Mojitos with Merry Men (5 page)

Robin's face softens. "Aye. Forsooth, 'twas a selfless deed." He places a hand on my shoulder. "You are a brave lad."

Thanks," I say, feeling my face heat at his compliment. Or maybe at his touch—it's hard to tell at this point. I wonder if now's a good time to reveal my inner female.

"Well, fellow outlaw, will you join us for supper?" Robin asks. "I could introduce you to my men."

Ooh. An invite to hang with the Merry Men. Now we're talking.

"Sure," I say. "I'd be up for that."

I decide to skip telling him I'm a chick. At least for now. He might get all protective and want to drop me off at a village where I'll be safe. After all, in these days, women were seen as fragile, delicate flowers not suited for cavorting with outlaws.

If I have to be stuck in the 12th century until King Richard returns from his Crusades, I at least want to live more of the legend before I'm relegated to some medieval kitchen.

*   *   *

Argh. My feet kill. I would give absolutely anything right now, even my rent-stabilized apartment, for a pair of Nikes. You won't ever know the pain of walking barefoot through a dense English forest for miles on end, but to give you an idea, it's worse than walking the length of Manhattan in two-sizes-too-small stilettos. Really. I've done both now, so I know.

"Who goes there?"

I jump back with a start as a man leaps from the bushes, bow and arrow drawn. Robin only laughs.

"A bit jumpy are you, Much?" he asks.

The man lowers his bow and flashes a toothy grin. He's tall and scrawny, with wild blond hair that sticks up in tufts. He wears a gray hooded cloak over a battered leather tunic and trousers.

"Well, Robin, you canna be too careful," Much says. "The sheriff's men have been in the forest all day—searching for some poor lad who avoided his taxes, I wager."

Robin gives me a pointed look. "Much, I'd like you to meet Christian," he says, motioning to me. "Our guest for supper. We shall be roasting one of His Majesty's deer in his honor. If you care to join us, you would be most welcome at our table."

Much's eyes light up as my heart sinks. Is this a good time to tell them I'm vegetarian? Or that I watched Bambi fifty-four times as a kid and have no desire to leave some poor fawn to face the winter without his mother?

"Well met, Christian," Much says to me, bobbing up and down in a sort of half bow, half curtsy.

"Well met," I repeat, deciding to keep quiet about the impending Bambi massacre. My situation is precarious here, and I don't want to appear ungrateful. I won't go as far as actually eating the deer though. I don't want my PETA membership revoked.

"We must be off," Robin says. "If we are to reach the lair by nightfall."

"Hold on a second. Aren't we almost there?" I ask, peering up at the sun, which is still quite high in the sky.

Robin shakes his head. "Nay, we have some distance still."

Oh man. More walking. I don't know if my feet can handle it. I lift my right leg and peer at the sole of my foot. It's black and bleeding. Lovely.

Robin catches my examination and to my surprise pulls off his own leather boots. "Might be a bit large for you," he says, handing them to me. "But they are all I have with me. When we arrive at camp, I will find you some proper footwear."

"But what are you going to wear?" I ask, trying to be fair even though I desperately want those shoes.

He shrugs. "My feet are tough and used to walking." He holds out the shoes, and I take them with immense relief.

"Thank you so much." I crouch down to put them on my aching feet. They're almost four sizes too big and have no Dr. Scholl's shock-absorbing gel inserts, but they're a great improvement over my barefoot status. I can't believe the guy's literally given me the shoes off his feet. Danny would never even give me half the blankets in bed on a cold winter's night.

Much waves good-bye as Robin and I continue our journey. "I will send an arrow to announce yer arrival to the men," he says in an eager-to-please-the-boss voice. Then he tilts his bow skyward and affixes an arrow with some sort of circular barrel attached to its tip. I stop to watch, intrigued. He sends the arrow skyward, and it makes a whistling noise that echoes through the forest. So that's what people did before iPhones.

Robin nods to Much, then pulls a long white rag from his sack and turns to me. "I am afraid I must blindfold you for the remainder of the journey," he says apologetically. "We cannot have strangers knowing the way to our hideout."

"You think you're going to put
that
over my eyes?" I say, staring at the nasty, stained piece of cloth. Ewh. I take back all my
isn't he nice to give me shoes
thoughts.

