Robin: Lady of Legend (The Classic Adventures of the Girl Who Became Robin Hood) by R.M. ArceJaeger Page A
Authors: R.M. ArceJaeger
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voice. She fell silent, but her thoughts continued:
But I am not just a noble anymore, am I? I am an outlaw, and as an outlaw, I have no rights. Not even the right to food, for though beggars may plead for a pittance or scrap, even that is barred to me now. It seems, then, that for me to survive, as a consequence of having committed one crime, I must now commit another!
This terrible irony weighed down on Robin, and it took nearly all of her strength to lift her sword and hew off a slab of the roe’s rump, and then carry it back to the clearing.
It took her longer than usual to start a fire, but soon the smell of roasting venison was permeating the air, lifting Robin’s spirits more than she would have thought possible. Later, as she tore the half-cooked meat from its skewer and consumed it ravenously, the warm flesh did much to soothe the ache in her chest.
If I am to stay here , Robin decided that night as she lay upon her bed of moss, watching the stars glister through the branches of the oak, I must be able to defend myself—and to do so assuredly, so I will not panic and kill someone again .
Her aim with the bow was good; she would make it perfect. The sword that Will had given her glistened in the moonlight. She would teach herself to use it. Never again would she be helpless in the face of an attack. Never again would she kill someone when she could disarm or disable. Never again.
* * * * *
Robin soon discovered that it took completely different muscles to wield a sword than it did to bend a bow. She dropped the hefty weapon with a groan, rubbing her aching arms and flexing out her back.
It was never this difficult when I was learning with sticks , she reflected wearily. If only she could remember everything Will had shown her! She had not been allowed to attend his lessons, of course—she never was—but after he had finished the two of them would go to the stables and he would show her all that he had learned, eagerly demonstrating the latest pass or riposte. Laughing, they would leap over stacks of hay, startling the horses with their clacking staves and stopping only when their weapons broke or when the hostlers came to chase them off. They had been very young.
That all ended the day Robin’s father entered just in time to see her knock Will’s stick from his hand and level her rod at his throat, crowing triumph. Tight-lipped with anger, Lord Locksley had taken them inside the house, whipped them both, and forbidden Robin to ever touch a weapon again. Then he had broken her practice bow in front of her. Robin did not speak to her father again for nearly a month.
“It is not fair,” she had complained to Marian, picking up chips of stone from their bedroom floor and flinging them at the horn-covered window. “Father did not care when Will taught me to shoot. Why should he care about us crossing sticks?”
Marian, no more than eight at the time, just stared at her sister with large, limpid eyes. Darah answered instead.
“A lady may take up shooting for sport, or for the good of her figure,” the housekeeper said, sniffing her contempt. Clearly she did not think that such pastimes suited young ladies, in spite of society’s permissiveness. “No woman has any business picking up a sword, or pretending to. That is what men are for. Your father was quite right to punish you.”
A handful of pebbles hurled in Darah’s direction illustrated what Robin thought of that reasoning.
For three weeks, Robin refused to go outside and play. Instead, she watched from her window as Will practiced his archery—something the law required all boys to do once they reached the age of seven. Jealousy colored her vision; whenever Will came to visit, she refused to see him.
To add salt to her wound, Darah saw in Robin’s prideful confinement an opportunity to reinstate her lessons in ladyship, and undertook the task with enthusiasm. Robin, however, had no desire to be polished and at best ignored her
But I am not just a noble anymore, am I? I am an outlaw, and as an outlaw, I have no rights. Not even the right to food, for though beggars may plead for a pittance or scrap, even that is barred to me now. It seems, then, that for me to survive, as a consequence of having committed one crime, I must now commit another!
This terrible irony weighed down on Robin, and it took nearly all of her strength to lift her sword and hew off a slab of the roe’s rump, and then carry it back to the clearing.
It took her longer than usual to start a fire, but soon the smell of roasting venison was permeating the air, lifting Robin’s spirits more than she would have thought possible. Later, as she tore the half-cooked meat from its skewer and consumed it ravenously, the warm flesh did much to soothe the ache in her chest.
If I am to stay here , Robin decided that night as she lay upon her bed of moss, watching the stars glister through the branches of the oak, I must be able to defend myself—and to do so assuredly, so I will not panic and kill someone again .
Her aim with the bow was good; she would make it perfect. The sword that Will had given her glistened in the moonlight. She would teach herself to use it. Never again would she be helpless in the face of an attack. Never again would she kill someone when she could disarm or disable. Never again.
* * * * *
Robin soon discovered that it took completely different muscles to wield a sword than it did to bend a bow. She dropped the hefty weapon with a groan, rubbing her aching arms and flexing out her back.
It was never this difficult when I was learning with sticks , she reflected wearily. If only she could remember everything Will had shown her! She had not been allowed to attend his lessons, of course—she never was—but after he had finished the two of them would go to the stables and he would show her all that he had learned, eagerly demonstrating the latest pass or riposte. Laughing, they would leap over stacks of hay, startling the horses with their clacking staves and stopping only when their weapons broke or when the hostlers came to chase them off. They had been very young.
That all ended the day Robin’s father entered just in time to see her knock Will’s stick from his hand and level her rod at his throat, crowing triumph. Tight-lipped with anger, Lord Locksley had taken them inside the house, whipped them both, and forbidden Robin to ever touch a weapon again. Then he had broken her practice bow in front of her. Robin did not speak to her father again for nearly a month.
“It is not fair,” she had complained to Marian, picking up chips of stone from their bedroom floor and flinging them at the horn-covered window. “Father did not care when Will taught me to shoot. Why should he care about us crossing sticks?”
Marian, no more than eight at the time, just stared at her sister with large, limpid eyes. Darah answered instead.
“A lady may take up shooting for sport, or for the good of her figure,” the housekeeper said, sniffing her contempt. Clearly she did not think that such pastimes suited young ladies, in spite of society’s permissiveness. “No woman has any business picking up a sword, or pretending to. That is what men are for. Your father was quite right to punish you.”
A handful of pebbles hurled in Darah’s direction illustrated what Robin thought of that reasoning.
For three weeks, Robin refused to go outside and play. Instead, she watched from her window as Will practiced his archery—something the law required all boys to do once they reached the age of seven. Jealousy colored her vision; whenever Will came to visit, she refused to see him.
To add salt to her wound, Darah saw in Robin’s prideful confinement an opportunity to reinstate her lessons in ladyship, and undertook the task with enthusiasm. Robin, however, had no desire to be polished and at best ignored her
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