The once bright festival seemed garish and dull, and the merry songs of minstrels sounded like garbled nonsense. Robin bumped into a few veggies and muttered distracted apologies, trying to put as much distance between himself and the sweethearts.
Sweethearts.
The word made his throat tighten, and he mentally kicked himself for letting false hopes guide his actions. He knew it had been a long shot for Marian to be single — and still interested in him — but he had allowed his longing heart to hope anyway, and now his dreams had come crashing down like a toppled tower.
Of course she had moved on. Marian's father hadn't approved of Robin, so why would Marian dishonor his wishes now that her father was gone? She had also been living in Normandy for years, surrounded by wealthy Norman nobles, so how could the youngest son of a Saxon earl measure up?
If I wasn't a wanted cuke, I could've asked for Marian's favor myself, before Sir Guy did, a stubborn part of him argued. I could win her back right now, if I didn't have to be in this disguise.
It was unfair. He wanted to help the poor with fundraisers, and now he was a criminal. He wanted to see Marian again, and now he just watched another cuke freely pursue her. Robin closed his eyes, which suddenly felt hot.
God, what am I doing wrong?
Screwing up his face, he quickened his pace but found himself tumbling right into an elderly gourd woman who dropped the armful of firewood she had been gathering.
"Oh, sorry, Miss Lewis," Robin apologized without thinking.
Miss Lewis adjusted her glasses, and her small eyes squinted in recognition. "Robin? Is that you, luv?"
He quickly shushed her, checking around them. "Not so loud, okay?"
"What are you doing here, me boy?" she asked in a low voice, guiding him to the side of the midway. "Don't tell me you're risking your freedom just to attend a festival."
"I wanted to win that golden arrow," he admitted. "You know, to sell for hams, but'' — he averted his gaze — "something's come up. Can I hide at your place until the coast is clear?"
Miss Lewis agreed and led the way back to her modest house, and Robin helped her gather sticks as they went. Once inside the safety of her home, Miss Lewis poured Robin a small glass of almond milk, since that was all she had in her larder.
"Now then," she said, settling across from him in her chair by the hearth, "what's got a bright lad like you looking as gloomy as a thunderstorm at midnight?"
Robin swirled the wooden cup, watching the almond milk slosh about.
"It's kind of complicated."
Miss Lewis gave him a motherly look of understanding.
"Well, if you don't feel like telling me, luv, we can just sit here and chat."
Robin grimaced, bringing the cup to his lips but barely sampling. He usually liked almond milk, which was typical fare for medieval peasants, but it was not so appetizing just then. He wrestled for a few minutes between embarrassment and desperation, but as much as he wanted to keep this fresh hurt to himself, part of him wanted advice from a veggie he trusted.
"Miss Lewis," he said at last, "what does it mean when… you try to do the right thing, but bad stuff happens to you anyway?"
"That we live in an imperfect world," she answered mildly, "where imperfect people have free will, and accidents happen. You can't force people to do the right thing all the time, especially when they are dead set on doing the wrong thing."
He shrugged, turning himself so that he could look at the hearth rather than at her.
"But suppose, uh, there's this guy, right? And he wanted to enter a contest to win the prize so that he can help kids with it. Then he finds out his really good friend is going to be at the contest. He's really excited because he hasn't seen her in years."
"Oh, a 'her,' is it?" Miss Lewis smiled.
Robin cleared his throat.
"And when he meets… her… again, she has another guy interested in her. What should the first guy do?"
Miss Lewis leaned back. "Did the lady actually show any interest in the other fellow?"
"They seemed pretty close," Robin sighed. "The other guy was really comfortable and casual with her, and she didn't seem offended."
"That does sound like a right painful heartbreak," Miss Lewis said, sympathetic. "And for the first young man, was entering the contest only about impressing his lady friend?"
"Well, no," said Robin. "He wanted to enter anyway because the golden arrow— I mean, the prize could be sold to buy hams for little kids who don't have enough."
"Then which is the better option for the young man?" asked Miss Lewis. "To give up and go home and drown his sorrows in a quart of pistachio ice cream? Or to win the contest to help others when it's in his power to do so?"
"Probably the second one," Robin conceded, "although ice cream sounds pretty good right now."
"Well, it sounds like a pretty hard decision, don't it?" Miss Lewis said kindly. "But I think the young man will do the right thing. He has a track record for doing good whenever he can, but if he really needs to go home, you won't find me casting blame on him."
"Thanks for that," he mumbled.
