Heart of Sherwood Read online

  Table of Contents

  Heart of Sherwood

  Book Details

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Author's Notes

  About the Author

  Heart of

  Sherwood

  EDALE LANE

  When Robyn's father and brother are killed in the Third Crusade, she is banished from her manor home and branded a traitor by the Sheriff of Nottingham. Disguised as a boy, she joins Little John and the rest of the gang in Sherwood Forest—and soon finds herself their leader.

  Queen Eleanor suspects Prince John is up to no good, and colluding with Sir Guy and the Sheriff of Nottingham. To learn more, she engages Maid Marian as a spy—and unwittingly reunites Marian with her old childhood friend, Robyn. Together, the women help the queen acquire the funds needed to free King Richard and help Nottinghamshire—and perhaps fall in love along the way.

  Heart of Sherwood

  By Edale Lane

  Published by Less Than Three Press LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  Edited by Nicole Field

  Cover designed by Natasha Snow

  This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

  First Edition October 2018

  Copyright © 2018 by Edale Lane

  Printed in the United States of America

  Digital ISBN 9781684313662

  Print ISBN 9781684314003

  First and foremost I wish to thank my incomparable partner, Johanna White, for her help and encouragement in completing this novel. She devoted much time and effort to proof-reading and double-checking my research as well as making sure I did not give up before finishing.

  Next I want to acknowledge my friend and horror writer Alexander Brown for inspiring me to start writing again after a ten year hiatus. Not only that, but he played an essential role in getting some of my short stories placed with publishers. Cheers to Alex!

  Another important mention goes to my book club friends, the Ladies that Read of Vicksburg, Mississippi, and our leader Karen Nelson Sanders who has been faithful as a beta reader of all my recent manuscripts, ready with thoughtful comments, questions, and suggestions. It is very nice to have such a positive support group in my home town.

  I am immeasurably grateful to Samantha Derr and the professional and gracious staff of Less Than Three Press for not only giving me a chance, but for believing in me and the quality of my writing. In conclusion, I must thank you the reader for likewise giving me a chance; may I never cease to bring you fresh, thought-provoking literary entertainment!

  "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has."

  ~Margaret Mead

  Chapter One

  Sherwood Forest, Nottinghamshire, July 1193

  Brown leather boots trod softly on the dirt path beneath a canopy of oaks and birches, skirted by verdant shrubs and lush ferns that overlaid the forest floor. A covey of quail were disturbed and scurried off cooing nervously to each other.

  Dusky gray woolen trousers brushed the boots of the figure draped in a dark green cloak. The hood was pulled up around the sojourner's face while a bow and full quiver hung across the back and a short sword dangled in its sheath from a leather belt fastened around a rust-brown doublet. The cream sleeves of a linen tunic were also visible, but the tall, lean traveler's face remained hidden.

  Sherwood Forest itself was timeless, a mix of primeval vegetation and fresh, new growth, inhabited by a myriad of animal life. It was a place of wonder, adventure, and danger. Rumors abounded of bandits that hid out in the woods as well as mystical tales of spirits and sprites. As with all the great forests of England, Sherwood was technically owned by the crown which with King Richard away meant his younger brother, Prince John Lackland. Those caught poaching in the forest faced severe penalties at the hands of Godfrey Giffard, the current Sheriff of Nottingham who, having found favor with the Prince, had power over the shire. However, the magnificence of nature that wove the forest together, leaf and vine, hart and fowl, had no inkling that their existence was merely for royal pleasure. They continued to thrive as if kings and princes were of no more consequence than a dung beetle.

  The new human interloper was no stranger to Sherwood. Each step took Robyn farther from the home of her birth and further into the unknown. Her emotions churned like the North Sea in a violent storm, flowing into anger, then ebbing into grief. Nothing was as it should be and, for the first time in her life, she felt totally powerless. She did not care for that feeling. She was so immersed in her own thoughts she did not notice the mountain of a man who stood in the middle of the narrow bridge until she was almost atop him. She halted abruptly and stared up at him with curious chestnut eyes, careful that the hood concealed her face.

  "Ah, a hearty traveler," he greeted jovially in a booming baritone voice, gripping a staff the breadth of a small tree in his left hand. Standing erect, he towered over her–despite her being a tall woman–with a frowzy tree-bark beard, tousled shoulder length dusky hair, deep-set hazel eyes, shoulders as broad as a door frame, and arms as thick as Yule logs. "I must ask that you pay the toll."

  Robyn narrowed her eyes, contemplating the colossal older fellow. "What toll do you mean, sir?" Her voice was naturally deep and somewhat ambiguous to gender, but she altered her accent to sound more common and less high-bred. She knew he could not make out her features beyond the lack of a beard on her jaw because of the hood she wore. That and the men's clothing she donned would give the first impression of her being a young man. "Last I heard, this was a public road."

  "Ah, well, yes, you see," he began, relaxing his stance, a glint of humor in his broad face. "It seems Prince John is taxing everyone nowadays. And, while I admit the tax I charge will not be adding to His Highness's coffers, it will help me and mine to have a better meal or two. So, out with it, lad. Let me see your coin."

