Robbin' the Rich

Sherwood Forest, England. Early November

“’ey, Robin! Did you hear? There’s an archery contest being held in your honor! The Sheriff of Nottingham wants to thank you for all the trouble we’ve been giving him for the past two years!” Anthony called across the camp, to his leader, grinning widely. “He says there’s a gold’n arrow in it for anybody that wins, an’ a full pardon, too. Wonder what that could mean?” The bearded man wondered sarcastically.

“A golden arrow? Wot would anaone do wit’ it? ‘Twould be tae heavy tae fly right.” There was a look of distaste on the Scot’s face that was nearly comical. “Na’ thanks, Ah’ll pass on tha’, an’ the noose tha’ll go wit’ it.” His smile faded, though, and his eyebrows knit. “An’ Ah dinna want anaone wit’in a league o’ tha’ contest. The Prince’ll still be in a rage fer wot we did no’ two weeks ago.”

“It might be better if we did show up, though,” Marian remarked thoughtfully. “We don’t have the contacts in the Sheriff’s home like we had before, when Will had a girlfriend there. John might be up to something truly underhanded.”

The other outlaws regarded her equally thoughtfully, and then turned back to their leader, to see what he made of this development. Robin’s face hardened as the possibilities assaulted him.

“’Ow likely is tha’, do ye think, Marian?”

She shook her head ruefully. “Too likely. The Prince won’t leave anything to chance. He plays to win, you see.” Marian said apologetically, unaware that the other fugitives blinked in surprise. Where, a few wondered, had Marian gotten such an up-close knowledge of the Prince’s mind? She was nobility, of course, but just how noble was their friend—and did it matter?

“Well, then. Anthony, when’s this contest supposed tae ‘appen? Ah want everybody tha’ can get oot o’ camp tae do so. Naeone tha’ ‘as ana way o’ surviving wit’out us is goin’ tae be here long ere Ah send ye on,” the Scot warned, before he turned back to Anthony for the specifics of their last major endeavor.

It would be the last, she knew. Where the knowledge had come from, she couldn’t have said, but she did, and that same something told her it would end badly.

Robin became increasingly edgy over the next week, waiting almost impatiently for the archery contest to arrive. One by one, the band of outlaws trickled even thinner. Some went with better graces than others, and for the first time, Marian saw Robin lose his temper with someone other than Much or herself. Robert and Isaac got the worst of it, because they were stubborn and so was their leader. There was no shouting this time, but the flashing blue of his eyes and the edged bite of his words was plenty to get his point across. Before long, Robert and Isaac had moved on, with, apparently, no lasting hard feelings.

The only reason he hadn’t yet managed to send Allen and Anne away was because Anne was too heavily pregnant to travel the distance to Scotland, where Robin had family that could take them in, and Robin wasn’t going to let her risk herself and the child just because of him and his nerves. In the worst case, she could go to Friar Tuck with Maud.

Much had escaped the scourge simply because Robin knew his chances of removing the Saxon without a knock-down-drag-out fight occurring were slim to none, and Marian had watched Little John lift an eyebrow, and ask, “I knocked you into that stream once. Did you want a repeat performance?” when Robin started toward him with that determined gleam in his eye. Robin had winced, and wisely walked away. The threat seemed to cover Gabe as well, as she and Little John had announced that morning that they were to be wed. She imagined that he would go after Anthony, Will, and George without hesitation.

And knew, just knew, that the damnable man would consider her a favorite target.

So when Marian saw Robin coming toward her with the infamous look on his face—blank-faced Scots stoicism, with his blue eyes still snapping from a tangle with one of the others—she braced herself for the quarrel of her life.

“Naow would be an excellent time tae go tae yore covent, Marian,” he said without preamble. “Ah want ye tae leave.”

“I’m not leaving,” She said calmly, drawing on years of composure lessons, refusing to let the words hurt her. Marian drew her armor of pride, stubbornness, and determination around her and strapped it on. Robin watched her, recognizing the set of her jaw and the light in her eye. He wasn’t going to win this one either, Robin realized bleakly—he didn’t even want her to go. Only the amount of danger involved had forced his hand, and Marian had more influence over his common sense—or lack there of—than she knew. But that was no reason not to try.

“An’ why do ye think Ah’d let ye stay if’n Ah made Robert ‘n’ Isaac leave, hmm?” He inquired, irritated. Robin wasn’t used to bending to his emotions, and damned be if the outlaw let himself slip now.

