Robin: Lady of Legend (The Classic Adventures of the Girl Who Became Robin Hood) (34 page)

“Any man who can get the better of the Prior is a man indeed!” Murray hailed, staggering to his feet and raising his tankard in a toast.

The outlaws and Robin cheerfully agreed, “Hear, hear!”

* * * * *

Their cheerfulness soon vanished, however, when a capricious turn of nature caused winter to strike before autumn had a chance to fully develop. One day the weather was sunny and mild, the next it was cold and wet, with scarcely a pause in between.

This premature shift in season took the people of Sherwood completely by surprise, and they had to scramble to prepare their camp to survive a lengthy winter. The carpenters among them worked day and night to patch and reinforce those huts that had fallen into disrepair over the summer. Ten men were kept busy at all times gathering firewood to store in the granite caves, out of reach of the blustery rains. Another ten exhausted themselves stocking the winter larder with venison and rabbit, while the tanners worked to convert the pelts into much-needed blankets. Pairs of runners made surreptitious trips to Lincoln Town to purchase wool clothing for the winter as well. Everyone aided where they could.

“’Tis an omen,” Lot mulled one day, blinking through sodden bangs at the gloaming sky from where he sat thatching a roof. “It has to be. Winter has never come this fast before.”

“Nonsense,” Robin snapped, her temper made short by the storm and her menses. She was eager to finish the roof and get out of the rain. “It is just bad weather; omens have nothing to do with it.”

Time seemed to prove her right, for in spite of nature’s attempt to catch them off guard, her people quickly surmounted their chores, and December found the outlaws as prepared for a Sherwood winter as they had ever been.

* * * * *

Little John struggled to keep sight of his friend as they wended their way through Nottingham’s crowded streets, but it was difficult without the hue of Lincoln Green to guide him—Robin’s simple grey attire blended in with the drove all too well. Attempting to hasten his steps did not help, either. Little John’s bulk usually made people part around him like the Red Sea, but today no one was standing aside. Instead, his size served to impede him as gaps in the throng of last-minute shoppers disappeared before he had a chance to squeeze through. Even so, he had almost managed to catch up to Robin when a small patch of ice made him slip; desperately trying not to fall, Little John staggered into the smithy’s yard.

“Could you not have slowed down a
tad?
” he complained as Robin seized him by his tunic to help steady him. He quickly regained his balance, and Robin let go; Little John straightened his rumpled tunic, his cheeks tingeing slightly as he glared at his friend.

Robin’s gaze was unrepentant. “You know that everything closes early today.”

“Then you should have done the sensible thing and finished your shopping days ago!” Little John scolded.

“This is the last stop, I promise.”

“Are yeh two gonna keep squabbling, or get whatcha came fer?” the blacksmith demanded. “I close in twenty minutes, whether yeh be ready or ne.”

With a small wink at John, Robin turned away to describe to the smith why she had come. In spite of himself, Little John felt his own lips twitch up in response. It was impossible for him to feign ire at his merry friend for very long.

The blacksmith disappeared inside his shop to retrieve Robin’s order, and seeing that he was not needed at the moment, Little John meandered over to a nearby bakery whose appetizing aroma had been taunting his nose ever since he had turned onto the street.

Robin watched Little John weave through the crowd without envy, glad to be out of the way of the increasingly desperate passersby. Soon all of the shops would close for the twelve-day Christmas holiday—indeed, many stores had already shuttered their doors—and the crowd was hastening to those still open to buy last-minute goods.

Robin glanced at the sack she was holding in her hands. Like the people in the streets, she had foolishly put off making own her holiday purchases for a little too long.

In her bag were masks for mumming and playacting—her peoples’ favorite Christmas-tide pastime. Just before dawn on Christmas Day, the outlaws would don their masks and homemade costumes in the darkness of their huts and then wait until Robin passed by their door, singing and dancing and calling for them to come out. What began as one mummer would quickly grow into a procession that would cajole from hut to hut until everyone had joined, at which point they would gather under the giant oak tree and perform nonsensical theatricals for each other’s amusement. Though the masks in Robin’s sack were less elaborate than they might have been had she bought them weeks ago, they would more than suffice for such entertainment.