Robin laughs. "'Twill not kill you."

Maybe not, but I can only imagine the potential zit factor. I mean, who wore this before me? So help me if I get a sty. But I sigh and give in. After all, I don't have a lot of alternatives at this point.

Robin moves behind me and places the rag around my head, tying it in the back. I can feel his breath on the back of my neck as he concentrates on the knot. Instant goose bumps.

Why the heck am I so damned attracted to this guy? Is it simply the bad-boy factor? He's an infamous outlaw, after all. Or maybe it's my practically single status. I can't exactly remember the last time Danny and I made love. He'd come home saying he was too tired, and I, the good wife, had bought it and gone without. I hadn't realized the fatigue came from banging Waitress Wanda, or I'd have gone out and found a way to tire out myself.

With my vision now completely obscured by the nasty and probably unsanitary rag, Robin takes hold of my elbow and leads me down the path. It reminds me of those old team-building games they used to make you play at work. Where you had to trust the other person. Being blindly led by a practical stranger who every once in a while whispers for me to step up, step down, veer left or right. It feels rather intimate, actually.

After about a half hour it's no longer intimate or sexy or fun. In fact, it sucks. His camp or lair or whatever he calls it is evidently in the Staten Island zone of Sherwood Forest. Either that or he's taking me the long way round to make sure I really have no clue where the place is.

"Are we there yet?" I ask.

"Almost."

I'm relieved at that until I realize, five minutes later, we're still walking. What's his definition of almost, anyhow? Almost, a few more paces? Or almost, just a mile or two more down the path?

"Are we there yet?" I can't help but ask again. I know, I know.

I can hear his exasperated sigh. "Almost."

But still we walk. And walk. And walk. You know, when I said I wanted to swing by and check out his camp, I had no idea it'd be located in another time zone.

"Are we there ye—"

He huffs, stops walking, and whips off my blindfold. I blink a few times as my eyes adjust to my surroundings. "Are we here?" I ask, looking around. If we are, it's not much of a camp. In fact, it doesn't look like any camp at all. Just a bunch of trees.

"I…" Robin turns around, shielding his eyes as he looks to his left and then right. "I think I might have taken a wrong turn somewhere."

"What?" I cry. "You mean we're lost?"

"Nay!" he retorts. "We are not lost."

Oh, no. Of course we're not lost. No man on the planet, medieval or modern, would ever admit he doesn't have the slightest clue where we are.

"Look, there's a hut over there." I point to a building in the distance. "Why don't we ask them where we are?"

"Nay, I will not."

I don't know why I even bothered suggesting it. Of course he's going to refuse to ask for directions.

"Oh, quit being such a baby," I chide, making strides to the small dwelling. "We'll just ask them approximately where we are. Get your bearings. Then you can play woodsman again."

He doesn't answer but falls into step behind me. I guess that's something. Men are so damn stubborn sometimes. Okay, most of the time.

We reach the cottage, and I lift a hand to knock on the door. Calling it a cottage is being kind, by the way. It's made of rotted logs, caked with crumbling mud, and a thatched roof—which seems a total fire hazard, if you ask me. Does someone really live here?

"Go away!" cries a raspy female voice from inside. "I already paid me tithe."

I glance over at Robin, who shrugs back.

"Ma'am, we aren't tax collectors," I say. "We're travelers, and we're lost. We were hoping you could help us figure out where we are."

The door opens a crack, and I can see an eyeball. A woman glances outside. "Yer not with the sheriff?" the voice asks, still suspicious.

"No way!" I say. "His men tried to kill me earlier today. I can't stand the guy."

The door swings open, revealing an extremely pregnant woman dressed in gray rags. Two barefoot rug rats cling to her legs.

"I beg yer pardon," she says, and she motions us inside. "But as ye know, these are desperate times."

"Aye," says Robin. "They are indeed."

Easy for him to say, I think, as we walk into the hut. He's going to be chowing down on roast deer tonight. Selfish jerk.

The hut's interior is depressing, to say the least. It's tiny, for one thing. Way too tiny for a woman and two kids, with another on the way. The floor's made of dirt, and there's a straw pallet in one corner with a few ratty blankets on top. Is that where they all sleep? A large earthen pot sits atop a smoky, smoldering fire. Church mice would feel well-off if they saw this woman.

