Author's Note: This story is a blend of various legends and historical figures. I own none of them. I appreciate any and all critiques and comments.
Robert woke abruptly. The inky blue-black darkness instantly smothered his eyesight as his eyes flew open. Safe under the cover of night and his small shelter of bushes high on the ridge, he sat up. His stiff back protested from long hours traveling. A faint rumble from the road below drew his attention and a cascade of ice flooded his chest. How had they caught up to him so fast? He peered over the rocky ledge and saw twelve armored guards galloping along the road, headed straight for the village of Locksley. His dry, cracked lips spat out a curse as he surged to his feet and slipped and skidded his way down to the road. Beneath his feet the ground vibrated with the echoes of the horses, and with a wave of foreboding, he bolted for the shortcut through the forest.
His brain suffered under a battering ram of accusations even as twigs and branches slapped and clawed at his face. Strategic thought was impossible; his numb brain could only process guilt. He should have been more careful. He should have risked detection by day and maintained his meager lead on the soldiers. He should have never involved his uncle in this at all. He should have never come back.
In the distance a lone wolf howled and the hairs on the back of Robert's neck rose in response. Cold sweat beaded on his back while his mind raced with possibilities; if he cut across Branyard's field he might be able to reach the village first and warn them of what was coming. Around him the forest thinned as the field came into view. A black cloud rolled toward him.
He plunged headfirst into the cloud, knowing that his village lay just over the next rise. The smoke engulfed him, suffocated and left him blind, but doggedly he fought his way to the top of the hill. The scene that lay before him through the black veil gave life to his darkest dreams. Lit by the orange glow of torches, soldiers rode along the streets of Locksley setting fire to the thatched roofs of shops and homes. Weeks without rain turned the wooden structures into kindling. Terrified screams filled the night air as villagers fled burning cottages. Scrambling to douse the flames, screaming, cursing and attacking the riders with whatever they could find, the villagers swam before him in waves of heat. Robert flung up a hand to shield his eyes from the glare as his whole world disintegrated into a pile of ash. Guilt vanished as duty set in.
Fueled by a territorial fury, he charged down the hill. His frenzied approach caught the eye of a tall soldier who, with a grim set of his mouth and narrowed eyes, turned and sent his charger racing toward Robert. As they crashed together, Robert leapt at him and wrestled him from the saddle. Shouts rang out behind them as several villagers witnessed the display. They hurried to Robert's side, kicking and cursing at the fallen soldier, who curled into a bloody heap.
"Leave him, he's not the one responsible for this," said Robert, flinging out his arms to hold them back.
"He might as well be!" growled a wrinkled old farmer with a bristly silver beard and a small block of wood clutched tight in his fist. "Let us at him." Robert swung around to stare at him.
"Your homes are burning and you would stand here and do nothing? Leave this man and salvage what is left of the village." Ignoring this, the old man struggled to break past Robert's outstretched arms to the soldier on the ground. Robert seized him by the collar, half-lifting him off the ground.
"You forget yourself, old man!" he shouted. "I am Robert of Huntington and I have given an order."
"They are here because of you!" the old man bellowed back. "You are a murderer and you have brought this death upon us all."
Robert froze, but he retained his grip on the man's front. His dark eyes scanned the desperate faces around him and saw the old man's anger reflected in every gaze looking back. Several villagers looked ready to turn their weapons upon him next. He tightened his grip on the old man's shirtfront and yanked him closer so that they were practically nose to nose.
"Would you be a murderer also?" he snarled. "See to your home, while you still have one." He released him and stepped back. They did not want his help; they did not want him here at all.
He needed to get to Uncle Gamwell's house, his numb brain reminded him. Averting his face from the furious eyes, he stumbled down a side street and doubled over, racked by a fit of nausea. The smoke burned in his lungs and he coughed, pulling his shirt collar up over his nose and mouth to filter what little clean air he could get. A horn sounded and all of the riders turned their horses away from the village to attack the lord's manor. Robert refused to fall behind this time, not when his family's lives were at stake. He reached for his longbow strapped across his back, strung it in the span of a heartbeat and ran to intercept a pair of riders lagging behind the rest. Two shots later Robert sat astride one of their sleek gray horses; the guards lay in dusty heaps on the road behind him.
Digging his heels into the horse's sides, he galloped through his uncle's smoldering cornfields.
Locksley Manor loomed on the horizon. What few knights his uncle housed had rushed outside to fend off the attackers. Robert gave a vicious yank on his reins which nearly toppled the poor horse, who screamed with displeasure. He dismounted hastily, unconcerned when the horse cantered away. Scanning the shadowy figures from a distance, his dark eyes landed on the one man he hated with every fiber of his being: Giles of Northwood.
Giles wore his authority like a mantle, barking out orders with unabashed relish. Robed all in black with a thick fur cloak fastened at his shoulder by a large silver broach and seated astride a monstrous black beast, he might have been the devil himself. Fire from the torches illuminated his glittering black eyes, and a flash of the crimson lining of his cloak only heightened the similarity.
"Take her away!"
Even from this distance Robert heard the command. His eyes flew to the open front doors where two shadowy figures dragged a third down the front steps toward a carriage. His aunt Cecily shrieked and struggled between them, calling out for her husband and two sons. They stumbled over something lying in their path and for one agonizing moment Robert felt his stomach give a violent heave as he recognized his uncle splayed across the stone steps in a scarlet bath. Aunt Cecily howled to the moon, her anguished cry piercing a hole the size of the universe through Robert's soul. The pain of it rooted him to the spot.