“Because I’m just as stubborn as you, that’s why. Besides, Maud will need help delivering Anne’s babe.” Marian said cheerfully, smiling up at him. Robin nearly groaned aloud. Tha’s right, lass. Smile again. Ah’ll jus’ melt in a puddle at yore feet, whether or no’ Ah want tae. T’won’t matta if yer right or no’. He chastised himself for it, but Marian was getting to him. Rallying, Robin acknowledged the challenge with a nod.

“Stubborn ye are, Marian. But Ah want ye oot o’ mah camp ere the Prince does somethin’ really verra nasty—an’ Maud’s goin’ wit’ ‘em.”

“You aren’t making Much or Little John leave if they don’t want to,” Marian pointed out, candor apparent in her voice, before she continued primly, “And you’ll have mutiny on your hands if you send away Maud—everyone knows none of you men can cook.”

Robin half-grinned and half-grimaced. “Ah pity woteva covent ye decide tae go tae. They’ll neva recova from ye. But yer goin’.”

Marian smiled again. “Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment. But I’m still not leaving.”

The Scot sighed. There was that smile again. A man could get addicted to those bright smiles, even if they weren’t directed at him in joy. And he couldn’t afford to. “An’ Ah ask ye again, Marian. Why d’ye think Ah’m goin’ tae let ye stay?”

“Robin, these are my friends. I’m staying until the end—whatever end that may be. I don’t really care whether or not you approve, because my mind’s made up. You can’t force me to stay at a covent, anymore than you can keep me from returning here. I can find my way back here as well as Will, and he’s one of the best trackers here, so you can’t say I won’t return.” Marian’s chin had gone up, and she had jumped to her feet in front of him, daring him to refuse her.

“Ye’re no’ stayin’ ‘ere, Marian, if Ah’ve got tae drag ye tae a covent and lock ye in a room mahself. T’is dangerous. The Sheriff is gettin’ tae clever fer safety. There’s no way ye’ll be exempt from woteva fate if ye’re anawhere near me or anaone wit’ me when ‘e catches up tae us.” Oh, Laird, no, she isna stayin’. No’ if Ah kin help it.

“Hanging, Robin. You can say it; it’s not a dirty word. I know what would happen. I don’t care. I’m staying.”

“Ah care! An’ ye’re no’ stayin’! Marian, could ye be reasonable, jus’ fer once? Go tae a covent, stay there ‘til ‘tis safe, an’ then do wotever ye ‘ave tae. Find someone else tae drive mad, ‘cause Ah’m aboot this far from takin’ ye over mah knee like a bairn.”

Robin saw the flash of pain in her eyes despite his anger, and instantly felt remorse. It didn’t show on his face, but he felt it and wondered exactly what had stung her in that sentence. It always surprised him how much it hurt him to hurt her—and he hated doing it to them both.

“You couldn’t care less what I want, could you? Much less why. I begin to think you haven’t got any other emotions but irritated and downright cold,” she remarked, her own voice frigid.

“Oh, aye. Butter wouldna melt in me mouth, lass. Ye best get used tae tha’,” he retorted, the effect of the words well hidden, though the barb had struck deep into his heart. It hurt, he found, to have her spitting venom at him like this. They normally blunted their weapons some, whether they acknowledged it or no, before going at it like this.

“I’m no child, Robin, to taken over your knee. The sooner you figure that out, the easier it will be on all of us.”

“Ye claim no’ tae be a child, yet ye plunge ‘ead first intae danger. This is no’ a lark, Marian, an’ yer no’ goin’. So there.”

“You’re an autocratic ass, you know that? You wouldn’t ask Much to leave a friend, would you? Then don’t do it to me, Robin. I am going, and this conversation it over, Your Grand Highness of Sherwood.”

She departed with all the imperial dignity of a queen, back straight and head held high, impervious to his wince at her words—he hated the title, and the ideals behind it. And he really hated that she knew just how to use that to her advantage. Robin stared after her, his fists clenched by his sides. He could see the brutal straightness of her back and knew, through the haze of his own anger and hurt that she was hurting just as much as he.

Nay ana feelin’s, is tha’ it? He thought miserably. If tha’s so, why do Ah ‘ave tae want ye so much? Why do Ah ‘ave tae love ye so much it hurts?

