“AND THAT, SON,” SAID the cart driver over his shoulder to Marian, who still wore her boy’s leggings and tunic, “is what we folks ’round here call the Bishop’s Tree.” He nodded at a large oak at the next bend in the road. They were heading south.
“And why is that?”
“It be where Robin Hood done robbed the Bishop of Hereford.”
Marian tried to sound surprised. “He stole money from a bishop?”
“Yes, indeed. And some say a ring as well. Quite a lad, he and his merry fellows. They don’t keep nought for themselves. They gives it to the poor. And not just money, but they say that Robin be one of the best archers in all England and he takes deer regularly from the royal forests and finds a way to get it to the people. A fortnight ago, my wife and me enjoyed our first venison in over four years.”
“My! And what thinks the sheriff of all this?”
“Hah! He done put a bounty on him. But the sheriff will never catch him. Robin and his lads are too clever.” The cart driver paused and then in a somewhat more reflective tone continued. “They say that desperate times breed desperate men. But you know, I think it is the sheriff and that bully Sir Guy of Gisborne who are the desperate ones. From what I hear, Robin and his band never seem desperate. Even when they’re robbing the rich, they joke and make merry.”
Marian smiled but remained quiet.
They went on for a good while and then came to a fork in the road.
“Well,” said the driver, “I fear ’tis time to part company, lad. But ’tis not so far to Nottingham. You watch out for the sheriff’s foresters and don’t go poaching no deer. Leave that to the likes of Robin Hood.”
“I carry only my merlin, sir,” Marian said, and looked at Marigold, who perched on her shoulder.
“A pretty bird she is, too. But mind you do not set her to hunt in these parts either. They’d as soon shoot her down as anything else. It’s a time of tyrants, you know. They’d put an arrow through a baby if they thought they could shake gold out of it.”
“Thank you.” She reached into her pocket for a few pennies.
“Keep your money, son.”
“Thank you again.”
She bade the cart driver farewell and set off toward Nottingham. Soon she encountered the fringes of the great woodlands of Sherwood Forest. Then she heard the rushing of the creek that was not far from the blasted oak. The rush of the creek grew louder with each step. As she broke out of a thicket and reached the bank, she gasped. The water was high and furious. How would she ever cross it without drowning? She did know how to stay afloat—she had learned from the boys—but this looked dangerous. It was the end of winter and, of course, with the melting snows the water would be high. She should have thought of this before.
Just then the roar was broken by a very loud crack. She felt Marigold tense on her shoulder. Something was crashing through the woods. A boar? A forest warden? Matty quickly crouched behind an immense rotting tree stump. The sound came closer, and with it a song. Not just a song. A hymn.
“Sing loud the conflict, O my tongue,
The victory that repaired our loss;
Exalt the triumph of thy song
To the bright trophy of the cross;
Tell how the Lord laid down his life
To conquer in the glorious strife.”
It was Friar Tuck! He was about to wade across the creek. “Tuck!” she cried, and bounded out of the bushes. “Carry me across, will you!”
“Marian, what are you doing here? I thought you were to lie low until we got…er…certain things figured out—the gobbets and all.”
“Yes, and all! The ‘all,’ if you remember, is largely my doing.”
“Oh, of course, my dear. I don’t doubt you.”
“So don’t you think I should be in on the planning?”
“And to that end I am to be your beast of burden and carry you across these raging waters, I suppose?” One eyebrow arched like a leaping minnow.
“I am not a burden. I weigh but eight stone. And you are no beast.”
Friar Tuck sighed deeply. “How can I resist such honeyed words? Of course, my dear. Hop on my back.” Marian did just that.
“And, Tuck, one thing. Perhaps ’tis better not to call me ‘my dear’ when I am in the clothes of a lad.”
The friar cautiously dipped his sandaled left foot into the creek, and continued until the water was above his knees. “Ooooo!! Freezing my backside and my front side and everything in between!” he yelped. The waters swirled around him, and the skirts of his cassock spread out like a rumpled lily pad, but he continued to make his way through the boisterous waters as if he were walking across a pond on a windless summer day.
They had just reached the midpoint of the creek when Robin appeared from behind a screen of alders on the opposite side.
“I told you to lie low,” he called to Marian, then turned and raised his horn to blow. A shaft of sunlight fell upon him and Marian felt her heart race. It seemed as if Robin had grown taller even in the brief time since she had last seen him. His hair brushed his shoulder in burnished curls, and his cheeks bristled with the stubble the same color as the hair she had spotted on his chest that day she had tried to fix his cloak. From his belt hung a good broadsword of well-tempered steel. He was a gallant sight. She had to admit she was very glad that today she was not wearing a false mustache.
As Friar Tuck set her down, the others came out of the woods. It was a strange moment, for here she was, looking like a boy with her shorn hair and dressed in leggings, and yet the boys she knew had become men.
“Now, Friar Tuck, I didn’t know you were a fisherman,” Robin said.
“Well, I do believe I fished up a fine lass and not a fish, Robin.”
Chapter 27
THE BLASTED OAK
Derris dust, a compound made from the roots of the derris plant, is effective in treating feather lice.
