Mojitos with Merry Men (22 page)

Suddenly I feel somewhat better.

So what if Robin and Danny are both losers with a capital L? My existence is not defined by whether a man likes me or not. I'm a 21st-century girl, after all. I could live a completely fulfilling life without any man at all, if I so desired. I don't need some stupid guy bringing me down.

I stand up and toe the fire like the men taught me, making sure there are no glowing embers to annoy Smokey the Bear or kill Bambi's dad. My sudden movement startles the deer, and they glide off across the field in graceful leaps.

I look back at the forest, wondering what to do. Part of me, the masochistic, likes-to-be-tortured part, wants to race back to the camp and see if Robin and Marian are sharing breakfast together after a night of passion. But, I realize, this option will only prolong my heartbreak and intensify my grief. I must be strong. I must let go. I must prove I can live without him by my side. After all, I don't have much choice.

I square my shoulders, firming my resolve. I just need to hang someplace until King Richard returns. I don't need to stick around Sherwood Forest to survive. I can find my own place. In fact, I can head right to Nottingham Castle. After all, then I'll be nearby when King Richard returns with the grail. Maybe I can even get the 4-1-1 on that whole thing. Someone must know his ETA, right? Even if they're not looking forward to it.

Sure, the last time I was there I had to run for my life, but that was me dressed as a boy. Surely if I throw on a dress and let down my hair no one's going to recognize me. Heck, maybe I'll even go get a job. Become self-sufficient.

Screw Robin and his Merry Men. I don't need anyone but myself.

I take stock of my surroundings and think back to the maps we used when planning our robberies. Nottingham should be south of here, and the rising sun to the east clues me in to which direction I should walk to get there. It's going to take me hours to get there by foot. But that's okay. It'll give me time to pep talk myself some more.

Soon I reach a small village nestled against a grassy hillside. I realize it's the same town we brought our first robbery spoils to more than a month ago. Today it looks different than the sad, dilapidated village it once was. For one thing, the threadbare thatched roofs have been repaired, and the crumbling stone wall has been rebuilt. Children play outside the village perimeter, running and screaming in glee as they chase each other and a scruffy-looking little dog. Sure, the people are still wearing rags, but they don't look as underfed as they did during our first visit. Today the faces are fuller, the eyes not as hollow. Okay, they're still probably not meeting the full RDA Pyramid of Nutrition, but they definitely seem better off.

Pride warms my insides as I take in the scene. A few peasant women giggle as they hang laundry. Two men shout a happy arrival, showing off a freshly killed deer. The town seems happy and healthy and secure.

And it's all because of me.

Yes, little old me, who never did any good in her whole life before now, is responsible for all of this. The girl who always stayed in the shadows of her drug-addicted mother or abusive foster parents or loud, vociferous husband. The girl who took an innocuous job as a fashion photographer because she was too afraid of applying to be a real photojournalist. That girl stepped out of her comfort zone, as the shrinks would say, and really made a difference. Okay, fine, it sounds kind of corny, but the evidence here more than proves it. These people are a thousand times better off than before I came to Sherwood Forest. Tears have been replaced by laughter. Empty stomachs are full. All because of me and my plan.

I totally rock.

The washerwomen finish hanging their clothes and head back into one of the thatched huts. I examine the garments they left, a plan forming in my mind. If I'm going to find a job in Nottingham, first thing I'll need is a dress. No reason to keep up the eunuch act once there. At the same time, I can't bring myself to just take clothes off the clothesline. After giving so much to these people, the last thing I want to do is take something away.

I know. I'll buy one.
I have ten silver pennies in my bag. That should be way more than enough.

I knock on the cottage door. It's a tiny dwelling, crudely constructed of sticks and a straw thatched roof. Not the most secure-looking building, that's for sure. Certainly wouldn't have been a problem for the barrel-lunged wolf of legend to huff and puff and blow it all down.

"A good morn to you, sire." A pretty young teenage girl (had I been expecting one of the three pigs?) answers the door, greeting me with a small curtsy. "You are one of Robin Hood's men, are you not? It's a great honor to have ye knock on me humble door."

