A Hoboken Hipster In Sherwood Forest (19 page)

"I'm competing! Duh!" I say, rather annoyed. I know I just came in here to warn him, but still! I've been practicing with my bow. I have just as much right to be here as anyone.

"Competing?" He cocks his head. "What are you going on about? Why would you be competing?"

Oh, I see how it is. I'm good enough to carry his bow, but not good enough to compete next to him. Puh-leeze. As they say where I come from, Anything guys can do, girls can do better. Plus, I'm trying to help. Ungrateful bastard.

"Why, do you have a problem with it?" I ask angrily. "What, would you prefer I just sit around on the sidelines and watch you eye Maid Marion?"

He rakes a hand through his hair. "What are you talking about? Are you drunk? You reek of beer."

Ugh. This convo is going from bad to worse. I have to focus. Keep my temper. Try to act sober. "Look, Robin," I say, "I don't care about the stupid competition. I just signed up so I could get close enough to warn you. The sheriff knows who you are. Our cover is blown." Of course, no need to inform him of exactly why our cover is blown, right? Or who technically did the blowing. Nope, no need at all

Robin glances over at the sheriff and then back at me. He shrugs. "There is nothing we can do about it now then," he says.

I stare at him in disbelief. "What are you talking about?" I demand. All this work, just to get
close enough to warn him, and he doesn't want to leave? "Of course there's something to do about it. There's, like, running away! Getting out while we still can! That's something we can do about it. A good something, in my opinion. I mean, do you want to be post-archery hanging entertainment?"

"Next up, Sir Christian of Hoboken," the announcer calls out. Oh great. I'm up. This is not good.

"We need to get out of here. Now!" I hiss. But before Robin can answer, the other contestants push me forward. I trip and almost fall flat on my face, righting myself at the last second. I'm now alone. Standing approximately one million miles away from a bull's-eye on the far end of the courtyard. Wow. They expect me to shoot an arrow that far? I don't think I could hit that mark stone cold sober, never mind in my bleary-eyed, drunken state.

I start to walk toward the sidelines, ready to give up the game, but the crowd starts booing, jeering.
Grr. Something inside me, some long lost but deeply ingrained competitive streak, rises up. This is my one and only, once in a lifetime chance to compete in a medieval archery tournament. It's a story I can tell my grandchildren someday. And I don't want a story I tell my grandchildren to end with "And then I walked away like a coward."

You know what? Screw it. If I miss the target then it sucks to be me. At least I'll know I tried.

I pull back my bow and fit my arrow, just like Robin taught me. I line up with what I think is the bull's-eye—though truth be told, it's kind of unfocused in my current state of inebriation and with no glasses. Then I close my eyes and let the arrow fly.

Thwak
!

I open my
eyes, unsure of the sounds I'm hearing. Are those... cheers? I look over at the target, squinting in the sun, and see an arrow sticking out of it. In the exact center. Bull's-eye. Did I do that? How the hell? Seems impossible, and yet...

"Sir Christian of Hoboken moves to the next round," the announcer confirms.

Woo-hoo! I hit the bull's-eye! I rock! I totally and utterly rock! I raise my hand to high-five someone, but then remember high-fiving has yet to be invented. But dancing hasn't, so I do a little jig.

"Beat that!" I say to Robin as I walk back to the sidelines. I'm so in the zone now.

Robin's staring at me, utter disbelief written on his face. Not that I blame him. “That was amazing!" he exclaims. "I have seen your usual aim, and daresay Little John has felt the effects of it. And yet you hit the target from a fair distance."

I shrug. "I guess I'm just awesome. Maybe I'll beat you and then I'll be the one to kiss Marion. Hey, are any of the vendors here selling garlic-flavored food?
Or maybe onions? I want to make sure my breath is real sweet for the ol’ maid."

Robin frowns. "Look, I did not know she would be here," he says, taking me by the shoulders and forcing me to face him. "And I am sorry if her presence upsets you."

"It's not her presence that upsets me, it's the way you look at her," I retort, wrenching my arms from his grasp.