* * *

Robin cursed again, and shifted so that the tree wasn’t digging into his spine quite so much. Months of sleeping in Palestine’s harsh conditions, and later in the tree that helped make up his camp had left Robin capable of sleeping in nearly any surroundings—sandstorms, rain; hail was a bit tough—he generally took cover beneath one of the rock ledges then; snow, and wind. He had been blessed with a hearty constitution and had no fear for the potential dangers of night air —hadn’t he, after all, spent enough nights raiding, be it for family or King? Why he couldn’t sleep now was irritating—though he knew exactly what was keeping him awake.

I begin to think you haven’t got any feelings…

It was apparent that Little John and Gabe had no idea that Robin was still in camp—trying to sleep—when they came in, and apparently started to...well; Robin wasn’t quite sure what they were doing. He hadn’t taken the time to look.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, he was in the camp, and sleep was still eluding him. The Scot was exhausted—three days without more than a few hours of sleep was starting to tell on him. He was jolted from his half-sleep, half-doze by Gabe and Little John making some sort of rustling noise—when he was conscious enough to realized that it wasn’t a threat, he hoped it wasn’t clothing being shed. He groaned loudly at the interruption of the little sleep he’d gotten and as a warning, before he swung out of the tree. Damn him, he was jealous of them—envious that they had found each other and he had found a woman who thought he had no more emotion than that of a grouchy bear.

“Ah’d find someplace a wee bit mor’ discreet, t’wer Ah ye,” He said in passing, not looking at either of them as he headed out of the camp. “Watch changes in aboot ten minutes, an’ Maud should be back soon. But ‘ell, dinna let tha’ stop ye,” he growled, stifling a yawn—he really did need some sleep. For one thing, his temper was as fierce as the Devil’s own.

He ended up giving up his pursuit of sleep, and hunted instead, knowing that Maud was drying all the meat she could for the coming winter. The Scot brought down a good-sized buck—the animal weighed nearly as much as he did, at around eight stone. Lifting it made his tired muscles scream in protest, but he had to take it back, and he hadn’t brought anyone else with him to help. Upon taking it back to the camp, he turned on his heel and left again—his mood was so foul by now he’d end up reducing someone to tears, and with his luck, it’d be Marian.

Robin wanted nothing more than several long hours alone, to sleep. He didn’t want to see Marian avoiding him as she had since he’d tried to make her leave. He didn’t want to see Gabe blush every time he glanced at either her or her fiancé. He didn’t want Much babbling at him about Marian, as he knew Much would.

The outlaw relieved George on watch and sat in a tall tree for four hours, determinedly staying awake. He returned at an inopportune time—as Will was telling Anthony about the woman from Nottingham he had wanted to marry, but couldn’t, due his obviously reduced circumstances.

“Who would ask the woman they love to live like this? I mean, we’re not all as good as Robin—girls don’t just fall into our laps—” Will was complaining to his friend, who nodded in agreement.

It wasn’t, after all, Robin’s fault that he’d been blessed with looks that drew women in hordes. But the man, they’d agreed long before this night, was oblivious to lovely Marian’s feelings, the idiot.

Robin came into sight then, having heard everything. The guilty look on Will’s face gave rise to his own innocently worded inquiry of how they were tonight. Pretending he hadn’t heard anything was best—it saved them all from embarrassment. What was he supposedly so good at? Making Marian miserable? She hadn’t fallen into his lap so much as slapped him in the face as a kidnapper. He didn’t bother with dinner, just pulled himself up amid the Great Oak’s golden foliage. He was exhausted, and miserable, and damn it, he still wanted Marian.

It was autumn again, he noticed, and the wind was just cold enough to make him wish he were strong enough to sleep with the rest of them. He pulled the tartan around himself to ward off the chill, and finally slept.

It was Much they sent up the tree to wake him the next morning, well-aware that Robin didn’t take kindly to being woken.

* * *

A week later, the contest was to begin. It was usual, as archery contests went—hit the target, proceed a level. It was the feast afterwards that interested Robin. The highest-ranking participants were to shoot what the Prince phrased as ‘the most noble’ animal they could within the confines of the law for the final round, and bring it to the Sheriff’s home for consideration. All of the animals—he claimed—would be cooked and served to the villagers and their families the next day. Robin had heard that, and started laughing. Always perverse, Marian allowed herself a moment to simply stare at him, taking in the perfection of the outlaw when he threw back his head and laughed ‘til he had to knuckle moisture from his eyes.

“Aye, aye,” he chuckled, “an’ mah hair is blue, tae. Wot’s he want with the poor dumb animals? Aside from us tae take the bait, Ah mean? Nay, dinna tell me. Ah’m sure Ah dinna want tae know.”

