A Hoboken Hipster In Sherwood Forest (23 page)

Then I'll be done. Mission accomplished.
Nimue will somehow bring me back to the 21st century and Kat can come back from the future. I wonder if time will have passed or if, like in Narnia, a thousand years here is like a day.

Either way, Monday morning at work is going to be absolutely no fun.
Total time-travel hangover.

It's dusk by the time I reach the towering gray
stone walls of Nottingham. Luckily they haven't yet closed the drawbridge for the night and I'm able to get myself inside. I wander around until I find a small inn and rent a room for the night. But that uses up the last of my money. Tomorrow I definitely need to find a job or I'll be forced to rob the rich to feed myself.

The morning sun streams through my window and I open my eyes, ready to greet day one of the rest of my life. This is a new chapter.
A new start. And this time I'm going to do things right. No more hanging out in the forest, pretending I'm someone I'm not, mooning over someone who doesn't really want me. Starting today, I get to be myself again. Well, the 12th-century version of myself, but at least I'm back in dresses.

I look around the medieval B&B where I spent the night. B #1 was moth-eaten and lumpy, and I'm not holding out much hope for B #2 being anything vegetarian. But that's okay. I'm rested and raring to go.
Watch out Nottingham, Chrissie is in town.

There's no shower, obviously, so I can't exactly freshen up the way I normally would back home. But I do convince the innkeeper to supply me with a pitcher of water and a small bar of soap to sponge bathe. Then I don the dress I got from the village teen. It feels a little loose—her mother must have been a bit heftier than I—but it's attractive and courtly looking. (At least in my mind. Admittedly, I skipped Fashion 101 of 12th century England.)

I primp a bit more, though the polished metal that serves as a mirror doesn't exactly give me a crystal clear vision of my appearance. I pull my unruly hair into a bun and pinch my cheeks like Scarlett O'Hara used to, in an effort to achieve that sans-Cover Girl glow. It seems so odd to be worrying about things like hair and makeup again. But at the same time, it's kind of nice. Not that I ever was some fashionista like Kat, but I do like to look pretty on occasion.

I head down the rickety wooden stairs, through the bar—I take the few cat-calls from the early morning barflies as a good sign, though maybe not that good considering they've probably been drinking since noon yesterday—and outside into the bright morning sunlight.

Nottingham is alive with activity—the sights, smells and sounds nearly overwhelming to my just-woken state. A hammer slams against an anvil as a blacksmith morphs a chunk of metal into a deadly weapon. Chickens and cows cluck and moo, respectively. The scent of freshly baked bread wafts through the air, mingling with a scent of something far less pleasant that I can't identify and I'm not sure I want to.

I smile. This place isn't half bad. In fact, it's kind of exciting, to tell the truth.
All the hustle and bustle of peasants and tradesmen going about their days. Pretty maids batting their eyelashes at the butchers, trying to save a penny with a smile. Hunky men-at-arms wandering the streets, making sure everyone stays in line. I can definitely see myself waiting out Richard's return here. It'll be a brand-new adventure. A brand-new life. And I don't need Robin to live it.

I do, however, need a job. I glance around, wondering how to find out who's hiring. I mean, it's not like I can just hop on Monster.com to find that dream barmaid position I've always lusted after. And I don't see any Help Wanted signs displayed on the pottery seller's stand. Hmm. This could be more difficult than I thought. What if they start asking for references?
Or employment history? I'm thinking listing "professional robber of the rich" as my occupation and Robin Hood as my professional reference might turn off a few of my available employers.

I wander the streets for a bit, taking in all the sights, wondering
who I should approach. Suddenly, a soldier clad in chain mail and a bright red tabard steps into my path.

"Milady," he addresses me, bowing low.

I raise an eyebrow at the interruption. "Yes?" I query. I hope he doesn't recognize me as one of Robin's men. That wouldn't be good. But still, that's impossible, right? After all, if he knew who I really was, he wouldn't be bowing. He also wouldn't be calling me "milady."