He pictured his happier days with Marian: having playdates in each other's castles, shooting arrows in the forest, passing out ham sandwiches to the poor, building their own lemonade stands to collect money to buy a sick friend a new teddy bear. He remembered how he slowly realized he wanted to marry his best friend, and he was glad to discover she loved him back.
Then he remembered how familiar Sir Guy acted around Marian — and how the pouch with Robin's half of the silver ring had weighed uncomfortably on his chest while he watched the pair — and how he realized Marian had lived out a chapter of her life in Normandy, without Robin. Any claims on her affections now were flimsy at best — and it hurt to think of Sir Guy participating in the contest in order to impress Marian, the very thing Robin had been hoping to do himself.
Yet even as Robin felt sorry for himself, his mind drifted again to the golden arrow. Guy or no Guy, Marian or no Marian, that arrow would feed a lot of people. The people in Prince John's territories were hungry and overtaxed; many did not know whether they would have any supper tonight. Many were children.
Whether or not I win Marian back, the poor people shouldn't suffer because I walked away from helping.
Robin sighed, gripping his trusty yew. He stood, stamping down his heartache to focus his mind on the altruistic task at hand.
"That gold arrow could make a difference for somebody." He took a hop toward the door. "And it's for the kids."
She nodded with motherly approval. "A right worthy cause indeed."
I just have to keep telling myself that, Robin told himself as he left, trying to keep his resolution.
Several tents had been set up for the archers' comfort, filled with snacks, hot towels, and tiny water bottles. Robin found his friends feasting in the purple-and-yellow striped one. He sat with them in silence, and he barely tasted his bagel or fruit cup, which he finally handed over to Little John to enjoy.
After a while, Sir Guy poked his head in, declaring he could not stand the noise in the other tents. Robin kept his head down so that the other cuke would not recognize him. Sir Guy strutted around, humming some love song as he tested his bow's strength or checked the straightness of his arrows. Robin tried to ignore him.
At last, a trumpet sounded, calling the competitors to assemble on the field. Robin and his friends queued up with the other archers, but Robin was aghast when he discovered Sir Guy stood right behind him. Before he could ask Bill Scarlet to switch places, the trumpeters called attention for the ceremonial arrival of Prince John and his zucchini wife, Isabella of Gloucester, who rode in on their wooden palfreys pulled by royal pages. Behind came the sheriff and his lady on white sheep, followed by Marian and her blueberry lady-in-waiting.
"Three cheers for Prince John!" piped the nasally gourd who was the herald. "Hip, hip!"
"Hurray," came the half-hearted chorus from archers and spectators alike.
"Long live King Richard!" shouted a carrot woman, but the gourd quickly moved onto the next cheer.
When these obligations were fulfilled, the royal party ascended the broad steps of the raised dais. The prince and princess took the prominent seats at the top, decked with gold cloth and velvet. Marian and her blueberry attendant sat on their right hand. The sheriff and his lady took the seats on the left, while their attendants stood respectfully in the corner, ready to fetch glasses of lemonade or popcorn for the prestigious spectators.
Through his Groucho glasses, Robin watched the pretty rhubarb, glad when her sweet eyes at last turned toward him.
…And Sir Guy, it seemed, because the knight pulled out an arrow and waved it at Marian, who bowed her head in acknowledgment. Robin puffed out his cheeks and yanked his hood down over the eyebrows of his glasses.
Stay focused, he chided himself. You want that gold arrow to help kids, not to impress Marian or show up Sir Guy.
Even so, that hurt, stubborn part of him wondered if it was possible to do more than one.
The sheriff took a moment to thank their sponsor ("Veggieroot Cream-Oil, the one and only largest-selling hair tonic!"), and then the contest began, with the herald explaining the rules. The competitors would each shoot five arrows, and the ten best shooters would move onto the next round.
Robin kept his face straight ahead, trying to ignore Sir Guy, who was humming another love ballad. When it was his turn, Robin raised his trusty yew bow and got all five of his arrows into the middle circle.
…So did Sir Guy, who sent a dazzling smile toward the royal box while the crowd roared his name.
His friends also did well, and they advanced to the next round. The competitors had three arrows each. Again, Robin did an excellent job, lodging them all within the bullseye.
…So did Sir Guy, who kissed each arrow as if they were love letters before notching them.
For the kids, for the kids, for the kids, Robin told himself, clenching his jaw.
The judges inspected the targets and consulted among themselves before they announced the two finalists: Sir Guy and the mysterious cucumber.
