Robbin' the Rich

Sherwood Forest, 1194. Early April. Late evening.

They made very good time, despite frequent escape attempts and the stunning lack of woods-craft she displayed, tripping over every fallen branch and stumbling through every briar. Marian decided quite soon she had absolutely no interest in being kidnapped by an outlaw, especially if it was this uncomfortable. Finally, the Scot hefted her roughly over his shoulder, the one opposite his bow and quiver. He was remarkably cheerful ten minutes later despite the extra burden he was carrying. Perversely, her ongoing tirade seemed to amuse him.

“Yelling’ll do naught but bring foresters daown ‘pon us, Lady, and Ah would prefer tha’ didna happen.”

“You’re insufferable!”

She hit his back with her closed fist, lacking the leverage to do any real damage. His words may have been truthful, but they were said in a jesting tone, so she was quite convinced he was confident the foresters could do nothing to help her anyway.

“Lady, tha’s another thing Ah’d prefer ye’d stop. Ah’m bruised enough withoot yer attentions. An’ Ah ken Ah’m insufferable. ‘ow d’ye think Ah got tae be so gud a’ it?”

He pushed his way through yet another thicket, somehow dodging all of the branches that would have gladly smacked him—or her—in the face, and the thorns that reached for cloth and skin alike. Emerging on the other side, he paused, as though studying something. Curious, she wriggled until she could turn enough to see what he was examining—nothing more than a pile of boulders resembling a fallen cliff face and the massive oak tree they framed.

But the image was deceptive, as Marian learned upon closer inspection. The alcove was surprisingly defensible, sheltered on all but one side by the rocks, and the briars she and her captor had just struggled through blocked the rest of the way. A stream meandered nearby, with a fallen tree forming a natural bridge across it. Growing around and in some places through the boulders was the gigantic oak tree, one that ten men stretched fingertip to fingertip wouldn’t have reached around. Its limbs were thicker then she, and many times stronger as they spread a passable roof over the nature-made fortress. It looked like a faerie general’s keep.

The protection of the rocks allowed for a semi-permanent fire ring, around which a group of bandits gathered.

Marian and her captor had arrived back at the outlaws’ shelter just before sundown, apparently at the thieves’ suppertime. At the hearthside Marian could hear low chatter coming from the outlaws who lounged around it, eating and relaxing, bickering playfully amongst themselves. There were weapons, kept close at hand, but the air of ease about them told her the outlaws were assured of their safety in their haven of wood and stone

“Robin’s back,” someone remarked.
Marian felt a jolt in the region of her stomach. Robin? As in…‘Robin Hood’? This—this ass is Robin Hood?

“And what’s this he’s brought back with him? Robin, you’ve brung us a tavern wench?”

Marian couldn’t see this Robin’s face, but she doubted it was amused, because he nearly dropped her as he let her down.

“She was in the wrong place a’ the wrong time, Much, tha’s all.” There was frost in Robin’s retort, which made Marian’s eyebrows rise—what was his problem? She had been the one who’d been kidnapped.

Much was a short wiry man, cheerful in appearance, and definitely Saxon. Riotous light-brown hair curled nearly to eyelevel and his bright hazel eyes shone with merriment. He seemed to have brushed off the unfriendly remark from his leader easily, which went a long way to proving her theory. Much turned to her, a welcoming grin very much in evidence.

“Don’t mind Robin, there. He’s always a bit peevish when he’s hungry. I’m sure you are as well. Hungry, I mean. I doubt you could match our Robin in peevishness.”

Marian didn’t get a chance to answer, because her stomach did it for her. She flushed crimson at the noise that emanated from her midsection.

“You were out late, Robin,” a female voice remarked, and it took Marian a moment to find the speaker. She was a slim woman, with pale blond hair hewn short, clad in men’s clothes.

Older than me, Marian thought as she looked at the woman. Maybe thirty.

“Maud’s blind,” Much muttered beside her—he had seen where her eye had wandered. “So try not to sneak up on her. The last time that happened, Will nearly lost an ear, and Robin before him.”

Marian nodded uncertainly, and made sure to remember that before continuing her observations. Now that she looked, there was at least one other woman there besides Maud, though this one wore a skirt beneath a huge tunic.

“Ah was delayed goin’ through taown while leadin’ the Normans ona bonnie chase, Maud, tha’s all,” Robin sat near the fire, pulling off his weapons, and laying them down nearby, to get comfortable. The action pulled his tunic up and the tartan aside, revealing a few inches of rust colored bandage.

