Robin: Lady of Legend (The Classic Adventures of the Girl Who Became Robin Hood) by R.M. ArceJaeger Page B
Authors: R.M. ArceJaeger
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attempts, and at worst actively sabotaged her plans.
One day, after handing the girl an embroidery frame and coming back an hour later to find it still untouched, Darah had announced in resignation that if Robin would only devote as much time to her finishing as she had to her archery, she would be the finest lady in all of England.
The next day, Robin sought out her father at breakfast.
“What is it?” he asked gruffly, peering at her over an upraised pasty.
Robin took a deep breath. She was uncertain what she would do if her father refused her proposition—she dared not think that far ahead.
“I want you to let me practice archery with Will again,” she explained in one explosive breath.
Lord Locksley’s brows knit together and his expression darkened. Robin plunged on: “I will do everything that Darah tells me to do. I promise I will learn how to be a lady and the duties of a housemistress and such—I will not even tease Darah about it—if you will just let me practice again.”
Lord Locksley frowned. In truth, he had almost forgotten about the “swordfight,” and he disliked how the situation was reasserting itself. Robin was only twelve, and the precocious bravery a boy would have shown in facing him thus had no place in a woman. However. Darah had been nagging him for years about the girl’s inclination for the longbow and her distressingly poor progress in the art of running a household. As long as Robin did not bother him, he did not care much what she did, and he routinely told Darah as much. Of course, finding her practicing swordplay was another matter entirely.
Yes, the girl had grown too wild. She needed to be taught her place in the world—a place devoid of quivers and bowmen’s staves. A little lesson in humility would not go amiss. Even if she passed his test, the bargain he had in mind would please both Robin and Darah, and either way his world would return to the quiet norm he was accustomed to and liked . . . .
Robin’s hands clenched into fists, but she hid them within the folds of her skirt. She wished that her father’s face showed what he was thinking. Hers was like an open book, but her father’s furrowed features were stoic and unreadable.
At last he spoke, his words startling Robin so that she had to work quickly to recover her aplomb.
“Very well. On one condition—you beat me at this craft of yours. Three arrows. 100 paces. If you win, you may recommence your archery practice. But win or lose, you begin lessons with Darah immediately and without complaint. Is that satisfactory?”
“Yes,” Robin said in a voice faint with disbelief. “Oh, yes.”
Out on the archery range, Robin watched nervously as her father inspected his arrows with careful attention. Covertly, she wiped her sweaty hands on her skirt and then rubbed at her bow, trying to keep it warm. Since her father had broken her old bow, the practice stave she was using was unfamiliar to her. It was oak, rather than elm, and slightly too firm for her—she would need all her strength just to draw it.
Her father thrust the heads of his arrows into the ground and took up his stance. In a blur of motion he shot. All three arrows landed so close to the center of the target that from a distance they blurred into one.
“Oh my,” Robin said faintly, before she could stop herself. She would never have guessed that her reclusive father possessed such fine aim. Indignation quickly replaced disbelief—her father had tricked her! Well, she would show him what Robin Ann Locksley was capable of!
Swiftly, she plunged her arrows into the ground. Taking careful aim, she shot her first shaft; it landed in the middle of her father’s small cluster. Her second arrow also landed within that clump. As Robin raised her third arrow, her arm began to shake. The strain of bending the bow back a third time was incredible, and it took all of her strength to keep her aim steady. When at last she let go, she knew that she had
One day, after handing the girl an embroidery frame and coming back an hour later to find it still untouched, Darah had announced in resignation that if Robin would only devote as much time to her finishing as she had to her archery, she would be the finest lady in all of England.
The next day, Robin sought out her father at breakfast.
“What is it?” he asked gruffly, peering at her over an upraised pasty.
Robin took a deep breath. She was uncertain what she would do if her father refused her proposition—she dared not think that far ahead.
“I want you to let me practice archery with Will again,” she explained in one explosive breath.
Lord Locksley’s brows knit together and his expression darkened. Robin plunged on: “I will do everything that Darah tells me to do. I promise I will learn how to be a lady and the duties of a housemistress and such—I will not even tease Darah about it—if you will just let me practice again.”
Lord Locksley frowned. In truth, he had almost forgotten about the “swordfight,” and he disliked how the situation was reasserting itself. Robin was only twelve, and the precocious bravery a boy would have shown in facing him thus had no place in a woman. However. Darah had been nagging him for years about the girl’s inclination for the longbow and her distressingly poor progress in the art of running a household. As long as Robin did not bother him, he did not care much what she did, and he routinely told Darah as much. Of course, finding her practicing swordplay was another matter entirely.
Yes, the girl had grown too wild. She needed to be taught her place in the world—a place devoid of quivers and bowmen’s staves. A little lesson in humility would not go amiss. Even if she passed his test, the bargain he had in mind would please both Robin and Darah, and either way his world would return to the quiet norm he was accustomed to and liked . . . .
Robin’s hands clenched into fists, but she hid them within the folds of her skirt. She wished that her father’s face showed what he was thinking. Hers was like an open book, but her father’s furrowed features were stoic and unreadable.
At last he spoke, his words startling Robin so that she had to work quickly to recover her aplomb.
“Very well. On one condition—you beat me at this craft of yours. Three arrows. 100 paces. If you win, you may recommence your archery practice. But win or lose, you begin lessons with Darah immediately and without complaint. Is that satisfactory?”
“Yes,” Robin said in a voice faint with disbelief. “Oh, yes.”
Out on the archery range, Robin watched nervously as her father inspected his arrows with careful attention. Covertly, she wiped her sweaty hands on her skirt and then rubbed at her bow, trying to keep it warm. Since her father had broken her old bow, the practice stave she was using was unfamiliar to her. It was oak, rather than elm, and slightly too firm for her—she would need all her strength just to draw it.
Her father thrust the heads of his arrows into the ground and took up his stance. In a blur of motion he shot. All three arrows landed so close to the center of the target that from a distance they blurred into one.
“Oh my,” Robin said faintly, before she could stop herself. She would never have guessed that her reclusive father possessed such fine aim. Indignation quickly replaced disbelief—her father had tricked her! Well, she would show him what Robin Ann Locksley was capable of!
Swiftly, she plunged her arrows into the ground. Taking careful aim, she shot her first shaft; it landed in the middle of her father’s small cluster. Her second arrow also landed within that clump. As Robin raised her third arrow, her arm began to shake. The strain of bending the bow back a third time was incredible, and it took all of her strength to keep her aim steady. When at last she let go, she knew that she had
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