Robin: Lady of Legend (The Classic Adventures of the Girl Who Became Robin Hood) (38 page)

“Why did you not tell me this before?” Little John demanded.

Will shrugged. “’Tis always locked. Only the Sheriff ’as the key.”

“Then it is useless to us,” Little John said bitterly.

Robin rubbed the bridge of her nose with her forefinger, thinking hard. “Give me your clothes,” she commanded Gisborne abruptly.

Gisborne stared at her. “What?”

“Your clothes,” she snapped. “Your tunic, your hose—give them to me now.”

When Gisborne did not move, Little John let out a low growl, “Either doff them yourself, or I will do it for you.”

With a malicious glare, Gisborne began to pull off his horse-skin hose.

Will stepped in to guard him again as Robin handed her sword to Little John and took the garments from Gisborne. The clothes reeked of horsehide and sweat, although she supposed they were pleasant odors when compared to the noxious stench of the pit that clung to her still.

Guy of Gisborne was much of a height to Robin, but broader, which meant that she could draw his clothes right over her own. Even so, she almost fell as she tried to pull on the loose hose with one hand, fire lancing through her shoulder.

“Um, a little help?” she gasped at Little John, trying and failing not to blush.

With an expression like stone, he helped her dress; the revolting tunic with the horse-ear hood was the last piece they went to pull on.

“My arm is stuck,” she murmured after a moment, her tone one of apology. “It hurts too much to lift through.”

The muscle in Little John’s jaw tensed, but he bent to examine the problem, and as he did, Robin heard rather than saw Gisborne drive his fist into the back of Will’s knee, sending the boy sprawling. With one swift motion, Gisborne seized Will’s sword and leapt at Robin, who—entangled in the tunic—could do nothing to stop him.

The next instant, Robin was flying through the air as Little John’s hand slammed into her, pushing her out of the way with enough force to smash her into the opposing wall. She heard something crack and the agony in her shoulder flared into white-hot fire, choking her so that she could not even scream. A moment later, it subsided to nothing more than a sharp ache; the force of the blow had rammed her joint back into place.

With a grateful sob, Robin rolled to her feet and yanked down the tunic that was blinding her, only to find herself staring into the gaping eyes of Guy of Gisborne. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and spilled from his chest where the hilt of her sword was protruding.

Holding on to the hilt was Little John, who had jammed the blade through Gisborne’s chest with enough force to splinter through his breastbone and out his back. Realization of what he had done seized John, and he let go of the sword as if it had seared him.

In the background, Will was picking himself up off the floor, apologizing over and over again for letting down his guard. Tentatively, Robin placed one hand on Little John’s muscled shoulder; he turned his head away.

Robin turned to stare at Gisborne’s body. Regret welled up inside her; as much as she had loathed the man, she would have preferred to have avoided his death. More than anything, she would have preferred for the stain of that death to be on her soul, not Little John’s.

Reluctantly, Robin went to pull her blade from Gisborne’s body. It was stuck. Doing her best not to shift the corpse, she attempted to shake the sword free. It would not budge.

A large, callused hand wrapped itself over hers, making her shiver. With a single tug, Little John pulled the sword free from Gisborne’s body; he immediately let go her hand.

“We should leave,” Robin murmured into the silence.

The journey back through the sunlit courtyard and up the stairs leading to the castle keep seemed to take forever. The encounter with Gisborne and its deadly result had shattered what little nerve Robin had left after her ordeal; only the presence of her friends gave her the strength to throw her chin high and strut across the greensward as Gisborne would have done—with the arrogant confidence of a man accustomed to getting his way without qualm over how. She needed that air of confidence about her if she was to succeed in getting into the Great Hall and stealing the Sheriff’s key without being stopped. No one who might see her could suspect her of being anyone but Gisborne, or all would be lost.

Such was her focus that she reached the keep door and had her hand stretched out toward its handle before she registered that it had already begun to move; just as her fingers grazed the metal ring, the door swung open of its own accord, and the Sheriff stumbled out.

* * * * *

“Gisssborne?”