  Under different circumstances, Robyn may have been amused or felt compelled to donate to the unfortunate bandit, but he had caught her in a foul mood and quite lacking in resources. "I am sorry to disappoint, oh mighty man of the bridge, but I have nothing to donate to your supper. So if you will kindly step aside, I have places to be."

  He bellowed a roaring laugh and declared, "What an impudent little insect! I must teach you a lesson. Have you a staff?"

  Robyn held out her arms, dropping a bag filled with belongings she had hurriedly packed. "You can see I do not. While I do have bow and sword, I prefer not to kill anyone today."

  The bridge master, clearly feeling not the least bit threatened, replied. "I see you are a man of honor who deserves a fair fight." He stepped away to pick up a more averaged size staff from the other side of the stream. Robyn removed her bow and quiver to achieve a
better range of motion, but kept her hood up. "Here you go!" He tossed the wooden rod in Robyn's direction and she caught it. "First one in the drink loses."

  She let her hands become accustomed to the feel of the staff, balanced it, spun it a few times, and then settled on a grip style. She gave him a satisfied nod, putting her shoulders back confidently.

  "You have grit, lad–I like that." He held his staff in a relaxed stance and motioned for the traveler to attack first. Robyn opened with a standard thrust that her father had taught her to test the giant's mettle. He moved with remarkable speed for someone his size, handily blocking the move and taking a swing of his own.

  She blocked his blow, but its power sent shock waves through her hands and arms. She had spared with her brother before, but he had struck with far less force than this Herculean adversary. Robyn took a step back to re-evaluate. Why hadn't she chosen a different approach to this problem? She could have given him the money, or simply shot him with her bow. She could have lowered her hood and revealed her identity, believing he may let a lady pass. But no. She'd thought she could play his game. Now she wasn't so certain.

  Robyn adjusted her stance, feet shoulder width apart with her weight on her back foot. She feigned high and struck low giving him a good rap on the shin.

  "Oi!" the burly man exclaimed in surprise. "The insect can bite."

  He swung out at her chest high, but she hastily ducked and sent another jab, this time to his knee. Next he swiped at her low. Being light on her feet, she jumped the rod landing nimbly. They continued to knock their staffs together until, under a powerful blow, Robyn's snapped in two.

  She looked first at the severed pieces in her hands then up at her opponent. This could not be good… or could it? Two weapons, meant she could block with one while attacking with the other. She pursued this strategy, spinning and jumping to avoid any possible bone-breaking blows while bruising his shins and forearms with her lighter strikes. He was bigger than her, but she was faster. Seeing him loom to one side, she took advantage, crouching to sweep his feet out from under him with both pieces of broken staff in unison.

  His weight shook the wooden bridge when he fell. Utterly dumbfounded by this scrawny lad, he toppled over the edge through three feet of air to land with a splash in two feet of clear running stream.

  Robyn bent over the side, her hands on her knees breathing heavily and asked, "Are you harmed?" The summer day was warm and the water was likely refreshing, so she wasn't overly concerned.

  He sat up, spitting water and wiped a broad hand down his face, then peered up at her with rounded eyes. "What the blazes! How did you… who are…?" Then, if possible, his astonishment grew as he looked at her and really seemed to see her for the first time. "I know you–you're Lady Loxley! What the devil are you doing out here in the forest alone?"

  Robyn had not noticed that in the course of the fight her hood had fallen down after all. Without it, her flowing acorn brown hair and feminine countenance were revealed. She quickly threw the hood back over her head and began to run from him.

  "Wait!" he called after her. "I know your father; I am a friend, John Naylor."

  Robyn skidded to a sudden halt and hesitated.

  "My friends call me Little John," he added, though he still didn't advance on her.

  She knew that name from her childhood. Lord knew she could use a friend, but was it safe to expose herself when the sheriff had ordered her arrest? With some misgivings, she slowly turned to face the wet man.

  John stepped out of the brook leaning on his staff with the effort. "Milady, please forgive an old fool; I didn't know 'twas you."

  Her head down and covered she quietly replied, "I am no longer the Lady of Loxley. I am merely Robyn."

  "Nonsense," he said and motioned to a fallen tree trunk near the road. "Come, sit. Tell Little John what the problem is; perchance I can help."

  The adrenaline from the fight had evaporated, and all that flowed through Robyn's veins was cold reality. She sat beside Little John on the log and lowered her hood. After a moment of silence, she raised misty eyes to his gentle, rough-hewn face.

  "I recently received word that my father and brother Thomas, were killed fighting in the Holy Land. As proof, my father's sword was returned to me." She laid a hand on the sheath at her side and glanced down at it.

  "Oh no," he uttered in honest sorrow. "Dear, sweet Maid Robyn." Despite being wet, unkempt, and having just tried to knock her upside the head with a tremendous quarterstaff, Little John wrapped a compassionate arm around her shoulders. He drew her to his strong chest like she was his own long, lost child. "This is grave news indeed. Please know I admired Lord Loxley, and that I feel your loss."

