Robin: Lady of Legend (The Classic Adventures of the Girl Who Became Robin Hood) (8 page)

“It is not my problem,” she muttered, but did not move. There was something about the way the holler had emerged—as if the person had tried to refrain from crying out, but could not help himself—that kept her from simply dismissing the sound.

Another scream punctuated the air.

“Plagues and murrains!” Robin cursed. Unhooking the bow from her back, she strung it and stalked off in the direction of the ruckus.

It was not hard to find the trouble’s locale—all she had to do was follow the shouting. When she judged she was getting close, Robin ducked down into the brush and crept forward the remaining distance; from her hiding place behind a tree, she peered out at the scene.

In the hollow between several flax-crowned trees, two men stood laughing with their backs to Robin, holding a third man still between them. Suddenly, the man in the middle rocked backward and would have fallen if not for the restraining grips on his arms. As the two soldiers pulled him upright, Robin saw a fourth man casually wind back his fist for another blow. Like his companions, he was clothed in purple attire.

Purple. What a stupid color to wear in a forest
, Robin thought uncharitably as she contemplated her options.
Then again, the Sheriff is not known for his desire to be inconspicuous. He probably has his men wear purple livery just so they do stand out. As if their brutality were not announcement enough.

Robin sighed. There was really only one thing to do. Glancing up at the tree she was hiding behind, she saw that it was a stately old ash with a broad base and bulbous grey arms. The lowest branch V-ed off from the trunk about four feet above the ground, and the second branch emerged a clothyard above that.

It will do
.

Leaning her bow against the bole of the tree, Robin eased herself up into the first split. When she was in place, she drew up her bow and climbed into the second V. Her body was now within the lower canopy, hidden from view by a cluster of pale yellow leaves.

Robin nocked an arrow and made certain that her feet were firmly settled—one upon the tree’s broad branch, the other lodged in the crevice where the trunk split in twain. Her range was incredibly short—there would be no room for error here.

Sighting just below the purple shards that flashed through the leaves, Robin loosed; without pause, she drew another arrow from her quiver and shot it after the first. Arrow after arrow fell from the sky, causing the soldiers to scatter with horrified shouts. Robin was aiming for the ground near the soldiers’ feet, but the men did not know that. Thinking they were under attack, and completely unprepared to defend themselves against a bowman’s assault, they fled, leaving their insensible victim behind.

“That was almost too easy,” Robin whispered into the sudden silence, a trifle disappointed.

When she was certain that the soldiers were not coming back, Robin climbed out of the tree. Setting her bow against its trunk, she drew her sword and cautiously approached the prone victim; he had fallen over when the soldiers had let him go, and now lay unmoving upon the earth. His face was matted with blood and his nose was almost certainly broken. She thought he looked young, but it was hard to tell beneath the grime. When she nudged him with the tip of her sword, he moaned, but did not move.

Robin sheathed her sword and pondered the beaten man.
Now what?
They were near the edge of the forest. She supposed she could drag him to where the road met the verge; someone would stumble across him eventually.

“This is what I get for not minding my own business,” Robin muttered, deferring the problem for a moment so she could retrieve her arrows.

The force of her shot had buried the shafts so deep into the dirt that she had to dig her heels into the ground and tug with both hands to free them. Robin had just managed to dislodge the last arrow when she heard a low moan behind her.

“Och, me ’ead!” a voice soughed miserably. Robin turned around to see the young man trying to sit up.

“Easy,” she told him, remembering at the last second to deepen her voice. She hastened over. “You have had a rough time of it. Try not to move.”

Perversely, the youth only tried harder to get up. With a sigh, Robin squatted down and put a shoulder under his arm, helping him to stand.

“Oh. Thank ye,” he said, blinking up at her. “I say, is it mornin’? The sun does seem to be risin’ awful swift—I swear ’twas dark just a moment ago!”

“Yes, that generally happens when people get knocked unconscious,” Robin said, stepping back to see if the lad could stand on his own. He did not fall over, but swayed from side-to-side like a Bacchic sailor.

