Robin: Lady of Legend (The Classic Adventures of the Girl Who Became Robin Hood) (29 page)

With a laugh, he and his ladies sauntered away, the twins and their partners following closely behind him. John paused for a moment as if to speak, a faint blush tingeing his cheeks, but then he closed his mouth and trailed after the others, his tall frame causing the crowd to part around him to allow him through.

Will, occupied with a shapely redhead who had been more than generous in her payment, laid a new slab of mutton in front of Robin with a breathless smirk—he had noticed nothing.

Before long, the duo had sold all their meat, and the people began to disperse. As Robin mopped up the stall with her apron and Will said a poignant farewell to the redhead, a thickset man approached their cart.

“Apologies, sir, but I am all out of meat,” Robin informed him over her shoulder as she tossed her cleaver and apron into the cart.

“So I have noticed,” the man replied dryly. Robin turned to look at him and saw that he wore a butcher’s apron much like hers, although it was lacking in a day’s fresh stains. “Never have I seen a butcher like you, so willing to make loss instead of profit. If I did not know better, I would say you were a thief who had stolen your wares . . . but when did a thief ever give away his goods? You must be some foolish prodigal, who does not know or care for the value of things and thus parts with fine meats for a pittance.”

“You have seized the matter by the nose,” Robin told him merrily, tickled to encounter this rare man who had clearly never heard of Robin Hood. “May I help you in some other way, good sir?”

“The Sheriff has invited our guild to a feast this afternoon,” the stranger reluctantly told her. “The victuals will be good and the drink hearty. However you came into this trade, it seems you are a butcher now and if you should like to attend, you may.”

“That sounds . . . fine indeed,” Robin replied, a clever idea springing into her head. “It is certainly meet for a butcher to feast on the Sheriff’s meat. I will see you there.”

The butcher nodded, then paused, having registered her pun, and at last walked away, shaking his head.

“Ye are not plannin’ t’ go, are ye, Robin?” Will asked, standing suddenly at her elbow.

“Indeed I am,” she answered with a crafty gleam in her eye. “Though on second thought, you had better not—the Sheriff knows you by sight now.” Robin’s mouth quirked at Will’s obvious disappointment; she pulled him close and dropped her voice to a mere whisper. “Listen, I want you to return to camp and tell the others . . . tell them I have a brilliantly stupid idea!”

CHAPTER 18

A COSTLY BARGAIN

WHEN ROBIN walked into the Guild Hall an hour later, the feast was already well underway. She paused in the entrance for a moment, carefully assessing the locale. The conventional room was much as she remembered it, with two long tables spanning most of the hall. A third, smaller table sat across the head of the room; this was where the Sheriff was seated, surrounded by a few of the more prominent butchers. A ray of light from the window illuminated the Sheriff’s face, and Robin smiled, remembering the uproar last summer when her arrow had sailed in through that selfsame window, bearing her triumphant message.

The same sensation of rebellious power that had filled her then filled her now as she stepped into the wolf’s very den. She was wearing her suit of Lincoln Green, and while there were enough butchers dressed in similar hues to keep her attire from standing out, she still felt very brazen as she gazed about the room, undisguised.

Just then, a servant—blinded by the large roast pig he carried—knocked into Robin, and she hastily jumped aside . . . but that put her into the path of several footmen, each intent on refilling goblets and replacing empty platters with new ones. Somehow, she managed to avoid a collision and to find a free seat at the leftmost table. She had barely begun to lade her trencher, however, when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but my lord requests yer presence,” a harried servitor informed her. It was just the summons that Robin had been hoping for, but she put on a face of surprised flattery and followed him to the head table.

The Sheriff beckoned her over to the seat at his left hand, and the butcher who had held that spot shifted over grumpily, irritated at having his position usurped.

“Master Bostock here has been telling me about your exploits in the market today,” Sheriff Darniel told her, nearly shouting to be heard over the multitude of boisterous voices. “He claims that you sold your meat for only one penny, although you could have charged three pennies for it and done well. And that a pretty lass had but to kiss you, and you would give her the meat for free.”

“All true, my lord,” Robin confessed, not bothering to correct his last statement. “I would rather have a kiss than three pennies any day.”

