Robbin' the Rich

Nottinghamshire, England. Early October

That bastard! How dare that…those…outlaws defy me?

The Sheriff of Nottingham threw a goblet against the wall, disregarding the wine that stained stone, while he sat brooding. Rings flashed as he drew his hand back, the most recently acquired gleaming dull gold in the flickering light of fire and candles. The death of his brother—God rest James—had been bad enough, but now, two years of humiliation heaped upon humiliation! He wasn’t going to stand for it anymore, by God! Stealing Richard’s lands right out from under him like that—that outlaw was doing the Devil’s work, make no mistake! He was a plague on mankind—harming friend and foe alike!

He knew what he’d do, the Sheriff though suddenly, stroking greasy hands through greasy beard. He would enlist in the help of the heir apparent—two plump birds with one stone. On the one hand, he thought, warming to his plan, he’d have that cur Robin Hood, and on the other, he could show the Prince what a loyal, profitable sheriff he was.

Yes, it was perfect! That way, the Prince could break his ugly little neck over the nasty outlaw, while he would reap all the benefits! Oh, yes. After that, he’d finally have time to find that girl who’d run away—the King’s niece, and wed her. She had a very nice dowry to her name, and her step-mama had promised that she was a pretty little piece. Yes, it would be very enjoyable finally bringing that outlaw to his knees.

* * *

Another coach was coming through their forest, beyond lavish this time. It was downright sagging under the weight of the fripperies that adorned it, rolling along at a snail’s pace for the comfort of the occupants. This was none other than the royal coach, used by Prince John himself. Robin watched it bounce down the road toward his crew. A grim smile graced the thief’s hard face, the fingers of his right hand flexed slightly. He cursed under his breath and forced them to still—he had yet to become used to the lack of his ring’s familiar weight.

The Prince could spare the tax money he’d taken from these people. John had guards aplenty with him, but they could be distracted easily. With whispered orders, Robin sent Anthony, Gabe and Much to do just that. Much had sent him a familiar, almost feral grin, which he’d returned with a nod and a restrained smile.

“Aye, Much. Jus’ like the Saracens,” he answered the question behind that almost-berserker grin he knew almost too well. “Bu’ Ah’d rather ye didna get tae excited, ye ken?”

Much nodded, and with a jaunty wink, they disappeared into the underbrush. The others with him edged to readiness in the trees. Slowly, the outlaws watched as guards at the end of the procession fell off their horses, unconscious, one by one. They would be tied up later, as the outlaws, unlike the Turks, preferred to avoid killing Englishmen if they could.

The carriage passed under him, and he dropped. Robin had timed well, and hit the man driving the coach just as the others had taken out the attendants. Not one of them had had the time to shout. He slowed the horses.

“What the—Oy! Why are we stopping?” Someone from inside cried out.

The remaining outlaws surrounded the halted carriage, bows and arrows at ready. Robin jumped down, and went to the door in the coach, flinging it open warily. Sure enough, a crossbow bolt flew out, nearly grazing his cheek. Robin didn’t even blink. Reaching in, he casually snatched it from the thin, well-dressed clerk that had held it in shaking hands, and handed it backwards to Little John along with the small quiver that had been on the near seat.

“’Ere ye are, Liddle John. A toy tae play wit’, jus’ like ye’ve been wantin’.” He turned back to the occupants of the carriage, grinning his usual predatory smile at who he saw inside. “Oh, Yer Highness. Welcome tae Nottinghamshire, and Sherwood Forest. Ah did no’ think tha’ we’d see ye here, so deep in braw, bonnie Sherwood. Naow then, Ah’ve been wonderin’, mah good sire, if’n ye’ve the heart tae contribute tae the just cause o’ feedin’ the poor? ‘T’would be in yore best interests, Ah think, considerin’…” he allowed the thinly veiled threat to trail off suggestively. Marian, in her usual disguise—not that John would ever recognize her in the clothes she wore and her hair pulled into a cap—blinked. She had never heard him threaten one of their marks so openly before. She rather wondered if he was planning to make good his threat.

The Prince flicked a disdainful glance over the outlaw. “I think not. Guards!”

Robin grinned at him. “Ach, wheel, t’is a funny thing, aboout yer guards. None o’ them kin ‘ear ye, as mah lads ‘ave sent ‘em tae dreamland.”

The Prince and his retainer were bid to step out of the carriage in icy tones, and had their hands and ankles tied tightly. Blindfolds were added after a second, and the outlaws lay the tied-up noble and his servant on the ground.

No one felt any need to be particularly gentle with their royal captives, but Robin wouldn’t have them hurt, and had, at one point, stepped in the way of a blow George had thrown. It had landed right on his jaw, laying there a bruise that would be brightly colored for days afterwards. Marian had winced at the weight of the blow—Robin barely blinked, but snarled, and shoved the man away from the royal party.

“George! Gud God, git a grip on yoreself, man! Ye dinna kick a bound man! No’ when ‘e can’na defend himself!

“But, Robin, he—” He had ordered the execution of George’s two brothers and best friend two years ago, for bootlegging near Cornwall.

“Ah dinna care if he deserves it, no’ while Ah’m aroound, ye won’t!” Robin shouted, hauling the brawnier man farther away from the Prince. “Dinna ye think this will hurt ‘im far more than ye can by hittin’ him? This, ‘e’ll remember ‘t’ill ‘is dying day—a beatin’ t’will las’ weeks a’ most. Naow step aside, or ye feel mah fist in yer face.”

George subsided with a grudging apology to his leader.

All of the gold that could be removed and carried was collected, and the two blindfolded men were placed back in the carriage. Much and the others had rejoined them by now, having finished tying the men they’d rendered unconscious.

“Ready, Robin?” Much asked, having arrived in time to help carry some of the heavy loot.

“Aye. Le’s go, ere they wake an’ are af’er our blood. Liddle John, go las’ an’ cova our trail, will ye?” Little John nodded, and they disappeared back into Sherwood’s depths again, leaving the Royal party to work themselves free of their bonds.