“Robin, you’ve been injured.”

It wasn’t Much who remarked upon it, but another man. He was tall, a bit shorter in height than Robin, with dark hair and equally dark eyes. “Tuck’ll have your scalp—he just finished patching George up.”

“Thank ye, Will, Ah hadna’ noticed,” he said dryly. “’Tis naught but a scratch, anaway.” His voice remained droll as he accepted a slab of bread with a bit of venison on it. “Jason—the innkeep o’ the Flagon an’ Prayer—insisted ‘e bandage me up, tho’.”

He was about a second away from biting it when Much snatched it out of his hand, placing it instead in Marian’s, startling her. The Scot’s teeth closed on air, a startled, irritated expression flashing across his face when he realized what the shorter man had done.

“Robin, you cad. The lady eats first. Have you no manners at all?” Much teased.

“Much, ye said yerself that Ah was in nay fit mood fer being played wit’. What makes ye think tha’s changed in the minute since ye said it?” he growled, pale eyes narrowed at Much, then glancing at his stolen dinner. Sheepishly, Marian offered it back to him, but he shrugged.

“Nah. Eat it, lass. Tomorrow ye start working for it; earnin’ yore keep, if ye will. There be nae’one here tha’ doesn’t. Which reminds me…’ave we got room fer…?” he blinked, realizing he didn’t have her name, and turned his attention back on her. “Lady, we need a name tae call ye by.”

“Marian.” Her voice barely wobbled with the suppressed anger at her grudging welcome, but that was all she could trust herself to say without bringing attention to it.

Earning my keep? The keep I didn’t particularly wish to earn? She ate what she’d been given, because she was hungry, and she had had naught a bite all day, but she fumed.

“…fer Marian, in the sleeping quar’ers?” He finished his question, an eyebrow raised at the gathered company.

“We’re out of blankets, for now,” the other of the women spoke up, handing Robin a replacement for his stolen dinner, which he thanked her for.

“Ah thought we ‘ad a’ least three more?” He looked surprised. She imagined that didn’t happen often. He didn’t seem the type to leave his people without proper necessities.

“Nay, the last family took one with them, and the other two are more hole than blanket.” This came from a huge man with a dark beard that hadn’t spoken previously. Marian blinked at him, wondering why she hadn’t noticed this giant long before—good God, he was nearly as tall as she was, and he was sitting on the ground!

“Hellfire an’ damnation. Thank ye, Liddle John,” Robin muttered distractedly, before looking toward one of the many shadowy corners of the camp.

“Anthony.” He stood, and addressed a heavy shouldered man with a short beard who had just materialized from the direction in which Robin had been staring.

The man looked up with surprise—he hadn’t thought anyone had seen him come in. But then, he allowed, it was Robin—who seemed to always know who was coming and going. The Scot was canny like that.

“Aye, Robin?”

“D’ye feel up tae taown tamorrow?” The red-haired man inquired. “There be things tae barter for—blankets, flour, an’ some others.”

Anthony nodded. “I’ll go early, an’ pick up more thread, too.”

Robin nodded the affirmative. “Good. We’ve coin enough naow.” That done, he sank back onto the tree root he’d perched on with a sigh.

‘Coin taken from innocent travelers, no doubt.’ Marian thought uncharitably, assuming correctly. The coin from the last hit was already safely buried in the cache where they stored their winnings, waiting to be distributed to the poor folk of the area, with a little kept by to be used for the outlaw’s provisions.

“Anaway. Do we ‘ave the room?”

“Wait just a moment here!” Marian hadn’t realized that she’d spoken until everyone was staring right at her, and then she noticed as well that she’d leapt to her feet. A hectic flush lit her cheeks, but it wasn’t enough to deter her from shouting – softly, in deference to obvious need for concealment.

“I don’t know what the usual custom for—for abducting tavern wenches is, but I assure you, I will not simply stay put! And certainly not with common thieves!”

The outlaws stared at her for a moment, as she had stared at them earlier, in stunned silence.

“The way Ah see it, Lady, ye’ve no choice at the moment,” Robin answered her outburst with a distinct bite in his voice, watching her blandly from where he remained sitting. “But as t’is mah fault tha’ ye were abducted; rest assured tha’ ye’ll be returned in gud order—once yon bonnie Sheriff’s ire cools some, methinks. Does none o’ us any good tae keep ye here against yore will, maid Marian, but Ah’d rather ye dinna inform ‘im o’ mah folk’s whereaboots. So ye’ll patien’ly wait n’til Ah can find a new camp, or ye’ll no’ go t’all.”

