Robbin' the Rich

Sherwood Forest, England. Mid-September

“Robin! Robin!” Isaac burst into camp, making everyone freeze.

The Scot’s head snapped up, his attention immediately torn from the picture for a hypothetical addition to the camp he’d been studying in the dust at his feet.

“Aye? Wot is it?” He demanded, disliking the look of panic on Isaac’s face. His hand was already going to his bow.

“Sir Richard—he’s in trouble!”

Sir Richard of the Lea was the last Saxon lord with any real power in the area. Something of a hero to the peasants, Robin and Much had played on his lands as children, and had known him well enough.

“What’s his son done this time?” Much asked, concern on his face. Sir Richard’s son was infamous in these parts for being a total bounder, though where he got the trait nobody knew—both his parents had been kind to the point of saintliness. They said his mother had died from the shame of it, and his father was forever getting him out of scrapes, only for the cad to create more problems.

There was certainly no love lost behind Berkley and them. Robin knew that Much bore a scar on his head from the bastard’s crop, and he himself had had his own ears cuffed more than once without reason.

“He’s killed a man, a Norman this time. Richard’s already mortgaged most of his properties to pay off his lesser sins—and the Sheriff’s dog in calling in his mortgages now, when he can’t pay.”

Much cursed, and Robin looked grimly angry. “Ana idea ‘ow much he owes ‘em, or when they’ll be collectin’?”

Isaac shook his head. “No, but it shouldn’t be too difficult to find out. Everyone’s talking about it in Nottingham.”

“Git the highest estimate ye can. We’ll go from there.” Robin decided, scowling as he considered this new development in the farce that was his life.

By the time everyone who wasn’t on watch, wasn’t asleep, or otherwise engaged were at the fire, taking the evening meal, Robin had resigned himself to the day being a bad one. Nothing had gone right: Sir Richard was in trouble, with no plausible rescue in sight; Marian was nursing a grudge from the debacle last night; and his sixth sense was working overtime, making him nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking-chairs.

Furious rustling erupted in the bushes, startling all of them. Robin’s bow was up, and an arrow drawn before anyone else’s—though he signaled that no one should fire yet. The Sheriff was in for a surprise if he thought the outlaws were unprepared to defend themselves.

The rattling bushes couldn’t hide the sounds of two people arguing, though, and it didn’t sound like any kind of attack Robin had ever been a part of. Frowning, he listened harder.

Scowling, he identified the source. “Liddle John, if ye and Gabe dinna leave off tha’ noise, Ah’ll shoot ye both, Ah swear tae God.” The Scot promised, letting his bow relax, trying to will away the tension in the back of his neck where it had been collecting all day. No luck. To spite him, the tension simply tightened further, and moved to pound at his temples.

There was silence for a moment, than Gabe burst from the brush, and stumbled. Robin, who stood closest to where she came out, caught her before she fell. Gabe was clutching her tunic at her collarbones, as though afraid someone would try to take it from her.

“You can’t make me leave!” Wild grey eyes met Robin’s blue ones. “You can’t make me leave! I won’t go!” Gabe told him insistently, not fighting the Scot’s grip on her shoulders but concentrating all of her not inconsiderable will into the words. Little John followed his young student out of the bushes.

“Easy, leanabh. Ah’ve no’ asked ye tae leave, ‘ave Ah?” Robin asked soothingly. “Liddle John, wot’s going on here?” He inquired, looking over at the giant. The other outlaws were crowding around, trying to see what the matter was.

“Gabriella!” Marian cried, her surprise evident when she saw Gabe for the first time since Gabe’s arrival in Robin’s camp. Other surprised murmurings sprouted from that exclamation, and they crowded even closer.

“Whoa, wait—evraone sit daown! Go, sit daown, an’ we’ll sort this oot like adults,” Robin finally commanded, sick and tired of the disorder. People crowding around him often had that effect—it unnerved him, having that many people so close to him. Thankfully, the outlaws did as he asked, and returned to their seats around the fire, Little John included. Robin led Gabe over the fire, his arm around her shoulders, and seated her, before taking his own seat.

