Sherwood Forest

The noon sun filtered through the leaves like spotted water, warming the world just enough that a night's cloak was left in Robyn the Hood's meager dwelling at the edge of the bandit's camp. So peaceful was the air of that day that one less thoughtful might have gladly left behind their bow, as well. But Robyn had at least looped that, along with a fresh quiver of arrows, over her shoulders before she had disappeared from the outlaw's dwelling place.

A long and successful night should have led to a late morning, but Robyn had awoken early and agitated. She had a distinct feeling in the back of her mind that something of great import was going to happen today--other than the latest recruits receiving a thorough welcoming process from the older hats. Maybe it was the slight smell of rain upon the wind. Maybe it was the carriage she could hear approaching on the nearest path.

Robyn grinned a bit and slunk through the shadows of the trees until she had found a sturdy oak, which she quickly scaled with all the agility of a particularly graceful squirrel. When she was at one of the higher branches--within leaping distance of another tree leading deep into the forest, but with a fine vantage point of the path--Robyn grew still, and clung to the side of the trunk until she blended like a missing piece.

Perhaps it was just travelers. Perhaps it was a new member for the court. Perhaps it was more soldiers to supplement the king's personal army. But nothing passed through the forest without Robyn Hood's silent permission.

This day would be warm, Sir Martin of Essex thought absently as he led his small group through the worn pathway of Sherwood Forest. Trees, glorious English trees, it had been too long since he’d seen his homeland; nearly five years now to be precise, two of which had been in captivity. The crusades had been nothing like what he had been told. There were no glorious battle in the name of Christ and the church, it had been a campaign of bloody murder, rape and pillaging in the name of lining the pockets of the lords they were to fight under. He’d seen unspeakable things done in the holy lands, on both sides, and found he had distaste for the whole business. Indeed, Martin was looking forward to returning to his farm manor, once he’d firmly established at court that he was indeed alive, as would be customary, not to mention wise. A lot could change in five years, and cut off as he’d been, Sir Martin didn’t know nearly how much.

“Milord-?” Lillian asked, walking on the other side of the horse carrying his ward that Martin was leading through the forest.

“Sir Martin.” He corrected in a tone that suggested habit. “I am not your Lord, you have sworn no oaths, nor do I ask for any.”

“Milord?” Lillian began again, ignoring Martin’s dismissal once again.

“Yes Lillian.” Martin replied sighing. He was tired of trying to argue with the head strong young woman who insisted to him and anyone else they met that she was his servant. Many men might be envious of a pretty young wench jumping to serve his needs, but to be frank, he greatly disliked people waiting on him. He liked working with his hands, doing things for himself, and it made him greatly uncomfortable being around such devoted attention that to him seemed to border on worship. Good God, you’d think the woman had mistaken him for St. Paul!

“I’ve heard rumors of this forest. Do you think the tales of ghostly bandits are true?” Lillian ask, looking around the thick forest with a kind of awe.

“I could not tell you Lillian.” Martin replied simply. “I have not been to Nottingham in many years. Should we be attacked however I believe our would be thieves will be in for more than they bargained for, and little reward for their efforts.” Martin assured the young woman, having heard none of the rumors she referred to, and mistaking her line of questioning for anxiety. It was not a boast either, simply fact. Martin had already dealt with several would be bandits along their way to England, and defeated everyone in turn. He had no reason to believe a thief in the forest would be any different. Still, Martin held a sharper gaze towards the surrounding forest, and a steady hand near his sword.

“You’re not too chilled Zahra?” Sir Martin asked his ward. He knew the woman disliked him for taking her from the holy lands, but he had sworn to her father he would keep her from danger and protect her, and his estate in England was were he could best do that.

Robyn listened to the talk of the small group so far below. At least one woman and one man, who had addressed a third member whose name told Robyn nothing.

And so it was a returning gentleman and his servants, perhaps with a noble cousin accompanying him. But no, a noble would not have so small a retinue, particularly not when traipsing about in bandit-infested forests. They had wizened up from that pride years ago.

Still, a returning member of court might bring with them news from the outside world; news that normally only the king and his traveling soldiers would be privy to. And Robyn simply adored new information; she wasn't picky about how relevant it was to the cause, so long as it was something she hadn't known before.

