Robin: Lady of Legend (The Classic Adventures of the Girl Who Became Robin Hood) Read online

  “I cannot claim that the house will be quieter with her gone, for she has rarely seen fit to stay within its walls. But it certainly will be different. Happy birthday, Robin. I give you now the greatest gift a woman can hope to receive.”

  He paused for a moment to catch his breath. Robin clenched her hands until they turned white, almost ill with foreboding.

  “Lords and ladies, it is my pleasure to announce the engagement of my daughter Robin of Locksley to Phillip Darniel, the Sheriff of Nottingham.”

  Robin froze in horror as Darniel rose to stand next to her father, and the room burst into delighted applause.

  CHAPTER 2

  PLIGHTED

  “HOW COULD YOU not tell me!”

  Robin’s enraged exclamation startled her father, who had been gazing into the solar fire in deep contemplation while his manservant laid out his nightclothes. Both men turned to stare at the furious girl.

  Robin felt herself flush, but she held her ground. She had dashed upstairs as soon as the last of her well-wishers would permit, determined to have a word with her father. Now the anger and fear she had suppressed at his announcement surged forth unchecked: “Did you think I would welcome a surprise like that?—it was no gift! You should have told me!”

  Lord Locksley considered Robin for a long moment, and at last gave his servant a small nod of dismissal. Only after the man had left did he address his daughter.

  “I will forgive your intrusion this once because I can see that you are upset. I did not reveal my plan to you, Robin, because I did not want to raise your hopes in case the Sheriff refused to have you; he made it a condition of the match to meet you first. I was worried that he would not want a bride taller than himself, but fortunately, he was willing to overlook that fact.”

  “Fortunately!”

  “Yes, quite; though I did refrain from mentioning your affinity for the longbow, knowing you will of course renounce such a childhood fixation once you are married.”

  “Father—!” Robin nearly shouted, but then stopped and bit back the words she had been going to say. It would not do to lose her temper again. She must stay calm, and make her father see reason.

  “Father,” she began anew, “surely this match cannot meet with your approval? I may not have met the Sheriff before tonight, but I have heard of him. He is a cruel man who cheats his subjects mercilessly.”

  Her father shrugged. “You should know better than to heed peasant talk.”

  Rather than argue the point, Robin hastily switched tactics. “Furthermore, he has a daughter nearly as old as I am.”

  Sir Robert of Locksley waved his hand through the air, as though to brush away her concerns. “A man may grow weary of widowerhood no matter how old his children are. I have contemplated taking another wife myself.”

  “You have? But . . . . Wait a moment, that is not the issue here!” Robin cried, losing her tenuous hold on her temper.

  Her father’s heavy fist slammed against the chimney. “Why are you so resistant, Robin? I thought you would be pleased. Darniel may not be a lord, but he is rich—”

  “At the expense of his taxpayers!”

  “—and he is fast becoming a very powerful man. You cannot hope for a better alliance.”

  “Then why does he want to marry me? Surely a man with such . . . such attributes can have his pick of any woman. There are plenty of lords with richer estates and prettier daughters than I.”

  “The Sheriff craves a connection with the king,” Sir Robert patiently explained. “We are his cousins, after all. And while it is true that you are much plainer than your sister, you are the eldest daughter and custom dictates that you must marry first.”

  Unaware of the insult he had just paid, he continued: “Robin, I am not a fool—I know exactly why the Sheriff desires this union. But he has promised to treat you well, and I expect he will hold to that promise, which is all any woman can ask.”

  “Are girls to be bartered away then like nags at market day, for naught more than the promise of good treatment? You lied when you said I was not a horse; I am nothing to you but a filly you can sell, never mind the character of the buyer—”

  “Enough!” Lord Locksley’s face was purple with rage. In spite of herself, Robin took a step back. “Enough. I see now how remiss I have been, letting you run around for years like a wild boar, and permitting you to take up the bowman’s art. Darah warned me that such negligence would have repercussions. You seem to think you are a man, with a man’s right to choose his fate and to speak his mind. You are not a man, not even a boy. You are nothing but a girl, and it is high time you faced that fact. If it takes a husband breaking you to him to teach you your place in the world, so be it.”

