A Hoboken Hipster In Sherwood Forest (20 page)

"Just hold on to me," Robin instructs. "I will do the climbing for both of us."

I realize I have no real choice. Face the bloodthirsty sheriff’s men or the rappel from hell. I hold out my arms and Robin hoists me piggyback style onto his back and we start our descent. I grip him tightly, eyes closed, fear making my heart race.

"Could you... try... not to dig your fingernails into my shoulders?" Robin mutters, out of breath.

"Uh, sorry." I try to release my hold, to put myself in his care. He knows what he's doing; I have to trust in that. He's Robin Hood, after all, right?

We climb down. Down, down, down. How tall is this tower, anyway? It didn't feel so tall going up the stairs. I feel his muscles strain and sweat dampens his tunic. But he doesn't pause.

After what seems an eternity, Robin jumps and we hit the ground. I tumble off of him, whacking my knee against a tree stump. "
Ow!" I cry, face full of dirt. I scramble to my feet, brushing myself off. My tights have ripped and my knee is bleeding, but nothing's broken. And we're on the ground outside of the castle walls. I have a looser definition for "We're okay" these days.

"Come on!" Robin urges, out of breath but somehow still good to go. Man, this guy is impressive in a crisis. Glad he's on my side. "We're not safe 'til we're in the forest."

We run down the path and come to a few horses, which are saddled and tied to a tree. Must belong to some of the spectators—though this seems as dumb as leaving your keys inside your car outside of Yankee Stadium. Robin unties two of them and helps me onto mine. I cling to the reins and whisper a prayer to whatever higher power happens to be listening, then dig my heels into the horse's flanks. He (or she? I didn't take the time to check my mount's anatomy) takes off and I tighten my legs so I won't fall off.

I've only tried the horseback thing a couple of times and I still have no real idea how to steer, so it's lucky the horse seems to know enough to follow Robin. I hold on for dear life as we gallop along, the wind whipping through my hair. I glance back for a second—a total Lot's wife move that almost causes me to slip off the horse—and see the castle and guards fade into the distance. No one appears to be chasing us. Phew.

Now that I'm safe and sound (well, as safe and sound as a horse newb on a galloping beast can be) I get a thrill of excitement tickling my belly. We just escaped from an armed castle! How cool is that? And I was an integral part of the escape. My misspent youth actually came in handy in saving our lives! And then there were all those bull's-eyes on the archery field. Bull's-eyes made by me. You know, maybe that's been my problem all my life. I was born in the wrong century. Maybe I was destined to live back in these times. Maybe I did live back here and I'm just starting to remember my reincarnated roots.

Or maybe I'm just a drunk who got lucky.

Sadly though, it wasn't mission accomplished. We didn't get the arrow. Totally sucks. To make matters worse, now I'm sure we're topping the Ten Most Wanted in Nottingham list. The sheriff’s butt will be sore for at least a week, and I'm sure the memory of the humiliating and painful incident will last much longer than that.

We reach the entrance to the forest and Robin slows his horse. Thankfully mine seems tired enough to slow him/herself, because in addition to being useless at steering, I have no idea how to put on the brakes. Maybe I should get myself some horseback riding lessons while I'm here as well.

"I believe we have lost them," Robin says. "We can rest our horses a bit."

I sigh in relief, squirming in my saddle to get more comfortable. Thank god. I thought for sure we were doomed. I glance over at Robin, ready to burst with overflowing leftover adrenaline.

"That was an amazing escape, huh?" I cry. "I thought we were goners for sure. And you haven't complimented me on my excellent aim in hitting the sheriff. That's my second bum shot this month!'' I bat my eyelashes, waiting for a reaction. "Bum shot, get it? You know, like, with Little John's bum? Getting him in the bum? Hey!"

Robin nods, distracted and quiet. What's going on with him? Please don't tell me he's still messed up from seeing Marion.