"I was not aware that I was looking any particular way."

"No, of course not. Probably didn't notice the drool at the corner of your mouth either."

"Next up, Lord
Jerkoffinich," the announcer says. Robin looks relieved. Saved by the bell.

"We shall talk of this later," he says, wagging a finger at me before walking back out onto the range. I watch as he pulls back his bow and lets his arrow loose. It sails comfortably into the bull's-eye.

He walks back, standing a small distance away from me and refusing to look me in the eye as the next archer steps up. Fine. He can be that way. I don't care. I really don't.

Soon, it's my turn again. Most of the other archers have now been eliminated. In fact,
there's only me, Robin, the sheriff and one other dude left in the running. And the random guy just missed the target on his last shot, so if we all get bull's-eyes he's out. Not that I imagine I'll get another bull's-eye. The first time had to be sheer luck, right?

In an insane hope for lightning to strike twice, I repeat exactly what I did before. Aim, pull back on the bow, close my eyes, and let loose. I open my eyes again, just in time to watch the arrow soar into its target—much to the delight of the crowd.

Oh yeah, baby! I do a little victory dance. Who's your daddy? Who. Is. Your. Daddy?! Fortunately, I remember this time, however, not to ask the question out loud.

Robin and the sheriff both match my performance and the random guy is out, and so now we're on to the next round. Who will be crowned archer of the land? Who will get the golden arrow and who will get to lay a big smooch on Maid Marion?

The sheriff goes first and easily lands the bull's-eye. Gotta give the guy props—evil or no, he's a good shot. But I know Robin can best him. After all, all the storybooks say so. Or maybe I will.

Robin steps to the line and I notice beads of sweat on his forehead. He's in serious mode now. He wants to win. He pulls back on his bow and lets the arrow fly. I squeeze my eyes shut, not able to watch,
then open them again.

Robin's arrow has not only hit the bull's-eye, but it's literally hit exactly where the Sheriff hit—splitting the sheriffs arrow in two. Ooh, ooh! I remember this part from the legend! How cool is that!

The crowd agrees, going about as wild as we Red Sox fans did when our team won the World Series for the first time since 1909. The sheriff (definitely a Yankees fan) narrows his eyes. He bends his bow over his knee and snaps it in two, then throws it to the ground. The crowd jeers at his unsportsmanlike conduct—John McEnroe of Nottingham. He storms to the other side of the courtyard, down by where the targets are set up and I see him whisper something to a guard—probably selling us down the river now that he knows he can't get the glory of a victory. The guard looks over at Robin and then at me. We'd better win this thing quick.

It's my turn now. I don't think even my luck will cause me to split Robin's arrow in two. But I'm willing to give it the old college try. I close my eyes and release my arrow.

Zoom! Thump!

Did I do it? I hear screams again... though not exactly the same as before. Actually there's only one scream—of pain? Mixed with laughter? I open my eyes, my mouth dropping open.

So, um, let's just say my arrow has not, this time, hit its mark. Well, not the bull's-eye, anyway. It has managed, however, to pierce the Sheriff of Nottingham in the butt. And he's presently screaming incomprehensibly at me, his face purple with rage.

"Uh, oops. Sorry about that. My bad!" Gulp. This is not good. I glance over at Robin. He's shaking his head in disbelief. He's going to kill me later.

"Ladies and Gentlemen!" the sheriff cries, his voice a bit hoarse. "Those men you see before you are none other than the outlaw, Robin Hood, and his manservant. They are wanted for crimes of treason against his royal majesty, Prince John. Seize them, guards! And throw them in the dungeon."

"I think we've just worn out our welcome," Robin says with a wink. At least he doesn't seem ticked.

"Uh, yeah. No doubt." I agree. "What are we going to do now?"

"Follow me!"

Robin takes off and the guards begin their pursuit. I follow, dodging spectators and somehow managing to knock over a cart of fruit. Apples and pears tumble to the ground, making our escape about as easy as running on a floor made of marbles.