  Stunned, Robin made one last plea for clemency. “Please, Father . . .”

  His words thundered through the room. “The contract has been signed! In one month’s time, you will marry the Sheriff of Nottingham.”

  Tears of bitterness welled in Robin’s eyes, scalding her like fire. With the last vestige of pride she possessed, she turned on her heels and strode away before her father could see them fall.

  * * * * *

  Robin refused to come out of her room the next day, or the day after that. On the third day, they sent Marian to talk with her.

  Robin had been lying on her bed, wondering morosely if there was any chance Phillip Darniel would die of consumption before their wedding night, when Marian’s soft knock broke through the gloom of her self-pity. She looked up to see her sister hovering just outside the doorway, her hands clasped in front of her and her eyes fixed on the stone floor, as though afraid Robin would send her away if she met her gaze. Marian’s meekness irritated her sister, but then Marian had never been one to rebel against the expectations of others—that had been Robin’s purview.

  Father is right, she thought without bitterness, breaking off her scrutiny and flopping over onto her back. Marian is the beauty of the family. With long brown hair, solemn blue eyes, and a petite yet womanly figure, Marian at fourteen was already more lovely than Robin could ever hope to be. In contrast, Robin’s hair was flaxen and thin, her frame lean and tall; even the hue of her eyes was different. No one seeing them together for the first time would suspect the two girls of being sisters.

  “Darah sent me,” Marian began hesitantly, taking a tentative step into the room. “She thought you would rather see me than her.”

  Well, Darah is on the mark there.

  Taking Robin’s silence as permission to continue, Marian went on: “She wanted me to tell you how lucky you are, marrying the Sheriff. She says she never thought anyone would want you at all. She says—”

  “Are you going to keep repeating what Darah said?” Robin demanded testily. “Because if you are, you can get out. Now.”

  Marian swallowed hard and fell silent.

  “Maybe . . . maybe he will not be so bad,” she ventured at last. “He is rather handsome, even if he is old.”

  “Are looks all that matter to you?” Robin asked in disgust. “I have heard enough stories from people I trust to know that in spite of his beauty, the Sheriff is a beast, not a man: stories of friends arrested without reason, of cracked ribs and cracked pates for nothing more than a misconstrued glance. He cares not if people are too poor to pay his taxes—in fact, he rejoices when they cannot pay, because then he can evict them from their land and seize it for himself. How do you think he got to be so rich?”

  “Oh, Robin,” Marian burst out. “I am sorry! I feel just awful for you.”

  “If you are trying to cheer me up, you are doing a miserable job,” Robin muttered, but she sat up to face her sister at last.

  Marian did indeed look wretched, her pretty face twisted in sympathy for her sister.

  “It will be all right,” Robin said, indicating with a pat that Marian could sit down beside her on the bed. “I will think of something.”

  “Well, there is nothing to be done, is there?” Marian asked pragmatically as sh
e sank onto the coverlet. “The contract has been signed.”

  “Not by me.”

  Marian took a deep breath. “I would not want to marry him myself,” she confessed, looking slightly shocked at her own daring, as though she had just spoken a great blasphemy.

  Robin laughed without mirth. “Well, you shan’t have to, shall you?”

  “Is he really as bad as people say?” Marian asked quietly.

  “Worse, probably.”

  Her sister shuddered.

  All at once, Robin felt guilty. Marian was only fourteen, what could she know? Then again, most noblewomen were married by that age; Robin supposed she should be thankful that Lord Locksley’s self-centered preoccupation had spared them the inevitable nuptials for so long. It occurred to her that having already arranged one marriage, Lord Locksley might decide to marry her sister off as well, and possibly to someone far worse than Phillip Darniel. (Not, Robin thought privately, that there is likely to be anyone worse.) No wonder Marian looked stricken.