"Shh," I say, finger to my lips, not wanting to clue the whole town in that I'm here. After all, I'm trying to keep a low profile. If Robin comes looking for me, I don't want him to know where I've gone. Not that he's likely to expend the energy on a search. He's probably worn out from hooking up with Marian all night. "I don't want to cause a scene. I was just wondering if I could buy a dress from you. Maybe one from the clothesline over there?" I point to the laundry.

"A dress? What would ye be needin' a dress for?" the girl asks, looking a tad suspicious.

"It's a long story," I say. "Involving…well, one of our adventures." There. Be as vague as possible, all while sounding unbearably cool.

"Ach, you'll be usin' it to trick the Sheriff of Nottingham, aye?" the girl asks, her watery blue eyes wide and shining with excitement. I thought she seemed impressed before. Now she's looking at me like she's from New Jersey and I'm Bon Jovi.

"Er, yeah. Something like that," I agree. "So, can you spare a dress? I will pay you well, of course."

"Aye, of course. In truth, I can do one better. Come inside." She pulls open the door and invites me in. I step over the threshold into a dimly lit living space. The girl asks me to wait and disappears into a back room.

I look around. The small cottage is sparsely furnished and dirt-floored, but it seems clean, and the fire pit is ventilated enough so the air is not overwhelmingly smoky. Still, a fire pit in a straw-roofed house? That should so be against some kind of code.

The teen returns with a dress. My eyes widen as she holds it out for my inspection. This is not your typical scratchy linen, undyed peasant smock. She's offering me a fancy crimson-colored gown with bell sleeves, fluttery lace, and tiny sparkling beads seeded in the hems. Where did she—?

"'Twas me mother's," the girl explains, pushing the dress into my hands. The material is soft, likely silk. "She was a fine lady, she was, back when King Richard ruled our land."

"Ah. And, um, your mother won't mind you selling her dress?" I ask. After all, I know how teens can be. And I certainly don't want the missus of the house to come home from a day in the fields to learn that the last precious reminder of her former life has been sold for beer money.

The girl casts her eyes to the floor and shakes her head sorrowfully. "She is dead, milord. Killed in a raid several months before Robin and his men arrived that first day. One of the sheriff's men demanded she give up the ruby ring my father had given her before going off to die in the Crusades. My mother told 'im she'd rather die." The girl shrugs helplessly. "And so he killed her."

I cringe. "Oh. I'm so sorry. That's terrible."

The girl nods. "So if you be needin' a dress to outwit the sheriff, this is the one you should wear," she says, handing me the garment. The silk rustles as I take it carefully into my arms. "Me mother would be proud to have it go to such a good cause."

"I can pay you for it," I interject, feeling a bit guilty that the dress isn't exactly being used as she might expect. I mean, sure, I technically didn't lie. I will be wearing it in an effort to trick the sheriff and the rest of the court. But it'll be more of a "lying on my resume to get a good job" kind of trick, rather than the "steal the court jewels and give them back to the people to repay them for all they've suffered under Prince John's rule" type she might be hoping for.

The girl waves a small brown hand. "Nay, I will not accept your silver. Forsooth, you and your men have done so much for our small village already. Look outside, milord. Children who once were at death's door now play without a care. My friends and neighbors smile as they go about an honest day's work, knowing now that their sweat and tears will not be in vain. Before you came, we had nothing. No hope. No future. Now we thrive once again. So I am more than honored to give you my mother's dress. 'Tis the very least I can do for all the happiness you have brought us."

Pride wells up inside me. Again, wow. We really made a difference here. That's so cool. I've never saved a child from starving before. (Well, besides Eswin, the little boy from Guatemala I sponsor back in the 21st century for 'less than a dollar a day.' I'm such a sucker for those
Save the Children
guys that stop you on the street.)

"Do not insult me mother's memory by refusing my gift," the girl adds. She's very well-spoken for being fifteen years old.

"No, no. I won't," I assure her. "It's a beautiful dress, and I promise it'll be put to good use."

The girl smiles, and I realize she's missing a few teeth. Too bad I couldn't rob a dentist and donate his services or something. Oh well, there's only so much I can do.

She turns to tend the bubbling cooking pot over the fire pit. I say good-bye and repeat my thanks, then slip out of the hut. But not before dropping three silver pennies onto a crude wooden table by the door. She'll thank me later.