FRIAR TUCK, MARIAN, AND Robin made their way back to the blasted oak. Marian stood up in the charred hollow. There was tension in the air. She looked at the others—Rich, Scarlet, Little John. And then everyone turned their gaze expectantly toward Friar Tuck. The jolly demeanor he had displayed earlier as he and Marian crossed the creek had vanished. His face was somber.
“What is it? Have they killed King Richard?” she asked.
Robin looked at the friar. The monk shook his head. “No, no. Nothing that bad. At least not yet. But they now know the rubies are missing.”
“But how?”
“I am sorry to say that the first thing that the abbess did was to go to that creek bank in Barnsdale and look for them. She found them missing.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I have my ways. A man of the cloth hears many things both in confession and out. Of course, now the prince, the sheriff, Gisborne, and the whole lot of them are worried for precisely the reasons they should be—that someone will use them to ransom the king. They wanted to use the rubies instead to bribe someone to murder Richard.”
“In other words, it’s a race,” Marian said succinctly.
“Truly a race between us and them to get the rubies and the Star of Jerusalem into the right hands,” Friar Tuck said gravely.
“We should get them now. And deliver them as quickly as possible,” Marian said.
“Easier said than done,” Robin replied. “Those forests are heavily patrolled, more so than when we first hid the gobbets.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Marian said, “But don’t you see, I might be able to use my hawks to retrieve them.”
“Brilliant!” Rich said. “Absolutely brilliant!”
“Marian, that is the perfect solution. And when the birds get them, you can tell them to bring them here. You can do that, can’t you?” Robin spoke with mounting excitement. “And then we can leave immediately for the Continent.”
It was something in the way Robin said “we” that set off a small alarm in Marian’s head. “We? You mean me
as well?” The boys exchanged nervous glances. A deep frown creased her brow. “You mean I’m not going with you?”
“Of course you’re not going with us,” Robin said, almost crossly.
“What do you mean ‘of course’?” She felt her temper rising. “Why am I to be excluded?” Robin started to speak, but Marian interrupted. “I’m sick of being left out, left behind. I’m sick of this stupid country and this stupid prince! I’m not just a girl anymore. You have to understand that.”
Robin looked startled. The saddest part was that she had thought Robin did understand. She recalled not just his words when she had come up with the plan for taking the ring from the bishop but the look in his eyes. That gaze of profound respect as he had said “She knows her business. We do as Marian says.” How could things change so quickly?
“You were never just a girl,” Robin said. His eyes, deep blue like twin seas, seemed to engulf her. “But now you are a woman.”
They all looked at one another. No one knew what to say.
“She’s right,” Robin said, breaking the silence. “She’s our strategist. It was Marian after all who devised the plan for robbing the bishop. Without the Star of Jerusalem we would not have enough ransom to speak of, and, needless to say, without her we wouldn’t have the rubies either.”
Marian could not help but wonder if he was recalling that time years before when they had cut her out of the tree house building scheme, and Robin had come to apologize for his “beastly” behavior.
A welter of emotions boiled up within Marian. Her eyes met Robin’s, and she saw not just his trust but something more. An overwhelming joy swept through her entire being. He loves me and I love him. I love him! She almost reeled. I would die for him, but I will not stay back for him…and he no longer wants me to.
Chapter 28
WATCHED
The healthy hawk flies with an unmatched buoyancy through the air. She can fly on a slant, level, or straight up. The fast flier never flies steadily or at the same rate. She is constantly adjusting for minute wind changes—this, too, is considered quality of flight.
BY THE NEXT EVENING Marian had returned to the castle and realized that it did not make sense to use all her hawks to retrieve the jewels. It would only complicate matters, not to mention that five hawks would attract more attention than one. Now that Moss was so feeble, Marigold was the obvious choice. Not only did she and Marian communicate easily but also she was the smallest. If there were royal foresters around she would be the least noticeable.
It did not take Marian long to make her way with Marigold the mile or so down the road and then to cut across the dark field to the edge of the forest. She was not sure when she began having an uneasy feeling, but she hesitated to leave the field. The greenwood of Barnsdale was not nearly as dense as that of Sherwood. The pathways were not as tangled. It was easier for a royal forester to find a poacher, and, although she had not seen any signs of a forester, she was wary. It was as if some sixth sense were telling her not to go farther but rather to wait, to watch. She had the peculiar feeling that she was being watched. Had someone followed her? She crouched beside a large rock.
As time passed she became more uneasy. Marigold refused to leave her shoulder. This was not like the merlin, who would often scout ahead for Marian. This evening she huddled close to her mistress and even tried to tuck herself into the hood of Marian’s cloak. I can’t move, Marian thought. It’s too dangerous to move.
Marian looked up through the dark embroidery of the trees and watched as the stars transcribed the sky. She was thankful that it was a moonless night, for all she sought was darkness and shadow. The first tree with a ruby was no more than a short walk from where she crouched. But she could not move. She imagined the jewel’s flickering red light smothered by the mosses they had wrapped it in, deep in the hole of the deserted nest of the sparrow hawk. It beckoned her, glimmering in her brain. But she could not move.