  “It will be all right,” Robin repeated, wrapping her arms around her sister’s slender shoulders. Her words were as much for Marian’s comfort as for her own.

  Their comfort was short-lived, however—Darah walked in.

  “Ah, Robin!” she said brightly, interrupting the scene of intimate commiseration. “Your father wishes to discuss with you the comportment for the betrothal ceremony.”

  Robin ignored her.

  “Now, Robin!”

  “You had better go,” Marian whispered, pulling out of Robin’s embrace.

  “If I were a boy,” Robin protested angrily, rising to her feet, “no one would try to make me marry someone I did not wish to wed.” That was not true, of course—at least, not when it came to lords—but Robin did not care. A boy could forgo his inheritance and apprentice himself to a trade, or hire himself out as a soldier if he did not like his potential mate. What options were there for a girl?

  “You are not a boy,” Darah told her bluntly, prodding Robin towards the door. Robin barely noticed. Her father’s words and Darah’s assertion formed a discordant duet in her head: You are not a boy. You are not a boy.

  No, she thought. But I could be.

  “Thank you, Marian,” Robin called to her sister as Darah shoved her into the hall, her mind already conceiving a plan. “I feel much better now.”

  * * * * *

  The betrothal ceremony took place three days later.

  It was held in front of the manor, so that the peasants who lived on Lord Locksley’s land could witness the rite without having to enter the house. Will Gamwell thought it was foolish to make them come at all—the ceremony was, after all, little more than a formality, since Lord Locksley and Phillip Darniel had signed the marriage contract several days before. Nevertheless, it was customary for the intended couple to publicly exchange oaths of fidelity, and to state aloud the financial recompense should either of them break the engagement. Will supposed Lord Locksley wanted his people to observe this promise from their soon-to-be lord, never mind the inconvenience.

  Will tugged at his scarlet collar and looked around again for his cousin, but failed to espy either Robin or her sister. His uncle, however, he could clearly see standing on the steps leading up to the Hall, talking quietly with the friar. Next to him stood Phillip Darniel, looking resplendent in a rich purple tunic and black hose. It did not seem right to Will that so horrible a man should appear so royally confident and calm. As for Lord Locksley—did he not realize the type of man he was consigning his daughter to?

  Since the day Will had arrived at the manor thirteen years ago—an eight-year old boy reeling from the loss of his parents and uncertain of his welcome in a household that had recently suffered a loss of its own—Robin had been his constant companion. The two of them had been as light and shadow, inseparable. Even when Will began his training to be a woodward—one of Lord Locksley’s private foresters—Robin had been there beside him, insisting that she be taught as well. Now it was another she would have to follow, another whose words would be her law and master. That the Sheriff would be that man was almost unbearable.

  “Here they come,” someone said. Will turned his head and saw the women’s train materialize from around the gabled east corner of the manor. As soon as his gaze locked on Robin, he frowned. There was something peculiar about her. It could not be the dress; it was the same one she had worn at the party. Neither was it the expression on her face; her visage was blank, and she looked to neither side as she walked. It was her whole demeanor, he realized—the way her shoulders stooped forward just a little; the way she took small, measured steps, not the long strides he was accustomed to seeing. Everything about her bespoke one thing: resignation.

  Will felt as though someone had punched him in the gut. Where was the fiery girl he had grown up with? It could not be this subdued creature climbing the stairs—it could not be!

  He knew that Robin had fought with her father over the match—by George, he had gone and confronted the man himself! She abhorred this union as much as he did; surely she could not have given up?

  Yet it appeared that she had. Will was too far away to hear what was being said, but if he expected his cousin to put her foot down, to throw the contract in the Sheriff’s face or to refuse to say her vows, he was sorely disappointed. The ceremony was over almost before it began, and Robin and her father disappeared into the Hall. A purple-clad servant who had been holding the Sheriff’s horse throughout the ritual now brought it forth, and the Sheriff mounted his steed and rode off towards Nottingham without a backwards glance.