The Sheriff blinked at Robin, trying to make out her features as his eyes adjusted to the light. He held one hand to his head to soothe the ache that came from a night of drinking; his tunic was soiled with the stains of wine and meat.

His presence, so utterly unexpected, evoked in Robin a terrible panic. Their last encounter was still fresh in her mind, and her cheek stung with the pain of recall. Behind her, she sensed Will Stutley and Little John tense.

“My lord,” she began in a hoarse tone, struggling to regain her poise. Her tongue stumbled as her mind frantically sought to weave some story. “I was just on my way to find you. I have something terrible to report—”

“Father, that is not the stairwell,” a feminine voice interrupted, her words growing more audible as she caught up with Darniel.

The Sheriff turned to look at her, and in doing so revealed the maiden behind him, but Robin did not need Will’s indrawn breath to confirm her identity.

It was Nella.

The girl’s mouth curled in revulsion as she observed the person standing before her father. Her eyes took in Gisborne’s horse-eared hood and did not look to the face beneath it, sliding instead to the men behind Robin, and widening as they fixed on Will Stutley’s face. Nella’s hands flew to her mouth, but she did not say anything. Her eyes darted from Will, back to Robin—clearly not Captain Gisborne! she saw now—to her father, and back to Will again.

The Sheriff, still befuddled from too much drink, did not notice his daughter’s reaction. He frowned at Robin.

“Whassat?”

Robin licked her lips; her mouth had gone dry. She swallowed hard and continued to speak, trying not to think of what she would have to do if Nella sounded the alarm. “I discovered that the gatehouse guard has been stealing from your treasury, sir. When I confronted him, he tried to run, so I slew him.”

“Waz a f–far better deathh than he dessserved,” the Sheriff slurred.

“Just so, my lord. With your permission, I will take your keys and return what he pilfered to its rightful place, and re-secure the treasury.”

Darniel’s brows knit together. There was something not quite right about this request, but wine had made his mind slow and he could not process what it was.

“My keeyss?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Sheriff unhooked the key ring from his belt. Robin reached for it, but the Sheriff did not let them go. He peered at her closely, his bleary gaze struggling to focus on Robin’s face beneath the horsehide hood.

“Gisssborne?” he questioned again.

“Father!” Nella spoke up sharply. Robin tightened her grip on her sword. “Father, come. You must rest and refresh before the execution. Nottingham must see what a powerful Sheriff it has.”

“Yess, yes, it musst see . . . .”

The Sheriff let go of the key ring and turned away, staggering back into the keep. Nella stared at the trio for a moment longer, her gaze locking with Will’s; she gave him a small smile and closed the door.

Robin exhaled in a
whoosh
of relief.

“She loves me after all,” Will stammered. “She really loves me!”

“Or else she did not want you murdering her father,” Little John pointed out.

“I think you are right, Will,” Robin said to forestall an argument. “But I would rather not wait to see if she summons any soldiers or not. Where is that secret passageway you spoke of?”

According to what Nella had told him, the tunnel was hidden inside an unused guardhouse at the edge of the bailey. Though they found the place quickly enough, they had to linger in the open for several uneasy minutes before Robin could find the appropriate key; at last, they gained access to the room.

The place was small, made much smaller by the large amount of clutter littering the floor. There was barely enough space for the three of them to crowd inside and still leave the door ajar to provide some light. Trying not to trip, they shoved and piled the ancient armaments and rusting equipage into tall stacks against the walls. The raucous objects would have made an excellent alarm had anyone been around to hear.

Eventually, the three of them managed to shift enough of the jumble aside to reveal a two-foot square trap door, latched to the floor with a heavy iron padlock.

“Hurry, Robin,” Will encouraged as she tried to fit various keys into the lock. Just as the padlock snapped open, the room suddenly brightened as someone pushed the door—now unimpeded by oddments and gear—wide to its fullest extent.

“Hey, what do you think you are d— Father?” Johnny asked, breaking off his accusation at the sight of Robin hunched over the trapdoor in Gisborne’s horsehide suit. “Father, what is going on? What are you doing?”