"Silence, Madam!" barked Giles. "This man and your sons have been conspiring with a traitor and murderer. No one should mourn such a death unless they are a traitor themselves. As for you, I will spare your life, but you will never again live in the glory and luxury of a lady. I said cease your incessant noise! Find the boys you louts!" he ordered two men waiting by his side. "Let the line of Locksley end tonight!" He wheeled his horse around to gallop away, heading straight for Robert. Lacking time to properly fit and aim an arrow, Robert dived out of sight behind a tangle of thick brambles. Giles rode past in a billow of black robes, whipping his horse brutally to spur it on. Cursing under his breath, Robert turned back to his aunt. She was collapsed on the steps beside her husband, the two guards standing awkwardly behind her. Desperate to do something, Robin flung himself out of his hiding place and ran to help her.
Suddenly, an arrow lodged itself in the thick leather protecting the shoulder of the man on her left. He let loose a strangled yell and sank to one knee. Skidding to a stop again, Robert saw two dark figures ducking behind the far corner of the house.
"Mother, run!" yelled Joseph, the older of the Locksley boys. He raised a bow and fired wildly at the guards.
"After them," grunted the injured man by Lady Cecily's side. "We have our orders."
"NO!" wailed Aunt Cecily, clutching at his robes. "Don't hurt them!" Robert averted his eyes as his aunt was dragged to her feet and gagged. There was nothing he could do for her, save rescue the only two things she had left to live for.
He sped after his cousins, slipping around behind the manor to avoid the soldiers. He spotted Joseph ushering his younger brother William into Locksley Forest as he turned to aim another arrow at the approaching soldiers. Not pausing to think, Robert's hand flew to his own bow, and he launched an arrow at the approaching guard. A rider went down followed by another wounded by Joseph's shot.
"Joseph! Follow me!" Robert shouted, speeding toward his cousin and yanking him into the forest by his sleeve. "Where's Will?"
"I told him to go on without me," Joseph panted, fighting to keep pace with him. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be in hiding." Robert flinched but could think of no answer. He merely picked up speed.
Hooves sounded behind them and an arrow whizzed by Joseph's ear. He ducked with a yelp and whirled around, raising his bow. Five horsemen could be seen through the trees; three bore crossbows and the other two carried torches they were using to set fire to the trees.
"We'll never outrun them," Joseph said in a low voice, sweat trickling down the side of his dark, handsome face. His chest heaved and he fitted an arrow to his bow, preparing to go down fighting.
"Don't stop!" shouted Robert, going back to pull him out of range.
"Robert, look out!" Joseph dived at him, knocking him flat on his back as three more arrows flew in their direction…
A thick silence hung over the scorched earth as moonlight filtered through the remains of what once had been a lush forest; it lay in puddles at the bases of trees, as though the trees cried silver tears. An owl piped its mournful cry through the night, moaning with the voice of the wood. Weak from running and half choked by soot, Robert dragged himself through the wreckage to kneel in the brightest silver pool. Anger coursed through him, thick as the smoke that billowed above and his fist shook as he reached for the stiff, black arrow protruding from the dead body of his cousin. His flesh recoiled from the dark object as though burned, and a stab of grief pierced him as he thought how narrowly he had escaped the same fate. The guards were gone, having given up the search for their bodies.
"Joseph." His voice shook as a film of mist clouded his vision. "I have brought ruin on us all." He buried his face in his hands.
"This was my fault, and as I am Robert of Huntington I will mend this. I will see your mother made Lady of Locksley again. The Sheriff and his men will never get their hands on Will even if I have to offer up my own life to protect him." With a steadying breath he sat back on his heels and closed his eyes in a final farewell. He lifted his head, letting out his breath in a long, deep breath.
Despite the raw ache inside of him, the world went on. He looked around. The trees would grow back so that this night would be just a whisper carried on the wind, like other such tragedies were remembered in the breeze that blew past him now.
A shiver raced across his skin, reminding him that he did not have the privilege of time. The Sheriff and his men were still searching for him. A part of him wanted them to find him; he wanted to make them pay for all that they had done. But he was only one man facing a squadron of twelve armed and armored soldiers. Any altercations between them would only finish what Giles had set out that night to accomplish. He froze, listening for the sound of approaching horses.
The night tensed, taking a new form. What moments before had been a breeze of sorrow was now a breath of warning. Though weary in body and mind, the strength of the oaks was in his soul. The leaves were wilted, but the roots held firm—the tree still stood tall.
"Remember me as I was," he whispered to his cousin, "for there is no returning from where I am about to go." He stood, ignoring the sting of smoke in his eyes and ash in the cracks of his skin. In the distance the hounds yelped, searching for the last remnants of the house of Locksley. He stood his ground, melting into the forest like a phantom. But he was there, watching and waiting with hatred burning in his heart. The dogs passed, but he lingered, awaiting their keepers.
"Looks like the Locksley boy took an arrow through the back," said a loud voice as two of the Sheriff's men found Joseph's body. "The Sheriff'll be pleased by that." In the shadows, a glint of silver gave the men their last salute. The speaker gave the body a sharp kick in the side while his companion spat on the ground near Joseph's head. Before the sound of the dull thud finished reverberating through the trees, two more bodies lay next to Joseph's, and moonlight was not the only thing that pooled on the forest floor. Robert stared as the full weight of his deed fell upon him. With a savage cry, he tore his hunting knife from his belt and turned it toward the nearest tree.
