“The Secret of Sherwood”
I moved through the woods stealthily, I didn’t know if any of the King’s Men might be about. I didn’t want to be caught now after I’d evaded them for this long. I laughed inwardly as I realized that I had become much like my favorite hero, Robin Hood. Was I becoming an outlaw, hiding out in the woods, stealing from the overly wealthy to help the poor and destitute? I hadn’t quite come so far as to steal from any nobles yet, though I had held up a rather haughty coach driver, who had handed over a few silver coins willingly when my blade reinforced my persuading voice. I was seven when I first learned of Robin Hood’s death. Rumors persisted for a few years, but after ten years and no more heard of him, I gave up hoping. The news shocked me. Dead? How? Why? Did he fall heroically? Perhaps fighting many hundreds of men? When I discovered that it was a prioress who had betrayed him, I was enraged and disappointed- Enraged at the prioress, disappointed in the manner of my hero’s death. How had Robin Hood let himself be deceived so easily?
I was jolted out of my reminiscing by the snapping of a twig. I held still and looked around, but there was no one, only myself. It was probably just some animal. I fought my way through a few more clumps of bushes, and then burst out unexpectedly into a hidden clearing. I was surprised that even my sharp eyes hadn’t spotted it before I tumbled into it. There, in the middle of the concealed clearing there stood a small cabin, made from logs, and cunningly disguised with branches and so covered with creeping ivy that I could barely discern it from its surroundings. A river ran through the clearing, not large or very deep, but clean and crystal clear.
The door creaked a little as I cautiously pushed it open.
“Hello?” I called, “Is there anyone here?” I walked a little farther into the room and let the door swing shut behind me. The cabin was quite nice, with a fireplace-though no fire, a small, oak table and a stool. There were two windows, in two of the walls of the little lodge, and another door was set straight in front of me, behind the table. The floor was not dirt, but oak planks. My soft-soled leather boots, though, made no sound as I walked toward the door, carefully skirting the table. The small lodge conjured up memories of the home I had left not three days ago.
A female in the house of such thieving men as my father and brothers wasn’t welcome, at least, not at first. I was only a burden, I could be no help at all, just another mouth to feed. Nevertheless, I was determined to prove them wrong. So I did. When I put on my soft-soled leather boots, black buckskin breeches, to blend into the night and the too-big, billowy shirt that disguised my sex, also black, I became a different person. I became Jack Brit, the youth who had officially joined the band a year ago. With my hair tied back and the addition of the black mask that I habitually wore to hide my girlish features, I looked like any other male thief. I was the nimblest, the supplest, the best in our band of thieves.
One night, however, three days back, I made a grave mistake. I made the mistake of believing that the guard was in a drunken stupor here on the floor, when he was not. I didn’t stop to check. Instead I walked right over him and into a trap. I suppose the lord of the house must have been angry at our frequenting his house so much, but it was really his own fault as he insisted on displaying his valuables instead of locking them up. As I took one more step, the guard’s hand shot out and clamped around my ankle like a steel vice. I struggled, but he would not let go. I made not a sound, for fear my voice would betray me to be a woman. He shouted for help, and knowing I hadn’t much time, I stomped down hard on his face with my unrestrained foot. He bellowed, but still refused to let me go, so I pounded on his wrist with my heel, and then he had to let go. I darted to the window, pulled myself up onto the flat roof, and fled. I raced over the rooftops, leaping across the wide gaps of streets until I reached the city wall where I borrowed a piece of rope from the sentry after knocking him out, and, after securely fastening it to an iron ring that appeared to be there for no other purpose than to tie a rope to, I climbed down the wall.
That was three days ago, and I was still on the run. It wasn’t hard though, I knew my way around Sherwood Forest pretty well, and food wasn’t a problem, seeing as there were many kinds of berries ripe for the picking. Since the incident when I’d come so close to being caught, everything had worked out well for me. I had escaped the Guard, the King’s Men, managed to climb safely over the city wall, I had plenty to eat, and had found comfortable places to sleep each night. For three days I had eluded capture, even close as I was to the city, and now this cabin. The owner had left it for me in perfect condition, and I was sure it would prove a snug, warm place to spend the night.
My fingers had closed on the knob to the door behind the table, and I had just begun to twist it when a steel blade was placed flat across my bared neck.
“Don’t open that.” came a low voice. Instinctively, at the touch of cold steel, I went for the sword at my hip. The sword pressed harder against my throat. I froze.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” His voice was deep, resonant. I looked up, slowly, as I raised my hands, palms outward in the traditional gesture of peace. It was a rather old man who stood in front of me, his sword at my throat. He was dressed in Lincoln green, with the same boots that I, myself wore, though his were of superior craftsmanship. Soft-soled leather boots aren’t much good for traveling over rough terrain, because their main purpose is to help the wearer remain silent and undetected. Hooded, dark brown eyes, with flecks of green and gold in them, looked me up and down contemptuously. I drew myself up to my insubstantial height; I was no beauty, but nor was I ugly- I didn’t appreciate the scornful look. His hair and beard were silvery white, and deep lines were etched into his face. Not just frown lines, there were crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. He finally spoke.
“What does tha’ want here and what be tha name?” I remained silent. ”Come! Speak now,” He said, “or I shall have to trounce tha’ and give thee a good ducking in yonder river!” I laughed at that, for he was old, and I young. His sword did not waver, his hand did not shake, nor he was not unsteady on his feet, on the contrary, his weight was forward on the balls of his feet, ready for anything. However I had no doubt that in a fight, it would be I, the quicker, faster one, who would trounce him, not the other way around. He scowled when I laughed, and said a bit grumpily, “What? Does tha’ think that tha’ could best me in a fight? I think not, young one, and tha’ wouldst be well warned not to try it.” I stopped laughing and voiced my thoughts aloud,
“Ah, but tha forgets, Old One, that I am young and you old.” He winced at the words, “Old One”.
