A Hoboken Hipster In Sherwood Forest (18 page)

"I can only imagine."

"Anyhow, try to think of this as an adventure. Isn't sneaking around kind of exciting? I mean, it's like the thrill of an affair without another woman being hurt."

"It'd be more fun if the stakes weren't so high. It's not like his job has an unemployment plan if he's fired for sleeping with me."

"Right. Well, hang in there, Chris. Things could change at a moment's notice. Just be true to yourself and your own feelings. And hey, enjoy the sex! How is our legendary outlaw in the bedroom department, anyway? I figure it's Robin Hood—he's got to be packin' something decent in his tigh—"

"Oh, Kat? Hello?" I tap the phone against my palm. "Can you hear me now? I think you're breaking up."

"Yeah, right. Bullshit. You just don't want to go all TMI. Fine, fine. Keep the juicy details to yourself."

I laugh. "It was good to talk to you, Kat," I say, and am surprised I mean it. Somewhere in all her crazy babble the girl does talk some sense. Who would have thought?

"Good to talk to you too, Chrissie. I'll call back soon. Go start staging that Austrian prison break. I know you could pull it off. You gotta have faith, faith, faith—"

I click the End button to cut short her butchering of the George Michael song and stuff the phone back in my bag. Time to head back to camp before Robin comes back looking for me.

As I approach the vicinity, I hear excited voices.

"Robin! Take a look at this!"

I follow the sound of the voices and come across several men, including Robin, all hovering around Will Scarlet, who holds an unrolled piece of parchment in his hands.

"What is it?" I ask.

Robin looks up from reading. "An archery competition," he says, his eyes sparkling. "At Prince John's castle. The prize is a golden arrow."

"A golden arrow?"

"The shaft is made of solid silver and its head of solid gold," he explains. "Could feed a village for a month."

I scrunch my eyebrows and wrack my brain. This sounds all too familiar. "I think it's a trap."

The four men stare at me.

"A trap?" Robin asks. "For who?"

"For you, duh. To get you back for all the recent robberies. Everyone knows you're the best archer in the land, so why not tempt you with a competition to bring you out of the safety of the forest and into the open? You win the tournament and your prize is a jail sentence."

"That seems a bit of an elaborate plan to snare me."

I sigh. How do I explain that I know what I know? It's not like I can say I read about it in a book that's yet to be written. I'm all of a sudden feeling a very strong Cassandra complex here.

Then again, should I really be trying to talk them out of things? I'm not trying to change history here. And if history proves correct, Robin cleverly escapes anyhow.
All's well that ends well.

"You could win this," Will Scarlet says, looking back down at the paper. "There is no man better with a bow than you, Robin."

"Aye," Robin agrees. "I think I shall enter."

"Um, hello?" I say, waving my hands in front of his face. "Earth to Robin! You can't just waltz into the castle courtyard. They'll arrest you. Hang you."

"You worry too much, Chris," Robin says, " ‘Tis simple. We shall wear disguises. Will, allow me to don one of your scarlet cloaks. The Prince and his sheriff will expect men in green."

A red cloak?
That's his big disguise? That's as bad as Superman fooling everyone with Clark Kent glasses. I mean, Duh, Lois Lane. You'd think she'd totally know.

"Well, I'm coming with you," I interject. If he's going to go be
all foolish and stuff, he needs backup. And I'm the only one in this stupid camp sensible enough—well, at the very least knowledgeable enough about how it's all supposed to play out. Not that anyone ever listens to me.

Robin scowls. "I do not think it is safe for—"

"For what?" I ask sweetly. "I am one of your men, am I not?" Heh. Sometimes this eunuch disguise can work in my favor.

He shoots me an exasperated glare, but of course he can't say anything in front of Will and the other guys. "Fine," he says at last. "Let's go win this tournament."

Tournament day is bright and sunny, the air crisp and cool—perfect weather for a New England harvest festival or apple-picking adventure. However, I can't enjoy any of it because I'm so nervous.

While Locksley Castle was just basically a medieval
McMansion plopped in the middle of a field, Nottingham Castle has a whole city built around it and is actually quite impressive. Houses, inns, and pubs flank narrow but bustling streets. We pass a blacksmith hammering horseshoes into shape, a bread maker kneading his dough. We walk through a market square packed with makeshift wooden stands selling everything under the sun. Luckily, Robin seems to know the way. I'd be totally lost.