The Sheriff would come. He would find his men, and in the fury of this discovery he would find the message left for him.
R.H.
Robert felt sick with the scent of smoke and death, but he forged on through the forest. Will was still out here somewhere and he was determined to find him before the boy blundered his way into the soldiers hands. Will had never been the type to enjoy the outdoors like his brother and Robert. He preferred the delights of court with its fashions and intrigues. However, for someone who had never willingly spent an entire day outside in his life, he had vanished surprisingly well. Robert scanned the ground for any mark of his cousin's passage, but the fire had covered any and all signs indicating which way Will had gone. Robert spent the better part of an hour squinting through the darkness, his heart leaping at every swirl in the mud that might be the imprint of a boot, or every broken twig that might have caught on his cousin's sleeve, but in the end the forest told him nothing. Well, he conceded, if he could not find him then he knew without a doubt that the soldiers stood no chance at unearthing him. Robert had spent the past three years living off the land, sleeping in trees, and bathing in rivers. He very much doubted whether any man living knew more about surviving in the wild than he did.
Still, Will must be found before his good fortune ran out. The only place that Robert had not checked was the village. Will had lived in Locksley all his life and in his terror it was quite possible he would seek shelter among friendly faces. Robert's heart clenched at the thought of going back among the villagers. For most of his life he had considered himself one of them, yet they had turned on him without a moment's hesitation. Now that the soldiers were gone and they had no one to turn their anger on, he knew better than to walk down the streets without disguise. He looked down at his filthy cloak and travel-stained boots and the once white linen shirt now covered in soot. Lifting the edge of his cloak he wrapped it securely around his neck and shoulders, half covering his face. With so much going on in the village he doubted whether anyone would question a loyal servant searching for his master. To aid in the disguise, he assumed a slight limp as he neared the village. In his chest his heart beat frantically with fear.
His eyes burned with tears as the stink of smoke intensified. He coughed and wrapped his cloak more securely around his face to block out the smell. Villagers stood in small clusters staring at ruined dreams. He averted his face from the sight of a young woman crying against her husband's shoulder. It became less and less difficult to feign a stagger under the weight of so much guilt, and he valiantly fought back the impulse to turn tail and flee.
"Excuse me," he rasped to a young lad standing by the village well. The boy whipped around jerkily, but seemed to relax at the sight of him. "I am looking for my master, William of Locksley. He hasn't passed this way, has he?" The boy shook his head, turning back to his task. Robert sighed. "Do you know where he might have gone?" he pressed. Again the boy shook his head, clearly uninterested.
"He's as good as dead out there with them chasing him," said a cold voice from the shadows. Robert glanced around at the newcomer and saw a young man close to his own age standing in wait for use of the well. His green eyes glittered with anger and a vicious satisfaction. "Lord William was hopeless in the forests. I used to go with him in the winter to check his father's traps and the idiot nearly set free every rabbit we ever caught."
"Each of us has our own talents," Robert growled, drawing himself up in defense of his cousin. The young man snorted derisively.
"His remain undiscovered then. I give the dolt a week before they have him strung out on a rack."
"You dare speak of your master so?" Robert's dark eyes glittered with warning as he clenched a fist around the hilt of his hunting knife.
"He is my master no longer and I can't say I am sorry to see him go, the arrogant prig."
"Hold your tongue!"
"If the idiot had any sense at all he would have stayed put in the forest. But instead he went running off up the road, as if the riders wouldn't chase him down like a dog."
"Which road did he take?" Robert asked with all the patience he could muster. His anger was momentarily subdued by the knowledge that someone had seen his cousin alive. The other shrugged and brushed past him to the well, clearly enjoying withholding the information from him, but Robert would not be dissuaded now.
"Aaron, tell him," said the first boy, whom Robert had all but forgotten, and who now stood back looking apprehensively between them. Aaron sent him a derisive look then smiled smugly over at Robert.
"I don't recall," he said, leering again. Furious, Robert crossed the distance between them in three strides, seized Aaron by the throat, and held up his hunting knife.
"Don't test me," he said quietly. "This night has been black enough." He had no intention of harming the young man, whose green eyes were now the size of saucers in his head; however the deaths of the two guards had changed and hardened him irrevocably and something of his newfound resolve must have communicated itself to Aaron. His bravado disintegrated.
"He took the south road, toward Nottingham," Aaron blurted out. "Perhaps he seeks shelter in Sherwood Forest. The soldiers wouldn't dare follow him in there." Robert released him, disgusted. Without a backward glance, he turned on his heel and set off for the south road. Sherwood Forest? Surely Will wasn't fool enough to go there. Only the fiercest criminals inhabited that forest and Will was far from capable of protecting himself against their like.
The journey to Nottingham was long and arduous, made more so by the weight of his guilt. Robert stopped at inns along the way to ask after his cousin and either his description was not detailed enough or Will had not traveled that way. Still Robert persevered. Nottingham was the only clue he had and he would not have peace until he knew for certain that it truly was a false hope.
Three years of wandering England had acclimated him to the tortures of travel. He was immune to the blisters throbbing on his feet, and it was almost easy to ignore the dull ache in his legs and spine. His gait was quick and on the fifth evening he found himself approaching the main gates of Nottingham. The sun was low in the sky, blinding him with its fiery orange brilliance.
