A Hoboken Hipster In Sherwood Forest (8 page)

Next to her is a small boy. I recognize him immediately as the one I saved earlier from the Sheriffs men. Small world.

"What is the meaning of this?" Robin demands. I glance over at him. His mischievous expression is gone, replaced by a distinctly annoyed scowl. Whoever this woman is, she's clearly not welcome here. A spurned lover, perhaps? Nah, Robin wouldn't date anyone so skanky. Would he?

The woman looks nervous as she bows low to Robin. "I beg
yer pardon, good sir,” she says in a quavering voice. "But I be the wife of Much the Miller, one of yer men." She points over to the far corner of the camp where the lookout guy I met earlier is trying to blend into the shadows. I guess his wife's visit was an unexpected surprise for him as well.

That may be so, but what brings you to my lair?" Robin asks, folding his arms across his chest. "You should know strangers are not welcome here. It troubles me greatly that you knew the way to the secret lair to begin with." He shoots an accusatory glance in
Much's direction. The miller jumps behind a tree. He is so busted.

"But good sir, I came to thank ye. For
savin' the life of me son when the sheriffs men went after him this day. He came home tellin' tales of ye riskin' yer life by attacking one of the sheriffs men's horses, allowin' him his escape."

Robin narrows his eyes, glancing back at me this time. I know what he's thinking: no good deed goes unpunished. But still. I shrug. I mean, what's the big deal? I think it's sweet that the boy's mom came all this way to thank him. Even though technically I should be getting the credit here. Good old heroic Robin was more than ready to let little Much Jr. go through life as Captain Hook to save his own neck. But does he give props to me?
Uh, no. Typical man.

"
‘Twas nothing," the outlaw says with a shrug. Yeah, nothing for him, exactly, considering he did nothing. "All in a day's work. Now was that all ye came for? And will ye be leaving soon?"

"Aw, come on, Robin, let them stay for a drink," cajoles Friar Tuck. "We should toast her son's health, we should. Or yours, for being such a brave man and risking
yer life to save a lad."

"Aye, Robin, let them stay for a bit of stew."
This from Little John. Always thinking about his stomach, this guy. "We have enough left over to feed the entire kingdom and I'm fair sure they must be starving from their long journey."

"A grand idea. And I'll compose a song of your brave rescue," Allan a Dale declares, grabbing his instrument from a nearby rock and strumming an impromptu tune.

"Much the Miller's son attacked a deer,

I think he shot it in the rear.

So the sheriff wanted to cut off his arm

He'd then be useless on the farm—"

"Quiet!" Robin says
, looking seriously annoyed at this point. Jeez Louise! What crawled up his ass and died? "We have rules here, and rules for a reason. They shall not be broken nor excepted to. We all signed the sacred code when we first banded together, did we not?"

"But Robin, it's just—"

"No women!" he declares, his eyes flashing. "The Good Lord says they tempted Adam with the apple and surely, if given the option, they will tempt you all as well. They will make you weak and will divide your loyalty. Not to mention, they never come alone. If I let her stay, tomorrow I am sure the place will be crawling with your wives and girl children. No. You have said your piece, milady. Now please, go back to your village and leave us be."

Wow. This is an interesting morsel. I stare at Robin. He really has a thing against chicks, huh? Thank goodness he doesn't know what I really am or I'd so be tossed out into the wild. And then where would I be? No safe place to go. With all the poverty here I doubt anyone else would agree to take me in and feed me. And it's not like I have a good skill-set to fall back on to get any sort of job. Magazine photographer isn't exactly a lucrative 12th-century career.

Nope. If I don't keep up this eunuch charade, I'm toast.

Much the Miller steps out feebly from the shadows. "Come along, my dears,” he mumbles, trying to take his wife by the arm. "I will lead ye home."

But the woman stands fast and the boy stubbornly clings to her skirts. "Nonsense, my dear husband," she says, crossing her meaty arms under her chest. The move succeeds in accentuating her cleavage—something not lost on a single merry man in camp, I'd wager, judging by the wide eyes around me. “'Tis late and the roads are dark and dangerous—crawling with thieves and wild beasts," she says, evidently the only one willing to stand up to Robin. I guess it makes sense. She has the least to lose. Though Much is looking like he'd be perfectly happy to crawl under a rock and die at this point. "Would you save the child one moment, only to kill his mother the next? Would that please you? To have my son grow up without a mother?"

You tell him! I smile to myself, admiring the woman's courage. Score one for Mrs. Much.

"If you truly cared for your safety, you should not have come in the first place," Robin counters stubbornly.

Grr
. He's clearly not going to give in without more persuasion. And while it's not exactly my strong point, I suddenly feel compelled to come to the aid of my fellow sister soul.

"Duh. She came to thank you," I find myself interjecting. Not that I have much hope it'll work. I mean, if he won't even listen to his own men, how can I really expect Rob to listen to me, a virtual stranger? "She appreciates what you did to save her son's life. And do you say, 'You're welcome'?" I ask. "Do you say, 'Stay and have a drink with the men'?
No, you ungrateful bastard. You think it's totally fine to just send her away, even though you know for a fact she could end up being eaten by a lion, a tiger or bear—"

Oh my! I stop talking and hold my breath, realizing I just came off way too strong for my own good. I mean, what if Robin decides to throw me out of the camp with her? Then where will I be?
Probably dead. I wonder what happens if I die back in the 12th century. Will I zip back to the 21st? Or is it game over? And if I die, what will happen to Kat? Will Nimue send someone else to get the Grail? Or is the fashionista SOL?

This time-travel stuff is way confusing.

I gather my courage and steal a glance at Robin. I offer him a sheepish smile, praying it will work.

"Sorry. Got carried away," I say with a small shrug. "All that church learning, I guess. Do unto others, turn the other cheek, all that jazz."

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
firepit. 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 bastard 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 bitching goes on and on 'til 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 on 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 kings' 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.