"Close the city gates! Do not let them escape!"

This could be bad. Very, very bad. I knew we should have left when I first slipped about Robin's identity to the sheriff. At least then we would have had a fighting chance. But no! Robin wanted the glory of a win. Or a chance at a kiss.

The outlaw stops at a small door embedded in the castle wall and motions me inside. I crawl in. The passageway beyond is narrow and dark.

I follow Robin, and we race through a maze of twisty hallways. Windowless. Dark. Illuminated only by sparse torches. I have no idea how he knows where he's going, but have no choice but to trust that he does. Cobwebs cling to my face and I bite my lip to keep from screaming as a six-inch rat crawls over my foot. Luckily I'm no longer feeling the alcohol. Adrenaline—not to mention fear for my life—is a definite buzz kill.

"In here!" I hear voices down the other end of the corridor.

"Hurry!" Robin urges.

My heart pounds a mile a minute as we run. I hope he knows what he's doing. Where he's going...

We reach a spiral stone staircase leading up into the darkness. We charge upward, until we come to a rotting wooden door blocking our path. Robin grabs the rusty handle but...

“
’Tis locked."

"What?" I cry. This is not good. I can hear the voices of the men in pursuit, and they're getting closer. And now we're trapped. There's no way out except through the door.

Will they kill us on sight? Or will they capture us and throw us in the dungeon? Which will be worse? Will they torture us? I remember seeing a History Channel special on medieval torture and it didn't look like something I wanted to experience firsthand.

Robin throws his body against the door, but it doesn't budge. He prepares to heave again.

"This door is not supposed to be locked!" he cries, his eyes shiny with panic. The cocky, confident Robin is gone. He doesn't want to die, either.

"Wait!" I say, a brainstorm coming to me. Could I actually pull this off? Save the day?

"We have no time to wait!"

"No, I mean, I think I can unlock the door," I interrupt. When I was a kid, my mom was always tripping out and forgetting what time it was. After being locked out of the apartment fifty times or so, my brother and I learned to pick the lock.

"Give me your knife," I say, pointing to the weapon in his boot. He pulls it from its sheath and hands it to me. I get on my knees and study the lock, then jam the knife in and feel my way around. It's a very simple lock, thank goodness, as my skills in lock picking aren't exactly Oceans 11 quality.

"Just a turn here, and then—"

"You'd better hurry. I hear them on the stairs and that blade is my only weapon."

"Don't rush me," I mutter. "I need to concentrate. It's been twenty-something years since I picked a lock."

But he's right. The voices sound like they're only a few feet away.
Come on, Chrissie! You can do this!

Bingo! I hear a click and push on the door. It swings open easily.

"Go!" I cry. "It's open!"

Robin pushes me through the door and then joins me on the other side, shutting and locking it behind him. I realize we're in a small sparely furnished room with a rickety ladder leading up.

"We're in the east tower," Robin explains. "It's on the far castle wall. We need to go up to the roof. There may be another guard up top, so let me go first."

The guards are pounding on the door, screaming. I don't know how long we have before they pull a Jack Nicholson and "Here's Johnny!" with an axe.

"Okay." I nod. "Let's do this."

Robin starts climbing up the ladder and I follow, praying that it will hold both our weights. At the top, he pushes open a trapdoor, and sunshine streams into the
dank chamber. I have to blink a few times to get used to the light change as I scramble up onto the tower's lookout point. When my eyes become accustomed to the brightness, I see that Robin has pulled a rope from his pack (where does he get all these wonderful toys?) and ties it around the iron trapdoor handle, tugging on it a few times to test its strength.

"Oh, no! I'm not climbing down that!" I protest. I'm deathly afraid of heights.

"You will, or you will die here. And I am not about to let you die."

"But I can't climb down that. I'll fall." I look over the tower edge. We've got to be more than fifty feet up. And there aren't a lot of handholds on the tower wall. This so reminds me of the time my fourth foster family signed me up for an Outward Bound adventure. Except, no safety harness this time.