The other competitors cleared the field, and the manager of the contest came over to give Robin and Sir Guy a few instructions. Meanwhile, a few serfs in red hoods brought out a fresh target and moved it ten paces behind the others.
"Two arrows each," the manager said. "Best shot wins the golden arrow."
"Easy-peasy!" Sir Guy laughed. "And I know just who I'll give it to after I win."
He cast an affectionate look toward the royal box and let out a dreamy sigh.
Robin tightened his grip on his bow, but he spoke mildly: "Yeah, but the target is a bit too close. Maybe you guys should move it back to a fit distance for real yeomen to shoot at."
The manager glanced at Sir Guy, who nodded his agreement, and the carrot spun to command the serfs to move the target back an additional twenty paces.
This time, Robin asked if Sir Guy could go first.
Tossing his well-groomed head so that his red hair seemed to blaze in the sunshine, Sir Guy readied his bow. With a wink toward the royal pavilion, he loosed the first arrow. It struck the center circle toward the edge. He nodded his acknowledgment for the applause that followed and strolled back.
Robin sauntered forward to take his shot. He did a little stretch and cracked his neck before he fluidly withdrew his next missile and released it, barely looking at the target.
Whack!
The crowd gasped and gawked. Sir Guy's arrow swayed like a reed in the wind, and right on the back of the shaft, the suction cup of Robin's had latched on, and the tip of the arrow had shot through the material and entered, partway, into Sir Guy's.
"A tie!" cried the manager. "Sir Guy to shoot his second arrow!"
Sir Guy's large mouth twisted into a deep scowl while Robin strutted back to his place.
"Bet you can't do that again," Sir Guy said under his breath.
"Bet I can."
Clenching his jaw, Sir Guy hopped forward, taking out his last arrow, and he let it fly.
Thwack!
Sir Guy's arrow trembled on top of a perfect bullseye.
"Ha!" the knight crowed.
"Easy-peasy," said Robin as he took his position. With a glance toward the lithe figure on the edge of her seat, Robin notched his arrow and drew it toward his ear.
But as soon as his invisible grasp loosed the arrow, Robin sensed something was wrong — something about the fletching — and as the arrow sailed forth, the wind picked up — and these two appalling factors seemed determined to work together — and the arrow's suction cup lodged itself onto the outer ring.
For half a breath, the world was silent — and then the cheers exploded.
"Sir Guy wins!"
The crowd poured out of the stands and descended upon the champion, knocking Robin out of the way. They hoisted Sir Guy onto their shoulders and carried him toward the royal pavilion. Sir Guy took the opportunity to do a little body surfing, gliding this way and that while basking in everyone's praise, showboating for the maiden eyes that were undoubtedly watching him.
Robin, meanwhile, had to roll about to avoid getting trampled. Every time he tried to stand, more veggies seemed to rush forward to catch a glimpse of Sir Guy. Just as he thought he would get flattened, he heard an accented voice calling his name.
Big Red pushed his way through the crowd, a remarkable job for a pea. Reaching Robin, he hopped on his friend's back in time to push back a carrot who nearly stepped on the cucumber.
"Are you all right, Robin?" he asked, guiding another veggie to steer clear of his leader.
Robin swallowed and adjusted his funny glasses. "I… I lost. I lost."
Big Red gave him a look of empathy. He gave Robin's collar a gentle tug.
"C'mon, mon ami. Let's get you home while the sheriff and his guards are distracted."
That was music to Robin's ears. He crawled after Big Red through the mass of veggies until he could safely stand. They joined the others and began the sad trek back to Sherwood.
Sir Guy finished his crowd surfing. When he reached the edge of the mass of veggies, he leapt up and flipped in the air, landing on the platform at the bottom of the steps. His smile of thanks nearly blinded a few onlookers before he turned and strolled up the magnificent steps.
Marian arose, starting toward the broad steps, while the sheriff signaled for a page to bring out the golden arrow on a velvet pillow. The clever masterpiece glinted when the sunshine caught it.
Prince John, however, shot his feet.
"Seize him!" he bellowed, pointing his ham at Sir Guy.
At once, potato guardsmen descended upon the champion from all sides. The poor cucumber cried out as he was grabbed by two and raised up, helplessly kicking the air. Marian spun, rushing toward the prince.
"What has he done?!" she cried. "He's a good man!"
"Oh, he's Good all right," Prince John snarled. He swung his ham toward Bethlingham Castle. "Take that traitor, Robin Good, to the Dungeon of Despair!"
A/N: Both Howard Pyle's version of the archery contest and the 1939 film were influences for this chapter.