Acknowledging that the man's boasts of his own capabilities might be founded in something other than the prettiness of his companion, and knowing too that it was a tad early for her to be returning to the camp with wounds enough to send Cadfael into a fit, Robyn decided to take a gentler route in approaching the strangers. She scurried back down to the forest floor, making no more sound than the wind itself, and slipped through the shaded bushed until she was a good dozen or so yards ahead of the travelers. With the time she had until they caught up to her position on the path, Robyn stowed her bow and quiver next to a faithful rock, and shrugged, and bunched, and wrinkled and twisted her clothing until it resembled not the careful outfit of a forest outlaw, but the uneasy, desperate cloak of a blind begger. She quickly rolled about in the moss and dirt, tugged her fletching gloves down over her fingers so the young flesh couldn't be seen, and then retrieved an old fallen branch to be her crutch.

With ample time before the travelers found her, Robyn slipped onto the path and began picking her way along it. Her hood his the majority of her face, and a thin cloth covered her eyes so that when she bent her head, the light would strike it enough to grant her secret vision. The shadow of her hood would do the rest to hide her youthful face.

As their footsteps caught up to her ears, Robyn began muttering in the croaking voice of one either aged or sickly. "Nevermore, nevermore, nevermore..."

As the small group traveled along the path, it was soon made aware to all of them they were no longer alone. Martin’s hand instinctively went to is blade, before slacking back into a relaxed position. Perhaps it had been Lillian’s talk of bandits that had made him overcautious, but now he could see it was only a blind old beggar, traveling through the forest; no threat to any in his party. Still, it struck him odd, not to mention dangerous, that a blind old beggar would travel alone through the forest, especially if there truly were bandits in these woods. They would likely find nothing to steal from such a pitiful creature, but Martin had seen men kill for less reason than being poor. Sadly, such cruelty was in no short supply.

“Hail Sir! Might you spare a word with a fellow traveler?” Martin asked, attempting a conversational tone as he approached the beggar with his water skin, filled that very morning from a nearby stream. The old man’s muttering had worried Martin a bit. Perhaps it was an assumption from living the last five years in a desert, but he’d seen strong men go mad from heat and thirst.

“Do you hail from Nottingham good man?” Martin asked, stooping a little, and carefully bringing the water skin to the beggar’s mouth, with subtle encouragement to drink. Martin did not care to see a man die if he had the power to prevent it.

"Eh? What'st?" Robyn croaked, taking a moment to rearrange herself to face the owner of the voice. And handsome enough fellow, and young as far as she could tell. Kind enough to offer a stranger a drink, which she accepted with the careful gratitude of a lone traveler on the road. "Ah, Godden, sir, Godden, an' thankee! Kind lad, good lad."

Leaning heavily on her new chosen staff, she sighed in a raspy imitation of the old men she knew from Nottingham, and wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve. "Nottingham, is it? Ah, me boy, from Nottingham I do hail. Off to pay a wee indulgence to me ole brother in arms. Lost 'is legs where I lost me eyes, ye see. Nottingham, Nottingham. Is it there that ye find yerselves trekkin', milord? But I hear no coaches to accompany ye! And ye new to the woods, is it?"

Robyn clucked her tongue and turned, continuing to pick her way along the path.

"With a polished tongue such as ye have, me boy, I can only place me bet that ye be headed towards the castle an' the court an' all the king 'as to offer." She suddenly stopped, finding a rock to rest her make-believe old bones on, and sighing loudly in relief at it as she adjusted herself. "An' do I be mistaken but to hear the dainty steps of a lady accompanyin' ye? Off to catch the king's eyes, are ye sweet?" Robyn cackled quietly, rocking an elbow in place of a wink. "'Tis sour fruit ye seek to pluck if 'tis so, for sooth!"

With a sigh and a harrumph, Robyn settled the old blind man down. Then she leaned forward against her propped up stick, chin pointing towards her toes. "Now a touch o' advice seems fittin' fair for a drop o' clear water. What is't ye'd have from Old Robert, eh? Why seek ye Nottingham?"

