Author's Note: At last finished, I dedicate this tale to my dear girlfriend, outlaw author, also known as the reincarnation of Robin Hood.
The sun shines fairly, glittering beams of light turned a light green by the great trees that tower overhead. A cool breeze slips through the warm air, the breath of the world as it blows through my forest. My merry men are about their business – preparing a fine buck for supper, dancing about with quarterstaffs, setting up a target for their longbows and trying to shave the feathers off of each others' shafts at thirty paces, the hum of their arrows and the twang of bowstrings mingling in the air. Little John has taken a handful of others to see if there is anyone passing through Sherwood: perhaps there is someone who would deign to join us for supper. Ahh, but I miss his merry laugh already, for he is a fine fellow to have around – as stout a yeoman as anyone could ask for! Yet, for all this, I feel uneasy: 'tis an itch that I cannot scratch. It is that which unnerves me so even upon this fine day…I shall have to go out and see if there is anything happening – perhaps there is word about our friend the bishop floating about the tavern of the Blue Boar, or mayhap our dear Sheriff is holding another archery tournament, that I might carry away his prize once more, a right merry game indeed! I am hard pressed to decide which would be the best sport – taking from the bishop or from the Sheriff? 'Tis a difficult choice indeed, so why not do both, at the same time, no less? I shall have to try and arrange things like that someday, or, perhaps, the opportunity will present itself through happy chance or by the grace of God.
I jump from the ground, snatching my bow and quiver as I do so, and walk swiftly from the merry glade. Will, my squire, dashes after me and asks after my wanderings. I smile, for he is a good lad, and reply that I will be back with the setting sun in case we have guests at the table, assuring him that I will not be convinced to stay before sending him on his way, looking more than a little anxious. He, and all of my merry men, save, perhaps, Little John, shall learn someday that my mind is too stubborn to listen to reason in the face of good sport.
It is a fine day to be alive in the greenwood…the sun is shining, the wind is fresh, the birds are singing and the merry shouts of my dear lads are echoing through it all. I smile as I make my way out of the fine forest of Sherwood and make for the Blue Boar, traveling along the dusty road with a sword and horn at my side, a bow on my back, and the frolicking wind upon my face. It is not long before I see the sign emerge from around the bend, a piece of wood hanging under an iron brace with the likeness of a boar engraved upon it, but a figure, hunched over as it scurries along the side of the road, catches my eye. I look closer, hastening my step, and see it to be a small lad, clothed in rags and carrying what appears to be a slain rabbit for the pot. Curious now, I follow him down an overgrown path leading away from the road and into the woodlands.
He comes quickly to a small, rough, wooden cottage set back but a little from the road, a mean place not all that different from the Ranger's house in which I grew up. He enters amid shouts of rejoicing, and I begin follow him in, my interest piqued by this poor sight, but my feet suddenly stayed. A rabbit to bring such rejoicing must mean a family poor in all but spirit, and so I shall tarry here awhile – 'tis but right to do so, but 'twould not do for them to be calling out that they had seen Robin Hood…instead, let them see one of the King's Foresters, a fine jest upon them and that villein who leads that band! I glance shortly at my tunic and tights of Lincoln Green, a garb worthy of a Forester, check my weapons and my belt purse, and enter the humble dwelling with a scowl upon my face. A mother stands within, her three children – two boys and a maid who reminds me of my own Marian – yelping in surprise and clinging to her dirty skirts, clothes that show sign of hard and relentless use, and a pockmarked man lies upon a rush bed in the corner, asleep. A goodly portion of meat is hissing upon a spit over the dancing flames in the single clay fireplace, filling the abode with the delicious and forbidden scent of venison, meat of the King's deer. I allow my gaze to linger upon the ill-gotten meat before drawing them sharply to the woman's face, a worn visage marked with mud, sun, and ash. My voice grows deep as I begin to speak.
"Ye dare to take of the royal herd?! Surely ye know the penalty for such a deed!" The mother's face grows cold, obstinate in the face of danger, and steadfast in the defense of her family. Her voice is cold, but I can her it trembling in barely concealed anger and fear.
"There are plenty of deer in the forests of Sherwood. We have not enough money to pay for our own food – surely the King would not begrudge but a little food to his subjects!" I glare at her a moment longer before thrusting a hand into my belt and pull a pouch from it, concealing them within my fist but staying my hand from withdrawing them, holding my hand as if about to draw a dagger.
