Outlaw, page 5
part #1 of Robyn Hood Series
“Name?” he didn’t take his eye from his parchment.
“Robyn,” she replied, doing her utmost to mimic the stable boy.
“Robyn, what?” He glanced down a long, red-tipped nose at her.
She was certain he would know of her father. If she gave her true name then he would recognise who she was immediately. Why had she not thought of this? Why had she not planned another name? She opened her mouth, but her mind was a blind panic. “J–just Robyn,” she mumbled in a close approximation of Ned’s voice and hoped it would be enough.
He tutted angrily. “I can’t put ‘Just Robyn’ on here. What are you? A vagrant? An orphan? You even got the entry fee?”
“Aye, sire, I have it here.” She dug into her purse and held out her precious silver coin to him.
He looked down at it and shook his head. “I must be goin’ soft.” he took her coin and slipped it into the entry box. “Right, ‘Robyn in the ’ood’ it is. Now, what’s your weapon?”
“Bow.” She pulled her short yew hunting bow from her back and held it up to him. “I be here for the archery tournament.”
“Well, you wouldn’t get far in a joust with that thing, would ya? Right, then, whelp, it’s through there.” He waved vaguely behind him. “Take a right all the way down to the lower field. You’d best run, archery starts any moment now.”
“Right, thank you.” She stopped herself just in time before she curtsied and managed an awkward half-bow instead.
“Next.”
Robyn gasped.
The next man in the queue, the man who must have stood behind her for the last quarter of an hour at least, the man who loomed towards her, a tower of a man with dark eyes, and draped in furs, was the man of the woods. The wodwos.
Robyn was frozen to the spot.
“Guest or challenger?” the clerk asked.
“Challenger, ’ere for staves.” He pulled out a handful of small coins and slammed them on the counter before turning to see Robyn still gawping at him.
The man jerked forward, snapping his teeth, and Robyn stumbled backwards then turned and ran to the lower fields.
Chapter Eight
The Tournament
Robyn had been waiting too long in line. She didn’t have time to think on the Green Man, she had to dash across the castle grounds. It was busy and bustling with horses, officials, nobles, spectators, and contestants of every level all the way to the end of the large, flat, green lawn of the outer ballium.
At the far end of the field was an open square surrounded by a low rope fence. On the edge were more than a score of men nervously clutching their bows of varying size and quality. There was a variety of entrants; villeins in simple smocks with home-made weapons stood alongside young noble lords with gold thread-embroidered tunics and the finest yew bows held in their confident hands. Archery was one of the few competitions in which anyone, of any rank, was allowed to compete. This would truly be an interesting tournament.
Out of breath and hoping no one would notice as she clambered over the rope partition, Robyn joined the line and tried to listen. The Master of Ceremonies, a broad-shouldered, stout-chested man with a wide-brimmed black hat and burgundy tunic, stood in the centre of the small square arena reading the official rules aloud.
But no sooner had she joined than she was approached by a small, moustached man. “You there, boy,” he hissed, tugging at her arm.
Robyn wasn’t used to being accosted in this manner and went to scold him for daring to touch a noblewoman before she caught herself. “A–Aye, sire?” she stammered.
“You’re late.” He was still pulling at the old cloth of her father’s tunic and it took all her strength not to throw him off.
“Apologies,” she managed through gritted teeth. She needed to listen to the rules; she would be far behind the other competitors if she had little clue as to the manner of play. “There was a long line a–and a fight.”
“Have you registered your interest? Paid your silver?” He was still tugging at her arm, trying to pull her away from the other participants.
“Aye sire,” she hissed. The competitors were starting to notice the kerfuffle, shushing and tutting at the pair. “The clerk at the gate took my name and coin.” She finally snatched her arm away and his moustache twitched.
“He should have passed your name along to me.” He waggled a threatening finger at her. “If thy name isn’t down, boy.”
“My name is Robyn, sire, ’tis on the list, the clerk at the gate will vouch for me.” She hadn’t heard a word the Master of Ceremonies had uttered; the tournament would start any moment and she still had no clue of the game or even if she would be let play. If she was cast from the tournament now it would all be for naught; she would be forced to return home empty-handed, her mother would have nothing with which to pay the Sheriff, their lands would be forfeit, and they would be turned out with nowhere to go and not even the wealth amongst them to find a roof to cover their heads.
But the little clerk grumbled and shook his head, pointing at her once again as he backed away. “If this is deceit, boy, I shall have you straight in the stocks.”
Relieved, Robyn turned back to the Master of Ceremonies. He held open the long scroll of parchment, making much of his chance to address the small crowd that had gathered around the edge of the ring, and the larger crowd of considerably higher rank that were seated looking down from the upper castle bailey. There was a polite round of applause as he finished with a flourish and Robyn looked about desperately.
“’Tis Popinjay to qualify,” a low voice hissed. She was startled to recognise Edward Colswain, the youngest son of the Baron of Brattleby, dressed in bright blue with a matching jaunty hat. Robyn nervously adjusted the scarf over her mouth as she nodded and muttered her thanks in the deepest voice she could muster.
She was grateful, but little relieved.
