Heart of Sherwood Read online

  "Where was I?" she asked, disturbed that she allowed herself to become so unaware.

  "You, Will and Gilbert were holding up a merchant convey on their way to York," he said matter-of-factly. "The rest of us hit Acker–part of your being in several places at once ploy."

  "That's right." Robyn rested a hand on John's broad shoulder while her eyes stayed on her melancholy friend. He's right. I need to pay more attention to those under my charge. But the mission… the mission comes first. "Gramercy, mates. Sometimes I get so busy planning ways to out-think the Sheriff that I forget to mind our own."

  Just then David of Doncaster, acting as Friar Tuck's altar boy for the occasion, began to ring a bell calling the company to gather for the All Saints Day mass. Young and old, they gathered around and stood as was customary even inside a church building.

  Friar Tuck, still wearing his everyday robe of mud-brown, lifted his hands and smiled out at his congregation. "The Lord be with you," he greeted.

  "And also with you," they all replied as one, and the service was underway.

  They went through the liturgy in a call and response with Tuck quoting his parts and the people replying in words and phrases they had all memorized since their childhoods. There was the Kyrie Eleison, followed by the Gloria, and then onto the prayers.

  "For the Holy Catholic Church, for Celestine III our Pope, our bishop, and for all bishops, priests, and deacons, we pray to the Lord," the Friar spoke before the kneeling assembly.

  "Lord hear our prayer," came their response.

  After an extensive list of petitions, the people all stood and recited the Nicene Creed, the Sanctus and the Lord's Prayer. Neither Friar Tuck nor the congregation attempted to sing, but rather chanted their parts on a variety of practiced pitches. Scripture readings from the Old and New Testament as well as the Psalms were scattered amongst the participatory portions of the mass. When the time came for the Eucharist to be given, Tuck blessed the wine and the bread, and everyone filed into a long line to walk forward and partake.

  Robyn began to ponder the sacrament. The general interpretation was that the bread and wine were mysteriously transformed into the literal body and blood of Christ. The true miracle is that an all-knowing and holy God would even wish to save a wicked and perverse humanity. She contemplated the intensity of the love and dedication she held toward Marian, whom she would kill or die for without hesitation. She was aware that the Church would frown upon their relationship, but more on the basis that it conflicted with societal norms than for any spiritual reason. It was not a high priority of the Church, as evidenced by the sheer number of priests and bishops with similar inclinations. As Robyn recalled, in earlier periods the Church had not disapproved at all. She remembered the story of saints Sergius and Baccus, a male Christian couple who refused to sacrifice to Roman gods and were martyred for it, and Ireland's St. Brigid and her soul mate, Darlughdach. She had read about the great devotion David and Jonathan, and Ruth and Naomi had to one another. It had even been rumored that both a ninth century pope and an Egyptian pharaoh had been women living in the guise of men, as she was now. Robyn didn't pretend that she would ever be looked upon as a saint; she just loved Marian, and nothing could convince her that was wrong.

  But loving her is easy, she thought. Marian is kind, and generous, and good; most people are none of those things. And yet…

  "The body of Christ," Friar Tuck said as he tore off a small bit of bread from the loaf.

  "Amen," she uttered and opened her mouth to receive the sacrament.

  "The blood of Christ."

  She sipped from the cup in Tuck's hands and repeated, "Amen," before proceeding back to her original spot. It doesn't taste any different, she thought as her contemplations continued. But she did feel something–a quickening in her spirit. Some may call it a religious experience. Robyn was suddenly and acutely aware of how great and powerful God's love must truly be, that He would allow His only son to die for such wretched and worthless souls as mankind had thus far produced.

  *~*~*

  In the middle of the night, when all had been sleeping for hours, Robyn made her way to the privy as was her custom. In one hand she carried a pail of water and a cloth for washing, and in the other a lanthorn, for the starless sky was like a blanket of coal dust hanging ominously over the earth. Upon returning to her abode, she heard a startled cry and a clamor coming from Gilbert Whitehand's tent. Rushing over, she threw open the flap and held her lanthorn high as she peered inside. "Is something amiss?"