Only then did he register the green-clad men flanking his father, and one man in particular. “Will?” he asked, astonishment etched all over his face.

The next instant, Little John’s hand was at Johnny’s throat, pinning him against the wall and causing several piles to crumble in the process.

“Let him alone,” Robin said, dragging down on Little John’s arm.

“But he knows who we are—”

“I know what he knows. Let him be.”

Reluctantly, Little John released his grip on the youth, but did not relax his wary stance. Johnny sagged against the wall, rubbing his throat.

“You killed my father,” he said. It was not a question.

Robin nodded. “I am sorry.”

“Then you are the only one.” He took a deep breath and shot a nervous glance at John before fixing his gaze back on Robin. “With his death, my destiny is once more my own. Earlier, you said that I would have made a good Merry Man—let me prove to you I still can be. Let me come away with you now!”

Robin glanced at Little John, whose expression was clearly skeptical. Johnny saw, and pressed on: “I have spent years serving in this vile place, serving the greedy pursuits of the Sheriff and my father. If I stay, it will destroy me. Let me join you! I swear I will devote myself to your cause and live a life committed to philanthropy.”

Robin rested her hand on Johnny’s shoulder and looked into his eyes. He met them steadily. “Then you are welcome to my band,” she said.

He smiled at her, but his gaze was already sliding back to Will, true friendship gleaming from both their eyes. Little John shook his head in consternation, but did not question Robin further. Instead, he pushed away the objects that had fallen and raised the heavy trap door, then climbed down into the tunnel. A moment later, a dim glow flared from within; John had evidently found and lit a torch. One by one, the others descended through the trapdoor and into the sandstone passageway, until the guardhouse stood abandoned once more.

CHAPTER 24

ROYAL REQUEST

ROBIN WAS THE LAST to step out of the dark tunnel and into the white blaze of morning. Squinting against the sudden brightness, she turned to look up at the ridge behind her; red and gold sandstone cliffs towered above her head, and at the top squatted the Sheriff’s black castle. Soon its residents would realize she had escaped, but with luck, they would not think to look for her outside of Nottingham Town until she and her friends were far away.

Alert for any signs of pursuit, the foursome trudged their way back to the forest in single file, pausing only as needed to empty the snow from their boots. In spite of the cold, Robin doffed Gisborne’s horsehide tunic and allowed it to trail behind her as she walked; the heavy material brushed a light capping of snow into the tracks so that from a distance, their path would be nearly impossible to discern.

They reached the boughs of Sherwood Forest without encountering a single soul, but that all changed once they were inside the greenwood.

“Stay low,” Little John warned, gesturing them down into the bracken. No sooner had they ducked into the cover of the fronds than a group of soldiers sauntered past.

“What are they doing here?” Robin hissed.

“Trying to make sure no one leaves to go rescue you,” Johnny confessed, looking abashed. His expression brightened. “Not that they succeeded!”

“Hush!” Little John and Robin whispered simultaneously.

The soldiers paid the group no heed, too busy grousing amongst themselves about having to work on Christmas Day to hear or notice anything unusual.

Once the soldiers had passed, Robin and the others rose silently to their feet. Warily, they made their way deeper into the woods.

They had to pause often at first to hide from the Sheriff’s men, but for the most part, his soldiers seemed content to meander in small groups near the forest paths, sounding their horns on occasion and complaining to each other in loud voices. The number of soldiers diminished the further the foursome traveled into the forest, though their caution meant it was still well past noon before they finally reached their home.

Marian was the first to espy them, and giving a shout of sheer delight, ran to greet her sister. Instantly, the rest of the band leapt up from where they had gathered by the fire—masks and revelries forgotten, the traditional boar hunt foregone—to await the outcome of their leader’s rescue. They surrounded her now, overjoyed to see Robin alive again. As her cousin picked her up and swung her around, heedless in his euphoria of Robin’s bruised and noxious state, she was aware that at that very moment she might have been swinging from the walls of Nottingham Castle, and her eyes filled with tears of love for her friends.