Robbin' the Rich

Sherwood Forest, England. Late November

Robin left the safety of the brush, wincing slightly as he had to twist to avoid a thorn bush and the movement pulled the strips Guy of Gisbourne had taken out of his hide, and his shoulder. They were nearly healed, but sudden movements still hurt a bit, and his shoulder still gave him trouble in the mornings and when the wind bit just right. He wanted to get back to Mapperley quickly—the King was planning to reveal their fates today, and Marian waited. The road was easier to walk on—the snow wasn’t so deep there, and he was close to Mapperley.

Th-thud. Th-thud. Th-thud. The Scot lifted his gaze at the sound of the horses that were fast approaching him, the thoughts of warmth and Marian pushed to the side as his inner alarm bells began going off.

“That the one that the Prince wants dead?” One of the riders called to his companions.

“Aye. Ain’t a lot o’ Scots ‘round here.”

Robin stiffened and drew his dirk—the long dagger was his only source of protection since his bow had been broken—and kept it hidden against his thigh. His fingers curled around the small horn he’d been given at the keep. There were about five riders, more than he could take on, hand to hand, at the moment. He glanced toward the forest beside him, but he wasn’t in any shape to lead them on a chase through the snowy woods, and the riders had more or less surrounded him. They were treating it as a joke or a hunt, calling insults and jeering.

Fortunately, they were armed with swords, which would be hard to wield so close to the trees—those he could deal with.

The outlaw waited until they started to dismount to give the horn a long blast, and then lunge forward to attack.

They said ‘the best defense was a good offense.’ Whoever ‘they’ were, Much had heard, and the gregarious Saxon had passed it on. ‘They’ should be shot, he thought irrelevantly. The best defense was not having enemies, and being prepared on top of that.

And he had been neither.

* * *

The horn’s blast had done its job. One of Mapperley’s sentries had heard and sent up an alert.

Marian and Much followed Little John as he followed the trail of disturbed snow and the occasional blood splatter. They were becoming more and more frequent, which worried the giant. The amount of blood on the road meant that whoever had attacked Robin hadn’t gotten away with it unscathed, but…

A flash of red caught his eye—Robin’s hair, more disheveled than usual.

It was all Marian could do not to faint—and she had never fainted in her life. Red of a more vital kind stained his clothing, his blood having flowed from the stab wound in his abdomen down his leg and soaked the soil beneath him. It had obviously slowed considerably, but hadn’t yet stopped. What was considerably worse was that whoever had stabbed him had dragged him into a goodly distance into Sherwood and tied him up—insuring his death, whether by blood-loss or exposure. Cords held him immobile, his wrists connected with the thick, low branches of two good-sized oaks. Robin was nearly unconscious, his brilliant blue eyes blank and dull. He was supported only by the bonds that held him prisoner; his knees weren’t touching the snowy ground, even though his legs had given out from under him. The Scot’s clothes were ripped and dirty and wet, his tartan torn to shreds in several places. His dirk had been thrown in the snow beside him—its blade red with blood that could have been his own.

Robin raised his head slightly when he heard them, a stuttered curse falling from his lips, but he would have been completely helpless to stop them, had they wished him further harm. Blood had trailed down from both his temple and the corner of his mouth, and a nasty bruise was quickly forming on one of his cheekbones and a small cut bled on the other.

Much dashed forward with a cry, pulling out a knife, to sever the ropes that held Robin. Little John pulled out his own, to cut the other. Robin could do nothing to save himself from the fall, but it mattered not—Marian caught him as his knees hit the bloodied snow, nearly collapsing under his weight. For one so slender, the Scot was surprisingly solid.

They carefully turned Robin over, letting Much look at the deep wound. Much’s jaw tightened more, and he had to shout at Robin to keep him awake, as he tried to staunch the blood that flowed with renewed force.

“Robin! Don’t you dare fall asleep on us, you stubborn bastard! Robin, damn you, open your goddamned eyes! This can’t kill you—it can’t! For the love of all that’s hold holy, open your damn eyes!”

The Scottish outlaw’s eyes flickered open, his gaze exhausted and glazed from excessive blood loss. He knew the danger of sleep, but his eyelids felt so heavy, his sight so blurry and unhelpful.

“Can you hear me?” Much demanded, not liking the effort it seemed to be for his friend to keep them from closing. “Who did this?”

“Aye, Much. Ah can hear ye.” Robin’s voice held none of its usual strength; instead, it was barely audible and pained. Much pressed his cloak against the wound, more or less stopping the blood that flowed. “Th’ Prince…sent men…”

“We have to get him back to Mapperley,” he muttered. “Robin, hold this still.” Much ordered sharply, trying to gauge how quickly they could move him. Robin nodded, and pressed the bloodied cloth against his side with all the force he could muster.

“Little John, can you carry him? He hasn’t the strength to stand, much less walk.”

Little John nodded, and hefted his leader carefully. A paroxysm of pain wracked through the man, making his pale skin go even whiter. His breath came in gasps, irregular and rapid, as though the knife had pierced his lungs instead of his belly.

Within ten minutes, they were back in sight of Mapperley. Robin was undoubtedly unconscious by now, though the tunic was still clenched tight against his side. Much was positively beside himself, muttering direly to himself, Little John was worried in his usual stoic, silent manner, and Marian was in a state of shock not far different from Robin’s. The day’s surprisingly good weather seemed almost mocking now, ironic that the world could continue so calmly around them while a good man died for another’s thirst for foolish revenge.

Friar Tuck was summoned immediately, a light-footed pageboy sent off at a sprint. The priest arrived at Robin’s chamber on the inside of a minute, muttering something about arrogant pages. He stopped dead when he saw the blood-drenched party in front of him, and all the color drained from his ruddy face when he got a second look at Robin, limp and pale in Little John’s arms.

