Mojitos with Merry Men (18 page)

Ugh.

I sigh. Why did I ever think Robin would find me a suitable replacement for someone like her? I'm so homely compared to his former girlfriend. Ugly curly red hair. I mean, Little Orphan Annie much? Freckled skin, watery hazel eyes. And my body… I steal a look at Marian's breasts. Creamy white and full, with a good deal of cleavage in sight. No one would ever mistake
her
for a boy.

I force my eyes away from the beauty queen and try to focus on the tournament. A man dressed in a brightly colored silk tunic steps out on a platform, unrolls a scroll, and clears his throat. The din subsides as everyone starts paying attention.

"My lords, my ladies, I welcome you here to this archery competition. We have gathered here today to test the prowess of our men. To see them compete against one another in a battle of skill. Who shall be deemed the best archer in the land? Who shall win this beautiful golden arrow?"

A blonde, blue-eyed
Price is Right
model type holds up the arrow in question, daintily bobbing up and down as she displays it to the crowd. The arrow catches the sun, nearly blinding in its brilliance. Wow, pretty sweet reward.

I send up a small prayer.
Please let Robin win. Please let Robin win. Please let Robin
—

"But we compete for more than a simple trinket," the man continues, "for today the Lady Marian has selflessly offered our victor a kiss from her own sweet lips. Truly, the arrow pales in comparison to such an honor."

What?!?

Please let Robin lose. Please let Robin lose.

Okay, fine, not really. I mean, I want him to win. I do. After all, I can't be selfish here. That arrow could feed a village for a month. But still, this has got to be the icing on my crap cake of a day. Him mooning over her from afar is bad enough. The idea of him tasting her soft lips, her gentle breath in his face…

I hope she ate garlic for breakfast. Or something equally distasteful. Not that he'd probably even notice.

I look over at Robin to see his reaction to the kiss thing. Not shockingly, he's staring up at the dais again, his eyes glazed over, deep in thought. Or deep in love. God, I hate him. Why did I ever think he was the perfect man? He's just like every other sorry excuse for a Y chromosome, wants what he can't have.

"'Tis time to begin. Let the contestants be introduced by their squires. First up, the Sheriff of Nottingham."

A burly black-haired man steps up to the podium, unrolling some paper in his hand. The Sheriff of Nottingham, son of Sir…"

He starts droning a list of names. Oh, I recognize this. They did this before jousting in
A Knight's Tale.
Chaucer made up Heath Ledger's entire family tree so he could sound like he was of noble blood to compete. I don't know if this particular tournament calls for noble blood, but I'd better do something for Robby here, as I think son of Lord Locksley would kind of blow our cover.

"…son of Lord Ashley, who was son of Lord Beckinsworth…"

"Er, do I need to do that for you?" I hiss at Robin.

"Aye," he says, still sounding way too distracted for my liking.

Hmph. It sure would have been nice if he warned me ahead of time. How was I going to come up with a list of fake English names on such short notice?

"Your man is up next," a skinny servant boy informs me, nudging me on the arm. Oh great. "Go up and introduce him."

I hesitantly step onto the podium, feeling the eyes of the crowd on me. I've never been one for public speaking—that was more Danny's thing. I was always more content to disappear in a crowd. Now it seems I have no choice.

"Uh, hello," I stammer. Eesh. If there was a mic in front of me, this would be the moment where it screeched feedback and everyone held their ears. "I'd like to introduce you to Lord…" Lord what? Lord what? I notice Robin's eyes drifting toward the dais again. Loser. Utter loser. "…Lord Jerkoff—inich," I finish. "Yes, Lord Jerkoffinich of the Kingdom Assholia." I notice a few raised eyebrows and whispers among the ladies regarding Robin's last name. I'd better be more obscure from now on. "His dad was Sir Elton of John and his father was Sir Sean of Connery. His father was John of Lennon who had a father named Ringo of the Kingdom of Star. Very musical family, really." Hey, this is kind of fun! "His father was David of Beckham. You should have seen his balls—"

"Um, thank you, lad, I think that should be enough." The announcer interrupts. Darn, just when I get on a roll.