Robin was nearly unrecognizable with his hair stuffed under a cap, and without his usual clothing on. He would take only the famous longbow and the sgian dubh in his boot—it wouldn’t do to go blatantly armed. Tuck had supplied them with the different clothing—clothing, the Scot had complained, that made him feel like a fool—and was holding onto Robin’s distinctive tartan. Marian, Much, Will, Little John, and George would all be showing up early, as spectators, to get the family that Prince John was holding out safely. Marian had disguised herself as a boy, her hair, like Robin’s, tucked up beneath a cap, with the cap drawn low over her face.

The great hall where the festivities were being held was loud, hot, and smoky. Almost immediately, Marian longed for Sherwood—the cool late-autumn weather was perfect: cool and smokeless and fresh. And, of course, the company in Sherwood was far preferable to the rabble that associated with the Sheriff and the Prince. But they were here for a reason—to get the family who sat in terrified silence in the back of the hall, near the Prince to the safety of Sherwood.

There was a shout from outside the huge, iron-studded doors of the hall. The portcullis was raised, and the doors opened. Hush fell over the hall as a tall man appeared—Robin. His hair was dutifully tucked under his hat; his clothes weren’t at all what an outlaw would be wearing—they were so gaudy that he would be seen miles away. The only thing that marked him as an archer was the bow and quiver that hung from his shoulders. A tusked male boar was slung over his shoulders as well—his invitation to the archery contest. Of all of the animals that had been brought in, this was the riskiest. Not only was it illegal to poach boars—like deer—in the King’s Forests, but a wild boar was one of the most difficult animals in England to kill, usually taking a full hunt, with dogs and horses and spears to bring one down. And while this one was relatively small, it was a slap in the face, nonetheless. Unrepentantly bold, Robin strode forward, up to the high table where the Prince and Sheriff sat staring in shock.

“Ah heard there was an archery contest. Ah thought, ‘Mah dear Prince an’ the Sheriff wou’ surely miss me, their gud friend, Robin Hood. Ah should surely stop by, an’ pay mah respects.’” With a heave and a duck, the Scot unburdened himself of the boar, pitching it forward onto the table, blatantly throwing it in the two men’s faces. “So Ah brought ye this.”

“T-that’s a wild boar!” the Sheriff shouted, wide-eyed. The redheaded outlaw regarded him as though he were a lack-wit.

“Nay, laddie, tha’s a wild pig, an’ a bonnie one a’ tha’. Tha’,” he inclined his head toward Prince John, who was gaping at him as though he’d seen a ghost, “’tis a wild bore. Ye see? ‘Is poor guests ‘ere be near aboot asleep.”

The hall was silent for a moment, then shouts of laughter, boos, and all other manners of noise erupted. With a grin, he swept off his cap in a bow to those that had laughed, revealing what the famous outlaw looked like to the curious aristocrats. Robin was an excellent distraction, allowing the other outlaws to hustle the imprisoned family to safety.

“Guards! Guards!” At that cry, dozens of armed guards sprang forward, attempting to hem the outlaws in as the guests surged this way and that, attempting to avoid being caught between the guards and their prey.

Robin’s bandits escaped in the din, Robin and Marian coming last, meeting their friends outside the castle. The Scot’s hair had been hastily shoved back into his cap and his gaudy sky blue tunic abandoned, and Marian’s hat had fallen off, releasing her long, silky hair.
Blood dripped from her shoulder, its flow slowed by the hand she’d pressed to it. Robin supported her until they were free of the mass of humanity that was roiling inside the castle.

When they were out, Robin paused only long enough to rip off a sleeve of the brightly colored tunic he wore, knot it tightly around her wound in an attempt to slow the bleeding, and slip an arm under her knees to lift her. Both of their faces were drawn and pale, though Robin’s was in horror, and Marian’s was in pain and shock.

The Scot could feel the dark, all-encompassing panic tugging at his mind—Marian was hurt! Fool that he was, he’d let Marian get hurt. He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t let her come to harm, and yet she lay limp in his arms—her life’s blood seeping from her body, and onto his hands. If she died— He shoved the fear away, willed himself to pay attention to what had to be done.

“Marian, agam gaol, dinna go tae sleep, a’right? Ah know ‘t ’urts, bu’ ye musn’t go tae sleep.” Robin demanded; his stride long and hurried. He couldn’t do much more than that, for fear of hurting her further. If she died— Nay.

“How bad is it?” Much asked, falling into step beside his friend as they fled to the forest they called home, the others ahead of them.

