Robyn and the Hoodettes Read online

  “Not yet.” Nostalgia pierced Robyn as she remembered the fun she and her father used to have. Her memories glossed over all the times they’d argued or she’d been in trouble. “Not even a carrier pigeon in six months. What about your cousin?”

  At least Joan still had both her parents, elderly as they might be.

  “Nothing from him either,” Joan said as she moved in to give the horse a good pat on the neck.

  Robyn and Joan both shut up about the people they missed the most. They had a way of almost talking about the things and people they cared for, before they found a way to change the subject.

  Joan looked longingly at the horse. “She sure is a beautiful thing.”

  “I told her to shoo, but she’s harder to lose than a shadow.”

  “Hello Shadow, I’m Joan, lovely to meet you.”

  “Don’t give her a name!” Robyn threw her hands out in desperation. “I’m trying to get rid of her! Oh come on, stop with the cuddles!”

  “But she’s beautiful. And she smells so nice.”

  “I know!” Robyn moved in for a smooch, inhaling the horse’s scent. “But honestly, she’s far too pretty. If anyone saw us, they’d know we’d stolen her.”

  “Then we have to make her look like she does belong,” Joan said with a gleam in her eye. “Come on, let’s give her an un-bath.”

  With a giggle of conspiracy, they lead Shadow into the stream and proceeded to splash water on her, then they mussed up her gleaming coat and mane by brushing her the wrong way. It had to be done. No peasant could possibly possess such a fine horse.

  “Nagging her up. What a shame. Feels worse than when I spilt mead all over mother’s tapestry,” Joan said.

  “What about the shoes?” Robyn asked as she smeared mud on Shadow’s fetlock.

  Joan winked. “We’ll take her to your handsome blacksmith later, get them taken off. By the way, did you lose a boot or find one?”

  “It . . . fell off,” Robyn said, her brain catching on Joan’s description of her handsome smith. “I hope those ratbags have left something for Marion to work with.”

  “He’s a clever man, that one,” Joan said. “He’ll work something out.”

  “Do you fancy him or something?” Robyn said with a grin. “You do, don’t you? You really fancy him!”

  “Not half as much as you do!” Joan shot back.

  “I do not!”

  “Liar!”

  They threw water and mud at each other. A fair amount landed on the horse, which helped make the three of them look miserably poor and dirty. Both her feet were soaked, so her soles were equally numb from the cold water.

  All of which distracted Robyn from thinking too much about Marion. He’d always been a kid in Robyn’s eyes, although he was barely a season younger than her. On the other hand, he was probably the oldest lad left in the village.

  Did that automatically make him a man as Joan had called him?

  Robyn and Joan stood back to admire their mudwork. Shadow looked like she’d been ridden hard and put away wet. But there was no disguising the fact she was a superior horse with regal standing, not some village nag.

  “We could always say we found her, that we’re trying to find her owners,” Joan said.

  Robyn nodded.

  “D’you think the tax collectors are gone yet?” Joan asked.

  “One way to find out,” Robyn said. “Come on Shadow.”

  The horse and the two girls made their way towards Loxley. Darkness crept into the sky, so they keep close to the King’s Road to avoid getting lost.

  “What’s that?” Joan said, grabbing Robyn’s arm.

  She heard it too, noises made by hooves and people. Possibly a carriage or two judging from the creaky-wheely sounds.

  Heading straight for them.

  “Hide!” Robyn said.

  They made a dash for the shrubs growing beside the road. They must have been young holly bushes, for they still had green leaves but they were spiky and bit into her bare foot.

  The Sheriff’s horses, pulling two carriages behind them like a double trailer, came into view.

  That’s when Robyn cursed the horse afresh.

  The dense beast stood on the road, in full view.

  Whisper-shouting, Robyn called out, “Get down here!”

  Oh that horse, she’s going to be the death of me.

  Hiding in the shrubbery, Joan whispered “Stay here”, then she grabbed a tree branch, pulled her hood over her head and hobbled out to the road pretending to be years older.

  “There ye are ye great nag.” She did something to her voice to sound like an oldie as well.

  “Ho there!” A man’s voice said.

