Robbin' the Rich

England, 1194—under the rule of Richard the Lionheart’s regent, Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine and the heir apparent, Prince John Landless. Early April.

“They never will learn to look up, will they?” A tall, broad-shouldered Saxon muttered to his companion as they waited in England’s broad-branched oaks, early spring foliage beginning to turn the woods to emerald green.

“Nay, Wee Johnny, hope tha’ they dinna learn. T’would make life so much mor’ difficul’,” the other man said, gazing down on the carriage that was slowly making its way toward their hiding place. He smirked just a little as the carriage rolled beneath them.

“Alright, Liddle John. As planned, aye?”

“Aye, as planned,” Little John replied.

Little John slipped silently from his tree, and planted himself firmly in the middle of the road. Accordingly, the carriage slowed to a crawl, then a stop before him.

Little John betrayed his name, seeming almost as tall as the oaks around him, and in some cases, twice as thick. Muscles that had been formed young working in a tavern years ago had become even harder and leaner while in the company of the dreaded Robin Hood of Sherwood, making the man look like a small mountain. The coachman took one look at the giant before him and fell over himself in an effort to desert the carriage, knowing full-well the usual fate of defiant servants at the hands of outlaws. There was always work to be found—but if one such as he stayed, it might become decidedly more difficult to locate vital parts of his anatomy.

Robin landed on the roof of the richly decorated coach, producing a thump that caused shouts of alarm from inside, and watched the servant run before his attention turned back to the rich nobs inside the carriage. A head poked nervously out of the door. Robin smiled as he leaned down over the edge, and leapt lightly to the ground.

“Good day tae ye, mah bonnie lairds. Yer lookin’ well this fine mornin’—‘ealthy, an’ prosperous, Ah’d say.”

His appearance caused the three men inside the carriage to go quite pale—they knew trouble when it looked them in the face and grinned like that.

“Ah—Ah—our thanks—” the boldest stuttered. The display of courage raised him slightly in Robin’s standards—they were a nervous bunch, these Normans, and didn’t take well to being waylaid. Few managed to be coherent.

“As today is sich a won’erful pretty morn’, an’ as ye do look so verra prosperous, would ye be willin’, say, tae contribute tae a just cause?”

“N-no, I-I’m afraid we don’t have—” the luckless gentleman’s wavering voice trailed off into indecision. While inspecting his herds, he had once seen in the eyes of a wolf the same ruthlessness he saw now in the Scot’s eyes. Nothing would stop the bandit, as nothing had stopped the wolf as the creature took the fattest ewe in his herd right before his eyes.

“Ah see. Well, Ah must say, tha’ is mos’ unfortunate, ye see, fer mah friend here—” Robin gestured to Little John, who had joined him in looming over the gentlemen, “—has nay a lot o’ patience with tightfisted people. Am Ah right, Liddle John?”

“You are at that, Robin.”

They bantered back and forth in a similar fashion for some moments. With every word that the outlaws uttered the three noblemen looked increasingly stricken, until they quite willingly surrendered their valuables. Such was often the case when Robin and Little John laid the intimidation-tactics they favored on thickly enough.

So the day was won, as Robin preferred it, without a drop of blood spilt.

The outlaws walked away from that encounter with full purses, brimming with coin enough to bring tears to the Normans’ eyes. They would be traveling until dusk, at least, to get back to Ard Darach, their camp—Robin had a policy never to strike too close to home, lest they be followed.

They never expected to have the King’s foresters—stout men sworn to the protection and upkeep of the forest—set upon them, with the Sheriff’s men in tow.

* * *

“Wanted, Ded or A live: the ooutlaw, Robyn Hud.
Reward oferred.”

She ripped down the ill-written, sketchless notice demanding the capture of Robin Hood. Foolish, she thought. Few of the Saxons in Nottingham or anywhere in the Midlands knew how to read, much less the French or Latin that the signs were written in. The posters had been posted in every village within four days walk of Sherwood Forest, since no one knew where the villain was hiding with the woodland. It boasted of a grand reward, two hundred shillings to anyone with Robin’s whereabouts or news that would lead to the marauder’s arrest. The outlaw had aggravated the Sheriff for nearly a year round now, and if one believed the popular stories, had slain the Sheriff’s brother, the equally odious Magistrate…crimes that he would, no doubt, pay for with his life.