“Well,” He cried, suddenly much more cheerful, “Let us fight, eh? It’s been quite a long time, actually since I’ve had any good practice, or given a body a good thrashing that seemed to need it so! First though, give us tha name.” I didn’t want to reveal that I was a woman just yet, so I replied,
“Jack Brit, what did that say tha name be good sir?”
“I didn’t,” He said, “and tha doesn’t want to know anyway. Now come on.” His blade sheathed without a whisper. “Oh, and by the way, we’ll be fighting with quarterstaffs, not swords. Ye might decide to behead thaself.” His jab wiped the smirk off my face. I followed him as we headed back outside. He stopped by the door to grab two oaken quarterstaffs from the corner. “Huh.” He said, thinking aloud, “Jack…that’s not a name I’ve often heard bestowed on a lass.” Raising an eyebrow, he looked at me. I wasn’t thrilled that he had discovered me so quickly. I glowered at him and said,
“All right then, my name be Sophie if it please ye, Old One.” I smiled inwardly when he flinched. Apparently satisfied with my name, he led the way out into the grass between his cabin and the river, and tossed me a quarterstaff. The throw caught me off guard, and I fumbled to catch it. “Don’t hurt thaself with that.” He muttered loudly. I scowled at him, but he just grinned and said, “Prepare thaself, lass, for a good trouncing- and believe me,” He said, moving toward me, twirling his stick menacingly above his head, “tha needs it!”
Assuming the “guard” position, I swung my stick experimentally. He was already there. Parrying my attack, he advanced upon me, raining down blow after blow. I couldn’t even block his attacks; they came too fast, and too thick. I was astounded by his strength; he looked so old, yet now it was literally painfully obvious that he was in perfect physical condition. Losing ground, I retreated rapidly backward toward the river. Then, with a kind of twist I couldn’t quite catch, he sent my staff sailing over my head and into the river. I watched it splash into the river, and then turned back to face the old man, who stood there, barely even breathing hard. He gave me a toothy smile that revealed a mouthful of pearly whites, chuckled, then shoved me hard with the butt of his staff. It was over so quickly I could hardly believe it. Pulling myself, soaking wet, out of the river, I wondered absently about who this hermit might be.
“Well,” I said, my pride injured, and not in a small way, “Tha beat me, be tha happy now?”
“Aye!” He laughed, “That I be.” I flopped down onto the grass to dry, but he caught my outstretched hand and pulled me to my feet. “Come on lass, care for some supper and perhaps a warm bed?” I was bewildered at how fast his moods changed. Surprised, maybe a little confused, I accepted and he led the way back indoors. Supper was simple, but delicious. Bread, cheese, and apples stuffed with dried fruit roasted over the fire, along with some watered down wine. I ate until I was stuffed, and it felt magnificent to eat something more substantial than berries. I can’t be sure about how the subject first came up, but we spent a good deal of time sharing stories about Robin Hood’ adventures with his band of Merry Men. I told him that Robin Hood had always been my hero, and how disappointed I’d been that he’d passed on before I’d had a chance to meet him. He chuckled when I’d finished and I asked him why he thought Robin Hood dying was funny.
“Oh, I don’t really believe that he’s dead, that’s all.” He said. I was astonished.
“Not dead?” I asked, “What can tha mean by that?”
“There’s never been any hard evidence.” He explained, “Robin Hood’s band were my heroes as well, but I’m not so inclined to let them go just yet.” I smiled, a thought like that was comforting. I fell asleep there, on my pallet in front of the fire, with a smile on my face.
Early the next morning, the old man gave me a hearty breakfast, a rather wrinkly dress and a horse that he said he’d “borrowed” from a noble’s wife awhile back. He said that if I rode back to the city as I was with a basket of berries, no one would look twice at me since the Guard was looking for a boy not a girl. I thanked him, leaped onto the horse, and urged it into a trot. I looked back but once to see his cleverly hidden cabin disappearing into the forest. He stood just outside the door, waving to me, an enigmatic smile on his face. The trees soon swallowed up the idyllic scene, river and all. I began to really wonder.
I got back to the city, to my home, to my band of brothers safe and sound, without incident. I lay low for a while, then after about a fortnight I got back to work, but this time, this time I didn’t just steal for myself. One gold coin makes 12 coppers, and 12 coppers could feed an entire poor family for a month. Each item we stole, when we gave it to the smithy to melt down and make into coins, made about 15 gold coins, give or take a few. 14 gold coins were much, much more than enough for our little band, so every month I took one gold coin and, in the dead of night, slid it under a door. I felt that I was a modern Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to give to the poor. It amused me to think that the old man would’ve been pleased by my actions.
Many times I’ve looked for that old man, the hidden cabin, that secret clearing, the river too, but they are nowhere to be found. I know I couldn’t have wandered far from the city, and yet…and yet though I’ve searched and searched it is as though it was all a vision or a dream. So I wondered, I wonder. Who was the old man in the forest, so adept with his staff and sword; the hermit in green who could best me, the nimblest, the fastest, the most agile? What was in that room the old man was so keen to protect? Who could this old man be, who so easily disappeared into the forest, who knew so much of Robin Hood, and told me himself that he did not believe my hero to be dead? Was he, could it be…Robin Hood? I know my beliefs, but it’s up to you to decide for yourself.
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