Pulling his hood forward to shield his eyes, it was a few seconds before he could take in the large city stretched out before him. The day must have been Market Day for there were several stands erected along the main street. He hoped that what remained to be sold were the spoiled leftovers and not an indication of what the peddlers had been selling all day. The streets reeked of waste and refuse. Steaming piles from the many horses perfumed the air just inside the main gates. Many of the vegetables in the farmer's carts were rotted and stunk of decay. A low mumble filled the air as the citizens of Nottingham greeted each other, but he noticed that there was very little laughter. Glancing up and down the many side streets, he was shocked to see them crowded with colonies of beggars, peering out at him with their forlorn faces.
Surely a town of this size could not be so badly off, not when merchants traveled this way on a nearly daily basis. He looked around and saw carriages that revealed regal lords and ladies within.
They must take up residence at the castle, Robert surmised, for surely they would not immerse themselves in the squalor that hung over the main streets.
"Excuse me," Robert called, stopping a tall broad-shouldered man wearing a soot-stained apron and a filthy un-tucked linen shirt. "Where am I?" The man turned his head and cast Robert a suspicious glance.
"Where do you think you are? This is Nottingham, sir." Robert blinked.
"Surely this can't be the Nottingham that merchants speak of in London?"
"Aye, the very same," he replied gruffly. "And what is your business here?" He eyed Robert's filthy clothing with obvious dislike.
Forcing a friendly smile to his lips was difficult with the other man glaring at him so, but Robert managed as he held out his hand. "My name is Robin of Locksley," he said, using the childhood nickname his father had given him, "and I am trying to find a relative of mine. It seems he has run off and I have spent days trying to track him down. Have you seen him?" He gave the stranger Will's description but wasn't surprised when no spark of recognition flared in the silver eyes.
"My name is Phillip Smith, I am the blacksmith here in Nottingham and no, I can't say I have seen anyone that fits that description, but that isn't saying much. There are too many travelers through these parts to remember all of them. Robin of Locksley, eh? I heard rumors of the Sheriff's work in Locksley. No relation to the family that was recently murdered?" Robert's false cheer flickered painfully and he ducked his head before he could stop himself.
"No, no relation," he mumbled. The blacksmith took no notice of the shift in Robin's mood. His eyes were as dull as tarnished silver as they fixed upon the ground at his feet. Soot stains covered his face and sweat ran clear rivers through the grime smothering his neck and shoulders. Robin cleared his throat and took another stab at conversation.
"On my travels I heard rumors that the good Sheriff returns soon?" Life, which had not been there moments before, sprang into Phillip's face and turned the considerable muscles in his arms rigid with restraint.
"The 'good Sheriff' as you so kindly referred to him, returned just this morning. His servants bought up all the fresh vegetables for his welcoming celebration. What you see behind us is what he has left for his 'faithful subjects.'" He gestured at the rotting vegetables on the street. "He has been sheriff less than two years, but he thinks he is our king." He spat bitterly on the ground, wiping his sooty hand over his mouth with distaste. Robin nodded solemnly. The blacksmith was a young man, but already he moved as though he had lived the life of a man twice his age. He was like a sapling in the midst of a drought; every ounce of life in him was spent making it from one day to the next. Seeing that he had angered his companion, Robin excused himself to wander further along the streets. Night was quickly approaching and he needed a place to sleep. An inn on the corner called the 'Blue Boar' caught his eye, but he hesitated. He did not trust a place likely to be filled with the sheriff's eyes and ears. Turning around he walked back out of the village, choosing instead the sanctity of Sherwood Forest.
After the stink of the city, Sherwood's damp mossy scent seemed the sweetest perfume. Robin inhaled deeply of the rich earthy scent. As he walked he thought about the name he had given himself. Robin of Locksley. The name sounded strange, but it suited his new life better than Robert of Huntington ever would.
A twig snapped. Suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. His footsteps never faltered, but he reached for the longbow strapped across his back. Quickly he strung the bow, his eyes flicking in all directions even as he began to whistle a tuneless song. His senses turned blade-sharp; every breeze that ruffled the leaves filtered through the chestnut waves of his hair. Each call of the birds jolted though the veins in his skin and when another's footsteps pressed into the forest mud, he felt it as surely as if the foot had stepped across his own back.
He whirled around, arrow aimed a large bush that shuddered at his precise aiming. Robin's eyes turned stormy with rage.
"Come out of there," he commanded with all the authority he possessed. The bush twitched and shivered, and from within crawled a boy with a brilliant mop of white blonde hair. His enormous blue eyes fixed on the arrow aimed straight at his heart and he looked on the verge of tears.
"P-please, sir, I didn't mean any harm," he stammered in a high voice. Robin glowered.
"Why were you following me?"
"I wasn't, sir! I saw you coming and thought you might have come to take me away, so I hid there, sir." He was visibly shaking. Slowly, Robin lowered his bow.
"Why would I be after you?" The boy fidgeted, obviously afraid he'd said more than he ought, but he lowered his head dismally and replied, "I killed a King's deer."
Robin waited. Surely there must be more; he had spent the past three years feasting off deer he killed in all the forests of England. He began to laugh, causing the boy to raise his head in shock.
"It is a horrible offense in Nottingham," he replied defensively. "I could lose my right hand, or…" and here he trailed off, one of his hands reaching nervously for his throat. Robin couldn't believe it.
"Surely you wouldn't hang for shooting a deer."
