Robbin' the Rich

Sherwood Forest, England. Late August.

“A lad, ye say?” The outlaws’ leader asked Much and Little John. He’d just walked up, and heard them speculating. “Where?”

“About three-quarters of a mile southeast. Heading this way,” Much added thoughtfully.

Robin scowled. “Wot’s the look o’ him?”

“Frustrated, put-upon, and tired. From what I can tell, though, he’s an honest-lookin’ lad.” Much was good at reading people, so Robin took his word on it.

He turned to the giant beside him, tilting his head up. “Liddle John? Wot say ye?”

“I say we go and greet the boy, and find out his intentions.”

Robin nodded his agreement. Anyone who stumbled their way this close to Ard Darach was definitely dangerous, and quite possibly useful.

“I’ll bring food,” Much proposed. “The boy looks half-starved.”

The Scottish outlaw sighed. “Dinna they always? A’right, Ah’ll go an’ take a look. Nay ana need tae invite trouble.”

He shook his head bemusedly when they also slung on quivers and lifted their bows.

“D’ye think tha’ Ah’ll no’ be able tae deal wit’ a lad ‘alf me own size, then?” The outlaw asked dryly.

Much looked at him indignantly. “I’ll be coming so that you don’t send him on his way a’fore he’s managed to say a word.”

One of Robin’s eyebrows arched with a mildly irritated curiosity. “Oh, aye? Is tha’ all?” The Scot shook his head in exasperation.

“An’ ye?” he inquired of Little John.

“I come to observe, and if need be, toss the lad in a stream to cool his temper.”

“That makes it all the more prudent that I accompany you, then,” Much declared righteously. “When Little John tosses him in, I’ll be there to fish him out and explain that not all of us have these queer inclinations to throw folk in water.”

The Scot sighed again, looking weary. He was exhausted, hungry, gritty with dust from the road and was in no mood to deal with someone who apparently had the same complaints, and presented a security threat. “Nothin’ Ah say will stop ye, will it?”

They simply shook their heads in response.

“Ah was afraid o’ tha’.

They intercepted the boy, coming from a point to the right of where the camp actually lay. The lad held a truly enormous bow, one that nearly matched Robin’s in size. The boy tensed, knuckles standing out white against the wood, though he didn’t move to draw an arrow. He shifted, his thin, gawky body leaning away as though to flee. His face, on the other hand, was defiant, daring them to try and send him away.

“Good morrow, friend! Come you in peace?” Much called, letting his companions observe what he’d seen earlier on his watch: the coltish body, with the stolen Norman clothes that bagged on it, hair that seemed to have seen the wrong end of a pair of sheep shears recently, the gigantic bow that had also probably been stolen, and the half-terrified, half-hopeful expression on his face. Another run-away noble, Robin mused, if his lily-pale skin and straight posture meant anything, though one far less prepared than Marian had been.

That bothered him—one runaway was plenty. Two was asking for trouble.

“In peace, if you be Saxon. Are you?” He demanded, eyeing Robin doubtfully, eyes lingering on the plaid tartan, the red hair, and the facial structure that marked him a Scot.

“Aye, or close enough. Are ye? Ah canna tell, wit’ yon clothes. There’s nay a proper Saxon housewife who cut yon blouse fer ye in this area, Ah’ll wager. Naeone aroound ‘ere has the extra cloth tae waste.”

The lad flushed angrily and glared at the Scot. “I’m Saxon—more Saxon than you, I’m sure!”

Robin shrugged, obviously unaffected by the accusatory words. “Per’aps, lad, per’aps no’. But Ah’m no’ the one in stolen Norman clothes.” He drew the sgian dubh from the sheath in his boot and offered it to him. “’ere—take care o’ yer seams while we provide the meal.” The outlaws pulled out bread, venison, and the last of the previous year’s cider. A loud rip and a satisfied sigh were greeted with chuckles, while the extra cloth went a long way to being formed into a makeshift belt that only accented the lad’s scrawny frame. The dagger was returned to its owner and the food shared.

“What brings you so far into Sherwood, lad?” Much inquired.

The boy’s grey eyes flashed. “I don’t see what business of it is of yours.”

The outlaws’ leader hid a grin. “Wheel, ye are eatin’ our food an’ sharing’ our comp’ny…” he drawled, drawing a perverse amusement from teasing the boy. Robin admired the lad’s pluck, or his impertinence, though it was getting damned annoying trying to get him to tell them anything.