“I was ne!” the youth protested, his voice cracking indignantly. Robin knew she should not laugh, but it was difficult. His weaving faded a little.

Now that the lad was awake, she could see that he was even younger than she had thought—beneath all the blood, his face was smooth and soft, with a child’s translucent cheeks. He could not be more than fourteen or fifteen.

“You were, too,” she said, “and you would probably be dead as well if I had not frightened those men away. Whatever did you do to merit such a drubbing?”

To her surprise, the boy smirked, then winced as pain lanced through his face. “I got a little too close t’ the Sheriff’s daughter, if ye know what I mean. The Sheriff ’ad ’is dogs bring me ’ere t’ teach me a lesson.”

“You got a little too—?” Comprehension dawned, and Robin made a face.

“’ere, now, she ain’t that bad. ’Er father is a loon but she is kind o’ pretty, ye know?”

Robin raised an eyebrow. “Pretty enough to get thrashed over?”

His eyes grinned. “Maybe so.”

“Well, either that beating left your wits addled or they were that way to start, I certainly cannot tell. But it seems you will survive, so good day.” Robin picked up her bow and began to walk away. The boy followed.

“What are you doing?” she demanded firmly, when it became clear that he
was
following her. He gave her an innocent gaze. “Look, you had best be getting yourself home—your parents are probably in a stew over you.”

“Ain’t got no home,” the boy said with an indifferent shrug of his shoulders. “Ain’t got no family.”

“And you think that because I saved you, you can stay with me, is that it? Well, you cannot, so . . . begone!”

Robin waited for the boy to leave, but he just stood there. She thought about drawing her sword to scare him away, but this kid had laughed off almost getting killed by three grown men—she doubted that her blade would deter him. Besides, she could hardly cut him down now, could she?

With a groan of dismay, Robin stalked off through the trees, stretching her strides as long as possible in an attempt to lose the boy. It was for naught. By the time she reached the glade, her legs were cramping and the youth was still behind her. Muttering a low curse and something that sounded suspiciously like, “Problems!” Robin limped over to her hut, went in, and with one final glare at the boy, firmly shut the door.

CHAPTER 6

INCURSION

THE NEXT MORNING, Robin awoke with a vague sense of disquiet.

This sensation puzzled her; the slivers of golden light peeking through the reed roof were bright and joyous, and somewhere nearby a songbird was singing—there was nothing to cause her alarm, and yet she was definitely . . . edgy. Robin tried to put her finger on the reason as she dressed, but it eluded her. In fact, it was not until she opened her door and stepped outside that she stumbled across the answer.

“What’d ye do that f’r?” the boy asked plaintively, rubbing his side and squinting up at her from where he lay sprawled out by her door. His face was still puffy from his beating, and one eye was swollen shut, but the other blinked at her lucidly from within a vibrant purple ring. Robin quickly stepped back into the shadows of her hut, pulling the cowl of her hood up over her hair and hoping that the boy had not noticed. Blinded as he was by sleep and the sun, it appeared he had not.

“Ugh,” Robin groaned. “Why are you still here?”

“Where else would I be? Can’ go back t’ Nottingham, now can I?” he asked plaintively.

“Do not remind me,” Robin griped. “Could you not at least have had the good sense to sleep somewhere you might not get stepped on?”

His eye lit up at her suggestion. “Hey, ye’r smart!”

Robin threw up her hands in defeat.

The boy followed her down to the stream and watched in silence as she washed her face; he made no attempt to scrub the dried blood and grime off his own. Robin opened her mouth to admonish him, and then closed it again.

“Not my problem,” she muttered to herself.

She could not ignore the way the boy’s good eye went wide, however, when she rolled aside a boulder to reveal one of her larder caves, nor the way it fixed on the cut of meat she withdrew; his gaze did not stray from it the entire climb back up the granite cliff.

The boy’s stare only intensified as Robin set the cut to cook. Soon the hot juices began to pop, and each time they did, the boy would refocus his attention, absently licking his lips at the sizzling meat. Robin sighed. She had seen enough starving people in her short life to refuse to let anyone she hosted go hungry, even when they were not welcome.