  “Ho-ho to you,” Joan answered, sounding confident and jolly.

  Knees folded awkwardly under her chin, Robyn heard a series of creaks from the timber as several men climbed down from the carriages to get a better look at Joan. Any second now they would take back their horse. Oh no! What if they accused Joan of stealing Shadow? She had to do something to help her friend.

  “Get your stinking nag off the King’s Road!” A man ordered.

  Wait, what? Could these men not tell a prime horse from a hack?

  “Go on, off with you!” Another voice said, cracking in the middle. It sounded like a really young lad who was trying to sound older, as if willing his voice to break.

  Through the shrubbery, Robyn saw the shapes of five . . . no, seven men . . . walking towards Joan to get her and the animal out of their way.

  “She’s only got one other speed, and it’s slower,” Joan said, adding that wheeze old people made so well.

  The way Joan acted, maybe her first parents hadn’t been giants after all, but travelling minstrels. Seeing how distracted the men were, Robyn grew emboldened. As silently as possible, she crept towards the second carriage. Someone had roughly attached it to the first carriage so they could haul it with them. Would they tow it all the way to Nottingham? According to the map her father had once scratched out on her cottage floor–“Not to scale, you understand,” he’d said–Nottingham was a whole day’s ride away. Sheffield was closer, although Robyn had never been there either.

  Joan was still talking on the road up ahead, but it wouldn’t be long before the men returned to the carriages. Sneaking a peak inside, Robyn saw the sacks of wheat they’d taken from her village. Sacks of milled flour were in here too, along with a roll of fabric from the Miller cottage, and Marion’s tools. Things that rightly belonged to Loxley.

  Whoever had attached the second carriage hadn’t done a very good job. With a few quiet tugs and twists, she untied the connecting rope. Heaving all her weight against it, she managed to push the fully laden carriage five steps before something snapped with a horrendous crack.

  “What the devil?” One of the men shouted.

  Robyn grabbed the first thing she could reach and swung it around hard. It connected with a man’s stomach; he fell to the ground with a grunt. Whoa, that was easy! Then Robin noticed she’d whacked him with Marion’s blacksmith hammer. No wonder he’d gone down with the first swing.

  More thwacks and whacks filled the air.

  “Joan!” Robyn raced towards the sound of snapping wood and shouting people. Poor Joan, it would be six against one. The poor girl didn’t stand a–

  “Who hoo!” Joan swung her branch like a long staff, whacking the men into each other. They staggered backwards, regained their footing, then bolted for the safety of the front carriage, locking themselves in.

  “Come back and fight me!” Joan said as she bashed her stick against the door.

  Looking around, Robyn saw four men sprawled on the road, each of them groaning or holding their palms up in surrender.

  “Get on your wagon,” Joan roared at them, “Or you’ll feel the force of my weapon on your softest parts.”

  Wounded and miserable, the men rose on unsteady feet and climbed aboard the front of the carriage.

  “Did I get them all?”
Joan asked. Her face split with a grin that shone in the dim light.

  “There’s one more up the back, I got him with this.” Robyn held Marion’s hammer. A hammer that felt so much heavier now that the excitement had worn off. “He doesn’t look too steady. We might need to load him in.”

  They walked to the wounded man and rolled him over. He refunded his stomach, blerking diced parsnips onto the road. Robyn pulled his boots off to take for herself. They were far too big for her feet, but she could cram some wool into the toes when she reached home.

  Together she and Joan carried the messy man to the front carriage and made the rest of the crew haul him aboard. He regurgitated again, filling the air with acrid smells.

  “He’s your problem now,” Joan said.

  Shadow finally moved off the road and nibbled at a clump of grass. As if she knew her work was done. Robyn and Joan walked to the horses at the front of the carriage and checked their harnesses were tied. All good, according to Joan, who then gave the closest one a good slap on the rump.

  “Giddyup!”

  Unlike Shadow, these horses knew when it was time to push off. Soon the horses, the defeated men and their carriage trundled off down the King’s Road and into the night.

  Leaving Joan, Robyn and Shadow with a carriage to haul back to the village.

  “We did it!” Joan held her hand aloft for a high five. Robyn had to jump to reach it.