As the long pole with the tiny, wooden bird affixed to it was extended from the upper castle wall, her heart sank. She had never hit a popinjay before. Often played with a live bird, it was, in her mind, a cruel game that had little sport to it, as the bird had no chance to escape its fate. She was deeply relieved to note that the officials had decided on the use of a wooden popinjay for the means of the tournament. It was still a tricky contest; it involved standing almost directly underneath the popinjay and firing upwards to hit the bird. Whereas Robyn was far more used to hitting targets at a distance, albeit small ones.
Nervously she stood back and watched as the first of the contestants stepped forward to take their place.
“Theobald de Lacy!” the Master of Ceremonies shouted as a young, red-faced noble, with blond locks and a fine tunic of scarlet with silver embroidery, stepped forward. Although there was little cheering from the lower stalls, the nobles watching from the upper castle made their appreciation known. Robyn decided immediately that the young man was far too arrogant to possess any skill.
But she was quickly proven wrong.
He swiftly nocked an arrow, drew back, and released. The little wooden bird was knocked cleanly off its perch. A loud cheer arose and his arrow whistled back to the ground and embedded itself in the earth with a soft thud. Theobald collected the popinjay and threw it into the air in triumph. The crowd were egging him on as the Master of Ceremonies tried to extract the popinjay from his grasp so it might be reset for the next contestant.
If, after watching the noble Theobald, Robyn was under any illusion that the Popinjay was easy, these thoughts were soon crushed when the next four contestants missed the wooden target completely. One man, a shabby villein in rough clothes and an unfashionable, bushy moustache, even sent his arrow careening into the bystanders. It was pure luck that no one was hurt, and he was escorted from the arena still muttering his apologies to the jeering rabble.
Next, it was the turn of Edward Colswain.
Robyn felt nervous for him, despite the fact that she knew he was a good shot and if he made it into the tournament he would certainly be a strong adversary. She’d hunted with him only once and that had been several years ago when old King Henry was at Clipstone House in Sherwood. However, she had been struck by his ready demeanour and easy-going nature. She couldn’t help but wish him well.
He took far longer to aim than the arrogant young Theobald, and the crowd hushed as he stood almost directly underneath the beam upon which the bird was balanced. Robyn wondered if he meant to hit the beam and topple the bird from the perch that way. She was sure that if the arrow was found to be lodged in the beam, he would be disqualified as it could not be said to have truly hit the popinjay.
Robyn held her breath.
Then, with a high-pitched whistle, it was over and the popinjay tumbled to the ground. The arrow had lodged in the earth not ten feet from the Master of Ceremonies himself and Robyn wondered if he was second-guessing his choice to host a sport that was so dangerous for those who chose to spectate.
Robyn cheered with the rest of them as Edward plucked the popinjay from the grass and handed it to the Master with a smile and a nod. Then he turned to the assemblage, waved his bow, and returned to the sidelines.
Robyn counted; there were more than a dozen men to go and then it would be her shot. With each man through, Robyn clapped along with the others, and with each man out Robyn’s stomach seemed to twist even tighter into knots. Would she fall at this first fence? Would she be quietly pitied as she was unceremoniously escorted from the arena?
The dread built within her as, one by one, the contestants took their shots and her turn drew closer and closer. Finally, the Master of Ceremonies stepped forward, glanced at her and then looked down at his parchment in confusion.
She wasn’t on the list.
The nervousness of taking her shot in front of this crowd was now so all-consuming that she was almost relieved at the prospect of being barred from the tournament. But then the dread of going home empty-handed, of her land being forfeit, her family cast into desperate poverty, the people who depended on her father cast from their lands and ending their lives starving in the wilderness... She shook her head. She couldn’t leave without a fight. She simply had to enter the tournament, and she had to win.
She stepped forward to argue her case just as the Master looked up and spotted the little moustached clerk hurrying forward waving a scroll. They exchanged a brief word before the Master took the parchment and nodded. “And the final contestant is...” He squinted down at the note. “...Robyn Hood!”
A swell of relief washed over her and lifted such a heavy burden that Robyn almost tripped over her own boots as she took her place.
“This runt looks the worst yet.” A hissed voice came from her left and she glanced across to see the blond noble in scarlet, Theobald, smirking and shaking his head, as two other boys laughed alongside him.
Robyn didn’t think it was possible to be so consumed by both rage and nerves. She could barely breathe, and as she attempted to nock her arrow, her hands were shaking too much and she fumbled.
The seconds seemed like hours.
No contestant had taken so long to prepare their bow.
She was sure the crowd was agitated and bored. The noise and chatter, as well as the distant cheering from other events, battered her concentration. The only thing louder than the mutterings of dissent was the pounding of her own heart.
Shaking, she raised her bow skyward. The sun was bright and high; she could barely make out the silhouette of the popinjay as she stood beneath the beam. She breathed hard, ready to take her shot but her arrow came loose. She lowered her bow, tutting at herself, and heard a shout from the audience.