I feel so bad for her. Talk about extreme poverty! I mean, I thought
I
had it hard when they shut off our cable after Danny was laid off, and we couldn't pay the bill. I can't imagine living in this squalor. And worse, having
children
live in this squalor.

As Robin asks the peasant woman for details on where we are in the forest, I feel a tugging on my leg. I crouch down to eye level of the dirty but sweet-faced little girl in front of me.

"D'you have any food?" she asks, sticking a grimy index finger in her mouth. I wish I had found time to retrieve my camera bag from the other side of the river before running for our lives. I know I had some sanitary wipes in there. That and granola bars. "I'm hungry."

Poor kid. My heart aches for her. If the others in Nottingham are half as bad off as this family…

How could the Prince allow this to happen? How can he sit in his castle, enjoying his jewels and servants and fine dinners while these children die of starvation?

I can see why Robin Hood felt it so important to redistribute the wealth in this godforsaken place. Well, the Robin Hood of legends, anyhow. The real-life Robin seems much more interested in getting back to his camp so he can fry up a nice fat deer and pig out. I decide that if we're anywhere near his camp now, I'll sneak out and determine a way to return to this hut with my portion of meat.

"Hang in there, sweetie," I say, kissing the little girl on her forehead. "I'll try to bring you some food."

That's it!

Inspiration strikes as I rise from my stooped position. That's how I'll spend my time in Sherwood Forest while I'm waiting for the king to return. If Robin's not up to the task, fine. I can organize a little robbing from the rich and giving to the poor myself. Maybe I can even recruit some of the less selfish Merry Men to help me.

I can see it now: Chrissie Hayward, Princess of Thieves.

I kind of like the sound of that.

The blindfold goes back on as soon as we leave the vicinity of the hut. I try to protest, saying if
he
doesn't even know where we are, how the heck does he expect me to? But I might as well be trying to talk to a Patriots fan on Super Bowl Sunday while Brady has the ball for all the attention I get.

"If I were to lead you to my lair without a cloth 'round your eyes, my men will think I've gone soft," Robin explains, sounding almost apologetic. "And power is such a tricky lass—to be kept under a tight lead. Should I show weakness, some other man, perhaps, would rise in challenge. And we do not want that, now do we, young Christian?"

Okay, fine. I guess he's got a point there. So I let him lead me, praying we won't get lost again and that the camp isn't too far from here. I've only got so many miles left in these shoes. And when I say "so many," I mean less than one. If that.

But luck, thankfully, has gone from a total witch to a lady once more. Not ten minutes later, Robin lifts the cloth from my eyes.

"Behold," he says, with a gallant sweep of his arm. "My forest home."

I blink my eyes a few times, getting used to the light filtering through the birch trees, then scan the area. It's a small camp. Below me lie dozens of weather-beaten grey tents and dilapidated wooden huts with thatched roofs. Ladders built into the trees lead to crudely built lookout posts above. In the center, a huge stone fire pit boasts a blaze that's currently giving off way more smoke than fire. It's not half as impressive as the Robin Hood secret hideouts I've seen in movies, but hey, the apartment in
Friends
didn't look much like my first New York City place, either. Real life can be depressing like that.

Dozens of men mill about the camp. A few tend the fire. Others chop wood at the outskirts. A stable hand feeds oats to a few chestnut-brown horses that stand tied to a tree munching contentedly. At one end of the camp someone's set up some targets, and several men are honing their bow and arrow skills. Others are being less productive, sitting around with what appears to be a beer keg, mugs of frothy brew in their hands. That'd be Danny if anyone ever sent him back in time. He'd figure out a way to spend the entire trip drunk as a skunk.

Not that I'm thinking about Danny. After all, I'm back in time over a thousand years with a legendary outlaw who thinks I'm a choirboy. Not to mention my mission to find the Holy Grail. That's gonna take a bit of focus, most likely, seeing as it's only the most insurmountable quest in the history of the world. Therefore, all thoughts of ex-husbands, positive or negative, need to, like Elvis, leave the building pronto.