  Gilbert, who had even alarmed himself with his night terror, lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the light. "Nay, Robin, all is well. No need for you to fret."

  She relaxed her stance as her anxiety subsided. "The war again?"

  He shook his head and wiped sweat from his brow, despite the cold of the evening. "Not directly." Then with his vision adjusting to the brightness, he looked straight at her. "A man should not outlive his children."

  Robyn squatted to the ground to be on eye-level with the former knight. "I'm sorry; I didn't know."

  "What are you doing out at this hour anyway?" he inquired.

  She chuckled. "When nature calls…"

  He waved her in. "No reason to let in the chill. Come."

  Robyn crept inside, allowed the flap to fall behind her, and sat cross-legged, waiting for Gilbert to talk about his children. Instead, he voiced a new fear. "What if I cannot do it? What if I can't find the hidey-hole, or can't solve how to operate the mechanism that reveals it? This whole plan hinges on me being able to accomplish a task that I have not done before."

  Robyn's voice resounded with confidence. "You will. I know that you can do this and shall not fail."

  Propping himself up on his elbow in the make-shift bed, Gilbert shook his head. "How can you have such faith in an old man?"

  "My faith is not in you, friend, but in the One who brought us together," she explained. "I believe it is God's will for King Richard to return to England. To do so, that sum of silver must go to his release, not to some mercenary army the Prince would use to usurp the throne."

  "And why are you so certain of this?" His deep-set brown eyes gazed into hers.

  "I am aware that the Lionheart has made mistakes, and he has plenty of blood on his hands. None of us is righteous, not a single one. But he wants to do good," she stated plainly. "His brother John–not so much."

  "You speak as if you know the King," Gilbert noted.

  Robyn thought of the several occasions upon which they had met: once at Marian's manor, another time in London, at Windsor in the spring of her coming out, and when she bade her father and brother farewell as the army set sail for the Holy Land. He would not remember her, she supposed; but she remembered him.

  "Marian knows him," she said. "He is her godfather." Gilbert nodded, satisfied with the response. "That does not mean I lack confidence in you as well, master archer," she continued. "For both my skill and wisdom have greatly increased under your tutelage. You are very able indeed."

  He expelled a short laugh. "I had a good student with whom to work."

  Robyn smiled and pushed up to her feet. "I shall let you get back to sleep now, and I will do the same. I know I am many times your younger, but if you ever need someone to talk with… about anything…"

  Gilbert's eyes glistened. "You are a fine lad, Robin, one whom I am proud to call friend."

  She nodded and bowed her way out of the tent, re-invading the abyssal night.

  *~*~*

  Nottingham Castle, a few days later

  Late on a frosty evening, the cloaked figure stood nervously in shadow just within the castle's back gate. Thin trails of smoke meandered out of chimneys and drifted toward the stars as he blew into his cupped hands shifting his weight from foot to foot.

  Emory was making his final rounds when he spied the fellow looking dreadfully out of place.

  "You there," he called in a stern voice. "Who are you and what are you about?"

&nb
sp; A hooded head bobbed up with a fearful gaze peering out. "I have news for the Sheriff," Will Scarlet said in a hush and he took a step back as if he were trying to fade into the stone wall and become part of it.

  Emory stepped closer, his right hand resting on the hilt of his sword. As his eyes caught a better look at the man, he relaxed. "It is you," he said. "The Sheriff is expecting you. This way," he motioned, extending an arm in the direction of the hulking keep.

  The man-at-arms escorted his charge into Giffard's office, appointed a guard to stand watch over him, and left. Will's heart beat so fiercely that he feared it would break his chest. His breathing came quick, and he began to sweat. This is it, he thought, the moment I damn my soul to hell. But what choice have I?

  He wasn't sure if it felt more like an eternity or the blink of an eye, but the door opened and in strode the self-assured specimen with his polished black boots and matching doublet, broad shoulders draped with a fur mantle, and cold opaque eyes that were comparable to staring into a bottomless well. Upon being grasped by their icy glare, he looked away, lowering his head, and shuddered.

