A Hoboken Hipster In Sherwood Forest (6 page)

I feel so bad for her. Talk about extreme poverty! I mean, I thought I had it hard when they shut off our cable after Danny was laid off and we couldn't pay the bill. I can't imagine living in this squalor. And worse, having children live in this squalor.

As Robin asks the peasant woman for details on where we are in the forest, I feel a tugging on my leg. I crouch down to eye level of the dirty but sweet-faced little girl in front of me.

"
D'you have any food?" she asks, sticking a grimy index finger in her mouth. I wish I had found time to retrieve my camera bag from the other side of the river before running for our lives. I know I had some sanitary wipes in there. That and granola bars. "I'm hungry."

Poor kid. My heart aches for her. If the others in Nottingham are half as bad off as this family... How could the Prince allow this to happen? How can he sit in his castle, enjoying his jewels and servants and fine dinners while these children die of starvation?

I can see why Robin Hood felt it so important to redistribute the wealth in this godforsaken place. Well, the Robin Hood of legends, anyhow. The real life Robin seems much more interested in getting back to his camp so he can fry up a nice fat deer and pig out. I decide that if we're anywhere near his camp now, I'll sneak out and determine a way to return to this hut with my portion of meat.

"Hang in there, sweetie," I say, kissing the little girl on her forehead. "I'll try to bring you some food."

That's it!

Inspiration strikes as I rise from my stooped position. That's how I'll spend my time in Sherwood Forest while I'm waiting for the King to return. If Robin's not up to the task, fine. I can organize a little robbing from the rich and giving to the poor myself. Maybe I can even recruit some of the less selfish merry men to help me.

I can see it now: Chrissie Hayward, Princess of Thieves.

I kind of like the sound of that.

Chapter Four

The blindfold goes back on as soon as we leave the vicinity of the hut. I try to protest, saying if he doesn't even know where we are, how the heck does he expect me to? But I might as well be trying to talk to a Patriots fan on Superbowl Sunday while Brady has the ball for all the attention I get.

"If I were to lead you to my lair without a cloth 'round your eyes, my men will think I've gone soft," Robin explains, sounding almost apologetic. "And power is such a tricky lass—to be kept under a tight lead. Should I show weakness, some other man, perhaps, would rise in challenge. And we do not want that, now do we young Christian?"

Okay, fine. I guess he's got a point there. So I let him lead me, praying we won't get lost again and that the camp isn't too far from here. I've only got so many miles left in these shoes. And when I say "so many," I mean less than one. If that.

But luck thankfully has gone from
über bitch to a lady once more. Not ten minutes later, Robin lifts the cloth from my eyes.

"Behold," he says, with a gallant sweep of his arm. "My forest home."

I blink my eyes a few times, getting used to the light filtering through the birch trees, then scan the area. It's a small camp. Below me lie dozens of weather-beaten grey tents and dilapidated wooden huts with thatched roofs. Ladders built into the trees lead to crudely built lookout posts above. In the center, a huge stone fire pit boasts a blaze that's currently giving off way more smoke than fire. It's not half as impressive as the Robin Hood secret hideouts I've seen in movies, but hey, the apartment in Friends didn’t look much like my first New York City place, either. Real life can be depressing like that.

Dozens of men mill about the camp. A few tend the
fire, others chop wood at the outskirts. A stablehand feeds oats to a few chestnut-brown mares that stand tied to a tree munching contentedly. At one end of the camp someone's set up some targets and several men are honing their bow and arrow skills. Others are being less productive, sitting around with what appears to be a beer keg, mugs of frothy brew in their hands. That'd be Danny if anyone ever sent him back in time. He'd figure out a way to spend the entire trip drunk as a skunk.

Not that I'm thinking about Danny. After all, I'm back in time a thousand years with a legendary outlaw who thinks I'm a choirboy. Not to mention my mission to find the Holy Grail. That's
gonna take a bit of focus, most likely, seeing as it's only the most insurmountable quest in the history of the world. Therefore, all thoughts of ex-husbands, positive or negative, need to, like Elvis, leave the building pronto.

