Mojitos with Merry Men (12 page)

God, I'm falling for him. I'm really, truly falling for him. This is very bad. I must stop. I'm going to get hurt. And I can't take any more hurt. Not right now. Not when I've yet to recover from the first round of the stuff.

He nods. "Aye. 'Tis the least I can do. You have brought much joy to my men since your arrival, young Christian. And to…me as well."

I have to restrain myself from beaming stupidly at the compliment. Joy. I bring him joy. That's good, right? Chrissie the joy bringer. Making men merry throughout Sherwood Forest.

So why, oh why, can't I just be content with that?

"Stand with your body at a right angle to the target there…"

I shift position a bit, trying to line up with the bull's-eye in front of me. Robin inspects my stance with a critical glare.

"No, no," he says, shaking his head. "Imagine a line connecting from your left shoulder to the target."

"Can't we just get to shooting the arrow?" I ask. Not to be a whiner, but we've been at the positioning thing for the last half hour. I want some target practice, baby!

"Shooting from the right position is half the trick to hitting your mark."

Of course it is. This guy's as bad as Mr. Miyagi in
The Karate Kid.
I'll go ballistic if he starts teaching me the Zen of wax-on, wax-off in a thinly veiled effort to get his horse washed.

"How's this?" I ask, shifting once more.

"Aye, 'tis not bad. Now take the bow." Robin hands me a bow almost the size of my body. "And hold it out with your left hand, like so."

I do as he instructs. I feel pretty cool, holding an actual medieval bow in my hands. I mean, what if I turn out to be a complete natural? I am learning from the best in the land. Maybe I could go do some competitions. Earn a little fame back here in the 12th century.

"Very good. Now 'tis time to nock the arrow," Robin says, pulling one from his quiver.

"Uh, like this?" I ask, knocking once on the wooden shaft. It seems pretty silly to me, but maybe it's some kind of weird tradition around here. Thanking God for arrows or something. Knocking on wood that they hit their mark?

Robin rolls his eyes. "Not knocking, nocking! Fit the arrow on the string."

Oh.
Duh, Chrissie
. I take the arrow and slip the string into the groove, holding it in place with my right hand.

"Now, hold the bow with your left hand, and rest the tip of the arrow on top."

I can do this part. I've seen it in the movies.

"Now, pull the string toward you, and when you've lined up your arrow with your target, release."

Yeah, baby. Now we're talking.
I start pulling back on the string and…

"Uh…"

"Pull back on the string, lad," Robin repeats patiently.

"I, um…" I can feel sweat beading at my temples. God, this is embarrassing.
Come on, Chris! You've never been some girlie-girl, have you?

"Too tough for you, eh?" Robin asks, that patronizing look back on his face. Grr.

"Not. At. All!" I cry, pulling back with all my might. The good news is I manage to pull back the string enough to get some tension on the bow. The bad news is that I completely lose all sense of aim. The arrow goes flying wildly through the air, up into the sky, then downward…straight into Little John's big behind, which happens to be sticking out as he tends the fire.

"Ow!"
he howls, practically falling headfirst into the cooking pot. He turns around. "What in God's—?"

Horrified, I drop the bow and rush over. What if it's a bad injury? What if it gets infected and he dies? After all, they don't have penicillin yet. What if I've just inadvertently killed the famous Little John?

"Are you okay?" I ask, trying to get behind him so I can inspect the arrow sticking out of him. "I'm so, so sorry!" He circles around to try to face me. We dance this way for a bit before he reaches behind him and feels the arrow

"Ye'd better work on yer aim, boy," he says, shaking his head.

"Are you all right, John?" Robin says, rushing over. His face shows concern, but a closer look reveals a bit of mischief in his sparkling eyes. What do you know, he thinks it's funny! Thank goodness.

"God's teeth! I've got a bloody arrow stuck in my arse. Aye, I'm just lovely," John growls. "Thanks to your young apprentice here. I'm glad 'tis Will Scarlet who's responsible for training the rest of this sorry lot. For the best shot in the county, you make a lousy teacher." He tries to reach around to grab the arrow from his behind. Unfortunately for him, he's just too round about the middle to reach, and so he ends up circling a few times before stumbling to the ground, luckily not onto the arrow itself.