“Naow. Ah want the whole story. Liddle John, ye’ll go first.” He directed, noticing the faint trembling that had overtaken Gabe. Whatever was wrong, the lass wasn’t taking it well. He squeezed her shoulder lightly, to comfort, and released her.

Little John nodded, and briefly thought about the best way to say what he needed to say.

“Well, I made an interesting discovery today,” The giant said, gazing at his protégé oddly, trying to force some lightness into his gruff voice. “Our young friend there is a not a boy, as we were led to believe, but a young woman.”

“Ah see.” Robin searched Little John’s face, and saw that his ears were burning red with embarrassment. “May Ah ask ‘ow you discovered this?”

“Her camisole slipped.”

Robin nodded, unsurprised by the revelation. Secrets like this rarely chose opportune moments to be discovered. The Scot doubted the giant was very angry—startled, shocked, embarrassed—but not particularly angry. He looked at Gabe, who was staring anxiously at the ground, as though answers would spring from the dirt. She didn’t look up when Marian moved to the seat beside her and tried to comfort her, but leaned against her, let herself be comforted. It was becoming clear that they had indeed known each other in their old life.

“’Tis oot in the open naow, lass, so ye kin relax. Wot were ye runnin’ from, Gabe—should Ah call ye Gabriella?” She shook her head, indicating that she didn’t want to be called that. She rushed into speech, her sentences as nervous as her eyes.

“My father sold me to a Norman—Sir Giles of Fairbrook—my brother agreed—I was given no choice—Fairbrook is a toad—I couldn’t stand the idea of marriage to him—”

“Slow daown, there, lassie. Ah kin barely understand ye,” Robin requested gently. “Giles o’ Fairbrook? Ah’m no’ familiar wit’ tha’ name.”

“I know him. He’s of the Sheriff’s ilk,” Little John said, steel in his voice at the thought of Gabe—Gabriella forced to be with the man.

“I know him too,” Marian said, though she wouldn’t look at Robin. “He is worse than the Sheriff, if the truth is to be told. He is cruel, lecherous, and unwise. Pond scum has more honor than that man. But he is rich, and Norman, so he is considered a catch by noble fathers and mothers.”

The Scot frowned, his eyebrows beetling over iced-over eyes. “Fairbrook…Did ‘e ‘ave a son—or a nephew—called Barret?” Robin’s voice was odd when he asked. Much’s head flew up to look at him in alarm. Marian looked up, seeking Robin’s eyes for some clue as to what he was thinking, to make his voice so cold.

“Yes—but he died several years ago, after he—”

“—Deserted th’ Lionheart. Aye, Ah ken. Did ‘e die, then?” Robin asked, his eyes narrowed at the memories.

Marian nodded. “A—a riding accident, in Normandy.” She was slightly worried at the look on his face—she didn’t think she’d ever seen his eyes that hard before. But then he relaxed, and turned back to Gabe.

Much nearly chuckled. So, Robin did force Fairbrook out. He’d always wondered if that was the case. The bastard deserved it, and worse.

“So ye were tae marry Fairbrook. Ye ran away tae avoid it…an’ found us. But why’d ye hide yerself as a boy? T’is obvious we take in women, too. Why not come as yerself?” Robin asked curiously. He glanced at Little John, who was still listening intently. The others in the band were nearly spellbound by the shock of the discovery. A few of them were wondering why their leader looked so calm—surely…he hadn’t…known?

“Would any of you have treated me like an equal if I had? Robin, you might have—might have—but you, Little John, would you have taught me the things you have if you’d known? Marian is special—she always been like a sister to me, but if I tried to get away with half the things she did…Maud and Anne don’t wield bows! They do not fight, or hunt, or go with you on raids!” Gabe snarled, her fierce gaze going from Little John to Robin and back.

“I’m sick to death of being treated like an inferior being, simply because I’m a woman! Am I not a human? Do I not think, or have feelings, or—or—” her voice broke, her grey eyes going tortured, tears beginning to form in them.

