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Back Nottingham
Chapters (76)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. PROLOGUE
  5. PART I
  6. ONE
  7. TWO
  8. THREE
  9. FOUR
  10. FIVE
  11. SIX
  12. SEVEN
  13. EIGHT
  14. NINE
  15. PART II
  16. TEN
  17. ELEVEN
  18. TWELVE
  19. THIRTEEN
  20. FOURTEEN
  21. FIFTEEN
  22. SIXTEEN
  23. SEVENTEEN
  24. EIGHTEEN
  25. NINETEEN
  26. PART III
  27. TWENTY
  28. TWENTY-ONE
  29. TWENTY-TWO
  30. TWENTY-THREE
  31. TWENTY-FOUR
  32. TWENTY-FIVE
  33. TWENTY-SIX
  34. INTERLUDE
  35. PART IV
  36. TWENTY-SEVEN
  37. TWENTY-EIGHT
  38. TWENTY-NINE
  39. THIRTY
  40. THIRTY-ONE
  41. THIRTY-TWO
  42. THIRTY-THREE
  43. THIRTY-FOUR
  44. INTERLUDE
  45. PART V
  46. THIRTY-FIVE
  47. THIRTY-SIX
  48. THIRTY-SEVEN
  49. THIRTY-EIGHT
  50. PART VI
  51. THIRTY-NINE
  52. FORTY
  53. FORTY-ONE
  54. FORTY-TWO
  55. FORTY-THREE
  56. FORTY-FOUR
  57. FORTY-FIVE
  58. INTERLUDE
  59. PART VII
  60. FORTY-SIX
  61. FORTY-SEVEN
  62. FORTY-EIGHT
  63. FORTY-NINE
  64. FIFTY
  65. FIFTY-ONE
  66. FIFTY-TWO
  67. PART VIII
  68. FIFTY-THREE
  69. FIFTY-FOUR
  70. FIFTY-FIVE
  71. FIFTY-SIX
  72. EPILOGUE
  73. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  74. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  75. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  76. Newsletter Sign-up

Robin closed his eyes and, in the interest of living with himself for the time being, was halfway successful in believing the boy in question wasn’t his little Stabhappy.

PART II

WITH ASH AS HIS INK

TEN

ROBIN OF LOCKSLEY

SHERWOOD FOREST, NOTTINGHAMSHIRE
THURSDAY, 3RD DAY OF OCTOBER 1191

TO ROBIN’S DISMAY, IT even smelled more like home.

He’d never admit it aloud, but the Sherwood in Nottinghamshire had a comfortable feeling to it. There had been other forests during Robin’s time away—the steep prickly spears of Cyprus, or the massive columns in the Holy Land. But nothing like this. The Sherwood was a real forest. Its great oaks rose through the rolling flatlands, a gentle canopy of branches let the sunlight pour in, scattered into ever-changing shafts. Collections of white birch trees broke out in clumps, interspersed with hollies and looming hawthorns. The tall grass was easy to walk through and kind to bare skin. While greens were still visible here and there, the bright colors of autumn now made fiery tips to the sun’s fingers. The crisp crackle of fallen leaves underhoof was a welcoming noise. These were the woods Robin had played in as a boy, where he’d learned to hunt, and let girls chase him to steal kisses or more.

“Funny how easily a smell takes you back.”

“We’ll have plenty of time to smell it.”

Aside him on his own horse, William de Wendenal smiled. Their journey had been unnotable but for its length, and the number of times Robin thought he was dying. The wound in his leg refused to heal, at times bloating into oily red roses that dragged Robin into days of fever sleep. They’d sailed most of the way back on an empty cog, the Haligast, one of the many merchant vessels in Richard’s fleet that made nearly continuous trips back to England. Robin and his injury were as useless as a sack of mealy potatoes, but the Haligast’s crew was fortunately hungry for stories of war. Wendenal recounted the ambush in Acre, omitting their participation as doubles for Richard, and the sailors spat obscenities at the rebels and praise for their slaughter. Robin’s role was greatly dramatized in William’s retelling—he apparently took down a dozen men before the arrow even struck him, and the crossbow bolts he loosed from the stretcher went through one man’s neck and into another’s. The sailors punched each other as if the glory had been their own, they sang songs, and did not complain that Robin was unable to help on deck. When the winds were idle they rowed, though Robin was too weak to help there, either. He felt a waste of a man while the others worked mercilessly, but William’s help kept any scorn from coming his way.