The next herald steps up to describe his contestant, and I exit stage right, heading to the refreshment stand for a mug of beer. If I have to stand here and watch Robin make googly eyes at Marian, I might as well get good and hammered. I down the first drink before they're even done with the family history stuff and order a second.

"D'you think your man has a chance at the prize?" a fellow barfly standing next to me asks.

I take a big slurp of beer before answering. Good stuff. My insides are already warm, and I'm feeling less annoyed at Robin's leering. "Oh yeah," I say, with a wave of my hand. "He's the best in the land, for sure."

"Funny that," the guy mutters thoughtfully. "Since I do not think I've seen him at tournaments before."

"Oh! Well, he's just visiting. From far away. From, um, France." That's pretty far away, right? I mean, it's not like they have jets these days to country hop.

"France, eh? I've competed far and wide in that country, and I have not ever heard of such a man."

Oops. Maybe not far away enough. "Not France the country, silly!" I say with a laugh. "France the city."

"The city?"

"Sure. France is a city in…um, a little kingdom called…called…"
Come on, Chrissie! Just make up a name!
"America," I say triumphantly. Heh. I'm so smart. He'll never know where America is 'cause it hasn't been discovered yet.

"America?" the man says thoughtfully. "I have not heard of that kingdom, I'm afraid."

"Oh, yea, that's 'cause it's very far away. Very, very far away. But put your money on America, man. They're going to be a world power someday. Of course, we'll never have the musical geniuses you English have, but the food will be much better."

"I see." The man has a slightly confused look on his face. Hm, am I not making sense or something? Maybe I should lay off the booze…

"And your man learned to draw a bow in America?"

"Yup. He's brilliant at it. Ab-sho-lute-ly brilliant."

I take another swig of beer and realize my cup is empty. Again? These mugs look big, but they must be deceiving. Danny told me once that at big chain restaurants when you buy a 16-ounce draft beer you're actually only getting about 14 ounces. He was very proud of his pint pour. He'd been trained by a guy from Guinness who taught him to draw a little shamrock in the foam. Even had a certificate declaring he'd poured the perfect pint.

Danny. Our life together suddenly seems very far away. Which, I guess, considering I'm eight hundred years in the past, it is.

The other barfly motions to the bartender, who hands me another beer. That was nice of him. I steal a glance while he's paying. He's dressed better than your average villager, in a royal-blue silk tunic and tights, with a feathered cap on his head. He has a trim beard and blue eyes. Pretty handsome, actually. Kind of metrosexual. Not all rough and outlaw-y like Robin. I wonder if Robin used to dress this way when he lived a prince's life at Locksley. When he was engaged to that witch Marian.

I take a swig of beer. Maybe I should flirt with this guy, get Robin back for staring at Marian all day. After all, what's good for the gander is good for the gooses. Or however that saying goes. I take another sip, warming to the idea. Maybe this guy would want a normal relationship. One where we didn't have to keep things on the down low. We could sing from the rooftops how we loved one another like they do in
Moulin Rouge
, and no one would smack us down for it or ask the guy to resign from whatever job he works at.

"What is your man's name again?" my new boyfriend asks.

"Well, he's not really my man," I correct. "He's like my boss." I don't want him to think Robby's my boyfriend or something. "I'm single, actually. Very single. And available." Sigh. This would be a lot easier if I wasn't dressed as a man.

"And his name?" he asks, ignoring my not-so-subtle come-on.

D'oh, what did I claim his name was again? I remember making up some kind of insult-type name on stage, but now for the life of me, I can't remember what it was. The beer is doing funny things to my brain.

"Lord…Bastardi? I mean…Sir Wankership? No, no, sorry. Captain Dickface. That's right."

No, Chrissie, that's wrong. Very, very wrong.

The man raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Instead, he waves to the bartender to bring me another beer. Ooh, drink number two from the handsome stranger! He must like me. Nice guy. Nice, nice guy. I take a few gulps from the mug already in my hand and swallow back a belch before double-fisting the second brew.

Oh, screw it.

"Can youthh keep ah shhecret?" I ask, lowering my voice to a whisper. I mean, this guy is totally solid, and we're practically engaged at this point. What would it hurt? He's just some random archery tournament attendee, after all. I hardly think he's going to go squeal on Robin to the Sheriff of Nottingham or something.

