7
July 16, 1193
Nottingham Castle, Nottingham, England
To Joanna’s credit, she had only passed out twice in her life before this day. As a child, she had locked her knees while saying the pledge of allegiance, knocking her chin on a desk when she fell. In college, a day at the beach with no sunscreen resulted in a bad sunburn that left her nauseated and dehydrated. Her roommates assumed she had collapsed in drunkenness when they found her prone on the bathroom floor. Now, as she awoke to a dull headache, Joanna wished the pain had come from a night of drinking—that would mean that time travel was a hallucination.
But as the dark room slowly came into focus before her, she realized this was no dream. The damp air smelled like black mold, rodents, and unwashed bodies. Odors this pungent would wake the dead. Where was she? How had she gotten here?
The last thing she remembered was passing out and being carried by a greasy giant down a hill toward a medieval village. Joanna writhed in embarrassment and threw her arms over her head.
“Now, now, it’s all right.”
Joanna lowered her arms to see Little John’s big, soft face leaning over her. Her favorite fantasy until today had involved falling off a horse, being mildly injured and then rescued by a romantic hero. But Little John was no dashing hero, and head injuries, even if they weren’t severe, hurt. Blood and concussions were anything but romantic.
Pushing herself up to a sitting position, she moved her head to scan the room but stopped when the pain reminded her not to do anything too quickly. “Where are we?”
“The sheriff’s jail at Nottingham Castle.”
Little John’s large frame filled the small cell they shared. Fighting claustrophobia, Joanna closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, trying to prevent herself from panicking. The stench did little to calm her nerves.
“How do we get out of here?”
“We don’t.”
“But how did you escape when you were captured before?”
John leaned back against the bars. “Robin prefers rescues in the courtyard. He likes to have an audience.”
“How many times have you been in here?”
“Five in the last three years. Will held the current record at six, but with my capture today, we’re tied.”
Joanna touched the gash on her head. The bleeding had stopped, but the dried blood formed a glob in her hair. She resisted the urge to dislodge it. “And how many times has Robin been captured?”
“None. It wouldn’t look very good if he was taken, would it? His being the leader and all. Not to worry, though.” Little John patted her leg. “We have a way these things are done. Leave everything to me.”
“What’s the ‘way’ things are done?”
“We’ll be called before the sheriff tonight. He’ll sentence us to death.”
“Wait a minute.” Joanna held up her hand. “Did—did you say death?”
“I’ve done two beheadings and a hanging. I remember one burning at the stake, but the fire never got lit. My first execution, though, was in a cage on the side of the castle. Luckily I didn’t hang there very long. Quite cramped, if you know what I mean. I’d bet on a beheading this time. Anyway, we’ll be taken before the sheriff tonight while he’s feasting in the great hall. He’ll make a speech about how wonderful he is for capturing us, I’ll say something defiant, and then he’ll order us executed in the morning. After that, I’ll have a pretty good idea of what plan Robin will use.”
“How?”
“We have a whole book of plans, numbered in the order we thought of them. We’re up to 53 now. The low numbers were rather childish and certainly not theatrical. For plan one, we knocked on the castle gate and asked for the prisoner’s release. My nephew, Alan-a-dale, is our drama consultant, and the plans have gotten more elaborate since he joined our gang. We’re improving with practice, too. The plans are usually determined by the execution method. Once the sheriff declares that for certain, I’ll be able to walk you through the likely rescue. Stay close to me. The fact that we’re in the same cell right now is a good sign. I doubt the sheriff will separate us. Once Alan and I were captured together—Alan is the son of my second youngest sister—I have seven sisters, six of them older. Last time I counted I had thirty-two nieces and nephews, although it might be thirty-four now because my third oldest sister is expecting, and the midwife is fairly certain she’s having twins. That will take her up to ten children. She’s the breeder of the family—”
Joanna raised her hand to interrupt him. “What are the chances I can talk the sheriff out of trying to kill us?”
“The sheriff enjoys dramatics more than Robin. He won’t like it if you challenge him or talk more than he does. If he gets angry enough, he might execute you right away.”