"If the sheriff is especially angry I could." Any inclination Robin felt toward laughter quickly died. He knew from experience that Giles was often especially angry. This boy, who looked to be no older than thirteen, should not have to die over something so meaningless. In all honesty how was one to know whether a deer came from the King's forest or from somewhere else? Robin, who had an eye for such things, could tell right away that this lad was not a natural forester and it was no surprise that he had been discovered. He frowned.
"If you knew the price was so steep, why did you do it?" he asked quietly. The boy's face crumpled in on itself.
"I had no choice. My family was starving. Da used his last coins to pay the tax on his mill and there was nothing left to buy bread with. My sisters were starving and I just had to do something. I didn't think anyone would notice," he added, burying his head in his hands. Robin reached out and touched his shoulder.
"Tell me your name, boy," he said gently.
"Much," mumbled the boy into his hands. Robin smiled at the strange name.
"Well, Much, I will do what I can to help you. There are a great many crimes a man can commit in his life, some of which I am guilty of myself, but yours I'm afraid ranks quite low. You should not be put to death for something so meaningless, especially not when the crime was committed out of good intent." Robin pulled his forester hood low over his face and strode away into the forest. Much jumped and called after him.
"Oi…Hood, wait!" Robin froze. Much's face went red as Robin sent an amused look over his shoulder.
"Well what should I call you?" Much mumbled defensively. Robin gave no answer but just turned and kept walking deeper into Sherwood.
The Great Hall rang with the music of harps and flutes from a small band of players. Several dancers glided across the floor while the guests seated around the tables clapped in time to the beat. Giles of Northwood sat at the high table dressed elegantly in his family's colors: black and silver. A fine velvet tunic with billowy black sleeves tapered at the wrists and embroidered with silver designs across his broad chest gave him the appearance of a wealthy overlord rather than the dispossessed knight that he really was. His connections and family name had served well to reward him with the honorable seat as Sheriff in Nottingham and he enjoyed every moment of it.
"Milord!"
Suddenly, through the enormous archway leading from the kitchens came three servants bearing a deer carcass between them. Their expressions were apprehensive and even fearful as they deposited the dead animal on the table in front of Giles' seat. He sat up sharply, affronted.
"What is the meaning of this?"
"Look sir," cried one of the cooks, pointing shakily at the animal's side. There was a scrap of yellow parchment attached to the dead animal, pinned there by a single green-fletched arrow. Blood dribbled from the wound in the animal's side, staining the crimson tablecloth black. Glassy brown eyes stared up at the Sheriff lifelessly. Glancing around at his astonished guests, Giles rose furiously from his seat and strode around the table to snatch the arrow from the animal's side. A dribble of blood oozed from the wound to land on the floor near his carefully polished leather boots. Slowly, Giles plucked the note from the arrow and stared at it, reading silently. The hall waited with baited breath to hear what was written. His hand began to shake visibly and the yellow pallor of his skin turned scarlet. Still trembling with fury, he read the letter aloud.
An eye for an eye. Leave the miller boy to me.
The parchment crumbled to dust in Giles' fist and with controlled fury he flung the letter into the fireplace where it disintegrated in a flash of orange and gold.
"Who did this?" asked the Sheriff in a low voice. No one answered.
"WHO DID THIS!?" he roared, slamming his fists on the table, knocking his goblet of wine to the floor. The silence was unbearable. Noblemen shifted uncomfortably in their crisp tunics, and knights examined their cutlery with uncommon interest. Ladies clutched fans and handkerchiefs for fear of swooning. But no one dared speak. Giles swept the hall with his black eyes, glaring—accusing—them all.
Thunk. From a window high above them, an arrow sped straight for Giles, grazing his arm and sinking into the table. Shrieks and shouts of surprise echoed off the cavernous hall. He lurched for the arrow with a bellow to his guards to find the archer. Attached to this arrow was another note, written by a man straddling the line between daring and madness. He crumpled the note, flinging it into the fire just like the first, but not after memorizing what was written there.
Compliments of Robin Hood.
"Are you daft?" shouted Much, jumping up from his seat on the rock where Robin had left him to go deliver his 'gift' to the Sheriff. "You have stirred a mighty hornets' nest and you are fit to be stung to death." They were standing beneath the stone bridge that led to the main entrance of Nottingham Castle. Robin ignored him, recoiling the rope by which he had just made his escape. From under the hood his dark eyes surveyed the boy. Much glared at him, his chest heaving with emotion. Robin's obvious indifference to his feelings had brought a flush to his pale cheeks. Twitching the corner of his lip in a smile, Robin swung the coiled rope over his shoulder. For the moment he needed Much's indignation to override his fear, and the boy was quickly forgetting his apprehension.
"It's not only your life you're playing with! You have brought the Sheriff down upon my family! Why did I ever think you could help me?" Much protested, planting himself in Robin's path.
"You have my protection and the Sheriff knows it."
"What protection?" Much exploded, angry tears burning in his eyes. "The Sheriff fears no one. He will comb Sherwood until he finds you and not even your tricks will save you when he does!"
Robin stopped, finally acknowledging the boy with his eyes. Slowly, he put down his rope and took Much by both shoulders, forcing him to look him in the eye.
"He won't find you," he said quietly. "I promise you that."