Her heart slowed. She closed her eyes. I cannot go. I must not move. And yet she could not let herself fall asleep. She tried to remember the look in Robin’s eyes when he had said that she was a woman and their strategist. There had been something there that went beyond simply trusting her, and at the time she had felt it was love. But what if she was wrong? She tried hard to remember his expression when he’d spoken, but somehow it became harder and harder to summon up his face. Oh dear…does he even think about me…ever? When I am not around does he try to imagine my face?
She stayed crouching in the shadow of the rock until the darkness thinned to a frayed gray dawn. If there had been someone watching, she had sensed him but never actually heard him. She had wondered as dawn approached if she should have taken a chance and directed Marigold to fetch at least one of the rubies. But Marigold had remained as nervous as her mistress through the long night.
Now Marian heard horses. It was the morning guard of the foresters. She really had to get out before they found her. The distance across the field to the road was less than a quarter of a mile. If she could make it to the road, she could be any young person on her way to the village on an errand.
She crept from her hiding place and then scrambled through the tall grass on her belly until she finally made it to the road, where she stood and began to walk. Marigold at last regained her boldness and flew a short distance ahead as they walked toward the castle, darting back to signal that the way was clear.
Marian did not go back into the woods that day, nor the next night nor the next. She had Meg take a basket of eggs from their one laying hen to sell at the market with a coded message for Friar Tuck. It had been arranged that he would frequent some of their old code-exchange places as often as he could. In the message she said that she felt she was being watched. She was amazed when, within the space of two days, a message was returned. Deciphering it, she read, You are, as am I. Be careful.
Marian realized it was going to be impossible to go to the woods herself. Yet this was not like jessless hawking, for the prey was entirely different—not hares or ducks but rubies! She racked her brains to think of a way she could tell the hawks not only the oddity of the “prey” but exactly which trees contained the rubies. Even if she could communicate this information, she was hesitant to send Marigold, Morgana, Lyra, or Ulysses out unaccompanied. All hawks had a certain degree of superstition. What would Moss and the others think when she told them about rubies hidden in trees called the lepers of the forest, where the diseased sparrow hawks had lived? She began slowly.
“Hechmon dwasch quinx keenash…” (Indeed. There are five abandoned tree hollows in the greenwood of Barnsdale and in their hollows I have buried a king’s ransom—five rubies.)
“The nests were abandoned because the sparrow hawks got the tick disease—weren’t they, Matty?” Lyra said quietly. To her hawks she would always be Matty.
“Yes. I would never lie to you. If you don’t want to go, I understand.”
Moss now spoke. “It’s an old hawk’s tale that you can get this disease from just being in a tree where a sick sparrow hawk had lived. I will go.” Marian closed her eyes, grateful that the dear old bird had so quickly agreed. But Moss was the most enfeebled of her hawks, the one least likely to be able to help.
“I hope you never doubted that I would go, Matty,” Marigold said.
“And I, too, will go,” Ulysses snapped.
“Count me in,” said Morgana.
“And me,” said Lyra.
Marian looked at her hawks through the scrim of tears. Do birds cry? Marian wondered. “You are all so good. You are the noblest of birds, and because of you we shall bring back King Richard the Lionheart, the noblest of rulers. Now let me try and explain where the trees are.” The birds exchanged nervous looks. Marian was not sure why. Perhaps they were having second thoughts.
“Pschwap muchta tawba tawba y greicha…” (You go due west, then angle south by southeast when you get to the forest. There is a sycamore and a grove of birches….) Talking softly she tried
to trace out the location of the trees with the rubies for the birds now gathered around her in the mews.
Lyra alighted on the floor next to Marian, who was scratching a diagram on the stones with a charred stick. “The problem is that this is not how hawks navigate,” Lyra said. “Words…words…pictures…” As Lyra tried to explain, Marian realized that although she had mastered the language of the hawks, she still needed to learn the way her hawks navigated. It had nothing to do with words and even less with flat drawing.
Moss’s voice was thin and cracked. “You see, dear, it is especially hard within the stone walls of this tower to explain our ways of getting from place to place. Though I can barely see anymore, when I am outside I can feel. I can feel the location of the stars, the pull of the sun and the moon, the earth points.”
“The earth points?” Marian asked.
“It’s difficult to explain. But there are two places on this earth—opposite each other—that help us. Our brains are very sensitive to the one we call nwamelk.”
“Nwamelk,” Marian repeated. This word was unfamiliar to her.
“Nwamelk—it is a combination of two words, really, north and pull.”
“You mean you are pulled north?”
“Not exactly…” Moss scratched one talon on the floor in frustration as if looking for an answer. “It is a way of thinking, a manner in which our minds and not just our eyes guide us. Humans have maps. This is like a map in our brains, but it is not flat. That is the problem with what you draw here with your stick. The lines are flat. It has no shape for us.”
“So it’s hopeless.” Marian sighed.
“No!” Marigold suddenly spoke up. “If I could go, I could get a bearing on one tree, and then I could guide the others.”