Mojitos with Merry Men (8 page)

Robin continues to glower at me for a moment. Then his expression lightens, and he starts to laugh.

"You are brave and outspoken, young Christian," he says, shaking his head. "I would surely kill you—if you did not remind me so much of myself."

He slaps me on the back, almost knocking me over. Then he turns back to Much and his wife. "Very well then," he says. "You may stay. But I want you gone at first light, woman. The moment the sun peeks through the trees, and you deem it is safe to travel. And do
not
return," he adds. "Next time I shall not be so generous."

The camp erupts in cheers. Several of the men pat me on the back as we make our way again to the fire pit. Allan a Dale picks up his harp and strums a few chords, and soon the camp is alive with the sounds of music, bawdy singing, and laughter.

And I'm clearly the hero of Sherwood Forest.

*   *   *

After a time, the music dwindles, and the fire smolders in its ashes. The mead has made us dull and lazy, and talk replaces song. I lay my head down on a patch of grassy leaves, wishing I'd brought my comfy camping chair with me or my memory-foam pillow. Not to mention some kind of portable shower device with good steamy hot water pressure. And deodorant sure wouldn't go amiss. One day in medieval England and I'm filthy, sweaty, and reek of smoke. Good thing they think I'm one of the guys, 'cause I certainly don't feel very girly.

"How goes it in the villages these days?" Little John asks the Miller's wife.

"Bad and getting worse, I'd say," she answers glumly. "I'd give me right arm for King Richard to return, I would. My left too, if he could knock that tyrant Prince John and the Sheriff of Nottingham from power."

"That bad, huh?" I ask.

"We are starving, lad, while Prince John sits on a throne and stuffs himself with roast quail, fruits, and cheeses. He grows fat while our children die of starvation. And does he care? No, he does not."

"Me wife says the same," pipes up another man. "The taxmen raid the villages daily, taking bread from the mouths of babes."

"'Tis a damn shame, to be sure."

"If only King Richard were to return."

"Aye! Now there's a thought—King Richard back on the throne. We would all be free men. Pardoned for the crimes we did not commit."

"Outlaws no longer. We would be back with our families."

"We would regain our lands. Plow our own fields."

"I remember moaning about plowing a field. What I would not give to have the chance to moan about it again."

The complaining goes on and on till I can't stand it any more. What happened to the brave outlaws of the storybooks, the ones who risked their lives to better those of their countrymen? The Robin Hood I knew didn't hide away like a coward in the forest, drinking mead, chowing on roast deer, and complaining about the government. He helped people. He stood up to The Man. Did the storybooks get it wrong? Or am I now in some kind of parallel back-in-time universe where Robin Hood was simply Prince of Pansies?

I think back to the little girl in the hut earlier today. Her grubby hands, her gaunt, half-starved face. Parallel universe or not, I can't just sit around and let that happen. Besides, I've got time to kill while I wait for King Richard to show up with the Grail. Might as well make myself useful. Change history for the better and all that.

"Why don't you stop complaining about the situation and do something about it?" I demand, making my decision. I just hope it doesn't get me kicked out of the camp. I'm likely on thin ice as it is, after defending Mrs. Much.

"But what can we do?" asks Little John, with a shrug of his linebacker shoulders. "We are outlaws. We cannot live in the villages. Therefore, we cannot take jobs to earn bread for our families."

"Besides, even if we did manage to find work, all the wages we earned would be taxed until there's nothing left."

"Bah, forget work," I say, scrambling to my feet. "I've got a better plan."

I'm getting a bunch of skeptical looks, and half of me wants to just sit down and shut up, but I swallow hard and continue.

"Together, you've got a small army here," I say, gesturing to the group. "And I bet you know Sherwood Forest a lot better than any of the sheriff's men."

"Aye," agree a couple of the men.

"And I'm sure you're
much
cleverer than all of those bozos put together," I add. It's funny how easy it is to rouse men to action by playing on their egos.

"Aye!" I get a few cheers and chuckles this time.

"And who's better with a bow than our dear old Robin here?" I say, looking down at the outlaw, praying that at least the legends didn't get that part wrong.