“Fine,” she muttered in resignation. Louder, she said, “If you want to share my food, you need to go clean your hands and face. I will not let you eat when you are so dirty.”

“I am ne dirty,” the boy insisted, but a steely scowl from Robin convinced him that she was serious, and with a last longing look at the meat, he scampered to do as she bade.

For several days, Robin tried to get the boy to leave. She set him to do whatever tasks she could think of: cleaning out deer bladders and using them to draw water from the stream . . . gathering firewood . . . improving her spit so that it actually turned the meat, rather than charring one side and undercooking the other . . . and of course, her least favorite task: gutting her kills. No matter what she asked him to do, the boy just flashed her a smile and scuttled to do it.

In exasperation, Robin asked how he could stand it.

“’Tis fun,” he explained. “Loads funner than beggin’ food off farmers, or workin’ their fields t’ eat.”

Robin stared at him in amazement, but he was completely serious.

When it came to her weapon’s practice, the youth distained her fancy sword, which he called “a bloom butter knife!” but he was fascinated by her archery. In the afternoons, he would sit and watch Robin practice, cheering her as she punctured the trees with more holes than a woodpecker, and bemoaning the rare shots that she missed. Once, he asked her if he could take a turn, but Robin shook her head quite firmly. She was not about to let some dunderhead use her bow.

Strangely, the boy did not seem to mind being told no. His heartfelt encouragement of her was tireless, and Robin found herself practicing even longer than usual, just so she could bask in his acclamation.

Then one morning, Robin awoke to find the boy gone.

It had rained during the night, and Robin’s sleep had been fretful. The nights were turning cold, and though she had not wanted to admit it to herself, she was concerned about the youth. She could not be sure that the oak tree would provide him sufficient shelter from the frigid storm.

Several times, she had sat up with the intention of calling for him to come inside, but each time she had stopped herself before she could. The boy had invited himself into her life and taken root there in spite of her protests; she was
not
going to share with him the privacy of her hut as well.

But though she had tried to rationalize her decision, her conscience still pricked at her that she was being selfish, making her toss and turn throughout the night so that by the time the sun rose, Robin was aching to get up.

That was when she discovered the boy was gone.

“Boy!” she called. “Um, young man!” It disturbed her to realize that she did not even know his name; he had never mentioned it, and she had never cared to ask.

Robin chided herself for worrying.
He is probably just attending to personal business
, she reasoned.
He will stroll into camp in a few minutes, just you wait and see. Then you will feel the fool for fretting!

But an hour later, he had still not returned.

Breakfast that morning was a lonely affair, and Robin realized just how much she had come to rely on the boy’s mindless chatter during meals. Now, the clearing seemed too quiet. She tried to convince herself that she was glad he was gone, that she
enjoyed
her newfound silence, but she did not quite succeed.

By afternoon, Robin’s spirits had sunk into a listless melancholy.

All right, I miss him
, she admitted at last, staring dully into the fire.
Dunderhead or not, he was company
. And he really was not a bad sort. He was friendly and he never complained, no matter how tedious or revolting the task was she gave him to do. She could have been nicer to him.

Enervation overwhelmed her, and Robin slumped down upon the moss that grew under the massive oak, gazing through the tree’s browning branches into the dimming sky and trying to think of nothing.

A dark shadow fell across her face.

“Yahh!” Robin exclaimed, sitting up so fast that her vision swarmed with spots. When her eyes cleared, she saw the boy standing in front of her.

“Where have you—” Robin bit off her instinctive chastisement. In a calmer tone, she rephrased: “What have you been doing all day?”

“Makin’ this,” the boy announced proudly, holding out a bow for her inspection.

“Oh my,” was Robin’s reply. Clearly, no one had taught the youth how to make a longbow before. The crude implement was misshapen, with hack marks all along its spine from the rough dagger he had used to carve it. It looked as if the boy had also tried to braid a string for it from wild grasses, which frayed down its length in every direction.