But the people of Nottinghamshire had great affection for anyone who could tweak the long nose of the Sheriff who controlled their lives. This was largely why he’d been so unsuccessful in his hunt for the man. Robin Hood had the loyalty of all of the Saxon folks, and only a few of the villagers knew the forest well enough to even guess at his whereabouts. Fewer still would actually recognize the man himself, or the members of his band of outlaws.

Marian sighed, crumpling the parchment into a tiny ball, and climbed the stairs of the inn where she worked. The innkeeper—a kind man, and great supporter of this Robin Hood fellow—had asked her to wake one of his guests before the noon-bell tolled. A late-comer, he’d said. Apparently a late-riser, as well.

Still, she was more than willing to oblige. Marian was lucky to have found someone willing to hire her, for her former life had been decidedly softer, and she was unskilled (being the niece of the King of England, she had had no real experience with menial chores). Nonetheless, she had a strong back and no interest in a convent just yet. Running away from the loveless marriage to a disreputable lout had been a poor choice, but the alternative…

Suffice to say that she’d been lucky to escape it, she thought, and determinedly put it from her mind. These little trips into the past did no more than depress her, so they would stop, here and now.

Arriving at her destination, she knocked on the door of the correct room, just as a crash resounded from below. Loud voices reached her ears, coming from the common room. She knocked harder in the sudden din, before turning the knob impatiently.

‘Probably sleeping off too much ale…’ she thought dourly, her brief experience enough to know that men couldn’t seem to imbibe without overindulging.

Allowing her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light of the curtained room, she glanced curiously at its occupant. The man inside was a young Scot, or possibly Irish; in his mid to late twenties, she figured. His fiery red hair fell past his shoulders in a long, tangled wave, and he was in the act of tying it up in a ponytail, obviously to keep it out of his face, though the Medusa strands of burnished copper kept rebelliously escaping the leather tie he bound it back with. Marian spared a moment to envy that hair before her gaze moved on to his narrow, fine-boned face. His eyes were a pale blue, the shade of a summer sky; his build lean and muscled from a life of hard work. He also, she noted with considerably more approval, didn’t appear to be battling the aftereffects of copious amounts of alcohol.

The man was obviously well awake, and threw her a startled look when she opened the door. At the sight of Marian, who could most definitely be deemed unthreatening, he relaxed…somewhat.

The noises from downstairs got louder. His eyes narrowed at the sounds, and he waved her forward.

“Shu’ the door, lass, won’ ye?” A heavy Scottish burr gave his speech a charming drawl and settled the question of his origin. A tunic slipped down over his head, hiding bandages that had been white once, before the rusty color of blood had begun to stain the fabric. She complied, closing the door, but remaining nervously by it, astounded by the sheer charisma this stranger exuded—her heart was beating much faster than its normal measured pace and he’d barely spoken six words to her!

He seemed impossibly tall, even simply sitting on a cot in a tiny private room not much bigger than a monk’s cell in a monastery and far too strong for his slender build. The fact that his features bore a wild sort of beauty was not lost on her either, now that she had taken a moment to study them. High, ice-sharp cheekbones resided in a narrow, tapering face with a blade-edged nose that miraculously appeared never to have been broken and a well-shaped mouth. Fierce eyes, direct and at the moment, amused, beneath slashing brows the same fire color of his hair, the same fire color of the light stubble that roughed his chin. He was a ‘look-twice’ man, as the other barmaids would say.