This was just great. She was stuck. But Joanna had been stuck before and she knew the best way to get unstuck was to do more research. She may not be writing at the moment, but she could ask questions and take notes. She reached for her shoulder bag, but it wasn’t there.
“Where’s my purse?”
“Guy took it when he threw us in here.”
If Guy had her purse, he had her journal as well. She couldn’t lose that. It held all her notes from the trip so far, her random musings, a few story ideas, and far too many pages about Mark. At least half of it was still blank. She needed those pages to record this experience. How would she survive without writing everything down? What if she forgot something? A comb and some lip balm would have been nice, too, but the journal held far more importance.
“I see you’re upset about the purse,” John commented. “I’m sorry for that.”
“It’s hardly the worst thing that’s happened to me today,” Joanna conceded.
“Now you’re sounding more positive.” Little John smiled. “A fall from a horse and being captured by the sheriff isn’t so bad.”
“That’s not the worst of it. John,” she paused, searching for the right words, “I’m not from here.”
“Obviously.”
“I don’t know how I got here either.”
“I carried you.”
“Thanks very much for that.” She put her hand on his arm. “But what I mean is, I’m not sure how I came to this time. This morning when I mounted my horse, the year was 2009.”
Little John blinked but didn’t respond.
“A horn spooked my horse, and next thing I knew I ran into a tree—well, my horse ran me into it. Then you found me and I discovered the year is 1193. Somehow I’ve traveled a little over eight hundred years back in time. So, you see, it has been a really bad day. All I want is to get out of here, get back on my horse—I can’t believe I said that—and go back to 2009. I’ll leave you and the sheriff to play your little games.”
Little John shook his head. “Don’t tell that story to anyone else—especially the sheriff. No one will believe such nonsense.”
Joanna sighed. “Tell me about Robin Hood, then.”
She needed names, players, plans. She needed information on the sheriff. She needed to know more about Guy of Gisbourne. Sure, she knew the Robin Hood legends, had read books on the outlaw, and had done plenty (although clearly not enough) of amateur research into the Middle Ages for her medieval love story. However, now that she was smack dab in the middle of ancient history, she couldn’t take any of that information at face value. Joanna felt tired thinking of all the questions she needed to ask.
But her day was about to get worse. Before she could decide which question to ask first, the dungeon door opened and the jailer, a small man with long, stringy gray hair, entered the corridor with six soldiers behind him. Little John rose to face them. Joanna didn’t feel steady on her feet yet, so she pulled herself up by gripping the bars of the cell.
“The sheriff wants to see you.” The jailer’s malicious grin revealed a set of crooked, rotting teeth.
Joanna cringed. If she were listing the miracles of the modern world, penicillin and daily s
howers would be high on the list, but dentistry and orthodontia would be close behind.
After two soldiers unlocked the door of the cell, they pulled Little John and Joanna out and bound their hands behind their backs. The dark hallway between the cells was lit only by two torches. As she left the dungeon and climbed a winding staircase into the halls of the castle, she lost her bearings. Jill would already know the way out by instinct, but Joanna’s head throbbed. She couldn’t think straight because of the fatigue, injury, and stress.
As they entered the courtyard, Joanna saw that night had fallen. How long had she been unconscious? Shouldn’t she be receiving some sort of medical care? She took a deep breath. Acting like a hypochondriac wasn’t going to do her any good. As she stumbled across the cobblestone courtyard, she caught the outline of stone towers against the twinkling heavens. So many stars! She had never seen that many in one patch of sky before.
The group halted abruptly, causing Joanna to bump into Little John. He nodded toward the wooden door before them. “Leave all the talking to me,” he whispered.
The smell of the great hall assaulted Joanna first, a notable observation given that everyone and everything in this castle stank. In the stench she detected body odor, smoke, tallow, rotting meat, and feces, perhaps from the huge mastiffs that approached the group and sniffed at Little John and her menacingly.