“Ye’ve a point, lass. Dinna cry, naow,” the Scot murmured, wishing he had a handkerchief. Maud handed over hers. Gabe clutched it, scrubbing away the offensive tears.

“Little John, would ye have taught her wot ye have?” The Scot inquired levelly, now that the danger of tears was past.

The giant shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t have taught her like I have.” I’d have taught her to aim lower, and hit harder.

Gabe’s eyes narrowed. “If you try to make me leave, I’ll knock you flat,” she promised Robin with a hard light in her grey eyes. His eyebrows shot up at the threat.

“She probably could, Robin,” Little John murmured. “I’ve been teaching her to deal with larger opponents.”

“Ah know better than tae touch an angry female,” he muttered back. “Much, ye remember when Maud near aboot took off mah ears wit’ the boxin’ she gave ‘em fer sneakin’ up on her, dinna ye? T’was the closest Ah’ve got tae a whippin’ since Ah was a bairn,” he confided, grinning sheepishly at Gabe, though the grin turned into a grimace. “Gabe, Maud pulled a bow ‘til an accident aboot two years ago—”

“And I’ve been very happy doing the cooking and making sure you fools are fed,” Maud interjected. “If I didn’t do it, one of these lugs would, and we’d all starve—especially if Robin cooked!” the older lady smiled too, in Gabe’s direction, ignoring the scowl she knew without needing to see was on Robin’s face. “It’s no hardship, believe me. I like doing the cooking, and clucking over you all. You’re all my family.” Gabe blinked and was silent.

“Anne is learnin’, ye know tha’. Marian an’ Much ‘ave been teachin’ ‘er an’ Allen fer a fortnight,” Robin picked up again, an indignant look on his face. “An’ mah cookin’s no tha’ bad—t’is no’ mah fault ye sassanach dinna like colcannon. Ah’ve always liked it.

“Anaway—” The outlaw’s leader tried to salvage the conversation. “Ye dinna ‘ave tae leave, alright?” Gabe nodded. “Good. Liddle John, d’ye ‘ave ana objections?” He asked mildly. The giant shook his head. “Anaone else want tae say something?” He looked around briefly, almost daring someone to speak up. No one did.

“Gud. Naow, then. Tomorrow, ye can go an’ reconnoiter Sir Richard’s place. Ah need some idea o’ defensible places in case the Sheriff be more prepared than we’re expectin’.”

“Yes. I can try to find out the prices as well—I’ll take Gabe so that we pass off as a lord’s man and his assistant.” He would need Gabe, Robin knew, as Little John couldn’t read or write well enough to do so alone.

Robin nodded his consent, sealing Gabe’s fate.

* * *

Had Little John been serious when he offered to take her with him? Or did he intend to leave her at camp anyway, to keep her out of the way? Little John was difficult to understand…even with the added advantage of having spent so much time in his company, Gabriella wasn’t sure what to expect from the large outlaw. Did he suspect her feelings for him? She cursed—for the hundredth time—the circumstance that had revealed her. Why couldn’t that tunic have ripped some other time? Why had the bindings she used on her breasts slipped then?

And what had Robin meant—its out in the open now? Had he known? But…but how? And if he had known, why didn’t he say something? He was odd, Robin was.

But how had he known?

Pushing the bothersome thoughts away, Gabe—she far preferred this Gabe person to the person she’d been as Gabriella: weak, female, and refused the right to make her own decisions—descended from the Great Oak. She was going with Little John if she had to fight rabid bears…they couldn’t be worse than Little John, could they?

Gabe was a girl—well, a young woman, actually. Little John was relieved, though he’d never admit it, except, perhaps, to himself. He was still rather stunned by his discovery. His ward was female. It explained some things, at least. For instance: he’d never been interested in a boy before, and it had confused him to have started now. He knew things about Gabe…Gabriella…that he wouldn’t have bothered to learn about most women. Her strengths, and weaknesses. The way she thought. The way she looked at almost any time of the day and night, the way she smelled, the way she fought. He knew more about Gabriella then he’d known about his wife. But obviously not enough—because he was a she. He wasn’t sure whether to feel betrayed, impressed, or grateful.