“Come on, Robyn ’ood!”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She imagined herself back at the edge of Sherwood Forest, with Marian at her side. Marian attempting to distract her, whispering things, breathing on her neck... The thought of her dearest friend filled Robyn with a familiar warmth and when she opened her eyes it was as if all her sense of the tournament was dulled. She looked up and saw the thin outline of the wooden popinjay resting on the beam: it was the smallest of targets to hit, but it was enough.
Raising her bow slow and steady, Robyn breathed out and released.
Chapter Nine
Captain of the Popinjay
Laughter erupted from across the stands.
Robyn, her hidden cheeks reddening, stepped forward and picked up her arrow where it had fallen; the wooden popinjay now impaled upon it.
Had she broken the rules? Was she disqualified? Would they cast her out from the castle as they had done that poor man while she’d been waiting in line?
The Master of Ceremonies was upon her in an instant. He snatched the skewered popinjay from her hand and inspected it with a shake of his head.
Her stomach twisted. “I–I didn’t mean to–”
“Good thing you were last,” he muttered irritably. Then he raised the impaled target up for the crowd to see. “And we have a Captain of the Popinjay!” he announced. The crowd laughed and cheered as the Master handed Robyn back her prize. “Go stand with the others now, lad.”
She was through.
With a rush of relief and an awkward grin, Robyn hurried over to the successful contestants clutching her little wooden bird with the arrow clean through its body.
“Good shot, Captain.” Edward, the Baron of Brattleby’s son, winked at her as she took her place, and she felt reassured that at least she hadn’t made a complete fool of herself. She was also pleased to note that the young Theobald de Lacy was even redder than before and exhibited a snarling scowl that looked set to remain upon his most dissatisfied features.
“And now!” The Master of Ceremonies, with a flourish of his scroll, stepped forward to the centre of the arena and a hush fell about the horde of spectators. “The main event!”
A cheer arose and the Master pointed out five targets in turn. Each one was a circular mark of a style similar to Robyn’s own practice marks at home. They were cloth, backed with coiled straw, and roughly eighteen inches across. A red line was painted around the circular edge and the red bullseye in the centre was no larger than a penny piece. Each of the five marks was placed at various distances and heights, with the farthest up against the whitewashed castle wall itself, only just visible through the strands of vegetation climbing across the surface.
Robyn wondered if the vegetation would be cleared but as the Master described the rounds, she realised the obstruction had been deliberately placed for the contest.
“There are five rounds, in each round, as you can see, the mark becomes increasingly difficult to strike. One by one, each man shall step forward and take a single shot. Those who hit the mark shall successfully gain entry to the next round.”
She breathed hard and nodded firmly to herself. She was used to this type of target and used to hitting them dead centre. But doubt crept into her mind: she had always kept them at the same standard distance. She had never raised a target on stilts or obscured it with branches to set a challenge for herself. Would she still be able to hit the centre? Would she stand a chance against her competitors?
“Those who miss the mark for that round shall be cast out,” the Master of Ceremonies continued, “and must leave the arena forthwith.”
Robyn glanced over at the nine other contestants and clutched her popinjay. She hadn’t intended to impale the bird: it had been a pure fluke. Could she match their skill? Or would she truly make a fool of herself?
“The rounds shall continue until there are two competitors left or all five rounds have been completed.”
Including Theobald and Edward, there were six well-dressed noblemen with fine hunting bows and hats that may well have cost a year’s wages of the other three contenders combined. These poorer men had rough but strong-looking bows, and good hunting outfits similar to her own. They may have been foresters or yeomen, but either way, it seemed that the silver coin entry fee would have been more of a stretch for their purses than her own.
“Each man shall receive one point for a hit, three points if that hit is within the red circle, and five points if your strike is true and centre.”
There was a gasp at this announcement and a muttering amongst the audience. Robyn looked around and wondered why. Was a bullseye so rare it warranted a gasp? Surely not. She struck true with most shots, as did her father.
“That is correct!” The Master of Ceremonies seemed to be enjoying his role. “There are twenty-five possible points! At the end of the five rounds, should a single contestant have attained all possible points, they shall be declared the winner of not only the archery, but also of Nottingham Fayre outright and shall claim the two hundred silver prize!” The audience cheered and whistled in delight and the Master of Ceremonies waited a moment for them to calm before continuing. “After the fifth round has been tried by each man, should there be more than two contestants remaining, then those two with the highest overall score shall be entered into a sixth and final round.” The crowd cheered approvingly at this and the Master turned to the contestants inquiringly. “Understood?”
There were a lot of instructions to take in. But Robyn knew it all boiled down to one thing: ‘Don’t miss’. She nodded along with the others, and, although she was relieved to be firing at the familiar targets, nerves still prickled across her skin and tugged at her stomach. She wished she hadn’t eaten that meat pie and glanced over at the other contenders to gauge their reaction. But it was as if those men had constitutions of iron and not one among them appeared as terrified as she felt.
Then the tournament began.
One by one the competitors shot towards the first mark. Most hit, but two missed completely and were forced to walk straight from the tournament. They didn’t look back. Robyn wondered how in the world these men had hit the tiny popinjay and yet failed to hit the first mark.
It was a clear, simple shot, even closer than Robyn’s own mark at home. But when her turn came, she was still relieved to hit the bullseye and felt she had finally earned her place among the contenders.
