Chapter 33 | Robin
It was perhaps our most daring, reckless mission yet, in a year filled with daring, reckless missions.
The margin for error was slim. Nonexistent, really.
If we fell, our camp would be in disarray and dozens—no, hundreds—of families would be impacted. Our rebellion would die before truly getting off the ground.
We could have spent all year planning small raids on carriages, trying to defeat Sheriff George by a thousand tiny slices. Robbing from shipments, terrorizing guards, reimbursing the needy.
But this kind of opportunity didn’t come very often. We all saw it for what it was: a chance to rid ourselves of our greatest enemy, and perhaps buy the freedom of our people in the process.
What would Nottinghamshire look like without Sheriff George in it, stifling growth, pushing down peasants, and overtaxing everyone?
In my mind, it looked rosy without him.
That being said, the entire leadership of the Merry Men and Oak Boys were headed out on the clandestine job. We needed all of us, far as I was concerned, which meant leaving our most vulnerable behind.
We had too often been round-abouted by George and Guy—our camps attacked when we were off doing other things. It was partly why we needed to act now, while they still didn’t know where the Oak Boys camp was located. The secrecy of our newest hideaway would only last a matter of days. If that.
No, I couldn’t waver. All signs were pointing toward doing this thing, tonight, when the moon was highest and shrouded by a layer of murky, ominous clouds. We would use every bit of terrain, weather, and landscape knowledge to our benefit.
If we were discovered on our assassination mission, then the alliance was doomed. Being found out meant pitting hundreds against eight, and we would surely lose our lives. Not just us, either: We were putting everyone in camp in severe jeopardy by doing this. Yet we didn’t know any other way.
We left camp without little explanation to the rest of the outlaws. We didn’t want anyone being foolhardy and following us on their own. Didn’t want to frighten the folks with our decision, or stir the pot and put more burden on our shoulders.
The burden and pressure was already heavy enough.
Our night watchman at the stables—a young lad who had replaced Jamie after his death—stared at us with big eyes and jolted up from his seat when our group of seven approached: me, John, Will, Tuck, Alan, Robert, Gregory, Briggs. Maid Marian was the only one from the command tent who would stay behind, because, despite her heroics from the other night, she wasn’t a fighter.
She had helped us hatch the plan, and that was enough.
As we rounded up the horses, doubts gnawed at me. I swung myself onto Mercy and leaned forward, running a hand down her neck and through her mane. I leaned over and asked Little John, “Do you think we should be bringing more people with us? Now that I see the paltry size of our company, it doesn’t instill confidence.”
He chuckled lowly. “Who would we bring, little hope? Rosco? He’s busy trying to get under Emma’s gown. Tick and Jimmy? They’re likely busy doing their best Will and Alan impersonations in their own tents. We have veterans fighters, sure, yet who would stay behind and protect the whelps? The orphans?”
He made good points all across, yet I still felt uneasy.
Until he put a hand on my shoulder, and his touch heated my skin and calmed my nerves. “We made this decision, lass. We shouldn’t jeopardize the rest of the band more than we already are. If you want”—he straightened on his saddle, grabbing the reins—“we can call it off and go to bed. Chalk it up to wishful daydreaming, and do our best come tomorrow. There is no shame in regretting—”
“No,” I cut in, shaking my head. “You’re right. We’ve made this plan, and we must stick to it. I’m just scared for us, is all, John.”
His face crinkled with a soft twist, lips drooping into his beard. “The fear is normal, love. I’m scared, too.”
“Really?”
A stern nod, before he turned to stare straight ahead. “Scared of losing you, little star.”
I blinked back tears and swallowed over a knot in my throat. “You won’t lose me, Little John.” I reached out and ran a hand over his bulky arm. “No one is dying tonight.”
His lip curved just long enough to put me at ease. “That’s my girl.”
I smiled, then purred Mercy into action with a swift kick. She whinnied and took off out of the stable. John was right behind me, and the other five behind him. Our steeds streamed out of the Oak Boys camp and into the dark night, unsure what awaited us.
I kept repeating my words in my head as we took to the road and headed west, hoping that if I said them enough times, they would become true:
No one is dying tonight.
No one is dying tonight.
No one . . . except Sheriff George.
WITH OUR brEAKNECK speed toward Ravenshead, only a couple hours passed until we were nearing the village. The village deserted by its natives and held captive by ruthless, evil men.