"Aye." He nods solemnly. "I swear on my mother's grave."

I stare back skeptically, "Did you
like
your mother?" I query. People always assume, when guys make that kind of solemn oath, that Mother Dearest was the sweet-faced, aproned, oatmeal-cookies-and-milk-after-school type and not the hideous monster mine was.

"Very much. I was most happy as a babe on her breast."

"Um, eww. Wayyy too much TMI, mistah," I say, waving my mugs. "But okay. Hereth my shecret. The man over there is actually—"

I stop. Wait one gosh darn second. Does this guy think I was born yesterday? What if he's a spy, sent by Prince John, trying to find out info from me? I mean, he thinks I'm a dude, yet he's buying me drinks. Which means maybe he's just working to get me to reveal our true identities. Which ain't gonna happen. Not on my watch.

"Aren't you drinking?" I ask, realizing his hands are empty. Suspicious. Very suspicious.

He shakes his head. "I must keep my wits about me for the tournament."

"Oh. You're in the tournament?"

"Aye. I shall win it, too."

"I see. Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?"

"Mayhap." He shrugs. "I have yet to see a man best me with a bow."

"You haven't seen my guy, obviously."

"And his name again?"

"Ah-ha!" See! I knew it. I totally, totally knew it! "You're trying to trick me. Well, it won't work. I won't tell you Robin Hood's true identity. Not on your life."

Oh.

Dear.

For those of you who are reading this and are under the age of legal alcohol consumption, this is a prime example of why you should just say no. Beer is bad. Bad, bad, bad. Especially when you're trying to keep a big, big secret.

"Uh, what am I saying? Robin Hood?" I laugh loudly. "How silly of me. Of course, I meant Count Crapola of Toiletville."

"It makes no difference to me, lad," the man says with a smile. "I do not know of either gentleman you mention."

Oh, phew. I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding.
Phew, phew, phew.
For a moment there I thought I'd just given out Robin's secret to someone bad. Like the Sheriff of Nottingham or something.

"Next up, the Sheriff of Nottingham."

"That's me," my friend says with a grin. "Wish me luck."

Uh-oh. I suddenly get the feeling that "Count Crapola" is in deep well, you know. And it's all my fault.

You'd think an archery tournament would be exciting and fun, but let me tell you, in reality it's kind of long and dull. It's not like a jousting match, say, where there are two rampaging beasts storming at one another with two armed men on board, crashing lances into shields in an attempt to throw the other man off. If a jousting match is like football, then archery is like golf. Or watching bowling on TV. Quiet. Slow. Tedious. Boring.

It's especially tedious when you're sitting here, drunk as a skunk and worried as hell about the fact that you just gave away your boyfriend's secret identity to the man who most wants to capture him and sentence him to death. I need to warn Robin that the sheriff knows all, but the guards won't let me near the competitors.

Come on, sloshed brain. Think!

Luckily for me, at that very moment, sloshed brain comes through, and I have a brilliant idea.

I'll sign up to compete too!

I jump up from my seat and rush over to the sign-up booth. "Is it too late to join the competition?" I ask the man behind the counter.

He nods. "Aye. You must sign up before it begins."

D'oh. Of course they'd have some rule like that. But I'm not ready to give up quite yet.

"Is that a rule set in stone? Or…" I reach into my little hanging purse and pull out a few silvers. I know how these Nottingham guys think. "Silver?" I ask, holding them up.

The man looks left and right, then snatches the silver out of my hand. "Consider yourself a competitor," he whispers, winking at me. "Two more silvers, and I'll give you a bow to compete with."

I dig into my bag.

Once outfitted with a rather splintery bow and a quiver full of arrows, I head into the tournament area. Several contestants have already been eliminated, so I try to huddle with the rest, to keep a low enough profile so no one will know I joined late. I look for Robin and see he's up, pulling back on his bow and letting his arrow fly. It soars through the air and lands, of course, right in the bull's-eye. The crowd goes wild, and I can't help but smile with pride. He's so good.

The Sheriff of Nottingham is up next. He easily hits the mark as well. He and Robin walk back to the group of men waiting. How am I going to get Robin alone to warn him?

A few more men try their luck, but their arrows are way off the mark.