forgot for a time that it was outlaws he was praising.

Robin wore a small, satisfied smile as she felt the tension seep out of the camp. Maybe this plan of hers would prove to be more brilliant than stupid after all.

Eventually, the sun began to set and the bright harvest moon began to rise majestically in the sky. Aware of the growing shadows, the Sheriff stood; those nearest to him broke off their conversations first, with those further away soon following suit. Quickly, the happy laughter of the camp faded away into silence, and those left fighting immediately broke apart to see what would happen next.

The Sheriff took a deep breath, fully aware of the eyes upon him, and that whatever he said next might mean his life or death. For this reason, he affected a cheerful tone: “Thank you all for the generous hospitality you have shown me and for the merry entertainment you have provided. It heartens me to see such respect for the King and I, his deputy, even in the heart of Sherwood. But I must go now, for the day wanes late and I have neglected my other affairs for far too long.”

“Of course!” Robin agreed, also getting to her feet. “How thoughtless of us to have kept such a hardworking man from his duty. But before you go, there is something you seem to have forgotten.”

“I have forgotten nothing,” the Sheriff insisted, his face going as white as the fist that clutched for his absent sword.

Robin smiled kindly. She would have preferred to avoid this, but she knew that letting the Sheriff leave the Sherwood with a full purse would be too much for even her band to endure. “I understand how a man with so many important affairs weighing on his mind might fail to recall our fee. Poor innkeepers that we are, we must insist that our guests pay their worth for the food and the drink and the merry entertainment that we provide. We in the greenwood
are
known for our charity, but I would never insult
you
, lord Sheriff, by presuming that you need it.”

“Understandably,” the Sheriff said through clenched teeth. “And even if you had not asked, I would surely have given you a score of pounds for the merry time you have shown me.”

“Oh, but I would never treat you so disrespectfully!” Robin protested. “Imagine what the King would say if he knew his sheriff was of so little worth. I cannot in any conscience value a magistrate of the King at less than three hundred pounds.”

“Three hundred pounds?” sputtered the Sheriff over the startled exclamations and guffaws of the band. “Think you that your measly entertainment was worth three pounds, let alone three hundred? I will not pay your fee!”

“Careful, Sheriff,” Robin said, closing the distance between them and speaking in a soft voice. “Look around you. Right there is Will Stutley, whom you had beaten and later attempted to hang for the crime of courting your daughter. That big man there is David—you threw him and his pregnant wife off their land because they could not afford your impossible taxes. Shane and Glenneth there you outlawed for a brawl your soldiers instigated; Shane almost lost the use of his arm in that fight. And I . . . I you tried to assassinate. I assure you, Sheriff, that everyone here has a story to tell regarding your hand in their lives. None are pleasant.

“We do not wish to be at odds with you, Sheriff, but you have left us no choice except to support ourselves in the only way we can. Perhaps in the future, you will remember this day and consider whether mercy might be more profitable than greed. But for now, realize that your actions have left my people with only contempt for you, and much anger, and know also that I may not be able to restrain their ire much longer. Be advised by me—pay your value without more ado, if your life is something you value.”

Darniel blanched. Slowly, he reached inside his tunic and withdrew a heavy purse, letting it tumble from his fingers to the ground with a clunk.

“Little John, please count the monies,” Robin requested, not tearing her eyes from the Sheriff’s face. Was he ruminating even a little on the more profound things she had said? Based on the hatred radiating from his gaze, it would seem that he was not. She sighed. “It would be tragic if the Sheriff misjudged his purse.”

Little John obliged her, counting the coins aloud in a booming voice while the Sheriff stood by stiff as stone. When the last of the silver and gold sat upon a wooden trencher and the tally read three hundred pounds, Phillip Darniel turned away without a word and mounted his horse.

“Nicolas, go with him,” Robin commanded. “Night is nearly upon us and I would not have our guest lose his way in the forest.”

“No!” the Sheriff bellowed, visibly alarmed. “I have no need of guidance.”

That was an obvious falsehood, but Robin, seeing the fear in the Sheriff’s eyes, understood why he might not want to be alone with one of her men.

“Then I will lead you myself,” she announced. Seizing hold of the horse’s reins, she led the placid mare into the trees. As she wended her way along invisible forest paths, doubling and occasionally tripling back until Darniel could not possibly keep his direction, Robin wondered if the Sheriff might not spur his horse into a canter and trample her beneath its hooves, or try to stick a concealed dagger in her back. She was almost surprised when they reached the High Road to find that she was unscathed.

She handed the reins back to the scowling man. “Farewell, Sheriff. Go in peace, and remember your feast in the forest the next time you seek to cheat a man.” With that valediction, she slapped the horse on its hindquarters, startling it into a forward leap. Without waiting for his beast to settle down, the Sheriff kicked the horse into a gallop, racing down the moonlit road until all that Robin could see were clouds of silver dust.

Robin exhaled slowly and turned her gaze away from the road. Facing the slumbering shadows of the forest, she called out loudly into the darkness: “Come out, then, whoever you are, and tell me why you are following me!”

CHAPTER 19

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS

WILL GAMWELL stepped out of the shadows.

“Whatever are you doing here? I did not ask to be followed,” Robin rebuked him as she recognized her cousin, but she tempered the reprimand with a smile. “Still, I suppose I should be thanking you, since I suspect the Sheriff would have tried to retaliate against me, if not for your presence. Likely, he sensed you behind us as I did and chose not to risk it.”