Mojitos with Merry Men (3 page)

Nothing. Complete silence. Maybe it's airing on Bravo.

I look up and down the path. Should I go left or right? I kind of feel like Jennifer Connelly's character in that movie
Labyrinth,
when she's trying to get to the Goblin King's castle, except in my adventure there's no cockney-accented Muppet worm to ask for directions.

Okay, Chrissie, enough with the pop culture references. Decision time. Pick a path.

Hmm. Well, I know Robert Frost would prefer the one less traveled, but most likely he had on better shoes. I have no interest in twisting my ankle on an uprooted tree stump, so I make the executive decision to go the wide, grassy path instead. Besides, with great respect to Mr. Frost, in my opinion, it's much more likely that wide, grassy paths lead to castles, even if they don't make all the difference.

I saunter down the path, constantly on the lookout for TV cameras. If this is a reality show, the producers really need to up the drama factor. I mean, walking down a path—how boring can you get? And since it appears I'm the only castaway in shouting distance, how does one get voted off the island?

The further down the trail I go, the more worried I become. Reality shows don't usually hide the cameras, do they? In fact, I bet that could lead to some kind of lawsuit.

"I don't consent to be video-ed!" I cry. "So you're wasting your time filming me."

No answer. Only the whistling wind through the oak trees, creeping me out. I swallow hard and force myself to keep moving. At this point, that's all I can do.

The trees thin, and I come to a rushing river. While it's not that wide, it appears pretty deep, and the current seems strong. From the looks of it, there used to be a crude wooden bridge, but it's been destroyed. Wonderful. Luck is
so
not being a lady to me tonight. The wide, grassy path continues on the other side, mocking me from a distance.

Against my better judgment, I decide to leave the path and head upriver, searching for another way across. The underbrush thickens, and bramble bushes scrape at my skin as I weed-whack through.
Oh, my kingdom for some bug spray.
I'm getting eaten alive by midges.

Several yards away, I come to an enormously wide log lying lengthways across the river. Saved! But before I can rejoice in my fortune and make the journey to the other side, a male voice stops me dead in my tracks.

"Who dares cross my bridge?" it calls out in a strong English accent.

For some reason, all I can think of is that story about the Billy Goats Gruff trying to cross the bridge owned by the evil troll. Problem is, I can't remember how the whole thing played out, so I have no way to apply fairy-tale wisdom to my current situation. Which, now that I think about it, is probably not a bad thing.

Before I can answer, a man leaps from the bushes on the other side of the river and nimbly hops onto the log bridge. My eyes widen as I stare in disbelief. The man is dressed almost entirely in green. Green tunic, belted and hanging to mid thigh. Tight leather leggings. A green cap with a green feather. He's carrying a long wooden pole in his hands and has another strapped to his back.

Let me tell you, he's certainly no troll. With thick, chestnut-colored hair pulled back in a ponytail and a strong, chiseled jaw, he's quite possibly the most stunning man I've ever laid eyes on. And as a fashion photographer, I've checked out more than my share of male models. The man is ripped under his costume, and I can clearly see his impressive thigh muscles under his tights.

Could it be…? No, that's crazy. There's no way this man could be who I'm thinking he is. Could there? Of course, if I'm here to hang with King Richard, then I am in the right time period but still… What are the chances I've stumbled upon the legendary Robin Hood in the flesh? Maybe Kat's wild talk of hanging around with Lancelot and Guenevere wasn't so crazy after all…

"Um," I say, not knowing how to begin. "I think I'm lost. Is there a castle around here by any chance?"

The man nods. "Castle? Aye. About a quarter day's walk down yonder path, on the far side of this river."

"Oh. Okay." I pause, assuming he'll step out of the way and let me across. But he simply stands there, studying me with cool eyes. "Um, do you mind if I cross over this log then?" I add at last, realizing he's not going to move.

"I'm afraid 'tis impossible," the man says, a solemn look on his face. "Unless you are willing to pay the tax."

I raise an eyebrow. "You've imposed a tax on a log? Jeez. Where are we, Sherwood, Massachusetts?"

He frowns. "My good sir, if you refuse to pay, then I am afraid I must challenge you to a match of skill."