There was such certainty and finality in his voice that Much could do nothing but nod his head, sniffing as a tear spilled down his cheek. Robin gently ruffled the straight hair on the boy's head and hefted his rope back onto his shoulder. Sensing someone near, he withdrew his bow from its place on his back. Above them, a guard called out. Much gave a frightened gasp and made to run, but Robin flung an arm around his neck and dragged him back into the shadows of the bridge. Already a small army of guards had been sent to scour the countryside for Robin Hood, and Robin marveled that there were still guards left within the castle. He kept one hand clamped firmly over the boy's mouth as he cautiously craned his neck to look above them. He could see nothing, and he retreated slowly, backing into the shadows with his ears pricked for the slightest sound of castle guards. When it was clear that they hadn't been spotted, Robin jerked his head silently and lead Much along the ravine. They only stopped once they reached the safety of Sherwood Forest.
"Robin…" panted Much, gasping as he collapsed to his knees. "Why are you helping me? My freedom can't be more important to you than your life. Why do you hate the Sheriff so much?"
Robin grimaced and leaned against a tree, his chest heaving silently as his mind flew over the details that had brought him to this moment. His hatred of Giles of Northwood ran deep, instilled in him since the days of his youth. It was as much a part of him as his love of the forest. His young, rugged face became suddenly weary, revealing the weight of everything that he bore on his broad shoulders. Much climbed into the forked bows of the tree, his whole attention fixed on the mysterious, shadowy figure before him.
"I wasn't always like this; once I was a nobleman's son." Robin winced, regretting having started this story as a rush of emotions washed over him. "I grew up far from here. My family's castle was one of the finest I have ever seen. The year of my fifth winter, my father hired Giles to help him oversee our lands. His treachery led to my father's downfall, and I'll never forgive him for it." Much watched him curiously, but Robin lowered his eyes. "That was also the Christmas I received my first bow. I don't know what possessed Father to give it to me. I have always been skilled at causing mischief and the last thing I needed was a plaything to do it with. But from the moment I strung it for the first time, I felt something. Father felt it too when he took me outside to shoot the next day, because for a boy so young I showed remarkable promise. It was nearly a month before I was strong enough to sink my arrow into my target, but I kept at it and by the next summer it was a rare thing to ever see me miss my mark."
"Was your father proud?" asked Much.
Robin's smile flickered and he shook his head slowly; the warmth of the memory vanished as more memories resurfaced.
"Actually, my father did not live to see that day… but aye, I suppose he would have been." Much's face clouded and a splash of red colored his cheeks. Robin's sharp eyes caught the melancholy expression that crossed the boy's face and he shook his head.
"It was a long time ago, far too long for your pity to do me any good."
"What happened to him?"
"That's a story for another time; as for this one, it should be noted that at the moment my greatest enemy entered my life, I was blessed with an extraordinary talent. No man has ever bested me at archery and I very much doubt if anyone ever will. So long as I have this bow, all those who rely on me will be safe." Here he sent Much a meaningful look, withdrawing his bow from its sheath. Much nodded silently.
"Still," Robin added with a faint chuckle, "it does help that we only have to contend with the Sheriff's incompetent fools. With no cover and all the noise we were making a blind man could have captured us tonight." They laughed together, relieved to still be alive and free.
There was little time for laughing the next day. Nottinghamshire and the borders of Sherwood Forest crawled with the Sheriff's men. Were it not for Robin's calm manner and quick wit, Much would have worried himself to death. In truth, Robin put him into a false state of security with his jests of the Sheriff's incompetence and his own prowess at forestry.
"They're so close, Robin," whispered Much frantically as he and Robin perched in a tall yew tree. In the distance they heard the deputies beating at the brush to flush them out like quails on a hunt. Robin instructed Much to remain painfully still as the men approached.
"They'll spot us for sure," the boy moaned, covering his head with his hands. Robin sent him a swift glance, doing his best to remain calm himself.
"No. They'll not check the trees so long as we give them no reason to," he replied with a certainty he did not feel. Slowly but surely, the men below moved away. Much began to relax but Robin's hand clamped down on his bony wrist with crushing force.
"They'll soon return. We move further in." With the sound of a falling leaf, Robin eased his way along the branch. Doing his best to imitate Robin's movements Much followed him. Though his face remained fixed in its expression, Robin held his breath. Every nerve stretched for a sign of the Sheriff's men, and despite his efforts, Much was not being quiet. The squirrels, scrambling along the branches and rustling the leaves were silent compared to Much. Suddenly, their branch creaked in warning.
"This limb won't hold," hissed Much with desperation in his voice. Robin glanced over his shoulder and saw perspiration glistening on the boy's flushed face. At first, Robin thought he was afraid the branch would snap, but then he realized that Much, in his terror, had picked up on the sound that Robin's momentary lapse in attention had failed to notice. The Sheriff's men were returning. The branch beneath them creaked again, drooping slightly from strain.
"They'll be here any moment. We'll never escape." Much's voice cracked and he sounded on the verge of tears. Robin stared straight ahead, his mind racing.
"Do you trust me?" he asked in a low hollow voice. Much hesitated.
"Aye Robin, I do."
"Then do as I say." He paused. "When the branch breaks, make haste toward the river. I swear that I will meet you there." Almost as if by the command of his voice, the branch cracked again. There was a heart-stopping moment of inevitability before the limb broke. Much yelled, thrashing violently as he plunged toward the forest floor. In the distance, the Sheriff's men yelled and started running in their direction. Robin was on his feet in an instant, reaching for the bow strapped across his back. Deftly he strung it, his hands moving even as his brain pondered an escape.