Finally we come to a large courtyard adjacent to the castle itself. You have to go through a second set of guards to get in, but luckily they're not checking IDs or anything. A good thing, too—Robin's great disguise is not much more than Will Scarlet's red cloak pulled far over his head. Not the best
cosplay in the world, not by a long shot. And it feels weird to be here without the other merry men. But Robin was worried that showing up with an entourage might attract too much attention. My role is to play his servant and watch for any signs of recognition amongst the sheriff’s men.

The place is packed: peasants, noblemen and women, knights in shining armor, the works, all milling about chatting amicably with one another. There's an excitement in the air—like the kind you find before a football game—and I half expect souvenir stands with big foam fingers and number jerseys for the Sheriff of Nottingham.

Robin motions for me to follow him, and we head over to the stand where people sign up for the tournament. I watch as he pays some silver, and the guard tosses him a quill to list his name on the roll of parchment. I squint to try to make out what Robin's going to choose as his special top-secret tournament name, but I can't quite make out his scrawl. There sure are a lot of names on the list though. Guess the golden arrow is a pretty big prize. Hope Robin's up for the challenge. Then again, I already know that he wins this—I've read the book. So why am I so freaked out?

Once signed up, we head to a small, unoccupied corner of the courtyard. Robin takes his bow from me and inspects it critically.

"Think I can do this?" he asks under his breath.

"Definitely," I say with a confidence I don't entirely feel. Not that I think he won't be able to hit a bull's-eye; I'm just afraid that he won't be able to hit a bull's-eye without getting caught for who he really is. "You'll kick their butts.
Especially that stupid sheriff. But be careful of performing too, too well. After all, you don't want them to figure out it's you."

Robin laughs. "I will take my chances with that," he says, "For how can I do less than my best?"

Of course. Typical man. Still, in a strange way it makes me feel kind of proud. Robin really rocks with a bow. "All right then," I say. “You give them every thing you've got. If they recognize you, we'll just fight our way out."

"God's teeth!" Robin mutters under his breath.

I glance over at him, surprised. "Uh, you don't want to fight?" This could be a problem, as I'm ninety-nine percent sure the history books say we'll have to.

"No, no," he says, his voice a bit hoarse. "I'm sorry. I was not responding to your words."

"Then what's wrong?" I ask, following his gaze out into the crowd and up onto a dais where the royalty sit wearing shimmering rainbow-colored dresses and fanning themselves with dainty silk handkerchiefs. "What are you looking at?"

I glance back at Robin. His face has gone white. His eyes are wide. His lower lip trembles. What the hell is wrong with him?

I look up at the dais—at one particular woman, sitting in a favored place next to a well-dressed man who is obviously Prince John. She has jet-black wavy hair and large doe-like brown eyes. Her lips are plump and cinnamon-colored. Her dress is sky blue and embroidered with elaborate designs. Her wrists and neck and head are draped with emeralds, rubies and sapphires.

His stare. Her beauty. I put two and two together and I'm certainly not getting five.

"Is that who I think it is?" I ask, my heart catching in my throat. God, please don't let it be her.

"Aye.
‘Tis Marion."

Sigh. It's her. Thanks a lot, God.

This is what, in the back of my mind, I'd been afraid of all along. Screw the sheriff and getting caught and running for our lives. That I can handle. The fact that she'd be here—that he'd see her and dissolve into a sopping puddle on the floor—is what really terrified me.

And now it's happened.

I glare up at Marion, the woman who left Robin high and dry, traded him in for a new and better life. Hasn't that sunk into his thick skull yet? Shouldn't he be over her by now? And what about me? Have I just been convenient to waste time with while they've been apart? Someone to occupy the hours, satisfy his needs? While all along, deep inside, he continued to mourn the loss of his true love. The pure maiden Marion.

I hate guys. Hate, hate,
hate them. They never see what they have right in front of them. They only want what they can't have. Marion screwed Robin over. She sold him out for those fine diamonds around her neck. But does he hate her? Does he resent her for all she's done? No, he practically swoons at the sight of her. And where does that leave me, the girl who has been by his side this last month? The one who literally created his legend, started his fan club, and pushed him into his place in history. The girl who has proven her love and loyalty time and time again?

I'll tell you. It leaves me SOL.

Robin shakes his head and turns back to me. "Sorry," he mutters. " ‘Tis just... I have not seen her in near a summer."

"Whatever." I'm too annoyed to hear his excuses. I've seen the look in his eyes. The longing. The love. He will never look at me like that. If Marion came off that dais and ran toward him, he'd push me out of the way to get to her, never giving me a second thought.

Once again, I'm second-best.

"Are you all right?" Robin asks, peering at me with concern in his eyes.

The last thing I need is his pity.