As she stepped into the hall, her feet sank into the rushes spread across it. Particles of food and dog droppings littered the dried vegetation. The high ceiling was framed by dark timbers. The room was smaller than great halls appeared in the movies, smaller even than the halls of other castles she and Jill had visited during their trip. Tallow candles impaled on the spikes of black candelabras lit the room dimly and contributed to the smoke that hung in the air. Against the side wall opposite the entrance a fire burned in an arched opening with a rounded plaster hood. The soldiers pushed Little John and Joanna into the room so they stood at the back with a wooden screen behind them.
Pushed forward by the soldiers, Joanna and Little John walked through the center of the room, past the tables covered in stained, off-white tablecloths where servants and soldiers sat on benches. The conversation ceased as the prisoners were paraded to the front of the room where the Sheriff of Nottingham along with a plump woman and four men sat at the high table. Joanna noticed Guy of Gisbourne right away. He sat at the sheriff’s left, swirling his wine in a pewter goblet.
This was going to be a tough audience. If her life was a book, she made a pathetic heroine. She wasn’t beautiful, she certainly wasn’t dressed appropriately compared to the fine yellow dress the woman beside the sheriff—presumably his wife—wore, and she didn’t know martial arts nor could she shoot any weapon. Jill was a much more appropriate protagonist. Joanna fought back the threat of tears as she thought of her sister.
The sheriff dropped the drumstick he had been gnawing, (How trite!), wiped his hands on the tablecloth, and leaned back to examine his captives. “John Little, the illustrious outlaw.” The sheriff’s tone indicated his irony. “And this woman…” He waved his hand.
“She’s my niece,” John replied. “She’s not part of our band. She was coming to tell me that her mother, my third-oldest sister, is ill and in need of my aid.”
“Is that so?” The sheriff yawned.
Joanna opened her mouth to speak, but Little John said quickly, “Indeed it is.”
“Where are you from, woman?” the sheriff asked.
“She can’t speak, Sheriff,” John said before Joanna could answer. “She’s mute and simple-minded. She injured her head, as you can see, and that has addled her brains even further.”
“If this was true,” the sheriff said, “I’d be doing her a favor by putting her out of her misery.”
While Joanna appreciated Little John’s attempts to take care of her, the sheriff’s mention of her execution reinforced her doubts in John’s verbal prowess.
“Little John doesn’t speak for me.” Joanna addressed the sheriff but kept an eye on Guy of Gisbourne. She could tell he was more interested in her than he was letting on. “I’d like the chance to explain. There’s been a terrible misunderstanding.”
“I suppose you want to beg for your life.”
“I’d rather tell you a story.”
The sheriff turned to Guy. “What do you think, Gisbourne?”
Guy shrugged. “She could provide some amusement.”
“Then let’s hear this story.”
The sheriff waved his hand to the guards who pulled Little John off to the side, leaving Joanna alone before the high table.
“Could you untie my hands?”
The sheriff rapped his fingers on the table impatiently.
Joanna ignored her sinking heart and began her tale, trying not to let her arms jerk as she unconsciously attempted to gesture.
“My name is Joanna Mason. I come from a land across the sea, a land where people can fly, talk to each other over long distances, and send messages at the speed of light. I come from a people who have journeyed to the moon and left their mark there.”
“The moon?” The sheriff snorted. “Preposterous!”
She pulled at the ropes, trying to loosen them. She couldn’t get into the right speech rhythm without moving her hands.
“I came to England on a great silver ship with wings that flew over the ocean in less than a day. I came because I greatly admired your people and wanted to see what your life was like so that I could go back and tell my people about you.”
“You’re a spy.”
This came from Guy of Gisbourne. His interruption unnerved her. She had hoped he would be an ally instead of a heckler.
“I’m an ambassador of goodwill, a…” (she searched for the word) “a visitor from the future.”
“The future?” said the sheriff’s wife. “Are you a witch?”
“Oh dear, no! I’m from a land where technology is more advanced than it is here. When I traveled to England, I sailed not only through the air but through time and space. I was actually born about eight hundred years in the future.”
Guy set down his goblet and leaned forward. “What could someone from the future possibly want with us?”
“Record keeping from your time period isn’t always reliable. I’m here to do research so I can take back accurate information. I’m sort of a mystery solver.”
“And what mysteries have you solved?” Guy’s eyes narrowed.
