The Successor
by Jennifer Campbell

None of the characters belong to me, unfortunately. I'm just
having a little fun and will return them, no worse for wear,
when I'm done. This story takes place early in Series 1. No
beta, so blame the typos on me.

This is the second chapter of probably four or five. So if you
enjoy this part, please check back in a few days for the next
installment. And I would love to hear your feedback.

#

Robin tracked the two young men after they left the stream. The
road twisted and turned, but Robin took a more direct route
through the trees, easily keeping pace with the horses. He
watched, and waited.

Both of them must be of noble birth, he decided. Their fine
clothes ... much finer than anything one could buy on the
streets of Nottingham. The dark one carried a bulging money
pouch, and the flaxen-haired one had a sword. Ah, that sword,
now that was the real prize. Even from a distance, Robin could
make out the tiny jewels reflecting on its hilt. A sword like
that might feed a village for a year, or maybe longer.

What they were doing, riding through Sherwood without an
escort, he didn't know. Nor did he care. They had riches they
hadn't even bothered to hide -- the fools -- and they were ripe
for picking.

Robin all but flew across the forest floor, so much like the
wild animal his enemies claimed him to be. He pulled ahead of
the riders, climbed an obliging tree that draped over the road,
and waited. A minute later, his prey came around the bend. Under
his branch. And he jumped.

The dark-haired one crashed to the ground with Robin atop him.
The boy's head thudded against the unyielding forest floor, and
he grew still. Robin launched himself at the other, who was
staring in wide-eyed amazement. He had only managed to half-draw
that fine sword before Robin threw him from his saddle. Both
horses reared and then trampled back down the road, the way they
had come from.

Robin straddled the second victim and held a dagger to his
throat. White-blond hair, cut similarly to his own, spilled
across the road. The man began to struggle, and Robin pressed
harder.

"I don't want to kill you," Robin growled. "All I want is your
money. And the sword."

The man gasped. "That's my father's sword, and you _won't_ have
it, wolfshead! You'll have to kill me first!"

The venom behind the man's words surprised Robin, and he looked
closer at his prey. He was young -- younger than Robin had first
thought. Yet his eyes burned with a passion far beyond his
years. Something about that gaze held Robin in thrall, that
ageless look resonating to the deepest part of him. Herne's
words echoed though his mind.

_A man is coming to the forest. One intended to follow in your
steps. ... When you meet him, you will know._

"The one," Robin whispered. "You're the one. But you're only a
boy."

The struggling stopped momentarily. "You're Robin Hood, aren't
you?"

Robin nodded. "What's your name?"

The boy's gaze became defiant. "Robert of Huntingdon, the
earl's son. And if you don't release me, my father will send a
thousand men into Sherwood and crush you."

Robin's eyebrows raised. "An earl's son? Interesting."

"Release me!"

"If you'll stop writhing around like a fish for two seconds, I
might just do that." Robin smiled approvingly as the boy's
struggles ceased. "Good. Now hold still a moment. I promise I
won't hurt you."

In one fluid motion, Robin removed the dagger from Robert's
throat and drew the kingly sword from its scabbard. He rose to
his feet and walked a few paces away, examining the workmanship
of the weapon. As he had thought, dozens of tiny jewels, green
and red, decorated the hilt. The blade itself felt light in his
hand, well-balanced. It was almost as fine as Albion. Almost.

Robert scrambled to his feet, ran to his companion and felt at
the unconscious boy's neck for a pulse. Robin merely watched,
amused.

"He's alive," Robin assured him. "But he'll sleep for a while."

"I will have your head for this," Robert spat. "Return my sword."

"No." Robin hefted the weapon in his hand. "Not until we call a
truce."

Robert blinked, the anger in his expression suddenly replaced
with confusion. "A truce? I don't understand."

"I'll give you back your sword, but only after we've had a talk."
He scanned the area thoughtfully. "Not here, though. We would
need to leave the road. Agreed?"

Robert merely gaped. "You attack us, hurt my friend, lose our
horses, steal my sword, and now you want to _talk_?"

A smile curled at one corner of Robin's mouth, and he nodded.
He set the sword's tip lightly against the ground and held it
before him like a cross, a deliberate reminder of what was at
stake.

Now that he had seen the boy, Robin almost felt like laughing.
His earlier worries of Herne replacing him seemed a silly,
childish fear. After all, Robert of Huntingdon, the earl's son,
was hardly ready to move into Sherwood and lead a band of
outlaws. Whatever Herne wanted of the boy would not happen for
many years yet. It set Robin's heart at ease, and made the
coming task that much easier.