“No’ good. Is anaone else hurt?”

Much shook his head. “No, not so badly that Maud or I can’t deal with them. What do you want me to do?”

“Take ‘em back tae camp. Ah’ll git Marian tae Tuck. Marian,” Robin addressed the woman. “Marian, are ye still wit’ me?” He felt the slight motion of her head against his shoulder, and hoped with all his heart it was her nod. “’Ang in there, lass.”

“How’d she get hurt?” the short Saxon inquired, now jogging to keep up. The path would part in a moment, one prong through the forest toward Northampton, the other one of the many forester trails that the outlaws occasionally appropriated, but not quite yet.

“She jumped in front o’ me, took a knife tha’ someone tried tae slip a’twix mah ribs. Damn!” Robin glanced down again, feeling her head loll against his shoulder. “Marian’s oot. She’s no’ big enough tae lose this much blood.” She was tall, but he’d never suspected that she was so slender, so light. His stomach knotted tighter, knowing a blade meant for him might take her. She couldn’t lose much more blood, not without serious consequences.

Much cursed as well—Marian shouldn’t have to die like this, and Robin shouldn’t have to lose another loved one.

“Git the others tae camp. Pack up wot ye kin, and put as many as ye kin on watch. Dinna light a fire. The Prince is no’ going tae git tha’ much o’ a clue, if Ah kin help it. Ah’ll be back when Marian’s alright.” The Scot loped off toward Tuck’s chapel, going more by instinct than the markers that the outlaws had on the trails.

“Tuck! Friar Tuck!” The Friar was roused by the sound of Robin’s voice at his door. When he opened it, he was confronted with a ghastly sight. They were both covered in Marian’s blood, she was unconscious, and Robin was exhausted, and looking far worse for a fight. “’T’is a stab wound—‘er right shoulder—blood’s near aboot stopped naow,” the Scot reported, following Tuck into the small chapel to lay her down on the thin bed.

“Thank you, Robin. Will you wait outside? I can’t dress her wound if you’re here.” Robin nodded and went without another word. Outside, he paced, unable to stand still or rest with Marian hurt.

If she died…if she died, he would never be able to forgive himself…He squeezed his eyes tight shut, his fists clenching, the heart in his chest contracting beneath the tight iron bands of bone-deep terror.

If she died…he didn’t know what he’d do.

By the time the Friar came out to give him Marian’s condition, the beginnings of a path had formed right in front of the chapel. Fatigue read in the lines of the Scot’s body, and his face was beneath the nasty bruise that was starting to rise on his cheek drawn and pale with fear. When Tuck opened his front door, Robin whipped around.

“Marian? ‘Ow is she?”

Tuck was surprised by his tone of voice. He had noticed Robin’s uncharacteristic dislike of Marian, and the note of trepidation in the outlaw’s voice wasn’t congruent with that aversion. Suddenly it hit him, a blinding flash of insight into the mind of the stoic Scot. Good Lord. Robin…Robin’s in love with Marian.

“Marian will be fine. She’s very weak right now—she lost a lot of blood. I want to keep her here for several days, until she’s regained some strength. God willing, there will be no infection.” Tuck saw, more than heard, the small sigh of relief from the outlaw, even in the low light. Relief was evident in his face, easing some of the harsh lines around his mouth and his shoulders relaxed a bit.

They both knew that Marian never should have been put in the position to be wounded—she should’ve been one of the first to leave—but Tuck didn’t say anything about it, for which Robin was grateful. How could Robin explain that his desire for her presence had influenced him to allow her to stay? To stay and be wounded.

“You may go in and see her, if you wish. I have to go and get a bucket of water. I’ll be back in a few moments.” Tuck didn’t have to look back to know that Robin had slipped into his cottage.

She wasn’t awake when Robin kneeled beside the bed, but he forced down the worry. She would be all right. Friar Tuck knew what he was talking about—Marian was largely out of danger. The knowledge eased the tight bands around his chest, but only a little. Now he had to come to grips with the guilt of putting her in that danger in the first place. He placed a gentle hand on her forehead, to see if she had a fever. A slight one, but that was to be expected—he knew enough of such injuries to know the fever burned away the infection that was infinitely more dangerous than the wound itself. She stirred; wincing as she unconsciously moved her arm, and tightened guilt’s grip on him.

Marian was distantly aware of Robin’s voice murmuring soothingly. It wasn’t in plain, precise English, but a melodic, somehow earthier language—the Gaelic he occasionally used. His voice was odd…pained. Had he been hurt? She didn’t want him to hurt. The warm, callused hand on her forehead smoothed away the tangled hair, sifting through the silky strands. It felt good—right, even.