Joanna swallowed and glanced at Little John who shrugged in response as if to say, You talked yourself into this, you can talk yourself out.
“Mysteries about…life and love,” Joanna began, but when she saw the immediate ill response, she added, “and death.”
“Death, did you say?” the sheriff asked.
Why had she said that? The only thing she knew about death came from watching television. She wouldn’t even view the deceased at a funeral. Jill would say Joanna’s melodramatic side was taking over, and she would be right.
“Death of love, actually.” Joanna’s voice cracked with nervousness. “I know a lot about that.”
Everyone was quiet for several long seconds, and then the laughter began with a soft chuckle behind her, spreading from person to person until the noise became a raucous, mocking howl from the crowd.
“If you’re from the future, wench, tell me what I’m going to do tomorrow.” The insult came from a large, obese man whose black beard crawled up his face almost to his eyeballs. The man sat at the high table on the other side of the sheriff’s wife.
“Sir Horace, you aren’t important enough for anyone to know anything about,” retorted the sheriff, which caused even more laughter.
Sir Horace turned red under his beard. “What is important enough for someone from the future to know?”
Joanna thought of the notes she had written in her journal and hoped she had the dates correct. “I know Henry II rebuilt this castle about twenty years ago, and since then it’s bee
n an important royal residence. However, I doubt it looks this dirty when the king is here.”
The sheriff’s wife hid her face behind her hands. Joanna was treading on dangerous ground, but she needed to convince the sheriff she really was from the future in the hopes her knowledge would be perceived as valuable and her life would be spared. Mark Twain had made the technique work in A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. Surely she could too. She considered sharing that King Richard would take Nottingham Castle by siege in a year’s time but decided such a statement was too inflammatory.
Instead she said, “In the year 1651, the king will give permission for this castle to be destroyed.”
“And how does this happen?”
Joanna winced. “If I had my notebook, I could tell you. I wrote it all down.”
The sheriff turned to Guy. “What is the book she speaks of?”
“No idea. The woman’s a lunatic.” Guy leaned back in his chair and took a sip of wine.
“I’ve come to a different conclusion,” the sheriff replied. “Any woman who can utter this much nonsense needs to be silenced.”
Joanna’s heart dropped.
“What’s the best way to silence a woman?” The sheriff looked around the room for an answer but didn’t wait for a response. “Bed her. Let a strong man break her spirit, and I’ll wager she won’t open her mouth again unless he wants her to. Since she’s my prisoner, I expect recompense from the man who wants to tame her. Who will teach this shrew to mind her tongue?”
“Four shillings!” a man behind her called out.
The bids came in quickly. Joanna’s head began to spin. She tried to remain calm, telling herself that these men had good intentions and some kind soul would buy her and set her free. Isn’t that what would happen if she was writing this story? She stared at Guy of Gisbourne and willed him to bid, but he sipped his wine and ignored her.
“Sold,” the sheriff declared, “to Sir Horace! Enjoy the ride, my friend.”
Sir Horace stepped down from the dais and approached Joanna, his lust evident. She shuddered at how repugnant he was. When he grabbed her arm, she recoiled and struggled out of his grasp, but Horace struck her cheek with the back of his hand. In the sudden clarity brought on by pain, Joanna wondered if all victims felt this way before they were assaulted or killed. She had a perfect picture in her mind of how it would happen. She felt cold all over. She could hear nothing but the ringing in her ears from the blow. She smelled his foul breath, cringed at the bits of meat in his dark beard, tasted the bile rising to her throat. She would have to be quiet and calm, act compliantly, and then, at the appropriate moment, maybe she could get away.
In the seconds that followed the initial shock, her cheek began to smart so much that her eyes watered. She choked back her tears and allowed Horace to drag her, hands still bound behind her back, out of the hall. Black shapes that must have been towers and parapets blotted out the stars, but she had no sense of where she was or where Horace was taking her. A looming black object turned into a stone tower as they neared it. She searched in all directions for something she could use to defend herself as they entered, but Horace dragged her away from the tower toward a dark corner where he pinned her shoulders against the wall and jammed her bound wrists into the stone.