She really was seventeen, too; which only put fourteen years between them—perfectly acceptable in this day and age, for him to be having the thoughts that he sometimes did. And now that she was growing her hair out of that horrible self-cut disaster, she was looking more feminine. In another month or so, he would have guessed with or without The Accident. But damn, she was so skinny…he’d have to ask Maud to make sure Gabe—Gabriella—was eating enough. Again.

Robin didn’t look up when Gabe joined him at the fire before the break of dawn. He handed her a rough-hewn wooden cup of the herbal infusion that Maud claimed was a cure-all preventive—it helped the outlaws stay warm, he would admit that much. Little John appeared moments later, and was presented with his own cup. They were a quiet bunch in the mornings; the three of them were the earliest risers in camp, save those on watch. Robin highly doubted Gabe had gotten any sleep at all—worrying, no doubt, about the others’ reactions—in the branches below his, where she’d taken refuge last night, despite the cold of the night. The glances she kept sending him and Little John confirmed that in a heartbeat. He could just see the questions forming in her mind—how had he known? Why hadn’t he told anyone? Would Little John still teach her? Would she still be accepted? What would happen?

Little John stood, as uncommunicative as always, when he’d finished, and Gabe shot up beside him, obviously worried about being left behind.

“We’ll be back by evening, if all goes well.” Little John assured the Scotsman, who nodded, rather amused by the pair of them. It was obvious to an observer than Gabe was more than half in love with Little John—and the other half was most definitely hero-worship. Little John, for all his silence, and the massive black beard that obscured most of his face clearly adored Gabe, or he’d never have let her follow him around like an enthralled puppy. He was simply subtler about it.

“Be careful, ye two. Ah mean it,” he warned. “Ah know ye know, Liddle John, but the Sheriff is goin’ tae try tae use this as a trap. Dinna git caught, alright?”

Little John nodded mutely, and Gabe murmured her consent, before they both left Robin looking after them, chuckling quietly. He wished them luck and happiness, all the luck and happiness he would have wished on a brother, and a sister. And wondered when the wedding was going to be.

* * *

Robin glanced around the castle’s courtyard. People loitered, some more obviously than others. There was a vibe of tension in the air, as though even the stones that made up the great building were waiting, watching. It wasn’t a comfortable environment—all it was missing were bagpipes wailing a war song to justify the nervous energy floating around them. That aside, the castle was in excellent repair, the servants and serfs healthy and well-dressed. Sir Richard had always been a good master. Obviously, that had not changed since Robin went to Scotland all those years ago.

This was going to be interesting. Very interesting, as Much so kindly pointed out. Sir Richard had taken the news of the called-in mortgaging fairly badly, locking himself in his room, trying to think of some way to put everything to rights. The good man hadn’t eaten for two days, nor, the servants thought, slept. A shadow of the man pacing his floor had been seen from the courtyard, confirming these theories. The Sheriff and his little friend—a weaselly man called Charles Gannon—had already entered the castle when Robin and his outlaws were let in by the servants that Little John and Gabe had spoken to.

“You’d be m’lord Robin Hood?” an elderly, toothless man inquired of Robin, his faded green eyes running over Robin. Good eyes, he decided, studying the cold, steady blue. There was justice here, in the young Scots warrior that stood before him and in the eyes of the men and woman at his back.

“Aye, Ah’m Robin. Is everythin’ all set up?”

“Aye. I’ve got at least one man fer every one o’ his. Two fer the bigger ones. We’d need three or four fer your Little John, I think, sir, so I judged accordin’ly. D’you think you’ve got enough ta buy it all back from the Sheriff’s dog?” The elderly man—who had introduced himself as Old Tommy—asked worriedly.

“Dinna worry, mah friend. We doubled the highest estimate—near aboot beggared a dozen nobs doin’ it, tae. We’ve enough, Ah promise ye.”