The boy stopped eating immediately at his words.

“Eat, boy, before Much eats the rest. He eats enough for three to keep that mouth of his going,” Little John admonished. The lad obviously hadn’t eaten in the last day or so, and the outlaws ate little of what they’d brought, insuring that he would get the lion’s share. It wouldn’t do for the poor boy to pass out from hunger.

“I do not! I don’t eat nearly as much as you, Little John! I say you eat for three—that is why you are so confoundedly large!”

“Much and Little John?” The boy inquired softly, as though speaking to himself. “Those are some of the names I seek…”

No’ a lack-wit, this one. Robin thought with mild satisfaction. He had no use for a dull-witted runaway Norman, if he was going to take in a second one. And it did appear that he was going to be taking this stripling with the too-big clothes in.

“I begin to think it is you I shall dunk, Much, to save my ears,” the giant retorted.

“I offer my assistance, sir Little John,” The lad put forward with a grin. “My ears, too, grow weary.”

Much puffed out his chest. “You little fiend! Did no one teach you to respect your elders?”
They could all tell he wasn’t angry. There was too much good humor in his eyes for anger.

“Enough, Much, a’fore Ah decide tae help ‘em dunk ye. Ah’ll dunk ye, an’ hold ye under, mind, since ye hurt mah ears tae. Back tae our young friend ‘ere.” Robin redirected their attention deftly, in a far better humor than he’d been in earlier.

“If he is Much, and he is Little John…” the boy started, nodding to the appropriate outlaw in turn, “Then you must be members of the famous Robin Hood’s band.” He leapt to his feet again. “That means you,” he stared at Robin, “are another.”

Robin shrugged, neither denying nor accepting. “Per’aps. Ah’m still waitin’ for yore name, lad.” The lad paled alarmingly, grey eyes going wide. “A name, laddie. Somethin’ tae call ye, tha’s all,” Robin clarified quickly, as reluctant to see the lad faint at his feet in fear as he had been to see him collapse with hunger.

“Gabri—el.” The boy’s face lit up suddenly. “Gabriel. Call me Gabe.”

Robin inclined his head, deciding to ignore the lad’s hesitation. “Gabe, then.” The Scot indicated the unfinished food. “Sit doawn, lad. Finish yore meal. Yore tae young tae be missin’ meals.”

“I am not!” Gabe remained standing, a look of righteous fury settling on his face. “My skill will speak for itself—my age is of no consequence!”

There was a long, considering pause as the outlaws regarded him, and the redundancy of what he had just said, as a blush crept stealthily up his thin neck.

“Thirteen,” Little John concluded. “And hungry with it.”

“Nah…twelve.” Much said. “A starving twelve.”

Robin looked at the strong-looking, well-developed hands that gripped the bow, the refined bones in the face. “Fifteen a’ the most,” he allowed grudgingly. “An’ prolly goin’ tae eat us oot o’ hearth an’ home.”

“I’m seventeen!” He cried in indignation, “That’s it—Stand! I’ll prove my worth! Pick a target!”

The Scot rose to his feet slowly, with a sigh. If it would quiet the lad once and for all… He gestured to a tree a fair distance away that had a knot in the trunk that was large enough to use as a target. “Will tha’ do?”

Gabe growled something unintelligible, and pulled an arrow from the quiver on his back. He shifted several times, making sure his posture was perfect before he finally brought up the bow and loosed the arrow. The arrow flew straight, hitting the knot a bit to the left. It was a surprisingly good shot, especially considering the bow’s size in comparison to its owner. Even Gabe was surprised by the accuracy of the shot, his jaw dropping open with shock.

“T’was a good hit, lad,” Robin praised him, figuring that he might be able to pull the bow twice more before his arms gave out on him. The Scottish outlaw drew an arrow from his own quiver, and with a fluid movement, had drawn the bow and sent the arrow flying. It thumped into the tree barely two centimeters from Gabe’s arrow, hitting dead center.

“Naow kin we eat in peace? Ye’ve nothin’ tae dispute anamore, have ye?” Robin inquired, before bounding over the stream and loping easily to the tree. He returned moments later with the two arrows, giving them a cursory look-over for any damage. Gabe gawked at him, awe and horror on his thin face. He nearly flinched when Robin raised an inquiring eyebrow at him, and dropped his gaze to the leaf-carpeted floor.

“I thank you for the food, gentlemen. I’m afraid I should take my leave now,” he said miserably, addressing his shoes—and shoes they were, a Norman gentlemen’s, stolen and as ill-fitting as the rest.