“Horses have to be ridden hard to be broken,” Horace whispered, his stinking breath hot in her face. “Prepare to be ridden.”
Joanna tried to knee him in the groin. This move always worked in the movies, but Horace dodged easily and laughed. With her arms pinned, she couldn’t slap him. She had no idea how to get away, so she did the last thing she could. She spit in his face. At first, Horace chuckled, but then he gasped and his breath began to gurgle as his face contorted in pain.
Horace’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped against her, revealing Guy of Gisbourne standing behind him. Her shock was so great she couldn’t even scream. Guy seized the fallen Horace by the collar and shoved him away from her. She watched Horace’s body crumple to the ground. The evil man was dead. When she looked up, Guy held the bloody dagger in his right hand.
He was going to kill her next.
Blood rushed from her head, causing a black outline to form around everything. She fought to stay conscious, fearful of what might happen if she didn’t keep her wits about her.
Guy grabbed her arm and spun her around to face the stone. He would slit her throat and let the blood splatter hit the wall. She felt a sharp tug, and then her hands were free. She turned, rubbing her sore wrists. Guy wiped his dagger clean on Horace’s tunic and sheathed the weapon in his belt.
“Come with me if you want to live.”
She nodded but couldn’t move. He seized her forearm and pulled her toward the entrance of the tower they stood near. He led her up the circular stairs so quickly she tripped and banged her shins against the stone steps.
After ascending a flight of stairs, Guy opened a wooden door and pushed her in. The small, circular room was cleaner than she had found the great hall. The stone walls were covered in white plaster with no adornments or tapestries. A fired burned in the fireplace opposite the door. On her right stood a wooden canopy bed with red curtains. To the left sat a table and two chairs near the fire. The table was covered in a clean white tablecloth. But what caught her attention and held it was the sight of her purse.
She stepped closer to the table in anticipation of snatching her bag when the door made a clicking sound as Guy locked it. Joanna turned as he seized her by her upper arms and kissed her forcefully. So, he had killed Sir Horace in order to have her for himself? The scum didn’t even have the decency to pay good money for her. Guy’s lips felt cold and hard, and Joanna’s head and cheek ached from her injuries. She pulled back as soon as she could and wrestled free, slapping him across the face.
Guy put his hand to his cheek and rubbed it.
“You should have killed me.” Joanna raised her chin in defiance. “I’ll kill myself if I have to, rather than have you force yourself on me.”
Guy chuckled. “No need for dramatics. I prefer my women to enjoy it.”
“Then what was that?”
“Sampling the goods.”
He rubbed his cheek again and walked toward the fire. Joanna felt some satisfaction knowing she had hurt him.
“What?” Guy asked. “No witty retort? You disappoint me.”
Joanna weighed her options and decided silence was the best choice.
“Perhaps if I gave you a quill, you might spill all your words into this.” Reaching into his doublet, he pulled out a small black book that Joanna recognized immediately as her journal.
“That’s mine! Give it back!”
Guy thumbed through the book. “The writing is a different character than I’m used to, but I can make out most of it.”
Her face flamed with embarrassment that anyone should be privy to her self-absorbed ramblings. She wanted to crawl into the floor. But then, a thought occurred to her.
“If you’ve read my journal, then you believe I’m from the future.”
“I believe in two things. This,” he patted the hilt of his dagger, “and I’ll let you guess the other. The rest is irrelevant.”
He tucked the journal inside his doublet, sat down at the table, and motioned to the empty chair. “Sit down.”
She sat. Suddenly chilly, she rubbed her palms against her bare arms for warmth. Her purse was within her reach, but his dagger was within his. She couldn’t take the chance. Guy poured wine into two goblets and placed one in front of her.
“Drink. I’m sure you’re thirsty.”
She was thirsty. Taking the goblet, she did her best not to gulp, fully aware that being in a drunken state wouldn’t help her escape.
“You’re very good, you know. Anyone but me would believe you’re a lonely, helpless woman in a world she doesn’t understand.”
“You don’t?”
“I’m well acquainted with pretense.”
&
nbsp; “Who do you think I am?”