"Robin!" hissed Much, confused.
"Go," said Robin calmly. "The river lies north of here." Much turned and fled, leaving Robin standing motionless and alone in the center of the wood. A small smile curled the corner of his mouth as a plan blossomed in his brain. With a low chuckle he faded into the forest, awaiting the Sheriff's men.
"Oi, they were here!" shouted a tall, lanky deputy, pointing out the fallen branch. Robin stood frozen just behind the wide base of the tree from which the branch had come. Though he stood in all but plain view, no one noticed him. Carefully, he peered around the trunk of the tree and raised his bow. The guards stood in a loose circle, staring everywhere but at him. Robin took careful aim and fired. The green-fletched arrow rustled the leaves of a large shrub just opposite his hiding place. At once the four men rushed to inspect it. Silently, Robin replaced his bow to its sheath and picked up a cudgel he had cut from the fallen branch.
"He's here still," said the deputy, brushing aside the branches of the shrub to find nothing there.
"Looking for me?"
The four men whirled around, but he was already upon them. With no warning and no time to defend themselves, the guards were easy prey. Too surprised to see him they put up little defense. He landed blow after blow until the four were given no choice but to flee for their skins.
"Send the Sheriff my regards!" Robin crowed. He gave a deep throated laugh that resounded through the trees as though all of Sherwood were taunting the Sheriff's men along with him. Grinning, Robin swung his cudgel over his shoulder and walked purposefully through the forest making as much noise as he pleased. Here among the trees he was a god, free to do whatever he pleased without fear of persecution; no one could touch him here.
"Are you all right?' asked Much anxiously, emerging from his place behind a large shrub when he saw Robin approaching. Robin smiled, swinging the club across one shoulder.
"Aye, and not a scratch on me."
Much stared, appalled. There were few in Nottingham who met with the Sheriff and his men and returned alive, much less unscathed. Robin was unaware of this, but he did take note of the boy's awe. It only served to increase his already overlarge opinion of himself.
"It was little more than a well-deserved thrashing. But it's time we press on. There is still danger here." Suddenly, Much hunched his shoulders and before Robin's eyes he shrank in size.
"We can't cross here. Little is on guard."
"Eh?"
"John Little is on guard at the bridge and the only way through him is a fight if you can't pay the toll." Robin cocked his head thoughtfully to one side.
"I've bested four of the Sheriff's men; I can easily best this 'little' fellow." Robin, full of pride and self-assurance, brushed past Much as though he were a shrub. Much's face paled.
"No, you don't understand…!" he called, but it was too late, for Robin had already pushed aside the branches that hid the river from view.
He was a Christian man, but standing before him was none other than the largest, fiercest-looking giant out of the old pagan legends he could ever imagine. Even Robin, who never backed down from any fight, gave pause and rethought his actions.
"I thought you said they call him 'little'," he muttered over his shoulder. Much shrugged.
"It's more a village jest than a truth." Robin made a face.
"It's no jest; it's an outright lie."
They were not standing far from where John Little stood, and he heard every word of the conversation with ease. He chuckled at Robin, the sound rumbled like an earthquake from his colossal chest.
"Aye, they call me Little," he said with a grin, leaning forward on an immense quarterstaff nearly twice the size of Robin's. His broad, rosy face broke into a wide grin when he spotted Much. He chuckled, his great shoulders shaking.
"So here be where you run off to, eh? Got all of Nottingham in an uproar over you. Your poor mother's been cryin' her eyes out." Much laughed and stepped forward.
"My mum wouldn't waste her tears on me."
"Nor would I, you little devil!" They laughed together, forgetting Robin's presence momentarily. Robin took the opportunity to size up the giant. There could be no doubt that this stranger had lived his life at labor because the muscles that caused his tunic sleeves to bulge were hardened to the solidity of boulders. Despite his formidable appearance, his face seemed pleasant enough, what with his cornflower blue eyes and short, dark curls. On a smaller scale he might have appeared boyish, but the sheer vastness of his size eliminated any chances of mistaking him for a boy. After a moment, John Little raised his eyes and fixed them on Robin. A small smile touched the corner of his mouth.
"So this be the one that's got the Sheriff's feathers ruffled. You're a damned fool, Robin Hood." Robin kept his face impassive, but hearing his new name uttered by this stranger threw him off balance. John Little chuckled again.
"Aye, you've got Nottingham all stirred up. There's bettin' as to how long you'll last before the Sheriff sniffs you out." It was Robin's turn to smile.
"There's no man alive that can capture me." John Little threw back his head with a hearty laugh.
"As soon as I heard what you did up at the castle I knew you were daft. You must have cracked your skull to have done what you did, and under Giles' own nose as well." Robin shrugged with a careless smile.
"I'm not so daft as to not know when to cease. Now, stand aside so I may find shelter on the other side of the river." John's eyes twinkled and he winked at Much.
"Sorry lad, but you see I can't do that. Any man who wishes to cross this bridge must pay the toll."
"Alas, I have no money," said Robin, smiling as he anticipated the challenge. Little grinned, baring his small, yellow teeth.
"Then you must earn it. I challenge you to a quarterstaff duel, Robin Hood. It ends when you cry 'enough' or when you tumble into the stream, and you can swim across from there." He winked at Much again, who grinned as though it were all some marvelous joke. Robin looked between them and knew he was expected to refuse. John Little looked capable of cracking his skull with his bare hands. However, a wave of recklessness fell upon Robin as a breeze whistled through the trees. A cocky twinkle came into his eye.
