Rachel of Sherwood
a tale of robbing the rich, giving to the poor, and singing all the while
prelude.
The legend came to be that Sherwood Forest was haunted. That there were spirits there, unholy fey, malicious wights, all manner of ghouls and goblins and unsavory, malevolent creatures who preyed upon innocent travelers and relieved them of their gold and jewels to spirit them away to their ill-gotten hoards in the deepest, darkest part of the wood, or perhaps far, far underground. Wealthy lords and ladies had taken to hiring all manner of security to protect their valuables as they passed by that accursed forest in their elegant horse-drawn carriages, the worst sort of brigands and cutthroats, sell-swords and hired blades, and yet no matter how many, how tall, how strong or fierce, in the end the result was always the same. The forest claimed their riches, and the travelers were unharmed, except for their injured pride.
It was as though the shadows moved, even in daylight, swarming to overwhelm their escorts with whatever sorcery they employed and then, after each distressingly short battle, quickly and thoroughly removed each and every gold and silver piece, every necklace and bracelet and ring, from the largest crystal to the smallest bauble. Once the riches were collected, they would take their leave to the sound of a woman's laughter, high and musical, always gentle, never mocking, withdrawing back to the shadows from whence they came, while disturbing not a single solitary leaf on the forest floor.
And inevitably, they would find somewhere, pinned to the inside of a lady's dress or the coach's ceiling, sometimes even in a lord's pocket, a note written in a flowing hand, saying "Good travels! - Yours, Rachel of Sherwood."
The lords and ladies all cried out: it was outrageous, simply outrageous! Something simply must be done! Why, what was this world coming to when good, decent, honest folk like themselves couldn't even travel the King's Road anymore without fear of being attacked and robbed by evil creatures out of nightmare?
It was even said that in the deep of night, if one listened very hard, one could hear singing from the forest, with a particularly beautiful voice rising above the rest, songs about such dangerous notions as equality and brotherhood and justice for all.
If this – whatever it was – was allowed to continue, the lords and ladies feared that whatever dark force was behind these strange and disturbing incidents would grow stronger, and soon spread its influence beyond the forest and into the land itself. That simply would not do. Yet how could one fight what one could not see, a sorcery so potent that not even the most feared fighters could touch? How could they battle something that came singing into danger, and laughing out of it?
And just who was this "Rachel of Sherwood," anyway?