"Your presence has been humbly requested by his Majesty, Prince John. You are to come with me."

What? My presence has been requested? And requested by His Majesty? His Majesty Prince John? How does Prince John know to request my presence? Jeez, and here I thought I was doing well, keeping a low profile. And what if this so-called presence requesting isn't due to some standard "Welcome to Nottingham" program the tourism board voted in last year, but rather that they somehow recognize me from the tournament?

But the guard has a really big sword strapped to his belt, so there's not much I can do about the request except grant it, following him into the keep, praying that my head will not be "requested" from my shoulders.

We enter the castle, pass a few guards standing at the entrance, then march down a long stone hallway. Funnily enough, it's the same passage that Robin and I sprinted through two days ago while running for our lives after the archery tournament. I remember the adrenaline thrumming through my veins as I followed Robin, ready to die by his side if I had to. Sigh. That already seems a lifetime ago.

The ache returns, accompanied by a panicky electric crackling through my arms and fingers. The thought that my relationship with Robin is over forever just kills me inside. It squeezes my heart into a vise and makes it difficult to draw breath.
Crushing, suffocating pain. And there's nothing I can do about it. As much as I'd like to curl up into a ball and die, I know my life depends on being able to keep it together.

Boy, it's so much easier to break up in the 21st century, where all you're required to do is lie on the couch with a bunch of tissues, eating Haagen-Dazs out of the carton and watching Lifetime movies.

I force myself to focus on my present situation. After all, I'm inside Nottingham Castle, home base of Prince John himself. Maybe I can do some recon while I'm here, get a better idea of when King Richard might be showing up.

"So, uh, nice place," I say, trying to make conversation with the guard. He grunts in response. Evidently he's the tall, dark and quiet type.

We make a few turns and end up at double wooden doors, guarded by two sentries. They bow to my escort and open the doors for us. We step over the threshold and into a giant hall.

Hmm. Maybe the Merry Maids are on vacation this week? The floor is filthy. It's caked with dirt and littered with feathers and bones, like someone let loose a fox in a chicken coop and never cleaned up afterward. In the center of the room there's a large fire pit giving off more smoke than fire at the moment, and making the air worse to breathe than village coffeehouses before they banned indoor smoking in NYC. Still, the people here don't seem to mind the smoke, and several are right next to the fire, drinking out of pewter mugs and chatting excitedly with one another.

The walls are made of stone and cloaked with tapestries depicting knights in various stages of derring-do and ladies hanging out with unicorns. Pretty standard medieval fare. At the far end of the room sit two ornate thrones covered in gold and encrusted with jewels. On the right sits a guy I recognize from the archery tournament as Prince John. He's wearing a crown that's a bit too big for his noggin, and he's currently slouched over, chin in hands, an expression of extreme boredom and annoyance on his face. With his orange-colored beard and unkempt hair, he really does look a little like the cowardly lion who plays his character in the Disney version of Robin Hood. It'd be funny if he suddenly started sucking his thumb and wanting his mommy. Less funny if he had a real snake for an advisor. Sir Hiss always used to freak me out.

"Milord, this is the lady you asked to see," the knight says, bowing low, then pushing me forward. I find myself standing in front of the prince, not sure what to do. So I give a little curtsey, hoping I'm doing it right. At least this place won't be like the court in Shogun. In that book the samurais cut off your head for even the most minor transgression against protocol. I don't think it will be like that in England.

Prince John gives a toothy grin and rises from his throne to greet me. "It's lovely to meet you, my dear," he says, in a voice that sounds too high-pitched to be coming from The Royal Leader of England. If you're going to be king, you'd better hope for a deep, booming voice. I bet King Richard has one. He certainly did when he was played by Sean Connery in Prince of Thieves. Mmm, sexy.

