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Robin Hood tossed the beribboned cane into the air. It spun several times, ribbon ends fluttering gold and blue, then dropped. He caught it then swept a grand bow to the townsfolk gathered to watch the last competition of the day.
The sheriff and the Earl of Cherdley had made a show of talking over the prize, a golden arrow to the best archer. The golden arrow rested on an elevated plank at the edge of the constructed platform.
The arrow shone bright yellow, a beacon for all eyes and a lure designed to capture a certain outlaw leader of Sherwood Forest.
Robin grinned. That lure wouldn’t catch him. The trap had missed its mark. Contrary to rumor, which Robin and his men fostered, he wasn’t a great bowman. He wouldn’t compete today or any day, not in archery.
Abbot Petros climbed the five steps to join the two men already seated.
Robin tossed his parti-colored cap in the air. He caught it with much fumbling, inches from the ground. The crowd laughed. Mounting the cane like a hobbyhorse, he galloped a circuit around the open ground between the spectators and the haybale targets. As he finished the circle, the captain of the guard started toward him. Abbot Petros stood directly behind the arrow, glaring at Robin, so he galloped away from the captain to the other side of the platform.
Out of sight, he lifted the beaky mask that he had donned. For the May Day celebrations, he played the Fool, a good disguise with the sheriff and his men on the alert for any outlaw from Sherwood. The mask hid his face, and the crowd loved the grotesque down-turned beak. His face steamed behind the leather.
He tugged at the red hose sagging on his right leg then tugged at the tunic borrowed from the tailor. Tuck would return the tunic with a coin for its use.
The abbot finished his blessing of the competition with a flourishing cross. Then voices raised in protest. An argument started. Robin settled the mask in place and edged forward to discover the controversy.
The competitors had lined up with their bows. More than a dozen competed for the prize. Robin didn’t bother to count higher, for the controversy was on the second competitor, a green-garbed woman who pleaded with the captain.
Bright sun gleamed on the woman’s russet red hair. Perched on her head was a felt cap that matched her green tunic. Gold embroidery decorated the tunic. No commoner she, even though the tunic was over-sized. The longbow was surely too much for her. The captain gestured a push, clearly wanting her out of the line of competitors but not willing to lay hands on a woman of status.
“Leave her be,” a man called, and another chimed in with “Let her arrow be her proof!” The other competitors added their support, and the crowd took up the chant.
The captain roared to quiet everyone then turned to the viewing stand, clearly wanting someone else to decide.
Sheriff Maldeville and Lord Cherdley consulted. Abbot Petros leaned forward. Before he spoke, Sheriff Maldeville stood. He raised a hand and waited for the crowd to quiet. “Who is this woman?”
The beauty answered for herself, surprising the townsfolk but not Robin. He knew that any woman who dared to enter a competition for men would not expect a man to speak for her. “I am Lady Marianne of d’Airsey Manor. My lord Cherdley, good Sheriff Maldeville, please let me compete.”
Good sheriff. Robin snorted.
He’d heard of d’Airsey Manor, a new land grant of the king’s, but little more. He leaned out from the position beside the viewing stand. Lady Marianne deserved a better look.
“The competition is for the best longbowman,” Maldeville announced. As if that statement settled the matter, he turned back to his high-backed chair.
“My good sir,” the lady protested, “the rules that came to d’Airsey Manor merely said archer. As your captain announced just this moment.”
A clever argument. Robin began to like this Lady Marianne. He had a soft spot for burnished red hair like hers. What color are her eyes?
“That’s right,” a competitor shouted. “He said best of archers.”
Robin recognized the veteran Gil Whitehand, friend of Jack and Dav, who poured ale at the Tinker’s Wife Tavern. Gil hadn’t taken up with the town guard when he returned to Nottingham, the normal employment for a former soldier. His presence among the competitors surprised Robin.
Gil exchanged words with a man beside him then leaned forward to add his shouts to the calls supporting the young woman.
The sheriff shouted something only the captain could hear. He roared at the spectators again, but they didn’t settle until he raised his arms to give a verdict. “Lady Marianne, your arrow will be your proof. Step forward. Your arrow will be first to the target.” He indicated a line in the dirt.
Robin watched as Lady Marianne stepped to the line. The spectators jostled to watch but no longer shouted. They murmured, elbowing mates, whispering bets. An old woman called encouragement. A man shouted a word that Robin couldn’t hear. That earned a buffet from the man behind him. He staggered, looked around, then subsided when he saw the man looming at his back. Robin grinned. Little John, ever keeping a balance.