Robin’s eyebrows shot up. “Why should ye do tha’?” he inquired.

“I lost,” the boy replied, bringing his head up to look the outlaw in the eye. “You’re him, aren’t you? Robin Hood.”

Behind them, Much gave a snort of laughter.

“If you truly thought that you faced Robin, you knew that you wouldn’t win,” the short outlaw said, making the lad blush crimson in embarrassment.

“I thought he was Will Scarlet,” Gabe admitted in a tiny voice. “At first at least. His hair…” he trailed off miserably, while Much laughed even harder. Even Little John had cracked a smile. This wasn’t the first time the Scot had been mistaken for Will.

“Ye shot well, considerin’ tha’ bow is three times tae big fer ye.” Robin said, sending Much a quelling look. “Enough, Much. Ye’ve made yore point. Aye, mah hair’s red an’ the lad made a mistake—nay reason tae give yourself over tae a fit. Lad,” he turned back to Gabe with a slow grin “we call ‘im ‘Scarlet’ ‘cause ‘e came tae us wearin’ a red tunic, an’ no’ one o’ us caught ‘im a’fore ‘e was right atop o’ us.”

He let that sink in, and glanced at the sky, gauging the amount of daylight they had left.

“Naow, le’s away. Maud’ll welcome the chance tae put some meat on the lad’s bones. Quietly, if ye kin,” he muttered, when Gabe promptly snapped a twig in two with an echoing snap. “Yon Sheriff does ‘ave aspirations for our ‘eads ona platter, if ‘e kin get ‘em.”

* * *

Back at the camp, Maud did indeed welcome the chance to feed Gabe, tut-tutting over his skinny body and deftly herding the other outlaws out of her way, rather like a mother cat with her kittens. Much chuckled at Gabe’s obvious discomfort, and assured him that he would get used to it.

Gabe was put to shifting dirt almost immediately, widening the burrow-like sleeping quarters to make room for himself. Robin and several others were called away to rob a Baron St. Clair—a more unpleasant gentleman none of them had dealt with for quite some time. They returned late in the afternoon, straggling in at different times, depending on which route they had taken to return home. Dinnertime was fast approaching when Robin finally called Gabe away from his digging, to join the rest of the gang at the fire.

He joined them hesitantly, silent from exhaustion, but accepted the food eagerly, and nearly bolted it. A soft hiss left him when a chunk of rough, dark bread bread came in contact with the raw blisters on his hands, ones that every outlaw could sympathize with.

He looked nervous, Robin noted, as he watched the newest member of the band, like he could leap ten feet any way at any moment. Not a bad thing, certainly—he was an outlaw, and in the company of outlaws—but he was going to exhaust himself that way. He would need mellowing, certainly.

The last few of the outlaws that had been with Robin on the day’s raid straggled in then, dirty and travel-worn, Marian among them.

“What did we miss? Is there any food left?” Anthony inquired.

“I heard that we gained a new member,” Marian put in, settling herself in a nook between tree and boulder. “Where is he? Or is it she?”

Robin looked toward Gabe, prepared to perform introductions, only to discover that the lad had thrown himself bodily for the bushes seconds before. “Wheel, he was here jus’ a moment ago. Ah suppose ye’ll have tae meet Gabe later. It seems tha’ our food an’ ‘is digestion dinna like one another. Poor lad.”

“Gabe?” Marian inquired, a frown on her face, her voice odd.

Robin shot her a questioning look. “Aye. Gabriel. ‘e didna give me a las’ name. No’ more than a stripling, an’ nob a’ tha’. Why?”

Marian shook her head. “No, it’s nothing. There must be hundreds of Gabriels in England—makes sense that one would find us eventually.”

Robin shrugged, wondering why she cared. An old acquaintance, maybe? “Ah suppose. Liddle John, when our young friend emerges, tell ‘im ye’ll be takin’ him huntin’. ‘E can’na dig for a day or two a’ least, ‘is hands need tae heal.”

“The tender skin of the gentry, born and raised,” Much remarked to Little John. “It should be interesting, breaking in a nob fresh from the nursery.”

“There’s a fresh herd daown near the crossroads—see if the lad kin shoot a movin’ target,” Robin continued, ignoring Much blithely as he wolfed the rest of his dinner, before standing to go on watch. “An’ fer Chris’sake, git ‘im a smaller bow.”