Herne had directed him to set the boy on the correct path.
Robin's own path. He had to make Robert understand the
importance of this struggle to defend and protect the people, to
fight for true justice and not the mockery most lords made of
it. It wouldn't prove easy, to help a young Norman lord to feel
sympathy for Saxon peasants, but Herne wouldn't have set the
challenge before him if were it impossible.

Robert's expression grew distrustful, and he studied the outlaw
closely. "How do I know that as soon as we're deep in Sherwood
you won't kill me and take my sword?"

Cautious, Robin thought approvingly. The boy was cautious, and
smart.

He set the earl's sword on the ground, drew his own blade, and
approached Robert. He held the sword across both palms, in an
unthreatening manner, and offered it to Robert. The boy stared
at the weapon warily.

"Take it," Robin said.

Robert reached out slowly, slowly, and wrapped his fingers
around the hilt, hefted it into the air. The look on his face
showed his amazement, and he closely examined the blade that he
held upright in his hand.

"Albion," he said, reading the inscription. He pointed at the
symbols etched into the blade. "What does all this mean?"

"I don't know," Robin answered softly. He retrieved the earl's
sword and slipped it into his sheath. "I won't abandon or hurt
you while you hold my sword, and you will grant me the same
trust. We are bonded through our blades. For the time being.
Will you come with me now?"

Robert snorted. "I don't have a choice, now do I?" He nodded
toward the still, prostrate form in the road. "What about my
friend?"

"We'll carry him off the road and leave him. If he doesn't wake
on his own, we'll return for him later."

"And where are you taking me?"

Robin smiled. "You'll see. Come on."

He dragged Robert's friend off the road, hid him in a small
thicket, and waited patiently for Robert to gather his courage
and join him. The boy eyed him cautiously, as though Robin were
a snake about to strike, and Robin couldn't blame him. He had
not trusted Herne when they had first met, but the bond between
them had been undeniable. Just as he could sense a bond between
himself and Robert. They were the same, no matter the different
paths their lives had taken. Trust would grow. Herne would see
to that.

#

The wolfshead lead Robert deep into Sherwood, so far from the
road that Robert knew he could never find his way back unaided.
They weaved among the trees, crossed small clearings, even
jumped a stream -- but where they were going, he didn't know.

Robin seemed to belong to the forest, Robert mused as he
watched the outlaw walk ahead of him. He moved with the grace of
a wild animal, silent and deadly. The undergrowth seemed to part
before him, while it snapped back into place for Robert, making
his passing next to intolerable. He stumbled over rocks and
roots, ran headlong into whiplike branches, and crunched leaves
with each step. He would be covered with bruises by morning.

With some concentration, though, after they had walked for
quite awhile, he began to get the feel of moving silently. It
wasn't as difficult as it looked. Not by far. Soon, he was
making only a little noise, sounding more like a rabbit than a
boar, although it required great focus. The wolfshead turned
back once to smile and nod, and despite himself, Robert felt
proud for the approval.

"What brings an earl's son to Sherwood?" Robin asked.

"To kill you." He half-smiled at the irony of it, and Robin
chuckled. "I could attack you now."

"Yes, you could. But you won't."

"Why not?"

Robin smiled mysteriously. "I just know."

Robert licked his dry lips, cleared his throat. "Where are we
going?"

"To visit Wickham."

"And who is that?" Robert pressed. "One of your outlaw friends?"

Robin laughed at that, obviously amused, and Robert felt his
cheeks redden in embarrassment. He didn't care to have this man
laughing at him. No one dared such impudence in Huntingdon.

"Wickham isn't a person," Robin explained. "It's a place, a
village not far from here."

"Why are we going there?"

"Because there's something in Wickham that I think you need to
see."

Robert glanced around them, at the lengthening shadows.
Already, he felt a slight chill in the air. "The sun will set
soon."

"We'll be there before nightfall." Robin glanced back at him,
mischief dancing in his eyes. "Don't worry. I won't let you get
lost in the dark."

"I am not frightened," Robert retorted.

And strangely enough, he really _wasn't_ scared, although he
suspected he should be wetting his pants. He had essentially
been taken hostage by the most notorious criminal in the land,
and yet, as much as he wanted to hate this man -- this enemy of
the king and all things lawful in England -- he found himself
drawn to him, instead. Like a moth to the flame, he thought
ruefully. Certain to get burned but helpless to stay away.

Robert couldn't quite understand it, but he felt a connection
to Robin Hood, as though something more powerful than either of
them was pulling them together. It was a strange, uncomfortable
feeling, that he had no control over his own fate.