During the ride, I leaned into Little John’s words and let my doubts and hesitancy drift away. It was a hard thing to do, preparing yourself for the unknown. There were so many variables at hand, and if one little thing went wrong, it spelled disaster.
I couldn’t worry about any of that, I realized. I could only do what I knew how to do, and do it well. In this case, that meant leading, shooting my ass off, and getting away unscathed.
I had made it this far from my time as a young noblewoman destined to inherit copious land grants, businesses, and wealth.
Turned out, that hadn’t been my destiny at all. My father Thomas, and the Merry Men, had helped rewrite it.
I thought about my history as we rode four-and-three abreast on the main trade road, not bothering to hide our numbers until we were close. If enemy scouts found us en route, well, we would hopefully be finished with our task by the time they arrived at George’s camp to report us. They would be too late, and the damage would be done.
I had left Wilford looking for adventure. Looking for a way to break out of my stagnant life. Yes, my mother’s health had been at the forefront of my mind at that time, yet there had been something else there, calling me.
Perhaps it was that damned skull I used to talk to, pretending it was my “dead” brother. Giving me advice that was, truly, just my own conscience and wit filling my mind with fantastical ideas.
Or maybe it was the attack from Peter Fisher—a squire suitor who got more than he bargained for when he attacked me in the woods outside my home, and essentially woke me up and forced my hand into hiding away in Father’s carriage to escape Wilford.
It could have been the orphans and destitute folk I saw on a daily basis during my walks into town, such as the guttersnipes and transient peasants wandering the streets of Nottingham.
Back then, I hadn’t thought of them as equals. I hadn’t thought of them much at all, and that was explanation enough for how na?ve and sheltered I’d been.
I clothed myself as a boy to be rid of my predicament. To pretend, as usual, that I was someone I wasn’t. I learned more as a young man playing dice with the poor whelps in town than I ever did with my nose buried in a book or daydreaming in my plush estate.
Now, I was no longer pretending. I had found the adventure I’d sought. I had made the friends, the lovers, and the community I wanted. A family had been forged, and I hoped to know these “strangers” for the rest of my life. I cared deeply for each and every one of them.
They weren’t mere bandits or outlaws to me. They were brothers and sisters, each with their own story. Every person back at camp had a tale of their own, usually involving some mistake, misstep, or tragedy that brought them to Sherwood Forest and the Merry Men.
Losing family, losing land, losing money. A stolen loaf of bread, or a thieved horse caught being sold illegally. Estate disputes that ended in injury or death, and one party fleeing the law. Orphan children, tragically losing their parents, who had nowhere else to turn and no choice in the matter—their lives already made up for them before it even started. Overtaxed and overburdened folk—honest fucking people—who had no alternative but turning to a life of “crime.”
Was it really a crime when it was borne out of dire necessity?
Every person back at camp had come to us with a story and a reason they were there. Through all the death, conflict, and strife, they had stayed. Through the inner conflicts over leadership and constantly moving locations to stay one step ahead of our pursuers, they had stayed.
The one thing in common they all held onto? The unifying force that brought them there, kept them there, and bound them together as equals and comrades?
Hope.
Little John, Will Scarlet, Friar Tuck, Alan-a-Dale, my brother Robert, Uncle Gregory . . . they had all told me at one point or other that I was an embodiment of that hope. It was the reason I was made leader of the Merry Men, despite being the first full-fledged woman in the group of bandits.
I couldn’t lose those people who believed in me. Couldn’t forget about the folks back at home, holding onto that hope and wishing for a better future. I had to do everything in my power to help them, even if it meant me dying.
I wouldn’t be afraid of death if it stared me in the eye. I knew my mates and my family wouldn’t, either. It was why we were all here, riding in the darkest parts of night to an enemy camp that numbered hundreds.
We were resilient, capable, and furious. Though we couldn’t know our specific parts in this specific mission—this cosmic jest that God had seemed to thrust upon us—we would all know once we got there. And then we would let our intuition and experience take over.
I was not that pampered, sad, self-pitying girl from Wilford any longer. I was Robin Hood, the leader of the Merry Men, and I was a fighter.
This is just like any other perilous ambush we’ve partaken in. Waiting in the trees, stalking our prey—it’s our specialty. I shouldn’t tackle this any other way.