Oh. My. God. I'm going to die of humiliation.

"I suggest you wander over to Friar Tuck's tent," Robin says, with a face that looks like he's withholding a lot of laughter at his buddy's expense. "He'll yank it out of your backside—and he'll ply you with enough mead afterward to make you forget 'twas ever there."

"Aye, sounds like a plan," Little John agrees, nodding. "At least he didn't puncture the barrel."

"Yea, that'd totally be alcohol abuse!" I say, chuckling. The two men look at me. Sigh. I can't wait to get back to a time where people understand my jokes.

"Now, young Christian," Robin says, "I think it best if we continue our lessons on the morrow. For now, I have something I would like to show you."

"Okay," I say, wondering what on earth it could be. I follow him to the edge of the camp where a chestnut-brown mare stands docile, saddled and tied to a tree. Robin slaps her affectionately a few times, then frees her from the tree, sticking his foot in a stirrup and hopping up on her back. Then he reaches down and motions for me to take his hand. I put my hand in his, and he scoops me up onto the horse so I'm riding in front of him. He flicks the reins, and off we go.

"Where are we headed?" I ask curiously, trying not to notice the way Robin's muscular chest presses against my back. Every movement feels intense. Intimate. And he has no idea.

"I told you about Castle Locksley," he says. "My ancestral home. I thought mayhap you'd care to see it with your own eyes."

Oh cool, a real life castle. And not just any castle but Robin's. "Nice. I'd love to see where you grew up," I say, smiling. He must really like me if he wants to show me his home, right? "That'd be really great."

"Well, do not expect too much," he adds. "When the sheriff's men invaded it and arrested my father for treason, they looted the treasure and destroyed the rest. Today, Locksley Castle is merely a burnt-out husk of the glorious home it once was." His voice is melancholy, and I wish I could turn around and give him a hug. Obviously, the place meant a lot to him. By default, it suddenly means a lot to me.

"Well, I still want to see it," I assure him. "Very much."

"Good. Because I'd very much like you to," he says, his voice warming. He flicks the reins, and the horse picks up its pace.

"Um, one question though," I add.

"Yes?"

"Aren't there bad guys in it now? I mean, isn't it guarded by anyone?"

"Mayhap a soldier or two is posted there, but there would be little reason to keep it under heavy guard. The sheriff's men have likely already stolen everything worth stealing, and there are other more strategic castles in the area to occupy."

"Er, right," I say, not sure he's getting my real question. "But two soldiers are not zero soldiers. I mean, how are we going to get past them?"

He laughs. "Ah, wait and see, Christian. I have a plan. Disposing of the guards will be half the fun."

"Fun?" Trips to Walt Disney World are fun. Getting drunk at a baseball game and booing the Yankees is fun. (I know, I know. I'm from Hoboken. But my second foster father was a die-hard Yankees fan, and so I went for the Red Sox.) Risking our lives by infiltrating a guarded medieval castle? Not so much fun in my book.

Sadly, at this point, there's not much I can do about it. I'm on the back of a horse trotting down a narrow forest trail. How do I get myself into this stuff?

I tell myself I shouldn't be scared. After all, I'm with the legendary Robin Hood. Surely no mere mortal man could hurt me with this guy on my team.

Soon we've left Sherwood Forest behind, and Robin urges his horse into a gallop across what appears to be a never-ending stretch of countryside. The sun shines down upon us, kissing my skin with warmth, and the breeze toys with my hair, coaxing curls to tumble into my face. It's pleasant, actually, galloping through fields of wildflowers and heather, up grassy knolls, past crumbling stone walls. We wave to shepherds sitting idly under trees, watching their sheep munch on sweet-smelling grass, and to peasants walking behind ox-driven plows, cultivating their fields, growing food to feed their families and liege lord.

There's a certain sense of peace to the scenery here. A simple life, so to speak. I wonder what it'd be like to live this way, concerning yourself only with survival and feeding your family. Having no idea how big the world actually is. How confusing it is. How heartbreaking. If you never have hopes and dreams, you'll never be crushed when they fail to come true, right?

Then again, most of these people live a sickly existence full of hard manual labor, lice, and disease. Oh, and they die at like forty years old—if they're lucky. So maybe I should stop with the grass is always greener thing and be thankful for the good things that I've got.