"He's the best in the land!" calls out Allan a Dale, strumming his harp. "I always sing about it.

There once was a man named Robin,

Whose skill with a bow made grown men go
sobbin'.

He'd hit a bullseye from a mile away

And then go find a woman to
—"

"Anyway
…" I interrupt, glancing at the wide-eyed Much Jr. "A bit TMI, but I get the point. Robin's an ace with a bow. You guys rock in the forest. So there you go. Use your resources. When the king's men raid the villages, taking your families' money, steal the money back!"

"Aye!"
The men cheer, raising their cups of mead, their eyes shining in the firelight. I smile. Cool! They're totally on board. Little old Chrissie's somehow succeeded in stirring these legendary men into action. I'm so good! Maybe when I go back to the 21st century I could become a motivational speaker or something.
Eat your heart out, Tony Robbins.

"If we steal the money, how, pray tell, are we any different than the sheriff himself?" Robin asks pointedly, after the initial cheers subside. He's apparently the only skeptical one left in the bunch. Figures. But luckily, I've got an answer.

"Because you give it back!" I say triumphantly. "All the money you steal from the rich, you shower on the poor. You'll be heroes. Legendary. They'll sing songs about your good deeds for centuries to come. The renowned Robin Hood and his Merry Men."

More cheers and catcalls, drowning out Robin's next round of protest. He looks seriously annoyed.

"Hey, Friar! We'd be even merrier if you would not be so stingy with the mead," notes Much the Miller, staring into his empty cup.

The man of God pauses mid-slurp, then raises his own mug into the air. "The Good Lord giveth, and the Good Lord taketh away!" he cries. "So we'd be doing the Good Lord's work." He belches loudly and laughs and passes his cup to the man on his right, then proceeds to fill another, passing it along.

"Here's to Christian!" says Will Scarlet, raising his own mug. "And his plan to defeat the evil Sheriff of Nottingham!"

"To Christian!" the men chorus, raising their cups and downing their brew.

"This inspires me to song," Allan a Dale threatens.

"Good Christian came to Sherwood land,

His ideas 'twere sharp, though he 'twas not
quite man.

He suggested we go and rob from the rich.

If only I didn't have that pesky groin
—"

"Stop. Stop all this nonsense at once!" Robin cries, suddenly scrambling to his feet, anger flashing in his eyes. "This talk is madness.'' He paces toward the waning fire and back again then turns to face his men. "When I found you lot, you were a sorry sight to be had. Starving, outlawed, nothing to call your own. I brought you here to this haven, and we made a life for ourselves. We may not be rich. We may still be outlaws, but we have fresh meat every night and no longer fear for our lives at every turn." He places his hands on his hips and scans the crowd. "Do you really wish to abandon everything we've worked for just because a stranger suggests it? It sounds a grand plan, to be sure, but is any one of you willing to die like that? To risk all we've gained?"

"You
may be safe and sound here, Robin," I say, furious that he's undermining me again. Selfish jerk. "But what about these men's wives? Their children? Heck, what about their father's brother's nephew's cousin's former roommates?" (Yes, I've seen
Spaceballs
three too many times.) "They're starving. Dying. And we have a means to stop that. How can you just sit back and not do anything?"

Robin shakes his head. "The church has sheltered you from reality, young Christian. You do not know what the Sheriff is capable of. He will hang every man here, and their limp bodies and broken necks will not slacken his appetite for the morning meal."

"But—"

"I will hear no more of this," Robin says. "You have disrespected me once, pleading for the woman. And you nearly made me lose my own neck by defending the Miller's son earlier this day. You are lucky I do not throw you out of the forest or deliver you to the Sheriff of Nottingham myself. So be still, and enjoy this night of sanctuary I offer you, or fend for yourself out in the wilds. I do not care which."

And with that, he storms off into the night. I stare after him, extremely pissed. How dare he? No one talks to me like that. What a jerk!

"Do not mind him, lad," Little John says, interrupting my internal rant. "He will come back."

"What's his problem?" I growl.

"He is angry because he knows you speak true," Little John says with a shrug. "But he is afraid."

