A Hoboken Hipster In Sherwood Forest (5 page)

"They will kill you if you do not." He shrugs, as if my state of existence doesn't mean jack to him. Which it probably doesn't, now that I think about it. In all honesty, I've ruined the guy's peaceful morning and forced him to run for his life. Yup, he's psyched to have me around, I'm sure.

"Fine." I stomp into the cave, realizing I'm acting as spoiled as a five-year-old who's been denied Wedding Dress Barbie. The only reason we're here is because of my foolish heroics. And, like the method or not, Robin is trying to save my life.

He ducks in behind me and pulls the vines down over the entrance. We're now stuck in a damp darkness that clings to my bones and twists my stomach into knots. I try to steady my breath with those yoga breathing exercises again as the blackness seems to close in.

I can feel Robin squashed beside me, breathing hard, and for some reason this makes me feel a little better. He shuffles to crouch in a more comfortable position and his leg brushes against mine. Again, his touch sends electric sparks up into me and I suppress a shiver. Just great. The first guy I'm attracted to after my cheating husband is a legendary outlaw from the 12th century who thinks I'm a guy. I sure know how to pick them.

"Which way did they go?" The soldiers' cries get louder as they grow nearer. My heart pounds triple-time as I realize they're now right outside the clearing. I can see their horses' hooves stamping from behind the vines. I swallow hard, fear of caves replaced by a much more rational fear of evil medieval men-at-arms with big scary swords.

"This way, I think," says one of the soldiers, who
sounds a bit further off than the others. "I see some trampled branches."

"Excellent." The first soldier urges his horse on and gallops away, leaving Robin and me to squat in silent relief.

"We’ll stay here a bit longer," he whispers. “To be sure they do not come back around."

For a brief moment, I feel exhilarated by our daring escape and don't even mind staying crouched in cramped darkness with a sexy outlaw for a few more minutes. Then I have to pee and suddenly the situation seems a lot less comfy-cozy.

I suppress my bladder's urges as long as possible before speaking. "Um, Rob? You think the coast is clear? 'Cause I got to pee like a racehorse."

He laughs softly. "You speak with the strangest tongue, lad." He pats my knee. "I will check. Stay here." He crawls out of the cave, giving me a good view of his muscular backside. I know I shouldn't be staring, but trust me, if you saw a butt like this guy's you'd stare too.

"Are we good?" I ask, crossing my fingers for an affirmative answer. There's no way I'll be able to hold out much longer.

"Aye," he says.

Grateful, I pop out of the cave and dive into the bushes to pee. I wonder if eunuchs usually pee standing up or sitting down. I would assume still standing up, right?

I glance back at Robin. He's got his back respectably turned, so I decide to squat. I grab random leaves to wipe, praying that none of them are medieval species of poison ivy. I'm deathly allergic to the stuff and there's no cortisone here to bring down the swelling.

When finished, I approach Robin.

"So you think we're safe?" I ask.

He shrugs. "For now." He paces a few steps, then turns to look at me. "You have put yourself in danger, boy. If either of those guards remembers your face, they will put a price on your head and declare you an outlaw."

Oh, great. First day in medieval times and I've managed to get myself on a Most Wanted poster. Nice one, Chris.

"Still, I couldn't just sit there and let them cut off his hand!" I protest.

Robin's face softens. "Aye. Forsooth, 'twas a selfless deed." He places a hand on my shoulder. "You are a brave lad."

Thanks," I say, feeling my face heat at his compliment. Or maybe at his touch—it's hard to tell at this point. I wonder if now's a good time to reveal my inner female.

"Well, fellow outlaw, will you join us for supper?" Robin asks. "I could introduce you to my men."

Ooh. An invite to hang with the Merry Men. Now we're talking.

"Sure," I say. "I'd be up for that."

I decide to skip telling him I'm a chick. At least for now. He might get all protective and want to drop me off at a village where I'll be safe. After all, in these days, women were seen as fragile, delicate flowers not suited for cavorting with outlaws.