The Sheriff roared with appreciative laughter. “Indeed, indeed. I daresay you got the better end of the bargain! You may have to change your prices,” he added, addressing the Chief Butcher, “or else risk losing all of your custom to this brazen lad!”

The butcher gave her a sickly smile. “Where is your helper?” he asked, trying to shift the conversation away from his day’s poor sales.

Robin saw her opening. “My brother had to return home to tend our lands and our beasts.”

“You must have many beasts, and much land, in order to forgo your coin so willingly,” the Sheriff guessed, a greedy glint in his eyes.

“Yes, indeed,” Robin confirmed, warming to the subject. “We have over five hundred horned beasts, but alas, we cannot find buyers for any of them. If things keep going as they are, I shall be forced to butcher them one by one, just to feed my family. As for my land, I have never bothered to take its measure.”

“Just so, just so,” Darniel murmured, envisioning five hundred plump steers. “Well! I like you lad, and I would help you out of your trouble, if you will permit. Tell me, how much do you value these beasts of yours at?”

“I imagine they are worth at least . . . five hundred pounds,” Robin told him, biting into a thick pasty and pretending not to see the look of cold calculation that flashed across the Sheriff’s face.

“Five hundred pounds is a lot of money,” he said slowly. “But for three hundred pounds in silver and gold, I will take these beasts off your hands.”

“Three hundred pounds!” Robin protested, feigning outrage. “Five hundred beasts are worth twice that amount! Or do you think to kiss me and get half my beasts for free?” The Sheriff flushed a dark vermilion, and the Chief Butcher’s mouth fell open at Robin’s audacity.

“All right,” Robin said, halting whatever words the Sheriff might have found to say. “I will accept your offer, if only because my brothers and I need the coin to maintain our merry lifestyle.”

“Very good,” the Sheriff replied, the thought of such a rich bargain excising all ire at the youth’s effrontery from his mind. “I will come with you today to inspect your horned beasts.”

“As you wish,” Robin said. “But mind you bring your money with you. I do not trust a man who offers so shrewd a bargain.”

“Of course,” the Sheriff assured her, and then changed the subject to a more mundane topic.

As soon as the feast ended, the Sheriff returned to his castle to collect his monies, and Robin followed the other butchers out into the Hall’s paved courtyard. The Chief Butcher was the last to leave; he looked around, caught sight of Robin leaning carelessly against the wall, hesitated for a moment, and then walked over.

“Lad, I do not know who you are, but leave now before the Sheriff returns,” he advised Robin in a low tone, glancing this way and that for sight of the Sheriff. “It is a scurvy trick he has played on you, agreeing to buy your beasts for so little a sum. I bear you no ill will, and would not have him beguile you.”

“He has not beguiled me,” Robin assured the man, pleased that despite his impression of her, he had character enough to try and warn her. “My brothers and I know the value of our beasts—we will ensure that the Sheriff pays proper value for the meat he will receive.”

Bemused, the butcher opened his mouth to argue, but just then the Sheriff reentered the quadrangle astride his blood bay mare, accompanied by several guards.

“Very well,” the butcher said. “On your own head be it. I have never met such a mad youth in all my life.” With a nod of acknowledgement to the Sheriff, he walked away.

“Shall we?” the Sheriff asked, indicating for Robin to lead the way.

Robin shook her head. “I will lead you to my home as I have promised, my lord, but not these men. My brothers dislike soldiers.”

“They come to protect me,” the Sheriff scowled.

Robin spread her hands as if to indicate,
I am helpless in this
. “I merely repeat what I know my brothers will say: if your men come, they will have nothing to do with you. It is your decision, my lord,” she added when he hesitated. “I am sure there is someone else out there who would be willing to buy my beasts.”

That settled it. The Sheriff simply could not let a deal this good pass him by. “Remain here,” he ordered his servicemen. Although Robin saw doubt reflect in their eyes, they were too well trained to argue, and obediently fell back.

“Follow me, sir,” Robin said, walking away before the Sheriff could change his mind.