Paying Marian little mind, the man’s head disappeared and reappeared from under a brown-dyed tunic, which he smoothed down a long torso, easing the wrinkles away. His woolen hose were next, donned discreetly under the length of the tunic and pulled taut to his waist with a few sharp tugs. Glancing down to locate his boots, he finally spared her a look.
“Ah dinna bite, ye ken . Ye’ve naught tae fear from me,” he told her, sitting down again to rapidly ease on well-worn boots—and casually slipping a small dagger into the side of one of them, ready if he needed it. Once again, he rose from the bed, unfolding to a full six feet in height, and pulled a blue, green, and yellow length of cloth, draped over a wide belt, and tugged it around his waist. Another wide leather belt, this one beautifully tanned and tooled went on, cinched tight enough to keep the tunic tamed and the kilt settled nicely. A large pouch hung from it, filled with whatever he deemed important enough to warrant keeping close. The remaining cloth he gathered neatly and drew across his back and over his shoulder to act as a half-cloak, tucked easily into the belt to keep it still. After a moment, he added a third belt, narrower and as beautiful as the one before it, with a long sheathed dagger and a small pouch for coin hanging close at hand.

All of the man’s clothes were shades of brown and green and grey, woodland shades, save the faint yellow and blue stripes in his tartan. And even if they were worn now, all had been well-crafted, the fabric fine and expensive, as befitted a man who carried himself so nobly. A gold ring with a simple-looking signet gleamed dully on his right hand—his family’s crest or something of the sort, she was sure. Perhaps he was a favored by-blow of some influential Scottish clan, or a third son traveling alone.

Marian had to look up now to meet his eyes, even with the distance between them. Booted feet pounded up the creaking stairs, with the clear jingle of chain mail, distracting her briefly.
What are soldiers doing in the inn? She wondered.

A hand flashed past her, barring the door. Marian suddenly found herself a lot closer to the large Scot, nearly pressed against his chest. He grinned unapologetically, slipping the same arm around her waist, and pulling her away from the door, just as someone banged ferociously on it. Marian froze, from both the sudden noise and the physical contact with this very masculine man.

“Surrender now, outlaw! We know you’re in there!” a tough, loud man’s voice shouted through the door. Her eyes widened at him, and his grin turned wolfish.

“Ah. Yon Sheriff’s men ‘ave finally found me.” He released her, crossing the small room with a single stride. “Took ‘em long enough.”

He grabbed a long bow and a quiver of goose-fletched arrows, which had been standing unobtrusively in a corner near the bed. These were slung over his broad shoulders with the ease of long practice. The pounding on the door increased—the Sheriff’s men were going to break it down. The Scot flung open the window—forcing it as wide open as possible.
“Lass, come ‘ere,” he said, as the door took the beating of its life. She hesitated, for one second too long.

The barricade splintered, and the door was starting to come apart. There was a shout, and she was dragged toward the window, before being seized around the waist again. The Scot set one booted foot on the sill and leapt out the opening, an arm around her middle, pressing her against him. Marian was too surprised even to scream, despite the story-long drop, and managed only a stifled squeak. They landed hard, the outlaw taking her weight with a muffled grunt. He rolled them both back to their feet at once and took off into the cover of the forest.

It was fortunate that the inn stood nigh on the edge of the forest, because the fiendish outlaw dragged her there bodily, half carrying her. After what felt like a horrid eternity, he dropped Marian, concealing them both in a thicket. It was only then that she had regained her composure enough to act upon her kidnapping. The sound of her hand striking his face was muted by the surrounding foliage.

The man gaped at her for a moment, too startled to be angry. The mark on his cheek was almost the color of his hair when he finally reacted.

“Wot was tha’ fer?” he hissed, as soldiers passed them, shouting.

“You just kidnapped me! You’ve lost me my job!” she hissed back, before he pushed her farther down into the underbrush. Another group of soldiers crashed past, closer this time.

“If there were aught Ah could do aboot tha’, lass, rest assured, Ah would,” he retorted sharply, mouth pressed close to Marian’s ear so that she had to suppress a shiver. “Ye’ll forgive me if Ah take ye back tae the camp regardless, as ye’re naow an accomplice. Or did ye want tae deal wit’ the Sheriff by yerself?”

She merely turned and glowered at him with the best look of aristocratic contempt she could muster in such a position. He, unfortunately, seemed completely unimpressed by it.