Sigh. In all the excitement of our escape I nearly forgot about that bitch. Now it all comes rushing back. Of course he's upset. He didn't get to kiss her. The woman he loves. And I was the one who screwed up his opportunity. What would he have done if given permission to approach her? Would he have whispered a meeting place in her ear as she lowered her lips to press against his? Would she tell him it was all a case of misunderstanding and that they should resume their affair? Will he ever talk to me again if he gets back together with her? And if not, how am I going to deal with losing him?

My heart pangs in my chest and I feel a bit sick. I can't believe I put myself in this situation. Allowed myself to fall in love with someone who thinks of me as second best. Again. And this time I have no excuse. I may not have known that Danny was spending quality time in coffeehouse bathrooms with waitresses, but Robin's love for Marion is written in a thousand texts. I knew he loved the girl when I was six and watched the Disney version, for goodness sake. And yet, once again, as I always do, I acted on feeling instead of facts. I allowed myself to believe him.

Perhaps he does love me, in his own way. As a friend. A companion. But not as the woman he would die for. Not as Marion.

Tears sting the corners of my eyes and I angrily brush them away. It's not fair. It's so not fair.

I look at his back, bobbing up and down to the horse's gait. I trace the outline of his broad shoulders with my eyes, his chestnut hair fallen out of its normal ponytail and blowing in the breeze. He's so achingly handsome. But it's more than that. It's a tenderness I feel toward him. An overwhelming desire to crawl into his arms and be held. Why can't he feel the same about me?

We arrive at the camp and the men run up to us, their eyes alight, begging to know what happened at the tournament. Did we win the silver arrow?

"I'll spin you the tale of our adventure after dinner," Robin declares. "For at this moment I am too weary and hungry to speak."

We head over to the fire and sit down on our makeshift tree stump chairs. Little John serves us steaming bowls of stew, but I'm not really hungry. Friar Tuck offers us overflowing mugs of beer, but I wave mine away. The last thing I want is to get drunk again.

"So, tell us what took place at the castle today!" Will Scarlet begs eagerly. "Did you win? Is the arrow in your possession?"

"Aye, I won. And Christian here won in his own right." He tells the tale of my two bull's-eyes and my real accomplishment—an arrow in the butt of the sheriff. The men cheer.

"Christian, surely you are a better marksman than Robin here," says Little John, slapping me on the back. "For I like more what you choose as your bull's-eye."

"Aye, Christian. Let's hope his rump is too sore for him to be rutting with any maidens for a fortnight," jeers Will.

Allan a Dale stands up. "This calls for a song!

Good Christian is a champion with a bow

He shoots it high. He shoots it low.

He turns the competition into a farce

And shoots the Sheriff in the—
"

"Anyway," Robin interrupts. "As amusing as Christian's accomplishments were today, he cost us the arrow."

I cringe. He's mad at me. And I guess he's right. I didn't mean to screw up the competition, but I totally did. Ugh.

The men all turn and stare at me. I can feel my
face growing beet red. "Uh, yeah," I mutter. "Sorry about that."

" Tis a shame," Will says. "That arrow could have fed a village for a month."

"Aye," Friar Tuck agrees. " ‘Twould have been a great prize to win."

Great. I suck. And here I thought I was totally cool because of that lock-picking thing. But there would have been no lock to pick if I hadn't screwed things up in the first place.

"Well, no matter," Robin says. He sighs then laughs. "We will have other chances to win treasure for the poor."

The men murmur their agreement. They're letting me off the hook!

"So Christian, tell us more about your lucky shot," Little John says, gleefully changing the subject.

"Well, first I had a mug or two too much to drink," I say with a grin. The gang, especially Friar Tuck, cheers. "And then I hit two bull's-eyes with my eyes closed. I still have no idea how. Lucky, I guess."

I proceed to relate the whole tale: the competition, my mis-- (or perfectly!) aimed arrow, our subsequent escape from Nottingham Castle. The men hang on my every word, cheering and toasting every narrow escape. I'm probably embellishing the tale a bit too much, but I don't think anyone minds.