  Muttering about the brevity of the ceremony, the crowd began to disperse. Rather than following his family into the house, Will ambled down the path that led to the garden, brooding over what he had witnessed.

  Clearly, Robin did not intend to make a public defiance . . . unless she was waiting until the actual wedding? If so, she had better rethink her intention; Lord Locksley would consign her to a convent if she embarrassed him like that. Will needed to talk with her, to find out what she was planning. Surely the two of them together could come up with some scheme, some hope . . . .

  Robin’s face flashed once more through Will’s mind, her look of abject surrender filling him with a bleak despair that he hastily shoved aside.

  He could not—would not—believe what that look had told him: that Robin of Locksley had given up.

  CHAPTER 3

  FLIGHT

  ROBIN AWOKE SUDDENLY and silently. She lay still in her bed for a moment, listening intently. Outside her window, the summer wind whistled softly. A few wakeful crickets tried to tune their wings to the same pitch as the breeze, with limited success. In the distance, a hound bayed. No noise emanated from inside the stone house.

  Assured that everyone was asleep, Robin pushed back her covers and rolled out of bed, her motions silky and fluid so as not to disturb her sister. She need not have worried: Marian did not even twitch.

  Yet another difference between us, Robin mused as she got down on her hands and knees and felt around under the bed. Marian is a sound sleeper.

  After a moment’s groping in the dark, her fingers discovered the bundle she had secreted there, and she pulled it out. The sack contained some food and wine, her steel and flint, a swathe of cloth, and a few jewels and coins. It also held Will’s spare forester outfit, which she had ignobly filched and then pled ignorance to when he had complained it was missing.

  Robin contemplated the attire for a long moment. The law forbade a woman to dress above her class, or below it for that matter, so she could only imagine what the consequence would be if she were discovered to be wearing men’s clothing. Yet that danger was nothing compared to the perils a woman faced by traveling alone. And Robin’s plan called for her to travel far. For safety’s sake and to keep from being identified, she would have to take on the guise of a man.

  Soundlessly, she slipped off her shift; taking out the swathe of cloth from the sack, she used it t
o bind her chest flat. It took several attempts before Robin puzzled out how to fold the cloth so it would not fall apart or bulge awkwardly. The binding hurt; she had not expected that.

  Next she pulled on Will’s tunic and the woolen hose traditionally worn by men. The boots she put on were her own. Finally, she belted the diminished bundle to her waist.

  Though she was completely dressed, she felt strangely naked, her attire too light after a lifetime of being encased by weighty gowns. To step out into the world like this seemed . . . indecent. Shaking off the unexpected sensation, Robin hastened to plait her long hair and stuff the braid down her collar.

  Only one last thing to do. From the bundle at her waist, Robin drew out a forester’s hood. The hood was designed to cover her shoulders like a very short cape, and it had a cowl that could be pulled up over her head. As Robin put it on, she discovered that it also possessed a liripipe—a length of fabric in the back that she could wrap around her neck for warmth; it would also help to hide her face and keep the hood from slipping down.

  Her disguise was complete. It was time to go.

  Robin eased opened the bedroom door and prepared to step outside . . . but a surge of conscience brought her to a halt. She teetered for a moment, indecisive, and then swiftly made her way back to the bed that she had shared with her sister for as long as she could remember.

  “Farewell, Marian,” Robin whispered, kissing her sister lightly on the cheek. Marian stirred, but did not wake. “I love you.”

  Then with three long strides, she was out the door.

  Robin’s plan was simple: to put as much distance between herself and the Sheriff of Nottingham as possible.

  She had timed her escape to perfection. The moonlight tonight was bright, and would allow her to travel far while reducing her risk of ambush. While it did increase the chance that someone might spot her leaving, she doubted that anyone would be awake to see—with only a week left until the wedding, everyone at Locksley Manor was too exhausted to do anything at night but sleep.