If I have to be stuck in the 12th century until King Richard returns from his crusades, I at least want to live more of the legend before I'm relegated to some medieval kitchen.

###

Argh. My feet kill. I would give absolutely anything right now, even my rent-stabilized apartment, for a pair of Nikes. You won't ever know the pain of walking barefoot through a dense English forest for miles on end, but to give you an idea, it's worse than walking the length of Manhattan in two-sizes-too-small stilettos. Really. I've done both now, so I know.

"Who goes there?"

I jump back with a start as a man leaps from the bushes, bow and arrow drawn. Robin only laughs.

"A bit jumpy are you, Much?" he asks.

The man lowers his bow and flashes a toothy grin. He's tall and scrawny, with wild blond hair that sticks up in tufts. He wears a gray hooded cloak over a battered leather tunic and trousers.

"Well, Robin, you canna be too careful," Much says. “The sheriffs men have been in the forest all day—searching for some poor bastard who avoided his taxes, I wager."

Robin gives me a pointed look. "Much, I'd like you to meet Christian," he says, motioning to me. "Our guest for supper. We shall be roasting one of His Majesty's deer in his honor. If you care to join us, you would be most welcome at our table."

Much's eyes light up as my heart sinks. Is this a good time to tell them I'm vegetarian? Or that I watched Bambi fifty-four times as a kid and have no desire to leave some poor fawn to face the winter without his mother?

"Well met, Christian," Much says to me, bobbing up and down in a sort of half bow, half curtsey.

"Well met," I repeat, deciding to keep quiet about the impending Bambi massacre. My situation is precarious here, and I don't want to appear ungrateful. I won't go as far as actually eating the deer, though; I don't want my PETA membership revoked.

"We must be off," Robin says. "If we are to reach the lair by nightfall."

"Hold on a second. Aren't we almost there?" I ask, peering up at the sun, which is still quite high in the sky.

Robin shakes his head. "Nay, we have some distance still."

Oh, man. More walking. I don't know if my feet can handle it. I lift my right leg and peer at the sole of my foot. It's black and bleeding. Lovely.

Robin catches my examination and to my surprise pulls off his own leather boots. "Might be a bit large for you," he says, handing them to me. "But they are all I have with me. When we arrive at camp, I will find you some proper footwear."

"But what are you going to wear?" I ask, trying to be fair even though I desperately want those shoes.

He shrugs. "My feet are tough and used to walking." He holds out the shoes and I take them with immense relief.

"Thank you so much." I crouch down to put them on my aching feet. They're almost four sizes too big and have no Dr. Scholl's shock-absorbing gel inserts, but they're a great improvement over my barefoot status. I can't believe the guy's literally given me the shoes off his feet. Danny would never even give me half the blankets in bed on a cold winter's night.

Much waves good-bye as Robin and I continue our journey. "I will send an arrow to announce
yer arrival to the men," he says in an eager-to-please-the-boss voice. Then he tilts his bow skyward and affixes an arrow with some sort of circular barrel attached to its tip. I stop to watch, intrigued. He sends the arrow skyward and it makes a whistling noise that echoes through the forest. So that's what people did before iPhones.

Robin nods
to Much, then pulls a long white rag from his sack and turns to me. "I am afraid I must blindfold you for the remainder of the journey," he says apologetically. "We cannot have strangers knowing the way to our hideout."

"You think you're going to put that over my eyes?" I say, staring at the nasty, stained piece of cloth.
Ewh. I take back all my "isn't he nice to give me shoes" thoughts.

Robin laughs. "‘Twill not kill you."

Maybe not, but I can only imagine the potential zit factor. I mean, who wore this before me? So help me if I get a sty. But I sigh and give in. After all, I don't have a lot of alternatives at this point.

Robin moves behind me and places the rag around my head, tying it in the back. I can feel his breath on the back of my neck as he concentrates on the knot. Instant goose bumps.