Robyn chuckled approvingly of Lillian's description of herself, and nodded with understanding towards Martin. When the question of the 'goodly' bandit arose, however, she jerked her chin back as if in response to some silent code. She paused, tilted her head this way and that to check for any oncoming traffic on the road, and then leaned forward to whisper to the travelers with a withdrawn, conspiratorial tone.

"Goodly bandits? Why, lass, that all depends, don't it? Depends on how ye see The Hood's sworn enemy, this great king whom ye seek in Nottingham. For sooth if ye side with the king, then no outlaw in these woods may be called goodly. But...well, 'tis all a matter of 'perspective,' as me ole mam would 'ave said, God rest 'er soul."

"Ye see, The Hood, so 's called by those in the know, is foresworn to right those wrongs of the king such 'as rained down upon 'is people these many years. Carriages heavy laden with tax-fair be snatched up before they so much as reach the belly of the forest, and the gold finds its way back into the hands of those wot first earned it. Prisoners of the king, jailed for treason, disappear from the gaol. Those condemned to be 'orribly punished for displeasing 'is 'ighness disappear from 'is grasp. All the work 'o the Ghosts o' Nottingham."

Robyn suddenly straightened up, and thumped her staff against the soft dirt. "Well! Lad, if ye wish to be sure 'o your lands, bear the king the head of a ghost! Ha! And lass, no better dowry could ye find than in reward for plucking the green-clad lice from 'is Majesty's head! Ha-ha!"

Martin’s eyes narrowed a bit as he listened to the old blind man talk of the new King, and grew wary from the sound of him. He had not yet met this new king, but he did not like the sound of him. Greed and violence at the innocent’s expense, wasn’t that what he was returning home to leave behind in the Holy Lands?

“Well I think they be heroes good man. A woman I met nary a shire south told tale her husband been sized by the king for not havin proper money to pay taxes. The blackguard would’ve seen him hang if not for the ghosts. A bit shaken he was, but right as rain!” Lillian recalled in a bright voice. “And I heard tale from her daughter that the ghosts were all rather handsome as well as courageous. True or not, I think it adds a little something to the tale.” She said with a far more mischievous smile.

“Well for all our sakes, I hope the accounts are highly exaggerated. I’ve long grown weary of fighting wars for other men’s greed.” Martin replied on a far more somber note as her returned to the horse to put his water skin back in his satchel bag, Lillian watching him as he left before turning back to Robert.

“He wouldn’t, especially not for land.” Lillian assured in a quietly confident voice. “He’s a hero too ye see. Saved me from diein’ like a dog on the side of the road, and hunted down the rats that put me there.” Lillian said, and a much darker look past across her eyes briefly before she brightened again, though whispered a bit with a look towards Martin before continuing. “And her,” She referred to Zahra, who still sat on the horse. “She’s the daughter of the Arab that held Milord captive for two long years in the Holy lands. When he was rescued by our armies, the Arab died; he could have killed her ye see, take his revenge and all that, but instead he’s protectin her as a ward. Repayin’ a debt for not killin him right off. At least that’s what I gathered.” Lillian recounted.

Robyn nodded sagely to Lillian's description of her lord. It seemed as if she had been fortunate in meeting with this trio; perhaps she was speaking with new allies. But it was never wise for a rebel to extend friendship when loyalty was still at question. And at this point, Robyn had learned that the most devoted outlaws came of their own free will.

"Well, Good Sir Martin and Great Lady Lillian, and lest we forget the noble lady...Zahra, was it?" Robyn nodded again, shifting on her rock. "May the Virgin bless ye an' keep ye safe. If ye be half so noble as yer servant brags of ye, sir, then Nottingham 'as great need of your sort."

Drawing herself up once more, Robyn waved a careless hand at the three, back in the direction of Nottingham. "Now away wi' ye. Leave an old soul t'rest 'is bones in peace. Ah, an' should ye have need of a place t' rest yer 'eads once yer finished at court, The Spotted Calf is always welcoming to a wayfaring soul. Now off wi' ye, off wi' ye..."

Robyn had her reasons for sending them to The Spotted Calf. The ale was good and the food as fresh as could be found, but it was more than that. There, Robyn knew she had eyes and ears to keep track of the returning crusader. Until she knew for certain what it was to be done with him.