Afraid? The big bad outlaw is afraid? I'm in the freaking 12th century here, and I'm not scared. Well, maybe a little but still… "He doesn't seem afraid. He just seems like a stubborn old goat to me," I complain, hoping they won't take offense to me bashing their head guy, even though he obviously deserves it.

Luckily, the men just laugh. "Aye," Friar Tuck says, raising his glass. "He can be at that!"

"A right arse at times," agrees Allan a Dale. "I've penned many a song about it."

I shake my head. "So why do you guys follow him? I mean, he is your leader, right?"

The laughter dies away, and Little John turns to me with a serious expression on his burly face. "Because, young Christian, beneath that prickly shell lies a truly great man. A man who saved us all."

"We were nothing before Robin came along," Will Scarlet continues. "Penniless outlaws who'd all but lost the will to live. We roamed the countryside, starving and alone, unable to show our faces in the villages for more than a day or two, lest the sheriff get wind of our location. But Robin saw the good in us."

"He pulled us from the taverns where we drowned our sorrows in watery brews and bade us follow him," chimes in Friar Tuck. "He offered us sanctuary here in this forest—a simple hideaway where we can live freely and without fear of being caught. Here we can await the true king's return, and there is always enough to eat and, of course, to drink." He holds up his mug with a smirk. "In Sherwood Forest we work together and never want for any creature comfort."

"So you see, Christian, Robin may seem as unbending as a mighty oak, but his heart is true," Little John concludes. "He cares more for us then he does his own life. And he will gladly die to protect what he has built here."

Wow. And here I just thought he was a pig-headed jerk. Serves me right for jumping to conclusions. "I'm going to go talk to him," I say.

"Perhaps 'tis better to wait," Little John suggests gently. "He is a good man and will see that you are right once he thinks upon it a bit."

"Meh, I've never been one to let the sun go down on an argument," I say. "I'll be right back."

I head away from the fire, its warmth fading with its glow. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. When they do, I see that there is a small pond not far from the camp. I walk toward it, pulling branches away and letting them snap back behind me. I hope there are no ticks in Sherwood Forest. Or that Lyme disease has yet to be invented.

I find Robin seated on a rock by the shoreline. The full moon illuminates half of his face. He's throwing pebbles into the water, watching them skip before sinking into the depths of the pond.

I walk over and sit down on an adjacent rock. It's not the most comfortable seat in the universe but better than the damp ground, I guess. Seriously, my kingdom for a La-Z-Boy recliner.

"I'm sorry," I say in my sweetest voice—the non-threatening one I used to reserve for calming down my third foster father when he was in one of his drunken rages. "I was out of line. I'm a guest here, and I overstepped my bounds."

"Aye," Robin says, kicking at the muddy ground with his leather-clad toe. Guess he must have found another pair of shoes when he got here 'cause I'm still wearing his old ones. "But you said only what needed to be said. And bravely too, I might add. With little thought to your own situation. I admire your courage."

"Huh?" I was not expecting this. Was he actually apologizing?

He sighs before speaking. "Do not think for one moment I am unaware of the poverty and injustice that surrounds this forest, lad. I am not blind. 'Twere it in my power to make a difference—to do something good—I'd be the first to attempt it."

"Then why not? Why not give my idea a try?"

"It sounds simple, but there is risk," he says. "I have seen what Prince John is capable of, and 'tis not pretty. I want to protect my men, and I do not like the idea of putting them in danger."

"They're grown men, Robin. Surely they should decide for themselves,''

Robin stares up at the moon, as if lost in thought.

"I fought overseas during the Third Crusade," he says at last, turning back to look at me, though his green eyes still seem distant, "with many a valiant English knight and our brave King Richard. We fought hard and long and were in sight of the Holy City of Jerusalem. We thought God had given us victory."

"But…not so much, I take it?"

"The climate is unmercifully harsh. And water, scarce. We ran out of food and had no way to replenish our stores. We weakened day-by-day, until one morning our band was attacked, and those not killed were captured. I spent three months in their prison. Tortured. Barely fed. I thought I would die there."