He stopped all too soon, and she heard Friar Tuck’s voice.

“Is anyone else hurt?”

“Nay. Jus’ Marian.”

“Damned foolish of you, to take such a risk like that. You look awful, Robin—You’re sure you aren’t hurt?” Tuck sounded worried.

“Aye. Ah’m fine,” Robin answered, probably more to reassure Tuck than in truth.

“Robin, you’re limping, and those bruises make it look like someone just flogged you,” Marian caught the note of anxiety in Tuck’s voice, and the slight sound of fatigue in Robin’s. Someone had flogged Robin? That couldn’t be right. He was far too proud to allow that.

“Ye havna asked me how the otha men looked yet. Dinna worry, Friar, Ah gave worse than Ah got—yon soldiers dinna know a thing aboot mêlée fightin’. Do ye want me tae move her tae the shelter ere Ah go? Ah expect you’ll git some visitors later.”

“Yes, please.” The man of God didn’t sound happy about Robin’s change of subject, but seemed to realize he wasn’t going to get a different, more truthful, answer.

Robin lifted her easily, trying to avoid jostling her shoulder. He held her tenderly, even lovingly; cradling her against his body. A short trip later, he bent; taking her into the small tunnel-like bolt-hole the outlaws had made for Friar Tuck’s safety. It was hidden in the bank of a hill, disguised by a layer of grass and sod. Robin lay her down on the pallet inside, and took the blanket Tuck passed in. He’d gotten his plaid from Tuck, who’d kept it for him while he crashed the tournament, and tucked that around her as well, for extra warmth. The dyed cloth was thick and warm from the heat of Tuck’s fire, and she unconsciously snuggled against it, deriving comfort from the familiar scent that had steeped into Robin’s fheilidh. He let a hand linger for one second on her cheek, and then left the shelter.

“Ah’ll be back tae check on her soon, or Ah’ll send Much. Friar, d’ye—” Marian faded back into total unconsciousness, and was unaware of anything else for several hours.

* * *

“You ratted us out? To the Sheriff?” Much snarled at the hapless man, whose tunic collar was clenched in Much’s strong fists. No one but Robin had ever seen Much truly livid, but this was as close to the berserker-fury Much was capable of as anyone ever wanted to see—already the other outlaws looked on nervously.

The Sheriff was growing desperate indeed, if he was using innocents from Nottinghamshire to do his dirty work. Not that he hesitated in using innocents—he didn’t. He just wasn’t intelligent enough to do it properly. That he’d brought in someone else—the Prince, in this case—to do it for him, at his expense, was telling.

“He had me wife, Much! What did you want me to do? Leave ‘er with that devil the Prince hired? You’d’ve done the same, an’ you know it!” the innkeeper snarled back, guilt putting an edge to his words. Much, knowing that that was at least partially true, loosened his grip.

“I’m sorry, Jason, no, you did the right thing. The Prince hired? Who?”

“Guy o’ Gisbourne—you know, the devil from up North?”

“Oh, good Lord. What—exactly—did you tell him?” Much released him, and listened grimly to the innkeeper recount what he had told the sheriff and the prince.

“—an’ I couldn’t tell him where this place was—‘cause I didn’t know it t’was here until today—honest, Much. Bu’ I had ta tell ‘im about that old deer path—you know, the old one, northwest o’ here—t’wix here an’ Tuck’s chapel? That’s the one. I figure if’n you all stay away from that, you’ll be alright—”

It was not to be. Fear travels with the fastest wings, and the Sheriff had enough fear for an entire battalion of men facing the gallows. The Prince had also sent Guy’s men—enraged at the outlaws’ audacity in robbing him—Him! Nine men already closed in on Robin, who, ignorant of the danger, was on that exact deer trail—just where Jason had said the outlaw would be, and the last place Robin had ever expected them to be.

Even taken by surprise, Robin was a dangerous enemy. Three fell to his arrows in the first minute—another one down—before they were upon him. Rendered nearly weaponless, Robin fought tooth and nail, tiger-like, in an eerie silence that unnerved his attackers. He cursed the fact that the small sgian dubh was ineffective in combat with this many people—what he wouldn’t do for the dirk that was still in camp, hanging safely on one of the Great Oak’s many branches, at the moment. Two more were dead thanks to Robin before the sheer weight of numbers brought him to his knees. Fear for their lives prompted the soldiers hired by the Devil from the North to throw a constricting loop of rope around his throat and set about with truncheons.