Now armed with a dress and a plan, I get directions to Nottingham Castle from one of the villagers and continue my journey. It's not as close as I would have liked, especially on foot, and the slow trip gives me way too much time to think. But I try to keep my mind off Robin and his betrayal and instead concentrate on what lies in store for me.

The way I figure it, the castle is the perfect place to hang while I wait for King Richard to return. After all, it's where royalty stays when they're in town, so it's likely he'll show up there first, right? And there I'll be, ready to convince him to give me a drop of Grail blood so I can get the hell out of Nottingham forever. Hopefully he's amenable to the idea. I can't imagine having waited all this time only to be turned down in the end.

Then I'll be done. Mission accomplished. Nimue will somehow bring me back to the 21st century, and Kat can come back from the future. I wonder if time will have passed or if, like in Narnia, a thousand years here is like a day there.

Either way, Monday morning at work is going to be absolutely no fun. Total time-travel hangover.

It's dusk by the time I reach the towering gray stone walls of Nottingham. Luckily, they haven't yet closed the drawbridge for the night, and I'm able to get myself inside. I wander around until I find a small inn and rent a room for the night. But that uses up the last of my money. Tomorrow I definitely need to find a job, or I'll be forced to rob the rich to feed myself.

The morning sun streams through my window, and I open my eyes, ready to greet day one of the rest of my life. This is a new chapter. A new start. And this time I'm going to do things right. No more hanging out in the forest, pretending I'm someone I'm not, mooning over someone who doesn't really want me. Starting today, I get to be myself again. Well, the 12th-century version of myself, but at least I'm back in dresses.

I look around the medieval B&B where I spent the night. B #1 was moth-eaten and lumpy, and I'm not holding out much hope for B #2 being anything vegetarian. But that's okay. I'm rested and raring to go.
Watch out Nottingham, Chrissie is in town.

There's no shower, obviously, so I can't exactly freshen up the way I normally would back home. But I do convince the innkeeper to supply me with a pitcher of water and a small bar of soap to sponge bathe. Then I don the dress I got from the village teen. It feels a little loose—her mother must have been a bit heftier than I—but it's attractive and courtly looking. (At least in my mind. Admittedly, I skipped Fashion 101 of 12th-century England.)

I primp a bit more, though the polished metal that serves as a mirror doesn't exactly give me a crystal clear vision of my appearance. I pull my unruly hair into a bun and pinch my cheeks like Scarlett O'Hara used to, in an effort to achieve that sans-Cover Girl glow. It seems so odd to be worrying about things like hair and makeup again. But at the same time, it's kind of nice. Not that I ever was some fashionista like Kat, but I do like to look pretty on occasion.

I head down the rickety wooden stairs, through the bar—I take the few catcalls from the early morning barflies as a good sign, though maybe not
that
good considering they've probably been drinking since noon yesterday—and outside into the bright morning sunlight.

Nottingham is alive with activity—the sights, smells, and sounds nearly overwhelming to my just-woken state. A hammer slams against an anvil as a blacksmith morphs a chunk of metal into a deadly weapon. Chickens and cows cluck and moo, respectively. The scent of freshly baked bread wafts through the air, mingling with a scent of something far less pleasant that I can't identify, and I'm not sure I want to.

I smile. This place isn't half bad. In fact, it's kind of exciting, to tell the truth. All the hustle and bustle of peasants and tradesmen going about their days. Pretty maids batting their eyelashes at the butchers, trying to save a penny with a smile. Hunky men-at-arms wandering the streets, making sure everyone stays in line. I can definitely see myself waiting out Richard's return here. It'll be a brand-new adventure. A brand-new life. And I don't need Robin to live it.

I do, however, need a job. I glance around, wondering how to find out who's hiring. I mean, it's not like I can just hop on to LinkedIn to find that dream barmaid position I've always lusted after. And I don't see any
Help Wanted
signs displayed on the pottery seller's stand. Hmm. This could be more difficult than I thought. What if they start asking for references? Or employment history? I'm thinking listing "professional robber of the rich" as my occupation and Robin Hood as my professional reference might turn off a few of my available employers.