Old Tommy led them through the castle—they passed several bunches of concerned-looking servants that littered the halls—until they reached the Great Hall of Daerdenell. Robin signaled that no announcement was to be made—arrogance and surprise were their best weapons at the moment.

True to their word, the outlaws sauntered in, seemingly completely at ease, as though they already owned the place. They spread out, each one picking a place where they could get either the Sheriff or Gannon in their sights. The guards lurched forward, and then froze as they realized that there were arrows pointed to their master’s throats, and their own. There were enough of the outlaws to hold all of them prisoner, and still leave Robin, Little John, Much, and Will Scarlet standing before them. The villagers that lurked only further insured that the outlaws would win any battle fought here.

“Mornin’,” Robin greeted, stepping forward. “Ah hope we’re nay tae late tae join the party?”

The Sheriff spluttered something inarticulate, and Gannon looked worried. Sir Richard looked vaguely confused, like he heard a voice he’d known once, before his eyes widened in recognition of his unannounced guest.

“Ah’m given tae understand tha’ Sir Richard ‘ere has mortgaged ’is properties. Ah hear tha’ ye, Lor’ Gannon, are the ’older?”

The rodent-like man nodded, almost against his will. The Sheriff scowled at him. Robin smiled, a distinctly condescending—if not downright insulting—twitch of his lips.

“Th’ mortgages are, o’ course, available tae anaone at the moment, aye?” Again, Gannon nodded helplessly—caught in the subtle trap Robin had laid with voice and eyes, like a weasel before a fox. “Tha’s gud. If ye dinna mind, then, mah friend’s an’ Ah would like tae buy it from ye.”

At their leader’s nod, the outlaws stepped forward and up-ended four heavy purses onto the table, where they spilled gold, silver, and jewels. The outlaws would laugh about the Sheriff’s facial expression for a very long time, though for the moment, they kept their faces straight.

“Ah believe tha’ the deeds belong tae me naow, tae do with what Ah will. Isna tha’ right, Sir Richard?”

The old man jumped, still staring at Robin in stunned recognition. “Uh—yes, um. That appears to be nearly double the price of the properties.”

“Wouldna ye agree, mah good sirs? Mah offer is a far betta one then ye get from good Sir Richard, with ‘is sudden, unfortunate… ah… decline in wealth.”

“This—this is an expensive ring that was stolen from me nearly a year ago!” the Sheriff snarled, snatching up a simply engraved gold ring and brandishing it like a sword. The ring’s worth had little to do with the money it itself could bring, and everything to do with power.

“Ah, bu' sir,” Robin stepped forward and pulled it from the Sheriff’s resisting fingers, “Tha’ could’na possibly be true. Ye see, this be the family crest o’ a verra old Saxon family—the Loxleys. Ah ‘appen tae know tha’ the heir tae tha’ family would neva give up ‘is inheritance unless it ‘twas fer a good cause. Unless yer sayin’ tha’ ye…stole it from ‘im?”

The Sheriff spluttered something inarticulate again before falling silent, and Robin picked up the deed, putting the ring gently back on the pile of gold. “Ah’ll take these then. It ‘twas lovely doin’ business with ye, gen’lemen. Ah’m sure tha’ one o’ Sir Richard’s servants can show ye oot—he’ll remain in power ‘ere. Mah friends an’ Ah prefer a simpler life amongst bonnie Sherwood’s trees.”

Robin smiled mockingly, as though inviting the Sheriff to argue. Moving stiffly, the man shoved the gold back into the bags, and grabbed two.

“Come along, Gannon—let us leave the new owners to themselves. I’m sure we will see them again soon!” He snarled again, and the other man took the other two purses and both were led away by a jubilant servant, followed by his soldiers, who eased away from the arrows at their throats. Robin watched them go with a look of distinct satisfaction.

“Robin?” An astonished voice inquired. The Scot turned back to Sir Richard. “Robin Loxley?”
The old man studied his face with weakening blue eyes. “It is you! How—why—but Robin Hood? Robin, you troublemaker!” Richard scolded, abruptly unable to stop chuckling, rising and embracing the tall Scot tightly, as he would a son returned. Marian could have sworn she saw tears glittering in his eyes.