"I'm fine," I say, forcing a smile that I'm sure doesn't quite reach my eyes. Not that he'll notice. "Fine as rain."

"You do not look it. Forsooth, you look quite pale. Too much sun, mayhap?"

God, men are idiots. My heart is breaking and he thinks I have sunstroke.

"I'm fine," I repeat firmly, crossing my arms over my chest and gritting my teeth.

He stares at me for a moment, opens his mouth to say something,
then closes it again as trumpets sound. Saved by the bell.

"I think the tournament's starting," I say, mostly to get him to stop staring at me.

He sighs and nods. "Aye," he says. "I must get in place. We will talk later."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever."

He heads out into the courtyard, to the spot where the contestants are gathering. I glance back up at Marion, who is smiling and chattering to a girlfriend to her left, totally clueless to the drama going on below. She's gorgeous. I can totally see why Robin's so hung up on her. Pure white skin, dark eyes, high cheekbones. Spitting image of effing Angelina Jolie.

Bitch.

I sigh. Why did I ever think Robin would find me a suitable replacement for someone like her? I'm so homely compared to his former girlfriend. Ugly curly red hair. I mean, Little Orphan Annie much? Freckled skin, watery hazel eyes. And my body... I steal a look at Marion's breasts. Creamy white and full, with a good deal of cleavage in sight. No one would ever mistake her for a boy.

I force my eyes away from the beauty queen and try to focus on the tournament. A man dressed in a brightly colored silk tunic steps out on a platform, unrolls a scroll and clears his throat. The din subsides as everyone starts paying attention.

“My lords, my ladies, I welcome you here to this archery competition. We have gathered here today to test the prowess of our men. To see them compete against one another in a battle of skill. Who shall be deemed the best archer in the land? Who shall win this beautiful golden arrow?"

A blonde, blue-eyed Price is Right type model type holds up the arrow in question, daintily bobbing up and down as she displays it to the crowd. The arrow catches the sun, nearly blinding in its brilliance. Wow, pretty sweet reward.

I send up a small prayer. Please let Robin win. Please let Robin win. Please let Robin—

"But we compete for more than a simple trinket," the man continues, "for today the Lady Marion has selflessly offered our victor a kiss from her own sweet lips. Truly, the arrow pales in comparison to such an honor."

What?!?

Please let Robin lose. Please let Robin lose.

Okay, fine, not really. I mean, I want him to win. I do. After all, I can't be selfish here. That arrow could feed a village for a month. But still, this has got to be the icing on my shit cake of a day. Him mooning over her from afar is bad enough. The idea of him tasting her soft lips, her gentle breath in his face...

I hope she ate garlic for breakfast.
Or something equally distasteful. Not that he'd probably even notice.

I look over at Robin to see his reaction to the kiss thing. Not shockingly, he's staring up at the dais again, his eyes glazed over,
deep in thought. Or deep in love. God, I hate him. Why did I ever think he was the perfect man? He's just like every other sorry excuse for a Y chromosome, wants what he can't have.

"
‘Tis time to begin. Let the contestants be introduced by their squires. First up, the Sheriff of Nottingham."

A burly black-haired man steps up to the podium, unrolling some paper in his hand. The Sheriff of Nottingham, son of Sir..."

He starts droning a list of names. Oh, I recognize this. They did this before jousting in A Knight's Tale. Chaucer made up Heath Ledger's entire family tree so he could sound like he was of noble blood to compete. I don't know if this particular tournament calls for noble blood, but I'd better do something for Robby here, as I think son of Lord Locksley would kind of blow our cover.

"...
son of Lord Ashley, who was son of Lord Beckinsworth..."

"
Er, do I need to do that for you?" I hiss at Robin.

"Aye," he says, still sounding way too distracted for my liking.

Hmph. It sure would have been nice if he warned me ahead of time. How was I going to come up with a list of fake English names on such short notice?

"Your man is up next," a skinny servant boy informs me, nudging me on the arm. Oh great. "Go up and introduce him."

I hesitantly step onto the podium, feeling the eyes of the crowd on me. I've never been one for public speaking—that was more Danny's thing. I was always more content to disappear in a crowd. Now it seems I have no choice.

"Uh, hello," I stammer.
Eesh. If there was a mic in front of me, this would be the moment where it screeched feedback and everyone held their ears. "I'd like to introduce you to Lord …” Lord what? Lord what? I notice Robin's eyes drifting toward the dais again. Loser. Utter loser. "... Lord Jerkoff—inich," I finish. "Yes, Lord Jerkoffinich of the Kingdom Assholia." I notice a few raised eyebrows and whispers among the ladies regarding Robin's last name. I'd better be more obscure from now on. "His dad was Sir Elton of John and his father was Sir Sean of Connery. His father was 'John of Lennon who had a father named Ringo of the Kingdom of Star. Very musical family, really." Hey, this is kind of fun! "His father was David of Beckham. You should have seen his balls—"

"Um, thank you, lad, I think that should be enough." The announcer interrupts. Darn, just when I get on a roll.