  "I was beginning to wonder if you had decided to let your dear mother be hanged to save your own skin," the Sheriff uttered with a venomous hiss.

  Will shook his head. "N-no, milord. Never," he uttered. "I now have enough information to bring to you about Hood's plan, but first…" Tentatively he ventured to raise his chin. After taking a deep breath he steeled his body and attempted a commanding tone of voice. "I must know that me mum is still safe and well."

  An amused smile tugged at the corners of the Sheriff's mouth. "Emory," he beckoned without removing his eyes from the spy. "Show him to the woman." Then with a hand he dismissed the other guard and began to make himself comfortable while the man-at-arms took the informant on a short trip to the dungeon.

  It was as dismal as he had remembered, and his spirit fell into gloom as they descended the spiral stairs. "Mum?" he called into the dingy cave-like cellar, where humans were being stored like out of season tools.

  Will heard a gasp and then saw feminine fingers clasp a set of bars. "Why?" she asked. "I told you not to return, to stay away."

  He rushed to her, covering her hands with his. "You know I could not," he answered, emotion flooding his voice. "All will be well, you'll see. I will get you out of here."

  "But son," she pleaded. "You cannot betray Robin Hood and your mates. Is my life worth all of theirs?"

  He leaned his troubled brow against the bars and uttered in a hush so reticent that he was certain no one else heard. "Fear not; I'll find a way." Then he spoke aloud. "I cannot let him kill you, I simply cannot."

  "Come now," instructed Emory. "You see, your mother is unharmed."

  "I am so sorry," Will said, his voice cracking as he tried to hold back sobs. "I never meant for you to be hurt; I only ran away to protect you and Timm."

  "It is not your fault I am here, and don't be blamin' yourself," she scolded. "Be brave, son; don't tell him what he wants to know."

  Tears running down his dirty cheeks, her son replied, "I have to. I love you, Mum."

  As Will was being pulled away, she replied, "I love you more."

  *~*~*

  When Emory returned the distraught man to Giffard's office, he was summarily dismissed and the door closed. The Sheriff began to deliberately stalk around the chamber like a predator considering his prey. "Details, outlaw," he demanded coolly, "and they better be exact."

  You have no choice, Will thought in self-loathing despair. "Hood will be at the archery contest just as you suspected he would."

  "Surely he won't simply stroll up in his trademark green hood," Giffard sneered.

  The comment sent a noticeable jolt through him. "I-I have no idea. I suppose he may conceal himself, but he didn't say. If so, none of us has seen it."

  The Sheriff stroked the sooty hair on his chin in consideration. "He can hardly make himself shorter or thinner, but perhaps a bit thicker… and since his face is smooth, he may appear in a beard. Go on with it."

  "So, while Hood is hoping all eyes will be looking for him at the contest, the rest of the gang is to go to the castle to steal the loot."

  Giffard stopped and cast a sarcastic glare at Will. "Too obvious. I said details, you brainless churl. Do you think I would believe they shall attempt to attack the castle because I am at the tournament field?"

  "No," he groaned, "not attack the castle. They will be dressed as guards so they can move about without being noticed." He watched as the Sheriff's face lit with understanding.

  "A few months ago a patrol came walking back wearing nothing but their breeches," he mused. "But where will they be searching? Do they know where the treasure is hidden?"

  Will hesitated for a moment, glancing about the room nervously. "In here," he replied. "Where else? Hood thinks you would lock something so valuable away here in your office, in the heart of the keep."

  Giffard smiled, his ebony eyes glinting with delight. "You have done well, my little mouse," he said slapping the outlaw on the back. "If everything plays out as you have reported, your mother shall be released the moment they are captured. Otherwise…"

  The outlaw swallowed a gulp, dread welling up inside him like a geyser ready to erupt. He nodded gravely.

  The Sheriff gave him a slight shake then opened the door. "Do not fear," he added. "I only want to capture Hood and protect Prince John's assets; once that has been accomplished, there is no reason to keep the woman locked up. All will be well."