Not much later, just as twilight began to fall, they crossed a
stream at a narrow footbridge, climbed a hill, and there was
Wickham. It looked like every village on his father's land: a
pathetic collection of thatch-roofed buildings and tiny gardens.
People walked every which way, going about the daily business of
life. Even at this distance, Robert imagined he could smell the
stench of them, an entire village that had probably never seen a
proper bathing tub, let alone used one.

He stopped at the treeline, his eyes taking in everything about
the small community. Somehow he couldn't bring himself to go
another step, and Robin looked back at him in confusion.

"Come on," the outlaw said. "We're almost there."

"I know," he said, yet still he hesitated.

"What is it?"

"I don't feel right about this, going into that place. I'm a
nobleman and they're ..."

"Peasants?" Robin prompted. At Robert's nod, he sighed and led
them back amid the trees. "The people of Wickham are no higher
or lower than you. They are human. We all are. And the sooner
you understand that, the better." He half-smiled and clapped
Robert on the shoulder. "Now, come on."

This time, Robert took a deep breath, gathered his courage and
followed. He couldn't help but notice the strange glances of the
people. For Robin, their expressions held only wonder and
adoration, but when their eyes strayed to him ... well, they
looked confused, and wary. Robert felt almost under attack, as
though he could _hear_ their hateful thoughts, yet no one said a
word. He breathed a relieved sigh that his fine clothes, which
might have spawned even more hostility, were dirty and torn.
Unrecognizable as those belonging to a nobleman.

A few men tended a fire at the village's edge; they seemed to
be cooking some meat, and Robert's stomach growled at the aroma.
Only then, he realized he hadn't eaten since morning. A few
chickens and a goat wandered nearby, and a mill wheel turned
lazily at the largest building in sight.

As they neared the village center -- Robin in the lead with
Robert only a couple of paces behind -- a man approached. He was
tall and slender, with a close beard. He grinned and shook
Robin's hand in greeting.

"This is an unexpected visit," the man said. "What can we do
for you?"

"Good to see you, Edward," Robin replied. "I'd like you to meet
someone. This is--"

"Thomas," Robert quickly interjected. Robin gave him a startled
glance, but he ignored it. Some instinct told him that to share
his true identity would be a mistake. "My name is Thomas, of
Lincoln."

Edward took his hand in a firm shake. "You're a long way from
home. What brings you to Wickham?"

"I do," Robin said. "Can we go inside, somewhere where we can
talk in private?"

Edward's eyes flickered nervously, but he nodded. "Of course.
Follow me."

#

"He should have been back by now," Will proclaimed to the
others, all gathered around a small campfire for dinner. He
leaned over to Nasir, sitting next to him. "He should have been
back hours ago."

No one responded, or even acknowledged Will's words, because
they all knew the truth of it. Marion, for one, couldn't bring
herself to speak because then she would have admitted to their
worst fear: Something unthinkable had happened to Robin. She
took another sip of Tuck's rabbit stew and firmly banished such
evil thoughts from her mind.

Will, though, would have none of it. He jumped to his feet,
agitated. "It ain't right that he should be gone so long."

"We know," Tuck answered gently. "Now sit down and eat."

Will muttered angrily under his breath but obeyed, stuffing an
oversized heap of stew into his mouth. Across the circle, John
stirred his makeshift fork in his bowl without eating a bite.
Much and Tuck stared forlornly into the fire. Only Nasir seemed
calm, yet even he, Marion noted, occasionally glanced toward
the outskirts of camp in a futile lookout for Robin.

Marion pulled her blanket more closely around her shoulders,
hoping to ward off the chill that swept through her every time
she thought of what might have happened to her husband. Captured
by Gisburne and the Sheriff, or injured and helpless to return
to camp. Perhaps he had met this successor Herne had spoken of.
Perhaps they had fought and Robin ...

_No_. No, she would not think of such things. Robin was alive. He
had to be.

"He said he'd be back by dark, right?" Much asked.

Marion nodded. "That's what he said."

"But it's dark now."

"I know," Marion answered, struggling to keep her voice level,
for Much's benefit. The boy had known Robin longer than any of
them.

"So where is he?" Much's eyes pleaded for an answer -- one she
could not give.

"I don't know," she finally responded, "but I'm sure he'll tell
us when he comes back."

Will snorted. "_If_ he comes back. And I say that if he's not
here by dawn, we go after him. Agreed?"

They all nodded, Much more enthusiastically than the rest.
Marion huddled deeper under her blanket. The uneasy band of
outlaws finished dinner in silence, around the smoldering
remains of their fire.

#