Except that wasn’t quite true, was it? Almost every other nighttime mission we’d partaken in, we had been waiting for our adversaries to come to us. This time, we charged headlong behind enemy lines, taking the fight to them.
Reckless abandon danced in my mind.
We brought our company toward the eastern fringes of Ravenshead, and then cut south toward Nottingham.
We recognized there was a chance we were wrong about Sheriff George. Simply off with our calculations, and that he was not camped in Ravenshead, but had simply destroyed that village for the sake of it. For his violent retribution in Bishop Sutton’s name.
But as we slowed our horses to a crawl, ducked low in our saddles, and peered through the dark tree limbs and knobby branches on the sides of the road, it became clear we were not wrong at all.
Even from a vast distance away, nearly a mile out from the village, we could see tiny, flickering lights of campfires dotting the horizon through the trees. In that sort of pitch-blackness, when the forest was even darker than the bruised purple sky above it, the smallest twinkle or pinprick of light was easily noticeable.
Wordlessly, I shared nods with the men. We were on the right track, and so far, nothing had gone awry.
We haven’t even made our move yet. Time will tell, soon enough, how much shit we’re really wading through.
As we cut south over hillocks, across streams, and under a few landbridges, we found a spot to hide our steeds. The horses fell silent as we dismounted, tied them away, and fed them grains before kissing their snouts, petting their necks, and moving on.
We were not meaning to ride into battle like some valiant guardsmen sent from God on a holy mission. We were sneaking our way through boggy, grassy terrain, slipping past crevices and down ravines, crawling over hills and through briar patches, as silent as could be. Horses had no place in a stealthy approach.
Were we foxes in the night, looking for hens to steal under the nose of our betters? Certainly. But that was our way. Despite the martial prowess of some of our warriors like John, Will, Robert, and Gregory, the Merry Men had always prided ourselves on getting things done with little to-do. Not raising alarms or city bells. Staying close to the shadows. Sneaking in and sneaking out before anyone noticed we were there at all.
That was what we had in mind tonight. Sneaking in, killing Sheriff George while he slept, and sneaking out before the camp became aware of our dastardly deeds. With the hope that, come morning, when the soldiers awoke and found their fearful leader dead, they would get bored, frustrated, and leave. Go back home to Nottingham, to their families and farms, where they belonged.
Stay out of fucking Sherwood Forest.
Like Will had said in the tent: This was our home. Not theirs. They already had the law and government on their side. Let us have this little slice to ourselves, to live in peace among each other.
If one man had to die in a brutal, cutthroat way for us to attain that peace, then so be it. It was worth it, and we were ready—each of us itching to be the one who held the knife and plunged it into George’s scrawny, supple neck.
As we left the horses in the alcove with draping branches and bushy foliage to hide them, we began to cut north toward Ravenshead. We found the path that led to the village from Nottingham—the same eastern path we had taken to ambush Bishop Sutton’s convoy, yet a bit further up the road.
We kept to the trees on the edges of the road, stalking slowly, crouched and silent. Whenever we heard so much as a twig snapping on the road, we pushed deeper into the forest to hide ourselves among the greenery. Our eyes always kept forward, north, glancing up at the dim stars through the cloud cover overhead when we veered slightly off track.
Hoods were pulled over our heads. Leather straps had been slung across our bodies to hide any clanking of metal or scabbards against us. Briggs, Robert, and Uncle Gregory had black paint deadening the features of their faces even more, until they essentially blended into the landscape around us. It was a common Oak Boys tactic, while the Merry Men opted for hoods and stern looks.
As we inched our way north toward the village, and the numerous glittering lights from the campsites’ fires dotted the horizon, the trees began to thin around us.
We were becoming more exposed, with fewer branches and verdant undergrowth to hide our approach.
Eventually, the thickest part of the forest ended altogether. Only little spurts of wooded groves separated us from the enemy camp beyond.
Far in the distance, we could make out a looming hillside with a lit campfire atop it, and a wooded thicket beneath it leading up the slope. It was the area which designated the southern hill Maid Marian had spoken of in the command tent. The location where Sheriff George was most likely holed up.
First, we had to make our way past a revealing pasture. And Will was correct: Countless horses roamed the countryside, while even more slept in the open night.
It was a wild sight to see so many steeds corralled in one place, as if they all lived here on this patch of land. Then we noticed the barding on some of the steeds—the body armor for war horses—and recognized many of these as Knights Templar horses.