"It's, uh, lovely to meet you too," I stammer, still not entirely sure what to say. "Was there... something I could help you with?" The second the words leave my mouth, however, I realize the question could seem rude. But I'm dying to know why he's called me here. If it's because he recognizes me and wants to behead me or hang
me or whatever, I'd like to get all the cards on the table now.

But he only smiles again, circling me like a prowling cat, then reaches up a hand to run stubby fingers down my cheek. Um,
ew? What's with the touching? Hasn't he heard of the three-foot-bubble rule? Then again, this is a guy who thinks nothing of starving children to death in his own kingdom. It's not surprising he lacks rudimentary social skills as well.

"You are very pretty," he says in a voice that almost sounds like he's purring. "Very pretty indeed." Too bad he's a scrawny evil wimp, because I am so in need of these types of compliments at the moment.

"Thanks," I say with an embarrassed shrug. "I try."

"Two of my knights spotted you at the inn last night and returned with tales of your beauty. Now I see they did not lie," he says, his face inches from mine.
Ew. He has so not brushed his teeth this decade. Maybe while I'm here I could invent toothbrushes or something. "But who are you and where do you come from?"

"Actually I'm new," I say, struggling to come up with an on the spot He. "My name's Princess Christine, and I come from the far off kingdom of... Hoboken."

He seems to buy it. Phew. "And what brings you to our simple little court?" Prince John asks, grinning smarmily. I say—is that a droplet of spittle hanging from the corner of his lip? I mean, I'm happy he thinks I'm attractive, but I'll stop before the drool-worthy point, thank you very much.

"Um, my father thought I could get a job here. Maybe as..." I was going to say a barmaid, but then decide to go for better. It's not like I have to show
a résumé or provide references. "A lady-in-waiting."

The prince grabs my hand and gleefully shakes it up and down. "Of course!" he cries, more excited than a
Superbowl winner on his way to Disney World. "I'd be delighted for you to become part of my court."

Weird. According to the legends, this guy is supposed to be evil incarnate, the devious ruler who stole the throne from his Crusading brother and taxed the villages to near starvation. So, how come he's acting like a silly little kid? Methinks someone else has got to be the brains of this operation.

"My Lord, I must speak with you." I hear a booming voice echo from across the hall. I glance in its direction and see none other than the Sheriff of Nottingham step through the door. I look back at Prince John and see the guy's become a bit pale. Ah-ha. So the sheriff’s the Dick Cheney of England. It all becomes clearer.

“Yes, yes, very well, Sheriff," Prince John mumbles. He reminds me little of Woody Allen. "I would be most pleased to speak with you on any matter you wish. I was just inviting my new friend here to—"

The sheriff takes a brief look at me, then waves a dismissing hand. Phew! He doesn't recognize me from the other day.

“This is more important than a woman," he declares, marching up to the second throne—the more ornate one, of course—and sitting down. "Send her away and let us talk business."

"Yes, yes, whatever you say, Sheriff." Prince John throws me an apologetic look. "I'll speak with you later, my dear," he says. "Sir Gerard, take Princess Christine up to ladies' chambers!"

###

We're at the top of a flight of wooden stairs. In front of us is a massive wooden door with an iron knocker. I guess this is the ladies' chamber. My new home.

The guard knocks twice.

"Ladies?" he calls.

I hear a titter of laughter from the other side of the door, then the squeaky turn of a key. The door swings open and three young women spill out from behind. When they see the guard, who I guess, now that I look at him, is pretty handsome, they giggle some more and twist strands of their hair while batting their eyelashes at him. It's the oldest flirting trick in the book. Though, actually, maybe it's not old in this century.

"Hi, Sir Gerard," a blonde chirps. She gives him a come-hither smile. "It's so nice of you to visit our chambers."

"Indeed, Sir Gerard," adds a chocolate-haired maiden beside her. "We are most honored by your presence."

"Won't you come in for a moment?" suggests a third girl. "You must be very tired from your important duties as a knight."