“Robin! Good Lord! Put him on the bed, now!” He demanded hot water, bandages, sturdy thread, and a good needle; all of which were fetched. Little John was sent off, to change out of bloodied clothes and inform the remaining outlaws of their leader’s plight. Marian was almost similarly dislodged, but proved too stubborn to leave Robin’s side. Much paced outside, unable to watch Tuck sewing his friend up like a ripped tunic.

It took Tuck an hour, though it seemed indefinitely longer, to get Robin’s wound clean and stitch it up, a practice that made Marian wince every time the needle punctured his skin on either side of the wound that was killing him by inches, before he placed a poultice over it. Tuck took advantage of her determination, and employed her in supporting Robin’s upper body while he wrapped bandages around the outlaw’s lean waist. The Scot’s head lolled back and to the side; resting against Marian’s shoulder; and his skin was clammy to the touch, from the pain. His breathing was slightly easier now, although still a labored hiss of agony. She wondered how it could be possible, when only hours ago, the day before, they had made love in this very same bed, both of them healthy and whole?

Finally it was done. Tuck leaned back, a sigh passing his lips. Much burst into the room, half-mad with worry. At his back were the remaining outlaws that Robin had not sent away before the Sheriff had caught him. Little John, Gabe, Will, George, Maud, Anthony, Allen and his wife, Anne; and Much made up all of what had once been Robin’s band. They all came pouring into the small chamber behind the short man.

“Tuck—will he—?” Much couldn’t bring himself to finish what he had begun to say. The good friar stood.

“If he lives out the night, I believe he’ll make it. He has the best chance of any one of us…Has anyone informed the King?”

“They have.” His deep voice came from the doorway. The outlaws melted out of the way, letting him pass to the bed. Richard the Lionheart stood tall next to the bed where Robin Hood lay unconscious. The blond man stared down at the Scot, whose loyalty had stood even in outlawry. Tuck quietly shooed the other outlaws out, recognizing the need for privacy.

Only Marian stayed behind, despite her blood-covered clothing, braving the King’s potential wrath. To her surprise, the Norman ruler turned to her with a small smile.

“Did Robin ever tell you that he and Much saved my life?” He inquired, almost gently.

“In Palestine, Your Majesty?”

“Aye,” he agreed, the term falling off his tongue almost awkwardly. “That was the time. What did he say about it?” Richard’s voice was deep and thoughtful.

“Not much, Highness. Only that anyone would have done it, put in that position.” Marian watched her monarch gaze at Robin. There was no way to read what he was thinking by watching his face. He laughed softly.

“Did he now? That sounds like him. His grandfather’s influence, no doubt.” Marian didn’t quite know how to answer that, and stayed silent.

“No, I have my doubts that anyone else would have done what he did.” Richard spoke again suddenly, returning to the earlier topic. “Robin is an …extraordinary man, as you’ve no doubt discovered. I like to consider myself his ally, if not his friend.” There was an odd glitter in the king’s eye when he said this. “And since when have you called me by my title, niece? I’m still your uncle, am I not?” he grinned slightly and shook his head at her shock.

“Ah, well. Be sure to keep him warm, now, and we shall all pray that the Lord does not see fit to relieve us of him just yet.” With that, the Lionheart turned and left the room, leaving in his wake a very confused Marian. Taking her uncle’s last words to heart, she pulled up the blanket, covering Robin’s bare torso. Then Marian started to pray.

* * *

Robin’s fever had not yet broken, and it was going on a fourth day. If this continued, Tuck had said, gently as possible, Robin would die. Marian was terrified that if she left him for even a few minutes, he’d finally slip away. Friar Tuck had Much or Sir Richard bring her trays of food when he didn’t do it himself, which Marian barely touched, eating only enough to keep from passing out from hunger. She slept in snatches, in the chair at Robin’s bedside, despite the worried looks Much, Tuck, and the others sent her when they came.

The Scot sweated and shivered alternatively, and was oftener delirious than not, though she could rarely understand the few things he mumbled. He spoke to Livonia, or he spoke in Gaelic. She watched in alarm as his slender frame became even thinner, having ingested nothing more than weak broth and water.

Her own appearance was disheveled and drawn. She was pale and her eyes often glittered with unshed tears. Robin lay quietly, damp with the perspiration that covered him in a thin sheen. Taking a cloth than had been soaking in cool water, she rung it out and wiped it over his face. With a soft groan, Robin turned away; the most response she’d had from him in over thirty-six hours. Barely daring to hope, she called his name.

“Robin?”

He groaned again, and then returned to stillness.

“Can you hear me? Wake up! Oh, God, Robin, don’t do this to me. You have to wake up!” She shook him by the shoulders gently, desperately trying to make him open his eyes.

Why did Marian sound angry? Or was it sad? Robin couldn’t seem to clear his head of the wool that seemed to have gathered there well enough to make the distinction. What was he doing, that she didn’t want him to? Was she angry at him, then? Why?

God, but he was tired. He couldn’t remember ever being this tired. The tiredness was dragging on him, pulling him towards the easy darkness that waited.

But what did Marian want…?

“Robin—Robin, please open your eyes. You have to live. I’ll never forgive you if you give up! Robin, open your eyes! If not for me, then for Much and the others.” The tears had finally broken the dam, and, sobbing, she begged and pleaded with him. When that failed, she wheedled and then demanded. There was no reaction from the wounded King of Sherwood.

Marian sat back down, and let her hands fall forward into her hands. She didn’t bother to rein in the despair that flooded her. He was usually so strong, so— alive. Now, Robin was pale and unmoving—dying.