The next herald steps up to describe his contestant, and I exit stage right, heading to the refreshment stand for a mug of beer. If I have to stand here and watch Robin make googly eyes at Marion, I might as well get good and hammered. I down the first drink before they're even done with the family history stuff and order a second.

"
D'you think your man has a chance at the prize?" a fellow barfly standing next to me asks.

I take a big slurp of beer before answering. Good stuff. My insides are already warm and I'm feeling less annoyed at Robin's leering. "Oh yeah," I say, with a wave of my hand. "He's the best in the land, for sure."

"Funny that," the guy mutters thoughtfully. "Since I do not think I've seen him at tournaments before."

"Oh! Well, he's just visiting.
From far away. From, um, France." That's pretty far away, right? I mean, it's not like they have Lear jets these days to country hop.

"France, eh? I've competed far and wide in that country and I have not ever heard of such a man."

Oops. Maybe not far away enough. "Not France the country, silly!" I say with a laugh. "France the city."

"The city?"

"Sure. France is a city in... um, a little kingdom called... called..." Come on, Chrissie! Just make up a name! "America," I say triumphantly. Heh. I'm so smart. He'll never know where America is 'cause it hasn't been discovered yet.

"America?" the man says thoughtfully. "I have not heard of that kingdom, I'm afraid."

"Oh, yea, that's 'cause it's very far away. Very, very far away. But put your money on America, man. They're going to be a world power someday. Of course, we'll never have the musical geniuses you English have, but the food will be much better."

"I see." The man has a slightly confused look on his face.
Hm, am I not making sense or something? Maybe I should lay off the booze.... "

“And your man learned to draw a bow in America?"

"Yup. He's brilliant at it. Ab-sho-lute-ly brilliant."

I take another swig of beer and realize my cup is empty. Again? These mugs look big, but they must be deceiving. Danny told me once that at big chain restaurants when you buy a 16 once draft beer you're actually only getting about 14 ounces. He was very proud of his pint pour.
He'd been trained by a guy from Guinness who taught him to draw a little shamrock in the foam. Even had a certificate declaring he'd poured the perfect pint.

Danny. Our life together suddenly seems very far away. Which, I guess considering I'm eight hundred years in the past, it is.

The other barfly motions to the bartender, who hands me another beer. That was nice of him. I steal a glance while he's paying. He's dressed better than your average villager, in a royal blue silk tunic and tights, with a feathered cap on his head. He has a trim beard and blue eyes. Pretty handsome, actually. Kind of metrosexual. Not all rough and outlawy like Robin. I wonder if Robin used to dress this way when he lived a prince's life at Locksley. When he was engaged to that bitch Marion.

I take a swig of beer. Maybe I should flirt with this guy, get Robin back for staring at Marion all day. After all, what's good for the gander is good for the gooses. Or however that saying goes. I take another sip, warming to the idea. Maybe this guy would want a normal relationship. One where we didn't have to keep things on the
down-low. We could sing from the rooftops how we loved one another like they do in Moulin Rouge and no one would smack us down for it or ask the guy to resign from whatever job he works at.

"What is your man's name again?" my new boyfriend asks.

"Well, he's not really my man," I correct. "He's like my boss." I don't want him to think Robby's my boyfriend or something. "I'm single, actually. Very single. And available." Sigh. This would be a lot easier if I wasn't dressed as a man.

"And his name?" he asks, ignoring my not-so-subtle come-on.

D'oh, what did I claim his name was again? I remember making up some kind of insult-type name on stage, but now for the life of me I can't remember what it was. The beer is doing funny things to my brain.

"Lord ...
Bastardi? I mean ... Sir Wankership? No, no, sorry. Captain Dickface. That's right."

No, Chrissie, that's wrong.
Very, very wrong.

The man raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. Instead, he waves to the bartender to bring me another beer. Ooh,
drink number two from the handsome stranger! He must like me. Nice guy. Nice, nice guy. I take a few gulps from the mug already in my hand and swallow back a belch before double-fisting the second brew.

Oh screw it.