"Very well John Little, I accept." John Little chuckled again and straightened up, shrugging his shoulders. Robin was forced to crane his neck to maintain eye contact with the giant. A tiny voice of reason warned him to take back his boasts, but Robin had just defeated the Sheriff's men and there was nothing but bold recklessness inside him. He stepped forward, swinging his club off his shoulder. John Little merely shook his head, smiling.
"Aye, mad as a hatter."
John Little straightened from his cudgel slowly, enjoying the rush of emotions that flashed across Robin's face. Little was nearly two heads taller than Robin, and each of his limbs was nearly three times the size. Judging from the comfortable way he swung his club from one hand to the other, he knew what he was about and despite his tremendous size, he moved with surprising grace.
"Don't be daft, Robin," called Much with a laugh. "Ole John could split your head with one blow. He's the quarterstaff champion for three shires." Though this did nothing for Robin's confidence it served to strengthen his resolve. He refused to be made a fool here before these two.
"No, once I crack your skull John Little I'll watch you float along the Thames. After I am finished cutting you down to size, they will have no choice but to call you Little John."
"You're a Robin that likes to crow, 'twill be my pleasure to clip your wings."
They moved towards the center of the bridge. Much stood on the bank, grinning at this unexpected turn of events. His fear of the Sheriff's men had completely vanished. Robin found himself standing in Little's shadow as they moved to face each other and his hands grew warm with nerves. They counted slowly backwards from ten, and the duel began.
There could be no doubt the eventual outcome. Little was head and shoulders above Robin, was perhaps three times stronger, and no matter how hard Robin's blow landed, Little took a hit far better than Robin could. But it was by no means an easy battle. Little John attacked first, swinging for Robin's head. Robin ducked under the blow but heard it whistle past his ear. He retaliated with a swift jab to Little's stomach, but the giant blocked it with his club. Little shoved him back, and the force of it nearly knocked Robin off the bridge, but he regained his balance and moved forward again.
Robin gave up on using strength and let his speed and size work to his advantage. Rather than trying to land the hardest clout, he made sure to land the most. The battle waged for the good part of an hour, Much wincing with each echoing thud of wood against flesh. Neither held back; Little wheezed like a bull as he swung the heavy club again and again. Robin did his best to stay one step ahead of him, but as the battle waged on, even his speed began to wane. John clipped him on the elbow and the club flew out of Robin's hand as he emitted a loud oath. Before he had time to duck, Little's cudgel struck him a glancing blow across the shoulder and bashed him soundly across the right side of his face.
There was a moment in which Robin ceased to think. He wasn't aware of his feet leaving the ground, but suddenly he found himself sprawled face-first in the river. A grinding pain in his shoulder drew his attention and instinctively he drew in a sharp gasp of air against it. But instead of air it was water he pulled into his lungs. He might have drowned right there had not Much and John fished him out.
"Are you all right?" asked Little, his face full of concern as he bodily picked Robin up and set him on his feet. Robin swayed slightly. His face hurt fiercely, but he hid any show of it. Merely for pride's sake, he thumped himself on the chest.
"Aye, it would take more than a clout on the head to finish me off," he said with all the bravado he could muster. His weak knees chose that moment to give way beneath him. John Little laughed, catching him with one arm.
"You nearly had your head knocked off and you still see fit to talk. Could it be you need another round?"
Robin was proud, but he was no fool. His head fell forward onto his chest in defeat; he began to chuckle.
"No, I admit when I am beaten."
"It's the first bit of sense I've heard from you since we met."
Little clapped him on the shoulder, nearly knocking Robin over. "For all your crowing, you're a good man and an even better opponent. I pray there be no hard feelings." Robin shrugged this aside with a mere shake of his head.
"No, it was a fair fight and you fought honorably. Clearly the better man won."
They shook hands. Little beamed, obviously grateful that Robin had taken his loss so well. Robin hesitated a moment, craning his neck to look up into his opponents face.
"Care to join me?"
"Eh?" asked John, tilting his head to one side.
"I have made an enemy of Giles of Northwood and it's the beginning of a long and dangerous battle. I would be honored to have you as my ally. From his infancy, Giles has been a corrupt man and his evil has grown too strong of late. He has too much power and his subjects are soon to feel his wrath if they have not already. The people here are poor and hungry and one only has to walk down the main street of Nottingham Town to realize how helpless they are to improve their lot." John Little sighed.
"Aye, it's a good cause, and a well-needed one, true enough. But what if Giles were to catch you?" Robin smiled. It was a mixture between a challenge and a promise, full of understanding and reassurance.
"I might have been born into a life of lords and ladies, but it's here I stand. Any man that stands with me will be given his just reward and will be under my protection. I have seen death and I am not afraid to face it. Surely you have seen the injustices meted out by that scoundrel. If we stand united, we can overcome his tyranny." A gleam came into Robin's dark eyes. Little looked between Robin and Much, uncomfortable.
"You talk a fair speech, Robin, but you are noble and I am common-born. It's no mark against you, but how do I know I can trust you?"
"Because he is just like us now, John," spoke up Much, stepping between them. Smiling, Robin put a hand on the boy's shoulder and looked back up at John.
"You can trust me because I give you my word as an outlaw that you will not be sorry."
Looking between them once more Little began to smile.
"Well, if you put it that way, then I suppose you give me no choice. Aye, I'll join you, Robin Hood."