This is a companion piece of sorts, a drabble, if you will, depicting the arrival of John Little…or Little John, as he prefers. – Lonerofthepack.
PS: This ficlet is dedicated toPeanutTree, for truly fantastic readership and wonderful comments.
The Giant's Arrival
Walking back from Tuck's, having dropped off a 'care package' of venison and the rough bread that the outlaws often ate from Maud, and returning to camp with the two skins of cider and a small wheel of yellow cheese from the Friar, the man known in this area only as Robin Hood moved easily through the forest. His bow was strung and in hand, the quiver across his back, alongside the cider skins, even though he didn't anticipate an attack.
He leapt lightly onto a log that served as a bridge across one of the many streams that ran through this part of Sherwood.
"Hold!" Another man, this one both tall and broad, appeared on the opposite bank. Robin paused obligingly as the man stepped onto the log. It was something of a shock to Robin, who, at an even six feet, was considered quite tall, to be forced to tilt back his head to look a man in the eye. Twice as broad and nearly half a foot taller, the stranger was a giant.
Robin eyed the broad-staff the giant held, a sturdy blackthorn that all but matched its owner in size. The Scot's eyes narrowed slightly, weighing the likelihood of his victory if it should come to a fight. His fingers itched for an arrow, but he knew better than to reach for one. The man could be upon him before the arrow cleared his quiver, and snap him in half like a twig. Even with his dirk, the long dagger his mother's people used, he disliked the odds. So instead, he was polite.
"Wot kin Ah do fer ye, then?"
"A toll, to cross the bridge," the giant rumbled, leaning lightly on the stave.
Robin frowned at him. "There isna a toll on this bridge."
The stranger frowned back. "There is now. Ten shillings to pass, Scot."
"Ten shillin's! Yer touched in the 'ead if'n ye think Ah'll pay ye ten shillin's." The redhead could feel his usually steadier temper rising. Giant or no, who did this…this sassanach idiot think he was kidding? Ten shillings to cross this stream was sheer greed, and no more.
"Then I'm touched in the head, but its ten shillings you'll pay to cross here. And quick, too, if you wouldn't like to feel the broad side of my stave."
"Ah've no' the ten shillin's tae waste on ye. Ye let me past, or't willna be mah hide feelin' a stave, but yers."
The stranger gave a bitter laugh. "Let's see you do it, Scot."
His ire up, Robin returned to his side of the stream, rid himself of his extra burdens, and cut himself a stout length of oak. It stood as much chance against the blackthorn as any, he thought wryly, knowing that it was likely he would have a fool made of him before the day was through.
He stepped up, and the fight began. The loser would be the one who ended up in the water.
Oddly, the scales seemed even. Despite his lesser size, Robin had little trouble blocking his opponent's blows, or evading them entirely. The grandson of a Scots Laird and a soldier in the Lionheart's army, he had the training few Saxons would ever receive. The few blows that were landed were heavy, and would raise bruises, but seemed only a portion of the pain the giant could inflict if he wished.
The two men fought for what seemed hours, though was in actuality only minutes. They were tiring, both of them, as more of the other's strikes landed, bruising ribs and shoulders.
Robin felt, an instant before a final hit struck, his foot catch on a slippery spot on the truck of the fallen tree. He twisted, but to no avail. The Scot was going in the water. It was luck that made him able to hook his book around the giant's ankle as he fell, bringing the mountain of a man down with him.
They hit the water in the same instant. It was cold, colder than any stream had a right to be at midsummer, and made every bruise ache like a rotten tooth. Robin surfaced, shoving his long red hair out of his eyes as he did. The stranger was already standing, shaking his head like a drenched dog. By tacit agreement, they pulled themselves out of the water in silence.
"You fought well. Dirty, but well."
"Tha's the only way Ah fight," Robin muttered, peeling off his sopping tartan and wringing out the darkly colored cloth. "T'is the only way tae fight."
"I'm looking for the bandit Robin Hood. Can you point me in the right direction?"
Robin froze, and slowly looked up. The giant was eyeing him speculatively. "Ah could. What d'ye want wit' 'im?"
"To join him."
"Ye've a name?"
"They call me John Little."
Robin stared. "Ach, aye. Fer yer stature, Ah'm guessin'. Neva in mah life've Ah met a man so wee as ye, t'is fer sure. Liddle John, Ah'd call ye, an' welcome be." He stuck a hand out, met the light grip John Little put on his forearm.
"And you are?" Little John inquired, for as pleased as he was with this man's acquaintance, he had an agenda of his own.
Robin had to grin. "Ah'm Robin Loxley. Ye ken me by a diffren' name. Ah'm the Robin Hood ye be lookin' fer."
Little John frowned at him, drawing his own conclusions. "I think you lie." The Robin Hood he sought was Saxon, not Scot. The Robin Hood he sought was a hardened outlaw, not the well-fed, well-dressed man before him.
Robin shrugged easily, well used to the doubt. "One less person tae feed," he said, and went back to what he was doing. He frowned at the tartan, which still dripped, and then down at himself, and with a beleaguered sigh, began wrapping the wet wool cloth around himself again before hefting his gear to his shoulder.
"Come on wit' me anahow, an' 'ave some stew. T'will take the chill out o' yer bones a' the least."
The trek through the woods was a short one. It ended outside a natural fortress created by a monstrous oak growing through and around a pile of boulders. Inside were more people, dressed as the Scot was in greens and browns.
"Ah."
Robin chuckled at the newest member of his merry band of thieves. "Aye. Welcome tae Ard Darach, Liddle John."
Fin.