  “We got our answer,” Robyn said as they strolled towards the horseless wagon. When the fight was on, there had been no time for the luxury of reflection. Now there was far too much time for guilt to settle in.

  Joan stalled. “What was the question?”

  Regret twisted Robyn’s stomach. “They’re definitely the Sheriff’s men. Proper thieves would have fought harder.”

  “Thanks a lot!”

  “You know what I mean,” Robyn said as she encouraged Shadow towards the carriage so they could strap her in for their return trip. “They were good and proper tax collectors, and now we’re in a whole world of trouble.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The darkness made it difficult to see anything other than vague shapes. If not for Shadow guiding them along, Robyn would have stumbled off into the shrubbery. When they made it back to Loxley, they found a bonfire burning in the middle of the green and just about everyone from the village standing around it.

  “Robyn?” Mother Eleanor stood up and peered towards them. “Robyn!” Her mother charged towards her, crying out, “You’re here, you’re safe!” Eleanor smothered Robyn in a fierce hug and didn’t let go.

  “What’s going on?” Robyn managed to squeeze out.

  “You’re alive! I thought they’d taken you!” Eleanor splattered Robyn’s face with wet kisses.

  “I’m fine, Mother, relax. I owe it all to Shadow here.”

  Eleanor took a step back and noticed the horse. Uh-oh. Time for some sweet talk. “She followed me home. Can I keep her?”

  “Oh, Robyn . . . I don’t know. We can’t bring a horse into the cottage. For starters, where would we put the cow?”

  The animals, including a cow, three goats and an ever-changing number of chickens, lived on the lower level. Robyn and her mother had their straw bed in the alcove above.

  “But she saved me. Twice. Once in the village when we escaped and the second time on the King’s Road.”

  But Robyn dear, she must be a noble horse–” Eleanor suddenly noticed Joan. “Oh my!”

  Joan stepped forward and pulled her hood back to reveal her smiling face.

  “It’s you, Joan.” Eleanor patted her palm to her chest. “I didn’t recognize you with that hood on. Come here then and give me a hug.”

  While Eleanor and Joan embraced, the rest of the villagers crowded around them, admiring the fine horse and the incredible carriage.

  Little Madge the Miller’s daughter wandered up. She was only a season younger than Robyn, but her slight frame made the age gap look like years.

  “We’ll have to get rid of these,” Madge said, looking at the distinctive coat of arms on the side panels. “My Grannyma says they belong to the Earl of Derby.”

  They’d stolen from an Earl?

  Clods of earth filled Robyn’s belly. The entire village would hang at this rate. Instead of surrendering to panic, she moved her thoughts forward. “Get Marion and see if he can melt it down into something.”

  “I would if I had the tools.”

  Robyn spun around to see Marion, smiling at her. He looked . . . different in the evening light. The glow of the bonfire cast light over his cheeks and neck, emphasizing the planes and shadows. He’d cut his dusty brown hair short again, probably done it himself judging from the uneven chops and curls.

  “I like your hair like that,” Joan said, giving him an appreciative nod.

  “Kind of had to,” Marion rubbed the ground with his toe and then looked back to the smithy hut.

  “You didn’t burn yourself?” Joan asked.

  Marion ran his hand through his hair and said, “Not much.”

  Robyn mentally kicked herself for staring at him.

  Clearing his throat, Marion said, “Good thing you got home when you did, Robby, we were about to send out a search party.”

  The use of his pet name for her made Robyn smile. “I’ve got a surprise for you.” She opened the carriage door and Marion’s stolen tools fell to the ground with clangs and clunks.

  “Nice one!” he lunged at them, grateful to have them back.

  “But wait, there’s more!” Robyn had never felt so blessed and prideful as she pulled out sack after sack of wheat and milled flour. Supplies they needed to survive the oncoming winter. She handed the bags to the rightful owners who giggled and cried out with glee.

  It felt pretty darn wonderful to be bringing their food, tools and fabric back where they belonged. “Three cheers for Joan, she did the heavy lifting!” Robyn said. “She took on five men with only a stick in her hand!”