Robin grabs the curved horn that dangles from his leather belt and blows into it. At the deep, almost mournful sound, the men drop what they're doing and direct their attention to the hill where we're standing. Power may be a "tricky lass,” but as Mick
Jagger once said, Robin's got them under his thumb.

"We have a visitor," Robin announces to the group—in case, I guess, they assumed the strange person standing next to him was a dear friend they'd forgotten
they had. "Young Christian has succeeded in angering the good Sheriff of Nottingham this fine day, and has thus been invited to dinner."

His words spark cheers from the gang. Cheers for me! How cool is that? I pissed off the sheriff and now I'm instantly the It girl (
er, boy) with the outlaw contingent.

"Does this mean we eat venison tonight?" calls out one man from the back.

Hm. Then again, maybe they don't give a damn about me and my adventures and are just hungry. Oh well.

Robin chuckles, his green eyes flashing with amusement. He really does have great eyes. Not that I'm staring at them or anything.

"But of course, my good sir," he says. "We'd be ill hosts indeed to have an enemy of the Sheriff of Nottingham dining on berries we foraged from the forest."

Even though in this case she'd prefer berries foraged from the forest. Or, I think wistfully, some Franken Berry cereal to munch on....

The camp erupts in excited murmurs—probably arguing who gets the leg meat and who's dining on the vital organs. Robin narrows his eyes, seemingly displeased by the ruckus.

"Did your mothers raise you as Saxons?" he demands, which I'm assuming he means as an insult. The camp falls silent again, the men properly rebuked. "Or would you care to introduce yourselves to our guest?"

I hear a few muttered apologies amidst a few more muttered protests over the Saxon barb. Finally, one man steps forward. And when I say man, I mean a jolly green giant. If he had been born in the 2!st century he'd be a linebacker for the Miami Dolphins. He's got to be at least seven feet tall with the broadest shoulders I've ever encountered. He has bushy black hair that's probably never seen a comb, chubby cheeks, and a beard so thick a bird could build a nest in it. He's wearing a belted leather tunic that must have taken the skins of a half dozen deer to fit all the way around his massive circumference.

I smile to myself. That's got to be—

"I am John Little," he says, patting himself on his burly chest with large hands. "Though thanks to Robin here, most now call me Little John."

Aha! I was right. Little John.
Robin's right-hand man. His lieutenant. A big and burly oaf, good-hearted if none too bright. Played by a bear in the Disney cartoon.

"And I am Allan a Dale," says the next man. He's tall and thin, with an almost effeminate face and beaklike nose. He wears a feathered cap and carries some kind of
harplike instrument in his delicate hands. He strums a chord before speaking again, the notes decidedly out of tune, though I'm no Jimi Hendrix myself, so I shouldn't judge. “The minstrel who entertains this ragged band of thieves."

And then, out of the blue, he breaks into song:

"Good Christian has come to our lair,

He has not been eaten by a bear.

He angered the good Sheriff of Nottingham

A man that likely has no mum."

Huh. Well, not exactly something the American Idol judges would thumbs-up, perhaps, but I guess I should cut him some slack, seeing as he made it up on the fly.

I clap my hands, all good vibes, and he bows low. "Thank you, sir," he says, and I can see he's blushing a bit. Makes me glad I didn't go with my initial reaction of hands over my ears to stop the pain. But hey, I've sat through worse on open mic night down at EarthMatters.

I wonder if he ever sings songs about what a coward Robin is, like his Monty Python and the Holy Grail counterpart. I could totally give him the 'defeated on the log by a simple gymnastics trick' anecdote if he needs new material.

"I'm—hiccup—Friar Tuck," bellows another man, not moving from his spot by the keg. He's short and bald and extremely fat, wearing a long brown robe with a loose tie around his waist. He lifts his mug in way of greeting. "If it's praying ye need, I be yer man."