Robin’s bag also held her New Year gifts, which she had ordered through Eadom before winter had struck. There was a beautiful amber-and-glass necklace for Marian; a chess set for David, whom she was teaching how to play; a book of carols for Allan; a bottle of vintage wine for Lot; hammered tankards for Will Stutley and the twins; and sundry trinkets for the others. The item the blacksmith had gone to fetch was her cousin’s gift, the last of her commissions.

Robin should have felt satisfied, but instead she felt anxious; the stores were almost all closed for the holiday, and she still had no idea what to get Little John. No gift she had thought of seemed right.

Perhaps something store-bought is the wrong way to go
, she sighed, running a discontented finger along the blacksmith’s anvil.
Well, I still have six days left until New Year’s. Surely I can think of something to give him before then.

The blacksmith returned. Hastily, Robin snatched her hand off the anvil and wiped it on her tunic, leaving a large sooty streak behind.

“This here beauty was a real pleasure to make,” the blacksmith told her proudly, smiling through the grime on his face. He angled the sword in his hands to show her the dragons and fairies he had carved into the steel, their engravings filled with gold. “I do ne get much call fer etchings like these. Too expensive, fer most.”

His grip on the sword suddenly tightened, as though it had occurred to him to wonder how a forester was going to pay for such a weapon. Robin withdrew a placating purse from her tunic and dug out some coins, which she placed on the anvil.

“Four shillings as agreed, and another for making you rush so close to Christmas.”

“Er, that sounds about right,” the blacksmith said, blinking at the size of the tip. He snatched up the money quickly so that Robin could not change her mind, and disappeared into his forge. A moment later, he returned carrying a black scabbard with faded gold etchings on it, into which he slid the sword. Then he wrapped them both in cloth as carefully as if he were swaddling a baby, and handed the bundle to Robin.

With a nod of thanks, she took her cousin’s gift from him and stuck it under her arm, heaving the sack with the rest of her presents over her shoulder and knocking her quiver askew in the process. Biting back an oath, she resettled her pack, wishing she did not have her own weapons to juggle as well as her gifts . . . but with winter came wolves and despite the inconvenience, it was wise to be prepared. Still struggling to balance her load, she wished the blacksmith a Merry Christmas and went to find Little John.

He was waiting for her outside the bakery a few yards away. In his hands were two oaten cakes, one of which he handed to Robin. Without asking, he plucked her purchases out of her hands and placed them inside his own large sack, already laden with barley sugar for the youths and wassail honey for the adults. He hefted the bulging pack over his shoulder as if it held but a feather.

“I was managing fine on my own,” Robin protested self-consciously.

John raised an eyebrow at her. “Do you want them back?”

“No!” she said hastily. “I will let you carry them—just to teach you your folly,” she teased, taking a large bite from her cake. “Shall we go?”

They had almost reached Nottingham’s western gate when the deep tolling of bells resounded through the town, bringing Robin to a sudden halt.

“What is it?” Little John asked, puzzled.

“The bells . . .” Robin began wistfully, a half-forgotten desire gripping her heart.

Little John waved a dismissive hand. “They are just marking the four o’clock. It is nothing to worry about.”

Robin shook her head. “Those are church bells. I have not attended Mass in such a long time . . . . I had not realized how much I missed it until I heard those peals. I know that service is not for a few hours yet, but it
is
Christmas Eve; I would like to go.”

John gazed at Robin as though she had gone daft. “Those bells must have affected my hearing—for a moment, I thought you said that you wanted to go to church. Only, I know you of all people would never suggest such a foolish thing.”

“Well, I did,” Robin defended. It hurt her that Little John was so quick to dismiss her desire. “I want to go and I mean to go. I will be back in time for the boar hunt in the morning, worry not.”

Little John grabbed her by the arm before she could take more than one step away. “Was there more in that cake that I gave you than oats?” he demanded. “You cannot go into church, especially not on Christmas Eve! Do you know how many nobles and soldiers will be there? I will not let you.”