A match of… Hold on a sec. Sir? Did he just call me
sir?
He thinks I'm a guy? Man! I mean, I know I'm a bit flat-chested, but give me a freaking break! Does he not notice my ponytail of red curly hair? Then again, he has long hair too, so I guess that doesn't mean much. Sigh. And I do have on pants. If he's really from the 12th century or pretending to be, he may think girls all dress in satin gowns and stuff.

I consider using defensive tactic number one—my feminine charm—to win an instant victory then quickly reconsider. Let's say for a moment that I'm really (gulp!) back in time. Who knows what this man could do to me if he finds out I'm a girl? After everything that's already happened today, I'm so not interested in getting ravaged to top it off. Even if the potential ravager is rather attractive, to say the least.

"What kind of a match of skill?" I ask, giving in to my curiosity.

He waves the staff he's carrying. "'Tis simple," he says. "If you are able to knock me off the log with this staff, I will reward you with the right of passage, along with my utmost respect. If you cannot, I dare say, my fine sir, you are likely to get rather wet."

He wants to have a staff duel? He's got to be kidding!

"Come on, man," I plead. "Can't you just let me cross?"

He shakes his head, and I notice a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He's toying with me. He thinks he'll easily knock me off the log. I can feel my hackles rise to the challenge. What he doesn't know is that I used to be a champion gymnast in high school. And I'm pretty nimble on narrow surfaces like that log. Maybe I have a chance to take him. And I
do
need to cross the river…

"All right, I accept your challenge," I say. "Give me your staff."

The man tosses the long piece of wood at me, and I almost fall backwards under its weight. It's a little heavier than I'd thought. And with this guy outweighing me by about seventy pounds, he definitely has the advantage. But I'm determined not to let him get the best of me. After all, this could very likely be the first challenge in the reality show, and if I
am
stuck on a reality show, I'm so not going to suffer the embarrassment of being kicked off on the first day.

I remove the camera bag from around my waist and set it on the ground nearby—don't want to have it fall in the river—then nimbly hop onto the log, all my gymnastic training coming back to me. Mr. I-Challenge-You looks surprised as I twirl my staff and move toward him as best I can. Then he smiles wickedly, as if looking forward to the fight, and pulls out the second staff that was strapped to his back. He swings it back and forth with ease, looking pretty darn comfortable navigating the log's width himself. Suddenly I feel more than a little nervous. Now that I think about it, I've always been way too brave for my own good.

Oh well, too late now.

The man darts forward, and I thrust my staff in front of my face to block his charge. Then I swing at him, and he deftly parries.

Hey, I'm pretty good at this!

He swings again, and I imagine he's Kylo Ren, and I, the brave Rey, must resist turning to the Dark Side. I block him then dance forward two steps and swing again. He deflects my pole and follows up with a swing so hard I nearly lose my balance. Summoning all my gymnastics training, I take a few steps back to center myself.

I realize if I'm going to beat this guy, I'll need to use some unconventional methodology. He's way too good with his staff and too strong. I'll have to use my brains to combat his brawn. As he waits, urging me on with a smirk, I formulate a plan and take action.

I toss my stick to the side and leap into a cartwheel, just like I used to do on the balance beam during gymnastics meets. The moment my feet touch the log, I swing them backward, launching into a back handspring. I haven't done this move for a few years, and my muscles strain in protest.

But it's worth it. My feet smack into flesh as I make contact, and I hear him cry out as he loses his balance. Next thing I feel is a splash as he falls into the water, followed by piercing pain as my feet miss the log, and I slam chest-first into the wood. The wind knocked out of me, I grip the log with all my might to keep from falling off.

Woo-hoo! I won!

Once I've regained my balance and breath, I look around, watching and waiting for the reality TV EMTs to pop out of the bushes and rescue my vanquished foe. I wonder what luxury item I'll get for this challenge. Bug spray or a pillow would be nice.

Um, why isn't anyone coming to rescue him?

I watch, growing concerned as the man thrashes around in the raging river, helplessly dragged down by the current. My heart leaps into my throat. I didn't want the poor guy dead! What if he can't swim? What if he hit his head and is unconscious?

What if I really am back in time, and I just murdered Robin Hood?