Why the heck am I so damned attracted to this guy? Is it simply the bad-boy factor? He's an infamous outlaw, after all. Or maybe it's my practically single status. I can't exactly remember the last time Danny and I made love. He'd come home saying he was too tired and I, the good wife, had bought it and gone without. I hadn't realized the fatigue came from banging Waitress Wanda, or I'd have gone out and found a way to tire out myself.

With my vision now completely obscured by the nasty and probably unsanitary rag, Robin takes hold of my elbow and leads me down the path. It reminds me of those old team-building games they used to make you play at work. Where you had to trust the other person. Being blindly led by a practical
stranger who every once in a while whispers for me to step up, step down, veer left or right. It feels rather intimate, actually.

After about a half hour it's no longer intimate or sexy or fun. In fact, it sucks. His camp or lair or whatever he calls it is evidently in the East
Bumfuck zone of Sherwood Forest. Either that or he's taking me the long way round to make sure I really have no clue where the place is.

"Are we there yet?" I ask.

"Almost."

I'm relieved at that until I realize, five minutes later, we're still walking. What's his definition of almost, anyhow? Almost,
a few more paces? Or almost, just a mile or two more down the path?

"Are we there yet?" I can't help but ask again. I know, I know.

I can hear his exasperated sigh. "Almost."

But still we walk. And walk. And walk. You know, when I said I wanted to swing by and check out his camp, I had no idea it'd be located in another time zone.

"Are we there ye—?"

He huffs, stops walking, and whips off my blindfold. I blink a few times as my eyes adjust to my surroundings. "Are we here?” I ask, looking around. If we are, it's not much of a camp. In fact, it doesn't look like any camp at all.
Just a bunch of trees.

"I..." Robin turns around, shielding his eyes as he looks to his left and then right. "I think I might have taken a wrong turn somewhere."

"What?" I cry. "You mean we're lost?"

"Nay!" he retorts. "We are not lost."

Oh, no. Of course we're not lost. No man on the planet, medieval or modem, would ever admit he doesn't have the slightest clue where we are.

"Look, there's a hut over there." I point to a building in the distance. "Why don't we ask them where we are?"

"Nay, I will not."

I don't know why I even bothered suggesting it. Of course he's going to refuse to ask for directions.

"Oh, quit being such a baby," I chide, making strides to the small dwelling. "We'll just ask them approximately where we arc. Get your bearings. Then you can play woodsman again."

He doesn't answer, but falls into step behind me. I guess that's something. Men are so damn stubborn sometimes. Okay, most of the time.

We reach the cottage and I lift a hand to knock on the door. Calling it a cottage is being kind, by the way. It's made of rotted logs, caked with crumbling mud and a thatched roof—which seems a total fire hazard, if you ask me. Does someone really live here?

"Go away!" cries a raspy female voice from inside. "I already paid me tithe."

I glance over at Robin, who shrugs back.

"Ma'am, we aren't tax collectors," I say. "We're travelers and we're lost. We were hoping you could help us figure out where we are."

The door opens a crack and I can see an eyeball. A woman glances outside. "Yer not with the sheriff?" the voice asks, still suspicious.

"Hell no!" I say. "His men tried to kill me earlier today. I can't stand the guy."

The door swings open, revealing an extremely pregnant woman dressed in gray rags. Two barefoot rugrats cling to her legs.

"I beg
yer pardon," she says, and she motions us inside. "But as ye know, these are desperate times.”

"Aye," says Robin. "They are indeed."

Easy for him to say, I think, as we walk into the hut. He's going to be chowing down on roast deer tonight. Selfish jerk.

The hut's interior is depressing, to say the least. It's tiny, for one thing. Way too tiny for a woman and two kids, with anther on the way. The floor's made of dirt and there's a straw pallet in one corner with a few ratty blankets on top. Is that where they all sleep? A large earthen pot sits atop a smoky, smoldering fire. Church mice would feel
well-off if they saw this woman.