  Regardless of all previously shed tears, Robyn felt the lump in her throat, the knot in her stomach, and the warm, moist trickle on her cheeks. She was almost glad of his next question, and the opportunity to change the subject.

  "But, why are you alone in Sherwood dressed as a boy?"

  She sniffled, wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve and raised a defiant face that smoldered with barely bridled rage, the bite of which sounded in her voice. "The Sheriff of Nottingham paid me a visit no sooner than the envoy had left the manor. He claimed he was there to pay his condolences, and to see that I was well taken care of. You may know my mother and younger siblings died eight years ago from the pox and so now I am all alone. But then the law does not allow for a daughter to inherit her father's estate. Subsequently the Sheriff offered a 'solution' to my problem: according to the law, I could still inherit the land and title if I married. But with so few young lords available, who was possibly eligible enough to wed a woman of my station?"

  John shook his head with a snort. "Let me guess."

  "Right. Nottingham said he would be most agreeable to marry me and take over Loxley Manor–as if I could ever abide such a thing!" Robyn reverberated with fury. "When I told him I'd rather wed a donkey, he didn't take it so well. The next thing I know he has declared me a traitor to the crown and all my title and lands forfeit." She sighed, trying to release that wave of anger. "He was determined to have Loxley with or without me; so it was without me. The problem is, I am now wanted for treason. There is no way I will be judged fairly with Prince John's friend Giffard as my accuser." She lowered her head to the big man's shoulder releasing some of her tension. "I thought I'd run away, hide my identity, and maybe somehow I'd get by with it. 'Tis only my first day away from home, but already I am found out."

  "Now there, do not fret child; Little John won't tell anyone. I'll protect you; in fact…" He made a dramatic pause, his vocal inflection rising to an optimistic tone. "I have an idea."

  Robyn lifted her head, her eyes gazing up at him with suddenly renewed hope.

  "You see, the Sheriff declared me an outlaw, too, and put a price on my head all because I tried to make sure there was enough food to feed my family. They are still safe on the FitzWalter lands, but all because I wouldn't give him and his damnable tax collectors every penny and bag of flour–" He stopped, shook his head and gave her shoulder a pat. "Well anyway, there's a small gang of us who have taken up residence in Sherwood. You could stay with us, at least until you figure out something that would better suit you."

  Excitement flashed across her fair face. But she couldn't afford to get too excited. Not yet. "You must give me your oath." She straightened up, her enigmatic eyes pinning his with demand. "I want no one else to know who I am."

  He looked puzzled and absently stroked his beard. "I don't understand. These boys would show you respect. If they didn't, I'd crack their heads."

  "That isn't it. I'm not afraid of being assaulted; but I fear that anyone who aids me could face a hangman's noose. It is safer for everyone if they think I am a random boy who ran away from Sir Guy of Gisborne's cruelty or was spotted stealing bread or something. Please, if you honor my father as you say you do, keep my secret."

  Little John exhaled with a nod. "Aye, sweet lass, if you are sur
e that's what you want; I'll do it for Lord Loxley, and for you."

  *~*~*

  Little John helped pass the time as they strolled along the dirt road by telling all about the forest and the band of men who had gathered around him.

  "Deep in the heart of Sherwood," he said in his best story-telling voice, "stands the oldest tree in all of England. Huge, it is, an oak with branches reaching as far as you can see. That is where our camp is set, snug under her protection. We call her Grandma. 'Tis nothing but a tent village, but it's home - close enough to the stream for getting fresh water and far enough away to not flood when the rains come hard."

  Robyn tried to listen, but stray thoughts continued to shoot into her mind like needling arrows, preoccupying her with memories and imaginings of what might have been if her father and Thomas had returned from the crusade and if the pox hadn't taken her mother and younger siblings.

  "We are almost there now," she heard Little John say and giving her hood one more tug. She stood a bit straighter. "Good afternoon, fellows," he called.

  Robyn smelled the smoke of the campfire and something that could have been rabbit stew coming from a large iron pot. Some of the men sat around the fire chatting and shooting dice while a few others meandered up to the group wearing curious expressions. They ranged in age from younger than herself to older than John Naylor, and they were all dirty and smelled of male sweat.

  "Who's the whelp?" asked the eldest as he squinted up at them without rising.

  "My friends, may I present a newcomer to our number. This is Robyn…" His face went blank as he stared out over his outlaw gang. He then glanced over at Robyn and thought quickly. "Hood. This is Robin Hood, of Nottinghamshire who, like all our present company, was unjustly outlawed by the Sheriff. Now he's a wee bit young and a little shy, so let's not all overwhelm him at once with questions, but I would like you to introduce yourselves. He's going to be staying with us a while. Alan?" He gestured toward a cheerful chap who stood about Robyn's height and held a mandolin in one hand. "Why don't you start?"