Without giving common sense the time of day, I dive off the log and into the river, paddling as fast as I can with the weight of my clothes dragging me down, as I try to catch up with him. In the distance, I can see his head bobbing up and then disappearing into the foamy waters.

As I finally reach him, I grab him from behind, my arm wrapping around his solid chest as I've seen lifeguards on TV do
.
I start the struggle to pull him to shore, which isn't an easy task by any means. My slippered feet find it nearly impossible to get a grip on the slick river rocks, so I kick them off and attempt to gain purchase barefoot.

Midway there, Robin, or whoever he is, regains his senses, turns around and grabs me. I scream, struggling to get away. Is he trying to drown me? Then I realize he's laughing.

"By God, you fight like a tiger, boy," he says, as he plants his feet on the river floor. I realize then that he's tall enough to effortlessly walk to shore. And here I thought I was saving his life. D'oh.

"I kicked your butt, didn't I?" I say grouchily as he proceeds to dump me unceremoniously on the riverbank. At least I'm on the other side. Soaking wet and in major pain but on the other side.

He grins and looks down at his privates, which I can't help but notice stand out rather prominently beneath his soaking wet tunic and leggings. Has he stuffed a sock in there or what? "I wish you had. 'Twould have hurt a bit less."

My face heats as I realize exactly where my back-handspring kick made contact. But still, he asked for it. Trying to tax a log? Puh-leeze.

"What is your name, boy?" he asks, wringing out his tunic.

Hmm. He still thinks I'm male. Okay. Distressing, yes. But probably a good thing. Especially since I'm getting the sneaking suspicion that, like it or not, realistic or not, insanely crazy or not, I've somehow been sent back in time.

I'm going to kill Kat if I ever see her again.

I realize the man's waiting for an answer. "Uh, Chris…tian," I tell him, making it up on the fly. Christian is a close enough boyish equivalent to Chrissie, so I'm sure I'll have no trouble answering to it. "Christian Hayward. What's yours?"

"Why do you want to know?"

I frown. What's with the secrecy here? "Er, I don't know. You asked me mine. Just trying to keep up ye olde conversation."

The man pauses for a moment, then says, "You may call me Robin." He pauses and, as if measuring my reaction, adds: "Of Locksley."

My eyes widen. Robin of Locksley? Could it really be? Could the man I just bested in this fight actually be the legendary Robin Hood, for real? I mean, we're in the right time period. He's dressed all in green. And heck, how many guys besides Batman's bestie go by the name Robin?

Should I ask him if he's who I think he is? Or will that totally freak him out? After all, he is an outlaw. Probably has to keep his true identity on the down low. I'd want to as well if I were a regular on the medieval version of
America's Most Wanted.
Yes, best not to push him.

I take a moment to study him closer. He's certainly as handsome as I imagined Robin Hood to be. Much better-looking than Kevin Costner, though that's not saying much. And what do you know, he actually speaks with a British accent (unlike Mr. Costner).

"Look, Robin of
Locksley,
"
I continue, emphasizing the Locksley part. "I need to find King Richard. You got any idea where he is?"

Robin's eyes darken, and the laughter fades from his face, replaced by a scowl. "Do you mock me, lad?" he asks.

Huh? "Uh, no," I say carefully. I certainly hadn't been expecting
that
reaction. "I really need to talk to the guy. Can you direct me to his castle?"

"To his castle, aye," Robin says with a sigh. "I could direct ye. 'Tis not far off, in fact. But you will scarce have luck in finding His Majesty, the King of England, behind its walls."

"What, is he on vacation or something?" That'd totally be my luck.

"Nay. He is lost. Gone a year too long from the Crusades in the East. He left to fight in the Holy War, taking with him England's finest men, and has ne'er been heard from again."

Oh, that's just freaking great. Nimue sent me back in time to the wrong year? I mean, we all know that King Richard shows up eventually. Comes back and boots the sniveling—and thumb-sucking in the Disney version—Prince John from his throne. But how close am I now to that time? Does this mean I'm stuck here until the King shows up? That completely blows. I mean, I can't be hanging out in the Middle Ages for the next year. I have things to do. Models to photograph. A cheating husband to divorce. An apartment to get evicted from.