I shared a nervous look with my mates, and we continued on, keeping to the fringes of the meadow. Tiptoeing, really, so we wouldn’t wake the sleeping mounts.
I imagined a disastrous break: stepping the wrong way, or stamping on a loud branch on the ground, and waking the entire fucking pasture. Neighing and whinnying and snorting alerting everyone on the other side of that hill that we were here.
Shoving the thought aside, I continued on. My hand kept close to my hip, where my scabbard swung loosely, though I probably should have had it attached to the bow and quiver over my shoulder.
I let out a deep breath as we crossed the halfway mark of the meadow, with some of the horses so close I could see the white puffs of breath from their muzzles.
My eyes scanned in front of us. John and Will nearly crept shoulder-to-shoulder with me, while Alan and Tuck meandered a different path through the soft ground next to Robert, Gregory, and Briggs.
Will held up a fist, and everyone abruptly froze.
My eyes widened, then narrowed, trying to squint ahead to find what he was seeing. Our best tracker had always had the best eyesight, so I couldn’t make it out.
Then he turned over his shoulder to us, crouching, and held up a single finger. He pointed ahead, then made a sign of pulling back a bowstring.
I nodded and moved forward—
But Robert streamed past me before I could make it to the front of the group, already shrugging his bow off his shoulder.
I pursed my lips, scowling at him. He didn’t smile back or tease me. His face was serious—everyone’s was.
I suppose you’re just as good of a shot as I am, brother, so I’ll let it slide. Perhaps even better, Oliver, if the tournament is anything to go by.
Will took Robert by the shoulder, gripping tightly, and pointed ahead. Robert scanned, neck veering left to right along the dim horizon—
Then he nodded vigilantly and froze. He pulled out an arrow, pulled back his bowstring, and aimed at something I still couldn’t see.
He took his time. My heart twisted and squeezed.
After this, there is no going back. If we kill a guard this close to their camp, then we’ve locked in our motive. We can only move forward.
The arrow loosed, whistling through the air.
A second later, a dark spot in the distance dropped soundlessly from my vision, with little more than a soft thud on the slightly muddy pasture.
We stayed silent and still for a long moment. All eyes out, watching for more guards.
The soldier had been placed among the steeds and cattle, to watch George’s southern flank. Either that, or he’d been simply watching the horses to make sure everything stayed nice and tidy.
When we passed the body a few minutes later, I looked down and saw he was facedown in the mud, with Robert’s arrow lodged in his neck. Better that way, so I don’t have to put a face to him.
He hadn’t made a sound, a gurgle, or a cry when he dropped. Our cover was still intact. Friar Tuck made the sign of the cross as we passed the man, but we had no time to spare.
Our group made it to the southern copse of thick trees that led up the incline of the hill. It was a gentle slope.
By this point, the blood rushing in my ears was deafening. My anxiety reached new heights, yet I managed to stuff it down and turn it into acute awareness, letting my instincts take over.
I felt like a wolf prowling through a sheep herd. Picking my lone target to take down with my pack.
The thicket was larger than it had looked far away. It held a few glades, I noticed, and even a small trail made for foot traffic.
We pushed through the dense forest, came to an open heath, and hurried through it. Completely exposed as we ran through the glade, I felt our collective hearts rose with anxiety and then fell to a normal rhythm once we were back in the woods.
There was another glade ahead we had to go through before we reached the base of the hill. More gnarled branches and knobby limbs to swipe out of the way as we slunk in silence.
We came to the entrance of the next glade—
And a man stepped out from behind a thick oak tree, sword and shield in hand.
My throat hollowed and I inhaled a gasp.
Another armed man stepped out from another tree, and then a third, and fourth, and fifth . . .
The glade quickly filled with no less than twenty soldiers, decked in chainshirts, helmets, swords, spears, and shields. Facing us. Lifting their weapons in preparation.
My stomach plummeted to my boots, and our party froze in place.
I heard someone in our group mutter, “Fuck,” and the sentiment was shared all around.
These men weren’t a rear watchman guard, making sure George’s southern flank was protected.
These men had been waiting here. Waiting for us.
My thoughts swirled with our options, and they were all bleak. One thought roared louder than the others, so incessantly, I knew it was true:
We’ve been betrayed.