Surely this man could not be human—no man held against nine; well, three, now; attackers for that long—and killed over a half of their number armed only with a bow and a few arrows and one short dagger who’s blade was no longer than a man’s palm. It was madness—or he was a demon in human form. Even then, Robin fought the ropes, struggling to his feet, with the light of battle blazing in his eyes. Finally, working together, they managed to subdue him enough for one of their number to strike him hard over the head and knock him unconscious. They all heaved a sigh of relief then, standing awkwardly around the unconscious body of the rouge who’d plagued the Sheriff of Nottinghamshire for nearly two years.

Prompted by Much’s gut feeling; Will, Much, Little John, and Marian—who, now awake, had insisted on coming when Much came to the chapel in search of his leader, despite Tuck’s protests and the pain in her shoulder—went out to look for Robin, who had yet to turn up in camp. He usually never went more than a few hours without checking in at Ard Darach—in the event that something calamitous happened.

He’d been gone for nearly a whole day without warning, having never gotten back from Tuck’s. They checked everywhere they could think of—except the deer path. Fruitless in all of the other locations, they set out on it, wary of attack. Half-way along it, six bodies littered the ground. Four had broken arrows imbedded in their chests, the darts having killed the men instantly.

The other two were less lucky. One’s neck had been snapped. The other’s body still had Robin’s tiny sgian dubh sunk hilt deep in his back, slid under the shoulder blade so that it pierced his heart from behind. The turf was mussed, and blood had soaked into it, staining the green and brown of the grass deep rusty red.

Most disturbing of all—Robin’s bow, broken in half in the struggle, lay forlornly on the ground, the string still new with the regular upkeep Robin gave it. The undergrowth, Will and Little John agreed, showed signs of several men passing through quickly, heading east—toward Nottingham.

* * *

Robin woke to a throbbing headache and a bruised body. His wrists were still bound securely behind his back, stretching the muscles in his shoulders almost to ripping. The outlaw instantly recognized his surroundings as a cell, having seen both the inside and out of plenty. There was no bed, merely a pile of moldy, foul-smelling hay. The privy was an empty, equally foul-smelling bucket standing in the corner—completely useless to him, with his hands bound and nearly numb. The only source of light was a tiny hole in the wall, above even his head-level, with iron bars running vertically across it. He could hear vermin scampering in the dark corners. The door was made of solid oak, bound and barred with iron. With difficulty, he struggled to his feet, using the wall to help support him while he sorted long, aching limbs out to achieve his goal. It was late afternoon, if the sun wasn’t deceiving him. A horrible thought occurred to him—what if they’d caught the others, or Marian and Tuck?

The door creaked open, and Robin whirled to face his captors. The Sheriff of Nottingham and Prince John stood before him, the first cowering behind the second. Another man, dressed in more militant clothing than either the Prince or the Sheriff, entered behind them. Robin recognized him as the man who’d tried to kill him at the ill-fated archery contest and got Marian instead. Now he realized who the gentleman was: Guy of Gisbourne, a northern lord’s second-born-son-turned-mercenary. Robin had never met the man, but if half the stories told were to be believed, than the black-haired man was dangerous indeed. The treacherous air about him and the cruel look in his strange silver-blue eyes meshed perfectly with the tales. Several burly guards wearing Gisbourne’s famous insignia—a wolf, rampant—also filed into the cell, forming a half circle around the soon-to-be beset outlaw.

As expected, the soldiers pounced on him simultaneously. It wasn’t long until he was, again, subdued and held forcibly to the ground, kneeling to the Prince against his will. Robin was breathless and panting shallowly for air—the guards were both large and strong, not to mention unencumbered by confining ropes; and he had taken at least two solid blows to the solar plexus. One of them grabbed his long red hair, jerking his head back painfully, so that the Prince could look at him.

“So, this is Robin Hood—the bane of loyal men of the realm like the Sheriff of Nottingham? Huh. There must be some mistake.” The Prince was rail thin, his face pinched and sallow beneath limp, sandy brown hair. His voice was whiny and unpleasant to listen to—the exact opposite of the man’s elder brother, Richard. “I see only a beaten Scots dog.”

Robin grinned, ignoring the fact that the blossoming bruise on his face made the insolent gesture painful. “Hark a’ the usurper playin’ at ‘is brother’s work, eh lads? Ye’re tough, aren’t ye, wit’ ‘alfa dozen man-jacks a’twix ye an’ me.”