  Will lowered his head and turned away to trudge through the empty streets of town. All the way back to the lair, he startled at every owl's hoot, every tree branch swaying in the breeze. Several times he rushed to crouch behind a bush watching for some unknown danger. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was being followed, and proceeded to spend an hour marching about in circles. But despite all his apprehensions, his careful thief's eyes never caught sight of anyone. It must be my own guilty conscience, he thought. Sometime in the night Will arrived home at his bed, exhausted but unable to claim the release of sleep.

  Chapter Nineteen

  FitzWalter Manor, November 19, 1193

  Robyn lay on crisp, linen sheets amid fluffy, down pillows entwined with Marian, whose silky skin pressed warm against her own. I could in contentment lie like this forever, she thought. 'Tis bliss. She drew in a languid breath, reveling in the ecstasy of their night spent together, the rest of the world being a far off and inconsequential kingdom. She could even imagine hearing the music of Heaven weaving its celestial melodies and angelic harmonies through her mind…until the moment was shattered by that damnable bird's song. With a sigh, she began to stir. "It is time."

  Without lifting her head from Robyn's shoulder, Marian protested, "'Tis but midnight." She hugged Robyn closer and slid a leg between her thighs as if to pin her to the bed.

  "If only 'twere so," she replied with a humorless laugh. "But that was the morning lark. The sun will rise anon and then it begins."

  "Let us wait for the cock to crow," Marian suggested and began to place enticing kisses along Robyn's neck.

  Robyn responded by combing her fingers through Marian's long, luxurious strands of gold. "I have displayed nothing but confidence in front of my men," she commented.

  "As is right for you to do," her lover agreed between kisses.

  "Ah, but inwardly I am not so certain," she admitted. "Sometimes I feel that I am not even in control of my own life; it is like I am an arrow shot from the bow of fate, spiraling through the air with no means by which to plot my own course or determine my own destination."

  Marian pushed herself up, her full mane cascading over her shoulder, to gaze down at Robyn in the palest of moonlight. "So if fate is the bow and you are the arrow, what am I?"

  Robyn's eyes brightened as they latched onto Marian's. "You, Marian, are the target," she declared, lifting a hand to caress her fair face, "the only goal I seek."

  In an instant, M
arian's mouth captured hers possessively, and Robyn eagerly drank from the well of honey that was offered her. If it was to be her last day on earth, this was the best way to begin it!

  When Marian pulled away, she spoke with authoritative resonance. "You shall not fear and you shall not waver, because I know if there is anyone in the world who can succeed in this endeavor, it is you, Robyn. You have no reason to lack confidence, but if you do, take this assurance to heart–I believe in you, and am without doubt."

  Her words brought a smile to Robyn's face. "You are my strength."

  "Among other things," Marian teased and the morning lark called once more. Rolling over, she lit a candle, rose, and pulled on her night shift which had at some point been discarded into a heap on the floor. "I suppose it is time to create your false appearance."

  Robyn watched as she crossed to her wardrobe, opened the doors and withdrew curious apparel.

  "These were what my father used to wear around the manor when he didn't wish his good clothes to be soiled," she said as she laid out a faded reddish tunic, russet trousers, and a smoke gray mantle on the bed at Robyn's feet.

  Robyn sat up wide-eyed, the sheet falling away from her breast. "They are much too large for me!"

  Marian's mouth quirked into a half smile. "You shall wear them over your regular clothing, and we can stuff a pillow or two in where needed." Then she produced two wedge shaped items just smaller than her palms about two inches at the high end. "These we will place in your boots to make you appear taller," she explained. While Robyn scanned her costume with interest, Marian moved to her vanity table, opened the top drawer, and withdrew a pair of sheers and a long brunette braid. "I made a wheat paste and thickened it up with resin so it should work well to affix your new beard and mustache."

  Robyn's mouth dropped in utter astonishment. "Is that my hair? You saved it!"

  Marian stroked the braided strand reverently. "Certainly," she replied. "You don't think I would toss it away with the rubbish, do you? Every now and then I lay it on my pillow at night, so that I can touch a part of you, and feel like you are here."