At being referred to as a “Great Lady” Lillian couldn’t help a smile and good natured laugh. Lillian wasn’t a tavern wench, but she was no high born Lady either, and the very idea, though flattering, was very amusing to her. When Martin walked back towards the two, and heard the “bragging” comment, he shot a rather tired look Lillian’s way, who smiled unrepentantly. “The lady exaggerates.” Martin replied simply, pulling the spare dagger he had gotten from his bag, and placed the hilt carefully in old Robert’s hand.

“Your Ghost sounds a noble sort, but I do not doubt there are other thieves in this forest with far less goodly intentions. Alone and unarmed is no way to travel. Stay safe good man.” Martin said gently with his normal serious look.

“The spotted Calf.” Mused Lillian after bidding good day to Robert and walking back to the horse. “Ye’d be in luck Milord; we’ve no need to stay in yer despised stuffy castles.” She continued optimistically, knowing Martin’s preference to inns and taverns to staying in a lord’s castle or manor. And after their goodbyes, they were off to Nottingham, and the castle of the English king.

"Other thieves?" Robyn mused quietly, as the dagger was pressed into her hand. Hidden in the shadow of her hood, she flashed a secretive smile. "None that would dare harm the helpless; not so long as Robyn Hood lives. God speed, Lord Martin."

The moment the footsteps of the three travelers had been quenched by the sounds of the forest, Robyn tugged her clothing back into its proper place, stuck the dagger into her belt and slipped back into the safety of the trees. As she trekked across to a different path, one which lead the castle rather than the town, her mind was busy weighing the arrival of Martin and his two companions. It took time and effort swaying an aristocrat to the hard life of an outlaw; even (and sometimes, especially) one who had served in the crusades. And with recent rescues from the gaol, Robyn worried that her sources were being spread thin with care and training.

If Cadfael were there...well, firstly he would likely tell her to stay away from the castle. But Robyn was curious to see how her old fellow the king was faring. Just glimpsing how agitated his men were would be telling enough, but seeing how the new-returned lord was greeted would show her far more. Robyn reached the edge of the forest, and then paused long enough to redress herself once more. This time, she abandoned her foresting garb in a copse next to a running stream, where she found also hidden the cloak and habit of a silent monk sometimes known to roam the streets.

A few moments later, that same monk slipped out of the trees and onto the path which wound around the hills to reach Nottingham castle. She clasped her hands together and tread in thoughtful silence. When she was within sight of its walls, close enough to hear the guards calling to one another but far enough away that she could stop in apparent innocent meditation, Robyn came to a halt. She stood in apparent prayer, and waited to observe.

"'Chilled'?" said Zahra, drawing her over-coat about herself. "I am like ice!"

She'd seen the seasons change since she'd first arrived in England. When they'd stepped off the ship on the south coast, there had been snow blanketing the white cliffs, as if the turf had been stripped bare to reveal the chalky heart underneath. As they'd travelled north, spring had slowly begun to blossom and now, as they walked through the dappled light of Sherwood Forest, fresh green leaves were shading them from a watery sun.

It was all very new and strange. Zahra longed for the rich familiar scent of cedar and to sit in its embrace, cool in the hot, still air as she'd looked out over her father's estate and the glint of the sun on the sea many miles away. She wanted the feel of ornamental tiles beneath her feet and the sweetness of pomegranate on her tongue. She wanted the breathless laughter of the cook's sons playing in the garden and perfect black script flowing from her pen onto crisp yellow paper. She wanted her father back. All of this England was superfluous; it mocked her with its presence.

She was roused from her thoughts by the appearance of a old beggar and listened in suspicious boredom as Lillian and Martin exchanged niceties with him. The tale the old man brought from the castle, however, captured her attention and she frowned, dark eyes flashing behind her veil.

"So, your kings are as moral in their collection of taxes as they are in their war-mongering," she said, once the man had left them. She didn't know what 'The Spotted Calf' was and, for the moment, nor did she care. "And Lillian, my father did not 'die'," she spat, anger evident in her tones even if it could not be seen on her hidden features. "He was killed. By your own countrymen. Next time, I speak for myself."

With that, she fell into steely silence, and fixed her gaze on the forest path ahead of them, blinking moisture out of her eyelashes.