"If ye cannot buy food-" I draw out the pouch with an ominous care, "-ye shalt answer to my Sheriff of Nottingham, keeper of the King's woods! Thou shalt find a warrant within for thy arrest within, and the day that the Sheriff grants thee an audience to reconcile for thy misdeeds. If thee fails to come, thou shalt find it all the worse for thyself and thy family." I set the soft cloth pouch – with its three pieces of heavy gold within – carefully upon the table, taking care not to shake the coins within. Scowling ferociously at the mother and sliding a merry wink to her terrified children, I stalk out the door and slam it behind me, barely able to contain my mirth. I managed to come back to the roadside before a grin lights my face and a song trills in my heart, waiting to be released, but I cannot let go yet – I am far too close to the dwelling and would be heard. Instead, I make my merry way down the road again, a spring in my step until I hear heavy hoofbeats approaching swiftly from ahead. As the horses appear around a bend in the road, I spy my dear Sheriff riding with a band of his retainers and a rather forlorn-looking knight, his arms dull upon his shield, his armor dented from use, but everything about him bespeaks experience at arms. I can hear them conversing in low tones as they approach…(the Knight continues)
"…thou art the Sheriff of Nottingham, and if the King hath tasked thee with the health of his deer, then I shalt aid thee in such a chore, but I shalt not slay the innocent! Mind thy tongue, Sheriff, for I am already called to be wary of your ways by my old friend, the Lord of Gamewell, who sent word to me in Lea not long ago." The Sheriff scowls for a heartbeart at my remark as our steed plod along, walking slowly to the cottage where the poachers lived, according to what the Rangers had told the Sheriff. I can see that he is about to reply, but he first catches sight of a yeoman upon the road, clothed in the Lincoln Green of the King's Rangers (or the notorious outlaws of Sherwood), and calls for him to halt, asking him to join our party with a smile on his face and a promise of reward upon his lips, wanting him to lead our group to a cottage not far from the road. I trust the man little, but he is a man of the King, and so, as a knight, I am forced to pay him the respect and loyalty due to his position as much as I may loathe such a duty.
The yeoman agrees right hastily and we proceed on foot as he indicates a thin and overgrown path to the side of the road, nigh overlooked in our passage. We walk quickly, the merry Ranger leading us swiftly onward to a humble cottage set back from the road. The Sheriff bids his men to stave in the door, an order that they obey with surprising alacrity, and walks within, motioning for me to follow. The fellow in green has already made his way inside and stands away from the Sheriff, choosing to stand in the corner with a swiftly strung bow twirling under his deft fingers. The Sheriff shouts his outrage at the mother standing beyond the door, a small cloth pouch in her fingers and three children – a pair of small boys with midnight black hair to match their mother and a beautiful young maiden with raven locks, and proclaims his doom, ordering his retainers to seize them and bring them into Nottingham for a hanging so that all might know the fate of those who dared to steal from the King. However, he halts his men with a word and turns to me, a hidden smile pulling at his lips, asking if I might want to avenge his Majesty's honor before a far less worthy hangman. I set my face against him, my hand flying to my sword as I proclaim my defiance. The code of chivalry demands that I defend my King – King Richard the Lion-Hearted, whom I would be with in the Holy Land were it that I was rich enough to do so – and all those too weak to defend themselves. My Lord of Gamewell was correct – this man is naught more than dirt, unfit to tread upon the King's land. My sword rings from its scabbard, ready to stand between this family and the Sheriff's gallows, but I am thwarted, his retainers standing against me with naked steel flashing in their hands, but they suddenly stop, they feet halted by a cool, quiet voice from the corner, the yeoman we had hired standing ready with a arrow upon his bowstring, the longbow arched and pointed for the Sheriff's head. His gaze caught by the needle-like bodkin point, the Sheriff curses and stomps from the house, his retainers following him in short order. Glancing at the window to check their retreat, my newfound friend returns his shaft to his back quiver and bows to me, introducing himself at the same time: "Fair meeting to thee, good friend! I am known as Robin Fitzooth, or, if thou wishest, Robin o' th' Hood. A good meeting indeed!"