Through it all, Robin sits on the outskirts, whittling a stick with his knife, looking sad and contemplative. Half of me
wants to run over and throw my arms around him, pulling him into a warm hug and letting him know everything will be okay. Part of me wants to strangle him for not being able to forget Marion.

I'm exhausted and the men suggest I take a nap while they clean up from the meal. I've been through a lot today, after all. Thankful, I crawl into my tent and pass out almost instantly, and I don't wake up until the sun has set.

I scan the camp for Robin. I want to talk to him about what went on today—apologize for my jealousy as well, especially since it nearly got us killed.

The whistling of an arrow overhead interrupts my search—the signal that someone is entering the camp. The men scramble to their feet, drawing swords or grabbing bows. Robin motions for them to be silent as he steps forward.

"Who goes there?" he calls.

"Robin?"

The men gasp at the female voice addressing their leader, at its high-pitched Betty Boop-like tone. What the...?

The speaker steps from out of the shadows and into the illumination of the fire.

Oh no.

You've got to be kidding me.

Maid Marion.

She's dressed in a pale blue silk gown with a darker blue cloak covering her head. Her eyes catch the firelight and sparkle like a cat's.

What the hell is she doing here?

She steps forward again, nodding at Robin and then giving him a low curtsey. He's just staring at her, dumbfounded. And I thought the drool this morning was bad. Now, here in the camp, he looks like he's gone into cardiac arrest.

Oh, this is just great.

"Where... I mean... how? What...?" he stumbles, the cocky, often smooth-tongued man seemingly unable to form a sentence.

She laughs, and to my annoyance it sounds like Christmas bells tinkling in the breeze. Of freaking course.

"You left without your prize," she says, giggling a little as she reaches into a bag. She pulls out the arrow. The men all exhale a gasp, though I'm not sure if it's because of the sight of the arrow or the cleavage she revealed as she bent over to retrieve it.

The arrow gleams in the firelight, silver shaft flashing with an almost unearthly light. I try to remind myself how good it is that she brought it here. That it will feed many poor families who have nothing, and how that's more important than my petty jealousy.

"Thank you, milady," Robin says, bowing low before accepting the gift. "
‘Tis most kind of you to travel all this way."

Okay, cool. Arrow delivered. Now she goes home, right? After all, we've got that "no girls allowed at camp" rule, right?

"Would you like to stay the night?" Robin asks. " 'Tis not a safe place, this forest, for a lady."

What? What? I squeeze my fists together in fury. Now he's suddenly okay with women in camp? Oh, look, my long lost love shows up, so throw all the rules out the window. Sure, it's fine for Chrissie to pretend she's an effing eunuch indefinitely. But now that Marion's here? Oh, she's a lady and the boys better understand.

Marion smiles graciously. "Thank you, Robin. 'Twas a long trip, and my horse would be much appreciative of the rest."

I glower. Long trip my ass. She just wants to hang with my outlaw.

"How did you find this place, lady?" Robin asks as he escorts her to the fire and brushes off a log for her to sit on.

"One of your guards assisted me," she says with a smile. "When I told him of my mission: to present the arrow to its rightful winner—the true champion, Robin Hood of Sherwood Forest."

"He should not have done that," Robin says, but not in the Oh my god, I'm going to kill the guy type of way. If anything, he sounds slightly amused. "At least, not without a blindfold. The way to this place is secret, for many wish to do us harm."

"I am afraid 'tis my fault. I told him I have very sensitive eyes," Marion explains, batting the peepers in question. "He took pity on me."

"Ah," Robin says, taking a seat right next to her.

Uh, hello?
Has everyone here developed hysterical blindness all of a sudden? Woman. In camp. Am I the only one here who remembers that this is supposed to be totally against the rules? The sacred oath? I wait for one of the men to jump in. To remind Robin he's breaking his own rule. But no one speaks up. Except Marion.