“I thought you went to Scotland!” He looked around, and spotted Much, smiled all the wider. “And you’ve dragged Much into your villainy too. Bless you, boys.”

Robin grinned. “Nay, bless ye, Sir Richard. ‘Ere,” he handed Sir Richard the deeds. “Dinna lose these. ‘Twould be a shame tae lose the last Saxon laird in these parts.”

Surprise jumped to Richard’s face, then transformed into obstinacy. “Robin, these are yours now—by law. I can’t—won’t—take them.” The Saxon lord tried to push them back into his hands. “How many of your properties have you liquidated to do this?”

“Nay, nay, Sir Richard. Ah dinna want them. Ah’ve no’ spent a penny o’ mah own—they were reverted tae the Crown when Ah went tae Scotland, fifteen years ago.” Robin pushed the papers that claimed ownership of Daerdenell Castle back at him, and stepped away. “We shouldna ‘ave even come—there’s little enough gud tae come o’ an ootlaw’s ‘elp, after all—but Ah couldna think o’ ought else tae keep wot’s yers in yer ‘ands. So ’tis yers, mah friend, naow an’ forever.”

Richard thanked him, profusely. “If you or yours ever need a friend, Robin, come to me. You will, won’t you?” he asked anxiously. “And your lands—what have you done about them?”

“O’course Ah’d come tae ye, Sir Richard. Ye’ll be the first Ah come tae should the need strike.” Robin quietly drew him away from the topic of discussion from his properties.

The fact that they’d been stolen made a dark rage smolder within him impotently. What could he do? The Sheriff and his late brother had expertly stolen—legally stolen—Arborlea, the traditional home of the Loxley family, when he had learned the orphaned Loxley heir had gone to Scotland, to be raised by his mother’s family. He had, in fact, been forced to take the ring of his family from the hand of a dead man. Now it would sit again in another's hands, the brother of the man he'd taken it back from.

But it mattered not, not anymore. It was impossible to do anything now. He had included his crest in with the rest of the gold, had bribed the Sheriff into accepting the money and leaving by offering a far larger prize. And he had lost the only piece of proof that he was heir, except for his name. The knowledge of it cut like a knife, straight through his heart. He pushed aside the pain. He had bigger things to worry about.

“Excellent. Will you introduce me to your friends? I would thank them as well.”

Robin nodded, and started. “This is John Liddle—Liddle John, ye may know ‘im as. ‘e was ‘ere a few days ago. Much, ye know. Will Scarlet—though ‘e’s more green an’ brown right naow—Gabe, ye know as well, Isaac, George, Robert,” The Scot pointed out each in turn as Sir Richard nodded in greeting.

“And tha’s Marian,” he concluded, coming to the beautiful woman. Richard blinked in surprise, recognizing her immediately, now that he looked through her disguise of men’s clothing and a hat, her hair tucked up beneath it.

“Lady Marian has found her way to your court, then. My dear,” he addressed her, “You’ve become the talk of the court in London. No one knows where you are.”
She smiled—a secret smile that made Robin suck in a hasty breath of air. “Good. That’s just how I like it.”
Loxley’s not a Scottish name. What properties? She was curious. Just who is Robin? She had noticed the strange scene with the ring—and that Robin’s long hands were now devoid of any gold.

“Sir Richard, Ah would like nothin’ more than tae continue this visit, but Ah find mahself anxious tae return tae Sherwood. Ah wouldna put it past our Sheriff tae try somethin’ untoward. If ye eva have ana interest in treasonous venison an’ coarse bread, tho’, ye know where tae find us,” the Scot invited him with a wry grin.

Richard laughed. “If I ever do, I will walk into your Sherwood and get as lost as possible, waiting to be set upon by your subjects. The villagers call you the King of Sherwood, you know,” he teased him, answering the questioning glance, and knowing he would get a wince for it. When he did, he laughed, and pumped the Scot’s hand vigorously. “Until we meet again, Robin. God bless you, and stay safe, my friend!”