"Can youthh keep ah shhecret?" I ask, lowering my voice to a whisper. I mean, this guy is totally solid and we're practically engaged at this point. What would it hurt? He's just some random archery tournament attendee, after all. I hardly think he's going to go squeal on Robin to the Sheriff of Nottingham or something.

"Aye." He nods solemnly. "I swear on my mother's grave."

I stare back skeptically, "Did you like your mother?" I query. People always assume, when guys make that kind of solemn oath, that Mother Dearest was the sweet-faced, aproned, oatmeal-cookies-and-milk-after-school type and not the hideous monster mine was.

"Very much. I was most happy as a babe on her breast."

"Um, eww. Wayyy too much TMI, mistah," I say, waving my mugs. "But okay. Hereth my shecret. The man over there is actually—"

I stop. Wait one gosh darn second. Does this guy think I was born yesterday? What if he's a spy, sent by Prince John, trying to find out info from me? I mean, he
thinks I'm a dude, yet he's buying me drinks. So either he's gayer than a leather piñata or he's working to get me to reveal our true identities. Which ain't gonna happen. Not on my watch.

"Aren't you drinking?" I ask, realizing his hands are empty. Suspicious.
Very suspicious.

He shakes his head. "I must keep my wits about me for the tournament."

"Oh. You're in the tournament?"

"Aye. I shall win it, too."

"I see. Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?"

"Mayhap." He shrugs. "I have yet to see a man best me with a bow."

"You haven't seen my guy, obviously."

"And his name again?"

"Ah-ha!" See! I knew it. I totally, totally knew it! "You're trying to trick me. Well, it won't work. I won't tell you Robin Hood's true identity. Not on your life."

Oh.

Fuck.

For those of you who are reading this and are under the age of legal alcohol consumption, this is a prime example of why you should just say no. Beer is bad.
Bad, bad, bad. Especially when you're trying to keep a big, big secret.

"Uh, what am I saying? Robin Hood?" I laugh loudly. "How silly of me. Of course, I meant Count
Crapola of Toiletville."

"It makes no difference to me, lad," the man says with a smile. "I do not know of either gentlemen you mention."

Oh, phew. I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding. Phew, phew, phew. For a moment there I thought I'd just given out Robin's secret to someone bad. Like the Sheriff of Nottingham or something.

"Next up, the Sheriff of Nottingham."

"That's me," my friend says with a grin. "Wish me luck."

Uh-oh. I suddenly get the feeling that "Count
Crapola" is in deep shit. And it's all my fault.

You'd think an archery tournament would be exciting and fun, but let me tell you, in reality
it's kind of long and dull. It's not like a jousting match, say, where there are two rampaging beasts storming at one another with two armed men on board, crashing lances into shields in an attempt to throw the other man off. If a jousting match is like football, then archery is like golf. Or watching bowling on TV. Quiet. Slow. Tedious. Boring.

It's especially tedious when you're sitting here, drunk as a skunk and worried as hell about the fact that you just gave away your boyfriend's secret identity to the man who most wants to capture him and sentence him to death. I need to warn Robin that the sheriff knows all, but the guards won't let me near the competitors.

Come on, sloshed brain. Think!

Luckily for me, at that very moment, sloshed brain comes through and I have a brilliant idea.

I'll sign up to compete, too!

I jump up from my seat and rush over to the signup booth. "Is it too late to join the competition?" I ask the man behind the counter.

He nods. "Aye. You must sign up before it begins."

Damn. That blows. But I'm not ready to give up quite yet.

"Is that a rule set in stone? Or..." I reach into my little hanging purse and pull out a few silvers. I know how these Nottingham guys think. "Silver?" I ask, holding them up.

The man looks left and right,
then snatches the silver out of my hand. "Consider yourself a competitor," he whispers, winking at me. "Two more silvers and I'll give you a bow to compete with."

I dig into my bag.

Once outfitted with a rather splintery bow and a quiver full of arrows, I head into the tournament area. Several contestants have already been eliminated, so I try to huddle with the rest, to keep a low enough profile so no one will know I joined late. I look for Robin and see he's up, pulling back on his bow and letting his arrow fly. It soars through the air and lands, of course, right in the bull's-eye. The crowd goes wild and I can't help but smile with pride. He's so good.

The Sheriff of Nottingham is up next. He easily hits the mark as well. He and Robin walk back to the group of men waiting. How am I going to get Robin alone to warn him?

A few more men try their luck, but their arrows are way off the mark.

"
Psst, Robin!" I hiss, waving my arms in the air, trying to get the outlaw's attention.

He turns and catches sight of me. His face furrows into a frown and he walks through the other contestants to reach me. "What are you doing?" he asks, looking confused.