"If it's beer ye need, more like," Little John quips. The camp breaks out in laughter. At first Friar Tuck looks offended, but then he just laughs and raises his glass to the group and downs a mammoth gulp of ale.

"The Good Lord asks that we enjoy all the fine gifts he has given us," he says after swallowing, "and I always like to do what the Good Lord asks." He sets down the mug on a nearby tree stump and belches loudly.

"If you are quite finished, my dear drunken friar, may I go next?" A richly dressed boy of about eighteen steps into the open. While the others are clothed in mainly gray rags and rugged leather, he wears a scarlet tunic of fine silk. Not so suitable for hiding out in the woods, mind you, it's very expensive-looking.

"Will Scarlet I am," he says gallantly, sweeping off his feathered hat and bowing low. "And 'tis a great honor to make thy acquaintance."

Hm. While I'd never want to make judgments of sexual preference based on someone's dandyish dress—he could very well be a medieval metrosexual, after all—the sly once-over he gives me as he rises from his bow does make me a little curious as to what team the boy’s batting for.

Others step forward then, introducing themselves one by one. There are probably fifty merry men all together, though I'm not quite sure "merry" is the appropriate term. Overall, they seem kind of a beaten-down lot. I guess being outlawed and forced to live in the middle of nowhere in 12th-century England will do that to a person. And, thanks to Robin “Slacker" Hood here, they don't have any robbing the rich/feeding the poor distraction to while away the hours.

"Enough loafing around for you all," Robin says, clapping his hands after introductions. "Let us prepare for the feast."

They all spring into action, and soon the camp is crawling with very productive men. It's like a mini factory. Everyone seems to have a job to do. Makes me feel a bit slackerish, myself, and I realize I should pitch in. After all, I'm not some princess who needs to be waited on hand and foot. Not like Kat probably demands, wherever in time she is. I, Chrissie Hayward, can pull my own weight.

"Anything I can do to help?" I ask Robin, wondering what kind of task I'd be good at. Anything, I suppose, except preparing tonight's dinner. Skinning the deer.

"You could skin the deer," Robin replies automatically.

Of course.

My stomach roils at the thought. They really expect me to jump in and start disemboweling without a care in the world? I'm supposed to actually scoop out the bloody innards of an innocent forest creature that was forced to sacrifice his life in celebration of my untimely arrival to 12th-century Britain? Lovely.

"Um, anything else available? I make a mean salad, you know." Actually, my specialty is this amazing vegan Jell-O mold off a recipe I found on
Pinterest, but I highly doubt that's on the menu tonight.

Robin chuckles. "Too fancy to get your hands dirty, eh lad? Perhaps you'd like to entertain the men with a church hymn instead? Though sad truth be told, I think they enjoy bawdier tunes—music I'm sure '
twould offend your delicate ears."

I narrow my eyes.
Hmph. I see how it is. He thinks I'm some total wimp. Some church boy who won't be able to survive an outlaw's life. Well, I’ll show him.

"I'm not too fancy for anything," I growl. "Pass me the knife and bring on Bambi." Robin shoots me a confused look. "Uh, the deer," I clarify. "The one for dinner. I nicknamed him Bambi. Seems like a deer-
ish name, don't you think? I mean, much better than, say, Fred." Man, I've got to stay in character here. Not be so stupid. The last thing I need is for it to be found out that I'm not only a chick, but a chick from the future. I'm sure that would go over real well.

Robin snorts. "Very well then," he says, his eyes sparkling. He knows he's trapped me in a dare and is way too amused by it for my liking. "Go see Little John then. He will offer you the proper tools you need."

I head down the little hill and into the bowels of the camp. Ew. My nose wrinkles in protest as I near the fire. They are so not using Glade Plug-ins or washing with Irish Spring here in Sherwood. The place reeks of sweat, rot, and some other unidentified substances that I would prefer stay that way. And I haven't even gotten to the deer carcass yet. Great.

I shake my head to clear my 21st-century thoughts. So
Febreeze has yet to be invented. Big effing deal. You probably don't smell of roses either, toots, I remind myself.