With difficulty, Robin shrugged off his arm. “It is not your choice,” she snapped. “It is mine, and I will thank you to remember that!” Before a stunned Little John could protest further, she turned and stalked up the road toward St. Mary’s church.

Little John narrowed his eyes after her. “Women,” he muttered, and turning his back on Robin, strode out the gate and down the road towards Sherwood Forest.

* * * * *

Robin’s temper had cooled by the time she reached the road leading up to the church, but though she regretted her sharp words to Little John, she did not regret her decision to stay.

She lifted her gaze toward St. Mary’s church, which stood upon its knoll like a sentry overlooking the town. It was too dark by now to distinguish much beyond its torch-lit entrance and its glowing windows, but Robin could feel its stern presence looming beyond her in the dusk.

The doors to the church were open, but Robin temporarily deferred its invitation. It was still a few hours yet until Mass, and now that she knew how to get there, she could pass the time until its start in a more comfortable locale.

Robin wandered back through the town, searching for a warm place to wait. Nearly all of the shops were closed by now, and their customers returned home. At last, she found a small inn where a penny bought her a place by the hearth for as long as she cared to remain. For three more pennies, she could have bought a nice meal and a tankard of mead as well, but Robin’s conscience was already bothered by the oat cake she had consumed; not having planned on attending church, she had not thought to abstain.

Then again, what is a pre-Mass repast when compared to the sin of armed theft?
she mused.

Robin sent up a quick prayer for forgiveness and signaled the innkeeper for some food; she hoped that God would be so pleased to see her in church again that He would absolve her for failing to fast.

The wait until Mass was long, but the inn was crowded with holiday travelers who plied Robin with stories and music and who did not seem to mind that she talked little in return. Eventually, the innkeeper’s candle-clock had only one stripe left, and Robin thanked the loquacious peasant who had been telling her about his daughter’s ringworm, and wended her way through the guests and out into the night.

It was freezing outside. Robin pulled her hood tight and tucked in her chin, blessing the new wool garments she wore; thick and warm, they did much to keep out the frigid air. They did little to protect her face, however, as a small white droplet clearly emphasized by splattering on Robin’s nose. She looked up towards the sky just in time for another droplet to land in her eye. Uncertain whether to be irritated or pleased at the unexpected Christmas snow, Robin quickened her pace through the town’s abandoned streets.

The snow was slushy at first, but soon it changed into solid flakes that peppered Robin’s face like cold sparks. In spite of her discomfort, Robin took great pleasure in watching the world around her turn white. The snow dazzled where moonbeams struck, and the holly and ivy bedecking the houses glistened through the growing blanket of ice. Still, it was with relief that Robin mounted the slick stone steps of St. Mary’s church, thankful to be out of the weather.

Doffing her hood out of respect as she stepped inside, Robin glanced curiously around. Though she was nearly half an hour early, the church was already beginning to fill. Rather than entering the nave to join the rest of the congregation, Robin headed for a small vestibule off to the left—she had some respects to pay before Christ’s Mass began.

* * * * *

The Bishop was tired. He had ridden all the way from Hereford at the Sheriff’s request to celebrate the Midnight Mass, and would have to ride all the way back to Hereford to celebrate the Dawn Mass in the morning.

At least the Sheriff was paying him well for his service.

The Bishop set down the heavy purse he had been holding and pulled on his pontificals—a white alb and chasuble, a pointed miter for his head, and a stole for his shoulders woven with real gold thread. The motion caused the ring on his third finger to glitter in the candlelight, and he paused to admire the huge ruby carbuncle. He had acquired it upon his rise to the bishopric; its price could buy a small fiefdom.

A low gonging reverberated through the room as the bells called the faithful to Mass, startling the Bishop out of his admiration. Hastily, he picked up his purse and shoved it into the deep inner pocket of his robe. Seizing his shepherd’s crosier from its stand, he exited the vestry, making his way through cold corridors to the narthex entrance at the back of the church, where the ceremonial procession would commence.