  The villagers cheered for Joan and Robyn. No need to tell them the men were working for the Sheriff of Nottingham. That would only complicate things and cause undue worry. Wouldn’t it?

  Marion returned for the rest of his tools. “I’m firing up the forge, we’d better get the livery off tonight, just in case anyone comes by in the morning.”

  “Good idea!” Robyn said, then turned to the crowd. “Everyone?”

  Nobody paid her any attention. They were all too excited.

  “Everyone!” She shouted this time. They stopped and looked up to her. Yikes, her throat turned dry so she swallowed. “We can’t celebrate yet. We need to get the fire burning hot in the forge and melt down everything that could belong to the Earl of Derby.”

  “What are you talking about?” Grannyma Miller said.

  Sick dread weighed Robyn down. She couldn’t lie to them. “I thought the tax men who came here were thieves, that they’d stolen the Earl’s carriages. We’ve had plenty of tax collectors in the past, but they’ve never behaved like those men did.”

  Lots of nods.

  “But in truth,” which Robyn now had to explain, past the clump in her throat, “The reason they’re using the Earl’s carriage is because they really were tax collectors and they had the Earl of Derby’s blessing.”

  Gasps spread through the crowd.

  “We’re going to be all right.” Robyn splayed her palms out to keep everyone calm. “We just need to be quick and work together and we’ll all be fine. We need to remove the Earl’s colours, and get the iron shoes off the horse. Her name’s Shadow, and she kept me safe all this time.”

  The village became a blur of activity. Through all the cheering and excitement, Shadow didn’t seem the slightest bit fussed. But when Marion came to lead her towards the smithy, Shadow wasn’t having any of it.

  Robyn climbed down from the carriage and made her way to the horse. “Easy girl. It’s for your own good.”

  The soothing tones didn’t calm Shadow. The horse would n
ot take one step towards Marion’s workshop and its forge, glowing bright in the dark night.

  Shadow stepped backwards, snorting contempt.

  “Fine then, we’ll deal with the carriage first,” Marion said, taking a chisel out of his leather apron and wedging it behind the coat of arms.

  “All right Shadow, you win this round,” Robyn said, leading the horse towards the cottage she shared with her mother and animals. “Now, in you get, and don’t upset Bella. She’s a temperamental one, that cow, and if she gets in one her moods we won’t get any milk.”

  All of which Robyn expected Shadow to understand not a jot, but she said it anyway because when Shadow later upset Bella, she could say “I told you so” to the horse. Just as her mother often said to her.

  With Shadow tucked away behind the half-high door, Robyn turned back to the village to see the glow of the smithy and sparks flying out of the chimney.

  The children were having fun vandalizing the carriage. Hopefully it would still work as a carriage when they were through with it.

  Above them, the stars twinkled through gaps in the cloud. The cool wind kissed Robyn’s cheeks, reminding her of the cold season to come.

  If she hadn’t done what she’d done, her village would have faced starvation. But now that she’d done what she had–with Joan’s help–would they be bringing the Sheriff of Nottingham’s wrath upon them?

  The clang and thunk of heavy tools drew Robyn towards the forge, where Marion worked the metal like a master craftsman. He’d put on thick leather sleeves over his arms to protect them from sparks.

  “So they weren’t a band of outlaws after all,” Marion said as he clanged and banged away.”

  Robyn grew defensive. “But they sure acted like it.”

  “They’re bound to come back,” he said, not helping her guilty conscience one bit.

  Robyn shrugged, trying to brave away her misery.

  “Word will get to the Sheriff soon enough, so we’d better be ready,” Marion said. A stray spark flew onto his head and he swatted it down. The smell of singed hair mixed with hot iron filled the air.

  Smithing used to be something Marion’s grandfather and father had done, but they were off at the war, too, just like Robyn’s father. Marion’s two older brothers had gone as well. Robyn wondered if she’d had brothers, whether they would have gone too. Hanging from hooks all the way across the ceiling were the myriad tools that clanged and chimed when the wind roared through. Tongs, hammers, more tongs but smaller than the other ones, things that looked like hammers but must have been something else. Gaps where more tools should have been but weren’t yet put away.