A shriek of rage assaulted his ears, as well as a few muffed guffaws, which were hastily turned into coughs. The darkly dressed man behind the Prince didn’t react, his face remaining closed, though Guy’s eyes glittered with unholy amusement.

When John had composed himself, he seized Robin viciously by the hair, dragging his face up to hiss venomously at him.

“For that you will pay, outlaw, make no mistake. You shall hang, but not yet. No, I desire full compensation for my humiliation.”

Robin stared cheekily up at him, an offending grin egging the Prince on. “From wot Ah kin tell, ye dinna need mah 'elp tae embarrass ye. Ye do jus’ fine by yerself,” Robin assured him, hatred blazing up bright in his eyes.

To give credit where it was due, the Prince didn’t react to his words. He merely smiled coldly, his rage spent, and turned away from him.

“Seventy lashes to begin. If that doesn’t sweeten his disposition, do what you will.” He addressed the room at large, and Guy of Gisbourne finally stepped forward as Robin paled slightly.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” He said quietly, smiling slightly, looking down at Robin with a gleam in his eye that the Scot really didn’t like the look of.

“Oh, aye. An’ ye wonder why Ah dinna like ye, ye smarmy liddle bastard,” Robin remarked sardonically to the Prince’s retreating back, wondering uneasily if there was going to be enough left of his hide for them to bother with a hanging.

“Make it eighty lashes, Gisbourne.”

Hours later, Robin was flung back into the cell. A soft groan left him as the solid door slammed shut. He pushed himself up gingerly, fighting nausea and grimacing as the movement pulled at the newly acquired wounds had stretched across his chest in long fiery abrasions. The Scot stumbled over to the wall of the small cell, and collapsed against it, sliding down so that he sat propped up. Air hissed through his teeth—it hurt, every inch of his skin was on fire.

“Wheel, laddie, ye were askin’ fer it. Ach, damn,” he grimaced again as his elbow brushed his ragged tunic against the raw skin of his ribs. Pride, he decided, was one of the seven deadly sins for a reason—it could get you killed. But at least they hadn’t tied his hands.

Nearly three hours had passed when shouting drew his attention to the small window high above him. Guards ran past outside, their footsteps thudding, and there was the thud of a body hitting the ground. Robin sprang up—or, rather, hauled himself up painfully—and backed away to better see outside. One of the guards had fallen, dead, with one of Marian’s arrows embedded in his throat. Robin wasn’t sure what he wanted to do more at the moment—kiss her, or take her over his knee for endangering herself. She was wounded, damnit!

So, he remembered seconds later, was he. At least she was free—he could not claim the same. He gritted his teeth, and pulled himself up level with the tiny window, using the blocks of stone as toeholds where he could. He threaded an arm through, and braced it across both bars to hold himself up, before he reached through again with the other arm, to try and grab the tool that fell so nearby. The fletching brushed teasingly against his fingertips. He snarled a curse in Gaelic, and heaved forward. Clutching the shaft, he fell back, dragging it out of the body, and dropped back down to the floor. The landing jarred him, sending even more pain shooting through his already abused body. Through the throbbing waves of pain, he could hear people running toward the cell from inside the building. He crossed the room quickly, and stationed himself beside the door, so that when it opened, as he hoped it might, it would shield him from sight.

It opened a second later.

“He’s escaped! How the hell did that happen?” Guy of Gisbourne demanded of his two hapless men, bounding into the cell to search for escape routes. The soldiers stuttered something—Robin didn’t know what, he was already moving.

It was a toss up between who was more surprised when Robin’s tall frame collided with Guy’s shorter, broader one—Guy, or his two soldiers. The arrow bit deep into his chest, piercing his black heart. Guy staggered back, clutching at the thin length of wood that was embedded in his chest, staring in shock at the outlaw who had killed him.

“See ye in ‘ell, Gisbourne. Tell yer cursed master tha’ Ah said ‘ello,” Robin instructed in a rasp, right before he was grabbed and brought to his knees by the two men. Gisbourne slumped forward, eyes locked with his killer’s, dead before he even realized it. More shouting from outside told the Scot that the other outlaws had been chased away. The two mercenaries bound his hands again, and dragged him out of the cell where their dead leader lay. A blow to his stomach sent the wounded Scot into unconsciousness.

He wouldn’t learn that Will Scarlet had died that night, attempting to save him, until the next day when Prince John descended to the dungeons.