“Who you are doesn’t matter as much as who sent you. Robin Hood.”
“Never met him.”
“Careful. The truth would be better. If you can’t figure out how to tell it on your own, I have ways of convincing you.”
Joanna shivered. “I just saw you kill a man. I believe you’re capable of about anything. But you can’t force information out of me that I don’t have. Believe me, if I knew anything, I’d tell you rather than get stabbed or raped. I’ve never met Robin Hood. All I want is to find my sister and go home. That’s it.”
“Your sister?”
“Yes, my twin. Her name’s Jill, and we look a lot alike. I’m not sure if she traveled into the past with me or not. But if she did, I have to find her.”
Sliding back in his chair, Guy steepled his fingertips. “Perhaps I can be of service to you.”
“You’ve decided I’m not a spy?”
“You’ll forgive me for being cautious. Robin Hood has been trying to steal my land and title for quite some time. He’ll stop at nothing to ruin me, even sending an assassin who looks like my departed wife.”
Wife? Joanna didn’t remember anything in the legends she had read about Guy of Gisbourne having a wife.
“Hood has tried to deceive me before. I suspect he’s infiltrated my castle with spies.” Guy shook his head sadly. “I’ve been waiting for him to attempt a new tactic. He’s a master of discovering men’s vulnerabilities and preying upon them. However, I’ve obviously misjudged you. I’d like to make amends. Come to Locksley Castle with me. You’ll have food, clothes, and protection. I’ll find out what I can about your sister and help you reunite. In return, I have a mystery or two you could solve for me.”
Joanna swallowed. If she accepted Gisbourne’s help, what was she getting herself into? But what other options did she have? Maybe Guy wasn’t all that bad. He had saved her life and her reputation from Sir Horace, after all. Plus, he was very handsome. What author in her right mind would turn down an offer to stay in a medieval castle? What woman who had almost been raped and witnessed a murder would refuse protection? She had to accept. There was no other choice. At least Guy was handsome and clearly intrigued by her. Finally, some aspects of this time-travel nightmare were aligning with her fantasies.
“I can also throw you into the courtyard,” Guy reminded her, “and let the next knave who walks by take you home.”
Joanna eyed her purse. If she was powerless to retrieve an item sitting right in front of her, she was even more powerless to escape or find Jill. She chose her words carefully. “If I come with you, you’ll protect me and help me find my sister?”
Guy nodded, a bemused expression on his face.
“Can I have my purse and book back?”
“When you’ve given me what I want.”
Joanna’s stomach twisted at the implied request. She wished she had time to think about it. But she didn’t have that luxury. Jill would say this was a very bad idea, but Jill wasn’t here. Joanna had to figure it out on her own.
“It’s a deal.”
Guy stood, picking up her purse as he went. “There’s one more thing I’ll need from you—your clothes.”
Joanna felt the blood drain from her face. “Why?”
“If we’re going to smuggle you out of the castle, you’ll have to wear a disguise. You’ll find a sack of clothes underneath the bed. Leave yours on the chair. Roger de la Rouche, my man at arms, will escort you to my castle tonight.”
Left alone in the room, Joanna’s head swam with what had happened. She sat on the lumpy bed and tried to calm herself. If only Jill was here! Jill would know what to do. Jill could take care of herself. Joanna was the helpless maiden, and she had never hated that role more than she did right now. What good were organization skills or writing abilities when one’s life was at stake? Guy of Gisbourne was no Prince Charming, but he was as close as she was going to get in this adventure. If she wanted to survive, she’d have to go to his castle and figure out a new plan from there. Jill and her stupid adventures! Like always, Joanna was the one who suffered. If only she hadn’t gotten on that horse in Sherwood to begin with, then she wouldn’t be in this mess. Getting lost in the past seemed an occupation that Jill was much more suited for.
Reaching under the bed, Joanna retrieved a brown sack full of wrinkled clothing that smelled of sweat. The rags might be infested with fleas or lice. She couldn’t put those on. After everything she had suffered today, something as silly as clothes shouldn’t make her cry, but that didn’t stop the tears from spilling out. Giving in to the emotion, she lay on the bed and sobbed.