Marian almost gaped at his audacity. How dare he? she raged silently, objecting to the assumption that she would tell the Sheriff anything about anyone—and to the threat of prolonged confinement.

“It ’twill do ye nay good tae gawp a’ me like tha’. Much, since ye seem so accustomed tae dealin’ wit’ lassies an’ their manners, ye can keep an eye on ‘er.”

With that, Robin obviously dismissed her , turning his attention back to his sandwich. Much shrugged his agreement to the offhand order, wondering just what had put Robin in so foul a mood all of a sudden. People called them ‘thieves’ all the time—they were thieves. Generally, the Scot was more accepting of the fact.

“If you like, Robin. Where’ll she sleep, though?” he asked hesitantly. Much wasn’t afraid of his leader, but Robin was his friend from childhood, and that friendship had deep roots in mutual respect and several months in Palestine together. He didn’t dislike seeing Robin put so off-balance by a woman—it was probably good for the solemn man. But it did put him in a hellish mood, which the outlaws would be required to put up with.

“She can use mah blanket an’ pallet, if she likes. Ah’ve interest in findin’ a tree for mahself tonight anaway,” he returned, his tone nearly a snarl, standing and turning his smoldering eyes to Marian once more.

“Lassie, as fer bein’ thieves, ‘tis true enough. If ye dinna like it, t’is yer problem. But yer stayin’, regardless.”

His voice was scathing now, throwing her tone of voice back at her, pound for ounce. She had touched a nerve. Or three.

Then, as quickly as the fire had flared, he had it banked again. Blue eyes were frozen now, instead of burning; he turned to his second in command.

“Much, Ah’ll take yer watch so ye can settle her in.” Half-eaten sandwich in hand, he slung the quiver on again with the other and strode back out of the small clearing, bow tucked under his arm.

“What’s peeved ‘im so badly?” Will wondered aloud, staring after his leader with a surprised look on his face. Robin’s temper was infamous, but it generally took a bit of doing to provoke it.

“Mm. What indeed?” Little John joined Much in looking thoughtfully at Marian. Much shrugged off his speculative mood first.

“Well, anyway. Welcome to Ard Darach, Marian. That means ‘Great Oak’, by the way—not the most creative of monikers, but it’s our humble home.”

* * *

He heard the thumps even before he had entered the house. Puzzled, he walked in, and was met with a strangled cry that sent him into the second room of the tiny cottage at a full run. The local magistrate was covering his mother, so that she could barely be seen, every jerk of his huge body bringing another sob from her. Bruises covered her pale skin, already starting to rise in purple and blue smudges, and blood dripped from her split lip. Her dress was torn, the skirt pooling limply on the bed around her. Robin bounded forward with a snarled obscenity, uncertain even as he moved as to what he would do—could do.

It made no difference. The magistrate was a large man, and easily threw the boy off, so that Robin slammed into the thin wall with a resounding crack. Robin scrambled up again, to repeat the useless gesture, but the man had finished, and only spit casually in his direction, a sneer on his loutish face, before strolling out the cottage door. Shaking his head to dispel dizziness, the eight-year-old stumbled over to his sobbing mother.

It came as a shock when she slapped him away—not because she had never hit him before, lightly, deservedly, for some bit of naughtiness; but because of the utter terror on her face when she did it this time—and scrambled to huddle against the headboard in an effort to stay away from him. It would be hours before he would be able to get a word from her.

Now he was back in Palestine, years of relative happiness in between blurring together meaninglessly. Images flashed past him: Livonia, the little Muslim girl who’d helped her mother wash the army’s linens and clothes. He’d promised Livonia’s mother he would protect her—Barret of Fairbrook had made short work of that promise. She’d been barely fifteen, only three years younger than he at the time. Two minutes earlier, and he could have helped her, but he had been too late. She was worthless now, her mother had screamed in her broken mix of Latin and Arabic, no proper man would take her precious daughter as a bride now that she had been soiled by the English barbarians… He had at least been able to force Barret to desert the army—shaming him forever in the eyes of family and country so that he would never again leave Normandy, or touch another woman out of turn.

“This is your fault!” the damning words echoed in a myriad of different voices, chasing him from sleep.