Once outside of Nottingham, they did not pass many people by, but those they did pass turned often to stare at the sight of a youth in Lincoln Green walking next to the Sheriff’s horse. Robin’s lanky legs came in handy now as she was forced to take long, striding steps to match the mare’s gentle amble. To her regret, she had sold the butcher’s horse and cart before going to the feast, and the Sheriff had not thought to offer her the use of a mount.

Well, what did I expect?
Robin mused.
Since when does our Sheriff consider
other
people’s needs?

At least the Sheriff had been quick to forget his abandoned guards; in fact, he was in a rollicking mood. Phillip Darniel fully expected to earn at least four hundred pounds through his canny bargain, and it had put him in such a good humor that he scarcely noticed when Robin led him off the High Road and onto one of the lesser paths traversing Sherwood Forest. Instead, he regaled Robin with long-winded tales about his judicial exploits and talked animatedly about the new taxes he hoped to implement next autumn. Robin gave his words her full attention, nodding politely when required and chuckling occasionally at his jokes.

All at once, the Sheriff stopped talking and gazed around at his surroundings. They were deep within the shades of Sherwood now, in a part of the forest he did not recognize. “Heaven preserve us,” he said, casting an alarmed glance at Robin and reining in his mount. “Are you lost, boy, to take us so deep into the woodland where that varlet Robin Hood dwells?”

“Not at all!” Robin insisted. “We must pass this way to get to my home. Do not fear, you are safe with me!”

The Sheriff peered uneasily into the dark foliage, far from comforted by the youth’s reassurance, but at last the thought of the profit he would forfeit if he turned back now overwhelmed his anxiety, and he allowed Robin to lead him further into the forest.

They had not gone more than another half mile when Robin suddenly halted, putting one hand upon the Sheriff’s bridle rein and pointing ahead with the other. “There are my horned beasts, good Sheriff,” she trolled. “Have you ever seen such fine-looking animals?

The Sheriff followed her pointing finger to a small cluster of red deer chewing contentedly on the bronzing grass. “Is this a jest, lad?” he demanded angrily.

Robin looked at him steadily. “Not to me.”

Alarm coursed through the Sheriff as he met those intense blue eyes. For the first time, he registered the Lincoln Green apparel of his guide.

“Let go my horse,” the Sheriff said, fear tightening his voice as he attempted to pull the reins free from Robin’s grasp. “I do not know who you are, but I know that I like not your company any longer! Go your own way, sirrah, and let me go mine.”

“That I cannot do, lord Sheriff,” Robin told him, tightening her grasp on the reins. “My brothers would never forgive me.” So saying, she unhooked the silver bugle from her belt and blew a ringing triad that made the Sheriff’s heart quiver within his chest.

The Sheriff drew his sword. “Stand back, cur,” he commanded Robin, “or I will trample you beneath my horse and blade.”

Robin let go of the reins and stepped out of the Sheriff’s way. Phillip Darniel wheeled his horse around, preparing to gallop out of the greenwood with all possible speed, but his way was blocked by a score of archers. He spun his horse on its hindquarters back toward Robin—the horse, alarmed, kicked out with its forelegs before coming back down on all fours, almost striking her—but his way was blocked by another half-score of archers there, too. Seeing that there was no way out of the trap, the Sheriff held his horse very still and sat stiffly upon it, waiting with obvious trepidation to see what the outlaws would do.

Robin held out her hand for the Sheriff’s sword, and he gave it to her without protest.

“Shall we kill him, Robin?” Little John asked from the head of one group, his face expressionless. The Sheriff felt his throat close up; he began to wheeze.

“You ask that of
me
?” Robin queried quietly. “For shame. This is the Sheriff of Nottingham,” she announced, turning away from Little John. “He has taken the time out of his very busy day to come and feast with us. We are honored, are we not? Put down your weapons, men, for he is to be our guest!”

The archers reluctantly let their bowstrings go slack. The Sheriff, realizing that they were not going to shoot him—not yet—found that he could breathe again. The giant who had asked if they should kill him came forward and took the reins from Robin. The Sheriff knew there would be no escaping from this outlaw—he looked quite capable of holding back a surging horse if so required.

With another trill of her trumpet, Robin led the party off the narrow path and into the twisted trees of the forest.