Epilogue | Robin | One Year Later
Istrode through Nottingham with my hood down. The place I once called home would never be that again, but at least I could show my face here now without fear of reprisal. Without fear of being hunted down like a dog by Sheriff George, Sir Guy, or their ilk.
I never stepped foot near Wilford. That life was gone. I didn’t want to accidentally run across an old shopkeeper who might recognize my face.
For all intents and purposes, Robin Hood was dead.
To those in the know, however . . .
With the wind brushing across my face, tousling my hair, I skipped across town and collected meats from the butcher, grains from the miller, iron from the blacksmith, and some hides from the leatherworker.
Then I stopped off at the statue in the middle of the town square and tossed a penny into the water. I said a small wish, then stared up at the stone face of Sheriff George, and winked.
Yes, a statue had been erected in the bastard’s name.
“What did you wish for this time?” a voice next to me asked.
He stood tall and broad, arms crossed. We faced the water as if we were strangers, though I knew this man better than I knew almost anyone.
“Same thing I wish for every time, sir.” I looked over and shot him a smirk and a wink. “That someone will tear this fucking statue down.”
He laughed, tossing his head back.
“The carriage is ready,” he said after a moment.
My smile remained on my face. I reached into my tunic, presented a small bag of coins, and handed it to him. “Thank you, Sheriff Oliver.”
Oliver of Mickley—newly appointed Sheriff after an historic vote where the populace learned he was an “honorable crusader” and “valiant server of justice”—grinned fondly at me. “Careful with it, aye? Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, sister . . .”
I RETURNED TO THE MERRY Men with my cart full of goods. More than the leather, the iron, and the food, I came back with fair news.
Our band was nestled deep in Sherwood Forest.
We hadn’t vacated the premises since Marian’s death, though we had stayed undetected. We didn’t pull dangerous carriage robberies any longer, because we didn’t need to.
Things had softened around here. Villages had been erected in the woods, run and inhabited fully by Merry Men and Oak Boys. In the year since Marian’s death, families had sprung up—families of outlaws and bandits, living merrily with each other.
Ravenshead was an ally. So was every other village in the vicinity.
The Merry Men had lived up to their name. Through all the trials and tribulations, we had survived long enough for the people of Nottingham to forget us.
Little John met me in the woods at the outskirts of camp. He climbed onto the bench and we rode with my head nestled against his bulky shoulder.
“Well, little hope?” He absentmindedly played with my hair while I rested against him.
“It’s all set,” I said.
At the end of the road, we reached camp. Will Scarlet was busy training the newest recruits with wooden weapons, and I dropped off the steel for him from the carriage.
Next, I moved onto the class where Tuck taught holy words and educated our youth. He gave me a sinfully delicious smile as I laid down the leather for him to make into the binding of books—one for each of the whelps.
Bess and Wulfric received the grain, because the particular shop I went to in Nottingham had the best in the land, as I told it.
Alan-a-Dale’s voice crooned through camp as he showed lasses and lads how to make a song stand out. Today, he was teaching them the “Ballad of Sir Gregory.”
It nearly made me tear up.
Once all the goods from the carriage were distributed, John and I stared into the door, at the floorboards.
I bobbed my eyebrows, grinning like a child, and crouched to lift them up.
Under the boards were three iron keys.
I rubbed my hands together, licking my lips.
I couldn’t wait to get back into the action.
“Good,” John said, patting my back. He leaned over and kissed my forehead. “I see you getting so excited, you little devil.”
“I can’t help it. Been a while since we’ve run a job, love.”
“Aye.” Little John scratched his forehead. “Fucking Rosco. If he had wanted a ring for Emma’s hand, why couldn’t he have just asked? He had to go stealing it from a noble?”
“Worse that he got Tick and Jimmy caught up in his little games, too.”
“Aye.” I nodded, putting my hands on my hips. “The lad’s gotten rusty in his time away from the alleys.”
“Right he has, love,” John said, and sauntered away. “Right he has.”
“We’ll hit the jailhouse tonight,” I called over my shoulder.
He waved a hand at me over his shoulder, and I smiled at his broad backside.
Then, eyes narrowing mischievously, I charged toward him and leapt onto his back, curling my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist.
“Hoy!” he called out, stumbling. “You devious little weasel!” His hands came around to cup my ass so I could ride his back. We bumbled along through camp, earning laughs and pointed fingers from the whelps.
The day would pass lazily. Things had changed over the past year, and our camps were more organized and together than they’d ever been.
Our community was complete . . . and growing every day, it seemed.
We passed by Emma, who giggled, shielding her hand over her mouth. Then she ran her palm over her bulging belly, and waddled away.
I yelled over John’s shoulder, “We’ll get him tonight, dear Emma! The guttersnipe will be back in your arms by sunrise!”
“Don’t I know it?” she called out, laughing. “Never fear when Robin Hood is here!”
Others around camp joined in the laughter and merriment as John and I waded through like the oddest couple.
My mates and I were settled, happily, yet the call to act never disappeared. When one of us needed help, it was all hands on deck—just like it had been when we were waist-deep in shit.
I liked to think we were a little smarter and a little more careful now.
But who knew how long that would last?
We’d just recently received word that King Richard the Lionheart had been captured by Duke Leopold of Austria. No one could anticipate the king’s fate, if he was even still alive, which meant Prince John Lackland was chomping at the bit to finally ascend to the throne.
If Prince John became king, we’d be right where we left off, I knew. He’d been so busy lately with his planned usurpation of his brother that the Merry Men had been all but forgotten.
It suited our purposes and needs. We stayed in the weeds, ever hidden, always there.
Always ready. It may not be tomorrow, or even next month . . . but the call to action would come. Tyranny never stayed quiet forever. The common man needed someone to fight for them when they needed assistance.
And when they called, we would come.
Because, for those in the know, people could still rely on Robin Hood and her Merry Men.
The End!