Lady Marianne took care to check her arrow, touching the feathers before nocking the bobkin point to the taut bowstring. Then she shifted her stance and wiggled her feet, placing them firmly in the dirt. Practice ground behavior. Someone had taught her well. The steadiness of the practice ground, though, was lost in battle. When Robin and his men shot in the forest, from a tree branch or a viny tangle of undergrowth, they had to aim and release the arrow in an eyeblink.
Lady Marianne exhaled then drew in a strong breath and held it. Only her fingers moved, and the arrow flew.
Into the red circle painted on the white silk pinned to the first haybale.
“Proof!” someone shouted. Gil pumped his fist in the air. The crowd set up a hurrah. Lady Marianne waved as she returned to the line of archers. Her cheeks flushed with her success.
Robin shifted restlessly as the other archers shot, one at a time. An old man, a couple of guards, bearded men from the town, Gil, and a heavily scarred man that should be recognizable but wasn’t. Each took their turn and survived the first round. Lesser archers slunk away to the gibes and ribbing of the crowd.
Four farmers passed Robin on their way to move the hay bale targets further back. As jester, he scampered after them, raising his knees high and flapping his arms. A shout of laughter greeted his appearance. He pretended to lift an imaginary hay bale, staggering with the weight, nearly overbalancing. The crowd’s delighted roars repaid his efforts.
Robin took another galloping turn about the targets. The beauty laughed along with everyone else. She leaned on the old archer’s arm. Robin kicked his heels and blew her a kiss.
The captain shook his fist.
Time to cast off his disguise.
Robin veered around the man and dashed across the open area and into the crowd. People shifted to open a way for him, then closed ranks.
He snatched off the parti-colored hat first then the beaky mask. Tucking them low at his side, he worked his way toward the golden curls of a young man in a brown cassock.
When he touched mask and hat to Tuck’s hand, the young friar discreetly took both, following the plan. A linen scrip dangled from his shoulder. The work of a moment, and mask and cap were deep in the scrip, well out of sight. Robin wiggled free of the jester’s tunic, glad to shed the vibrant red and green and return to his dull-colored tunic. Tuck rolled up the tunic and added it to the pouch. Of his costume, only the hose, with one red leg and one green, remained.
He faded further back into the crowd. Gradually, he worked his way around to the platform. He wasn’t competing, but that golden arrow would be his.
He reached Little John, towering over those around him. The giant had the best view. He could see the archers and the targets and still be far back from the guards.
Robin craned a look around. He spotted Will Scarlet’s banner-red hair. Will Stutely lounged beside him. About ten feet away was hair so black hair it could only belong to the Irish bard Alan-a-Dale. Jack and Diggory, Jimsie and Coop would be nearby. Much and his trusty knives would be at hand, closer to the raised platform where keen steel would work the most distracting damage.
Not one of his men were in the competition. Only Gil, but he didn’t really belong to the outcasts in Sherwood.
They would still win the golden arrow. Robin was determined.
Dav Halwend had first told them of the competition. “A trap to catch you, Robin,” Dav had grumped as he offered news wormed out of Sergeant Acwel during one of their endless games of Nine Men’s Morris. “You’re not going to compete, are you?”
Half the world thought Robin a great bowman, and he encouraged the lie. The more layers of lies around him, the better off he would be. Sheriff Maldeville had already sworn to hang him. He wanted little evidence of his identity in the wind.
The rumors of the costly prize, a real golden arrow, had swirled around Nottingham and Sherwood for weeks. That news had reached far beyond the shire.
Maldeville had not long held his position, a Harvest Day grant by Prince John, but he’d sworn to rid the forest of the outlaws. Robin and his men took a toll of every merchant and fat high cleric and unguarded nobleman who traveled the King’s Road through Sherwood. As for the golden arrow, the sheriff was too chary of his wealth to risk the loss of gold. The arrow had to be lead, painted golden.
That didn’t stop Robin’s lust for the prize. Its theft would be as sharp as a knife thrust between the sheriff’s ribs.
A huge groan lifted from the crowd.
Robin tiptoed but couldn’t see over the men five-deep before him.
“The little lady missed,” John murmured.
A tenor voice quavered. “Lady Marianne, join us here. Your presence will grace our viewing of the remainder of the competition.” That trembly voice belonged to the aging earl of Cherdley, a supporter of Prince John and thus an ally of the sheriff. Robin sneered.
The crowd fell quiet, eager to hear her response.
“I thank you, my lord, but I beg favor. I must withdraw now and weep my tears in private.”
“As you wish, dear lady. You have taught us much today.”
Robin jumped, trying to see where she entered the crowd. “Where is she?”
“Near Tuck. Relax,” John murmured. “She’s staying by him.”
“In this crowd, a lady should be escorted.”
The giant snorted. “You volunteering?”
