The Ghosts of Sherwood (The Robin Hood Stories 1)

“Now shoot.”

Her eyes watered, trying to keep the target in sight. She blinked to clear her vision, breathed to steady herself. She must quiet her heart if she was going to be able to shoot at all, much less hit anything. Her face still throbbed and her limbs felt like ice. She shook her arms to loosen them. Planted her feet and tried to feel the earth under them, to root her down.

The bow wasn’t the best—it hadn’t been well cared for, and would likely split before too much more use. The arrow likewise—both had been made quickly, without much thought to quality. She ran her fingers over them, feeling their weaknesses, taking them into account. The draw was too heavy for her, but no matter; she only had to do this once.

She had been taught to shoot by the greatest archer in England. She imagined her father’s hand on her shoulder, as he’d helped her when she was young. Stand like this, watch where your hips are, your shoulders—aim doesn’t come from the arms alone, but from the whole body. Do not look at your hand, the bow. Look at the target and send your will there. Once you have drawn, do not force the shot—simply let go. Breathe out, release.

The whisper of air, the thunk of a target struck—the sounds of her childhood, when they practiced at the butts behind the manor, John with his first small bow, Eleanor in her basket, fussing and crying, when she still knew how to cry, and Mother and Father cheering when Mary hit a bull’s-eye. Happy days.

She had closed her eyes, after releasing the arrow. She didn’t want to look. Her arms fell to her sides. The glade was silent, so silent she thought she could hear the fletching on the arrow still trembling.

“She did it,” one of them murmured. The youngest of them. Astonished, he looked at Edmund, then ran off to the birch. Raised a hand and confirmed, yes, well struck. The white line was interrupted—she had hit the notch, dead center. John laughed.

“Of course I did. I’m Robin Hood’s daughter,” she said, because it would make them furious to hear it.

The youngest of them returned with the arrow resting in his hands, staring at it. It might have been a holy relic, and a murmur went round the company, Robin Hood, he’s real. Their gazes held wonder. Trepidation. A couple of them glanced over their shoulders, for what might be lurking in the woods. Where is Robin Hood? they whispered.

She was astonished and might have laughed at them for being foolish. But she was the one who said the name first, wasn’t she? Invoked his name. Conjured him. She held herself straight and steady, holding the bow easily, as if it had been born in her hand. One of the outlaws of legend. Let them think that when they looked at her, as if she’d had any part at all to play in those stories.

“Well?” she asked, glancing back at Edmund.

Edmund’s look darkened. He glared as if she had insulted him, and she waited for him to hit her again. But he only said, “I’m not letting you go.”

“But—” John started to argue, then thought better of it.

Mary held on to the calm she’d claimed, to make that shot. “That’s what I thought.” She dropped the bow at his feet.

“Somebody tie her,” Edmund said, and marched off. One of them did, her hands behind her back, harder and tighter than they needed to. Because they were afraid.

The party got John and Eleanor to their feet and continued on.

vi

WHEN THE NEWS CAME of King Richard’s death, Marian, Robin, and his folk gathered in Robin’s upstairs chamber, not by any plan but by a need for old comfort. These were the men and women who had lived in the greenwood with him until just a few years before, and they still felt the bonds of that time. Much leaned against a wall, his arms tightly crossed, his face puffed up and brave and tears sliding down his cheeks anyway. Will held his head bowed, his hands laced, apart from the others, outside the light of the hearth fire. Brother Tuck, clutching prayer beads, murmured. Tuck would be dead in ten years, but he lived long enough to christen all three children. Alan, Raymond, George, a half dozen others who’d followed Robin to Locksley manor and a lawful life. Grace, who cut her hair short and wore a tunic and leggings like a man and looked after the dairy cows, and who was as good an archer as any of the others. She stared at the fire, her face a mask. Bess had still been alive then and sat with Marian, fussing, because Marian was only weeks away from giving birth. She lay in a chair, bundled in fur, her feet propped up on cushions, sad and miserable and frightened. Robin stood by her, holding her hand, but his mind was elsewhere.

Little John came in last, quiver over his shoulder like he expected them to go into battle. “It’s true, then?” He only had to look around the room and its weight of grief to know it was true. “Are we sure his death was natural? Not murder?” So many had wished for the death of Richard Lionheart.

“He died of a wound at Limousin in France,” Robin answered. “I suppose, in a sense, one can call it murder. But all legal.”

“And his brother will become king?”

Robin’s voice was soft, resigned. “It was King Richard’s will that it be so.”

Agitated, John paced and swore enough to make Bess gasp. “Could he not have taken just a year or so off from his wars to father an heir? Anyone would be better than that . . . that . . .” H

e closed a fist and growled. “What are we to do?”

Robin squeezed Marian’s hand, let go. She resisted reaching after him, and then the baby—Mary-to-be—kicked hard and she had to shift her weight yet again. Her husband went to the middle of the room, took up a martial stance as he had so many times, chin tipped up, resolved. Hopeful faces lifted to him. He had a plan, yes, and they would once again fight against the man who had done them so much harm—

“I will go to Westminster and swear fealty to the rightful King of England,” Robin said.

The silence turned brittle. Marian watched the faces, mouths open, tears welling, turn from shock to anger to resignation, and the grief deepened. That they must call this man king. That Robin would not fight.

“You can’t, Rob,” John said simply.

“But I must. If I want to protect these lands and what we’ve built here—I must. I wish you all would go with me. He knows you by reputation if not by sight. It would send a powerful message.”

Will was not the only one who grinned at the thought of what the new King John would do when confronted with Robin and his followers, now upright loyal subjects. He would turn green.