We come to the bottom of a hill, and Robin slows his horse. "We walk from here," he says, jumping off, then offering me a hand. I hop down from the horse, wriggling the kinks out of my legs. Even that short ride has me a bit creaky, my knees and thighs screaming for a massage.

"Great," I say, swallowing back my annoyance at the idea of hoofing it again. Seriously, I'm so sick of walking everywhere. My kingdom for my good old Volkswagen Bug, Flower. Though, to stay in glass-half-full mode, I'm sure to get back to the 21st century in record shape—like some Cross Fit addict. Who knows, maybe I'll be so buff and kick-butt I'll be able to run and win a marathon or something. Of course I'd never be able to tell the media my winning training strategy…

Robin shields his eyes from the sun and points. "Locksley Castle lies yonder," he says, pointing to the hillside. "Just over that."

"Great. So now what? What's this big plan of yours to defeat the bad guys guarding the place?"

He grins. "'Tis simple. You will flush them out."

"Uh, what? Me?" Hold on one gosh-darned second. "Flush?"

Robin reaches into his saddlebag and pulls out a folded garment. He shakes it loose, and I realize it's a dress.

What the…?

"Put this on," he instructs, handing me the outfit. "With your clean face and build, the guards will think you a woman. Go to the front door, and knock on it. Beg for food. I'd wager they have not seen a woman so comely in years and will be more than glad to allow you entrance."

"Yeah, so they can rape and pillage me?" I say. "Thanks, but no thanks." I'm not waltzing up to some enemy castle's front door with nothing more than a medieval gown to protect me, all on the insane hope that the guards inside will find me attractive enough to completely disobey their orders and Open Sesame at my command.

But wait—did Robin call me comely?

"Have no fear. I will follow and lie in wait close behind, bow drawn. Once you lure them outside, I will act."

I narrow my eyes. "Are you sure this will work?"

He laughs. "Not at all. But 'tis half the fun not knowing, is it not?" He slaps me on the shoulder, so hard I almost fall over. Ugh. This guy really needs to get out more, to work on his definition of fun.

"My young Christian," Robin continues, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "'Twas you who first suggested we rob the rich to feed the poor. Forsooth, I have not returned here since those first days. Mayhap there are a few hidden treasures inside that the sheriff's men have not discovered. Would it not be grand to retrieve them?"

Oh, I see. Use my own words against me, why don't you? How can I refuse now? Very Medieval Psych 101. Eesh. The things I do for the poor people in the land! If only all these charitable works were tax deductible back in the 21st century.

"Okay, then. Let's do it," I agree, against my better judgment. I look at the dress, then at Robin. "Um, do you mind?" I ask. I'm not changing in front of him.

He laughs. "Modest, are ye?" he teases but thankfully turns around. If only he knew that it wasn't modesty but my female anatomy that I'm concerned about.

Quickly, before he changes his mind about looking, I slip out of my tunic and throw the gown over my head. The fabric flutters over my skin, draping my body in seductive softness. I run my hands down the front of the garment, rejoicing in the feel of silk against my bare skin. It feels so nice to dress like a girl again. And in such a gown! It's emerald green with an empire waist, and embroidered cuffs, neck, and hemline. I wish I had a full-length mirror so I could experience the full effect. I have the inexplicable urge to twirl around and let the breeze take my skirts. To dance through the field like Julie Andrews and sing about the hills being alive with the sound of music.

But then Robin might get a tad suspicious, I guess. After all, I'm supposed to be a dude. I have to play like this is embarrassing, not glorious.

"Ugh," I say, trying to hide my pleasure at my new apparel. "This thing, uh, smells like perfume or something. Stupid women, always dousing themselves with the stuff."

Robin turns around to inspect me, his green eyes widening as they catch my appearance. His tanned face visibly pales, and, to my utter secret delight, his mouth drops open.

I can feel my cheeks heat. "Like it?" I ask, suddenly forgetting I'm supposed to abhor the feminine look. I twirl around to give him the full effect, enjoying his flabbergasted stare. Does he think I'm pretty? Is he attracted to me? Am I turning the legendary Robin Hood on?

He shakes his head, as if trying to break the spell. "'Tis nothing," he mutters. "Just…for a moment there…"