He would like to volunteer, but another goal was more important. Mud in Maldeville’s eye could only be accomplished if the competition’s prize was stolen from under his nose.
“How’s Gil doing?”
“He passed. That old man shooting beside him, he’s a wonder. Arrows are never off-center.”
The fourth round ended.
“Sheriff’s standing.”
Robin craned his neck.
He saw Maldeville’s unwashed black hair and his shoulders covered in red silk. Hate wormed its way into his gut. Robin had never hated before Maldeville came. Men had frustrated him, irritated him, angered him, made him curse in despair, but never before had he hated. This man, though—. One look, and steaming heat scalded through him.
Whenever Robin managed a trick or escaped a trap, as he had at Candlemas, unholy glee infected him.
The hate wasn’t right. He needed to purge it. Hate, wrath by the church’s name, was a deadly sin. Hate caused mistakes. Mistakes led to the deadly noose.
The sheriff held the golden arrow. “Four archers remain,” he called. “Which of you will be the best archer? Which of you will win the golden arrow?” He lifted it over his head.
The ease of that lift proved that the arrow wasn’t gold.
Robin wondered if the archers knew that they competed for a false prize. Fool’s gold.
On this May Day, the fool would take the prize.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Marianne dragged her eyes away from the parti-colored fabric tucked into the linen scrip hanging from the friar’s shoulder.
The man half-turned. His rounded face had ruddy cheeks. Golden curls surrounded his tonsure, proof of his holy orders. He looked an angelic cherub. That vivid tunic crammed into the scrip revealed that he worked with the mischief-maker. “Lady, where is your escort?”
Marianne gave a half-smile. “Friar, I cannot lie to you. I slipped the leash today. Will you serve as my guard?”
He gave a slight bow. “I would be honored, my lady.”
People shifted, jostling her. She drew her longbow close to her tall frame. Her original plan to compete had seemed daring but not reckless. When she’d first entered the streets, mingling with the celebrants, she hadn’t realized how many people had crowded into Nottingham for the May Day festivities. None of the other events had so buzzed and swarmed with people.
Yet here at this last event of the day, before feasting began tonight, men and women and children buzzed and swarmed, standing so close together that she could not move without pushing someone away. Men far outnumbered the women and children. For the first time since she’d wandered into the crowd, she worried. Her family’s rooms at the Blue Boar Tavern seemed far away. Will I be able to return as easily as I left?
What if she did not return to their rooms before her father did? Her father would not be pleased. Her brother Henry would scold her severely.
Her father and her brother had risen early this morning, eager to tour the market and hoping to encounter neighbors who would introduce them to more neighbors.
Having a king’s grant for the old Haughton Hall, now d’Airsey Manor, should open doors to the upper ranks of nobility. Both her father and brother were eager to step across any welcoming threshold. They had seized upon the sheriff’s invitation for May Day as the first step. The banquet tonight was a second step to impress their new neighbors.
A shout went up, roared back by the crowd. When the people around her shifted, she moved with them. When she looked around, the friendly friar had vanished.
The crowd roared again.
Marianne caught a flash of red from the platform. The sheriff had leaped to his feet. He waved his arms and pointed into the crowd.
Everyone surged forward and carried Marianne with them. She fought to keep her balance. The shouting sounded fierce.
Three men punched a fourth. He was a town guard. Under their pummeling fists, he dropped to his knees and out of her sight.
An old woman laid her cane across the shoulders of another guard. He whirled, ripped the cane from her, and struck. The old woman went down.
Marianne darted forward to help, yet everything shifted before she reached the old woman. She planted her feet but stumbled several steps. The old woman disappeared. So did another guard.
She tripped as her longbow tangled with a fighter. The man crashed down, and she jerked the bow in alignment with her body. Another man stumbled. She hurriedly dodged. She stumbled over someone’s legs and would have fallen, but a man grabbed her arm. The fierce grip kept her upright.
“Got you,” he said.
Marianne started to struggle. He gave her arm a shake, or maybe that was the man who ran into him. He staggered, pulling her off-balance. Before she disappeared under the crowd’s trampling feet, the man drew her close, using his body to steady her. She recognized the jester by the two-colored hose on his thin legs.
“Are you hurt?”
She gasped and shook her head.
“This way.” He towed her along, with an impetus as sure as an arrow slicing to its target.
Marianne decided that escaping the crushing horde was smarter than fighting against him and everyone else. He tugged, and she followed.
Hands clutched at her. She felt her tunic tear. He punched at those who grabbed at her. They fell back, others fell away, then they were free of the throng, among others streaming back to the town gates.
He never released her.
Still a little shocky at how quickly the crowd had turned into a mob, Marianne continued to follow.
