The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Fifth Annual Collection

In the early dawn Robin stalked the woods, a small cloud of steam forming in the cold air as he exhaled. He heard the quiet crack of a branch, the rustle of dry leaves and he stopped, his body tense. Slowly he looked around, searching the origin of the noise. A doe edged into his sight, her dun flanks thinned from the long winter, but her belly rounded with pregnancy. She browsed hungrily on a low shrub, her long neck stretching out as she tugged loose the frail spring buds nestled between the dried leaves.

Robin gritted his teeth and raised the longbow. He nocked his arrow, the grey goose fletch drawn back beside his ear. His gaze followed the curve of the animal’s chest, imagining the shaft penetrating to the heart. The doe snorted as a breeze stirred the branches of the tree above and water droplets sprinkled her head. She shook, startled and then caught Robin’s scent. The two knuckles that held the bowstring back dug deeper into Robin’s cheek as he willed himself to remain steady. The doe withdrew behind the bush, seeking cover. Robin stepped forward to keep his target in view. Beneath his foot a twig snapped a loud warning in the wood. Within a heartbeat the doe leapt from her hiding place and fled.

Cursing, Robin swerved his body, trying to track the rump of the fleeing doe as he let loose his arrow. The hopeful twang was silenced abruptly as the arrow thudded harmlessly into a tree.

Robin hung his head and groaned. Sweat chilled his temples, darkening the curly hair. Damn the greenwood! he swore in frustrated rage. It had turned against him, willing that he should starve from lack of game and freeze with the cold damp of a harsh winter. He looked up angrily and stared out at the black and grey trunks of the wintery trees. The leather-brown leaves of the oaks shivered dryly in response.

He had been a fair shot once. Life in the greenwood the last two years had been good, or at least possible. With twenty men he had formed a band of free-foresters, claiming no allegiance to the King’s command, or the Sheriff’s taxes. They had survived on their skill with the bow, their bravery in the contests against the Sheriff’s men and the goodwill of the people they protected from the worst of the Sheriff’s abuses. But the winter had proved hard. Game alluded them, arrows that seemed so sure of their targets suddenly careened wildly as if batted by unseen hands. Wood refused to burn and their camps were cold and wet. Robin pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, feeling the winter’s damp penetrate beneath the worn wool.

Among the cottages they found a guarded welcome. Grain was scarce and for people who worked hard on the land, it was hard to part with the little they owned to the outlaws that haunted the greenwood. Robin scowled, thinking how in their hunger the cottagers forgot the small gifts of money, or the haunch of venison that had appeared at other times from those same outlaws.

Robin retrieved his arrow and began walking again, moving angrily through the woods. He climbed the brow of a small hill where the trees of the greenwood gave way to the fields. At the edge of the forest, he stared down across the fields of Lincolnshire. In the distance, smoke rose in a thin grey curl from a cottage chimney. The long road that scarred the landscape was empty. Of late, even the rich had found no reason to pass through the greenwood. Robin and his men had not been able to take even the coin that would have bought them food and shelter for the winter.

Robin’s stomach grumbled. He scratched his cheek, feeling how thin the winter had made it. His men were growing discontent. The lack of meat, the lack of a warm fire had scattered companionship. Petty quarrels broke out frequently, his men choosing to fight each other rather than succumb to desperation. That morning he and Little John had crossed words, and only Friar Tuck coming between them had stayed their fists. Robin had left the camp, determined that he would not return without fresh game.

He sighed, his squared shoulders hunched with cold. The muscles of his thighs trembled, having grown weary from the long morning search for game. The sword at his side felt heavy and useless. “Spring,” he whispered, thinking of the rounded belly of the doe. Daily they watched for signs of its coming, bringing with it the promise of warmth and the living green. “Spring,” he repeated more loudly, his cold breath clouding around his head.

His eyes followed the rounded hills as the sun lifted from the edge of the horizon. Gold rays slanted across the fields, brightening the dull pewter land to a burnished copper. Robin stepped forward, away from the shelter of the trees to touch the advancing light. The bright rays of the sun reached him, climbing up his legs, his torso and his chest. Warmth spread across him, and the light of the sun blinded him as it caressed his face.

Bathed in brilliance, Robin’s plea was answered. In the muffled damp air, Robin heard the soft trickle of water melting, the quiet sigh of snow settling into the muddy earth. Birdsong sounded from the trees and a gentle moist wind shook the remnants of last year’s leaves. Robin opened his eyes and turned to face the greenwood.

For the first time in many months, Robin smiled, his dry lips cracking.

The dull bark of trees shimmered with wetness in the dawn’s light. Mist gathered between the black branches and formed a veil of the palest green. When still a boy at Lockesley, his mother had called it the “greenmist”: the slow waking breath of the greenwood’s spirit world, rousing after the winter. The creature Tidy Munn would soon be churning the water of the streams and the fens, driving it over the fields to melt the remaining snow. The Greencoaties, small beings well hidden in the greenwood, would begin unwrapping the brown leaves of their wintery beds. And the tall, stately Oakmen would step forth from the trunks of their ancient trees to hunt in the spring morning.

A child’s story perhaps, but standing here at the ragged end of a Lincolnshire winter, watching the greenwood misting to life with the breath of spring, Robin could almost believe in its magic. He shook himself, the warm sun on his back freeing the cramped muscles of his shoulders. All would be well, he told himself.

With a sudden resolve he plunged into the woods again to hunt for game. He walked firmly, eagerness driving his step, the longbow slung tightly over one shoulder, the quiver of arrows bouncing lightly across his back. He passed a fallen oak, the leathered leaves of its branches reaching skyward. Robin stopped, seeing the chips of wood that lay scattered about the base of the huge tree. Someone had chopped it down and then left without claiming the wood. New shoots had sprung from the old stump as the oak refused to die. Robin kicked the trunk questioningly. The wood was still hard, dried out from the cold winter air. Robin rejoiced, for once split, the wood would burn quick and hot, unlike the wood they had saved which had gone soggy and produced sputtering fires that gave off more smoke than warmth.

He’d no axe about him to chop the wood then but decided to mark a trail that would lead him back to this site, later in the day when he had finished his hunting. For now, he decided he would give himself the gift of a fine staff that he could set in a friendly challenge against Little John. He reached up and pulled at a straight branch, one foot braced against the trunk of the fallen tree. He heard the wood groan and then snap as the branch tore away from the flesh of the trunk.

And what manner of man are you who robs from me?” spoke an angry voice.

Startled, Robin wheeled around, drawing his sword. The torn branch he kept in his other fist like a ready club.

Standing near the base of a tree was a tall man, his face filled with hatred. He wore a cloak of green, the high collar framing a narrow face of deep brown. Broad shoulders arrowed down into a neat waist, and around his waist, Robin saw the well-tempered blade that stretched down along the length of a heavily muscled thigh. A huge hand with long, gnarled fingers wrapped around the hilt.

Robin’s eyes darted through the bush, wondering how the man came to be here with no sound, no warning of his advance. Behind the man waited a horse, the silver bridle ornate with carved acorns about the cheek strap and the reigns hung with the likeness of rusted oak leaves. The horse stood silent as if waiting the word of its master.

I asked you a question, the man spoke coldly. “Who are you that you would dare rob from me?”

“Rob from you?” Robin answered more boldly than he felt. “You are not the King’s forester. And even if you were, it would make no difference to me. I take what I please from the greenwood.”

The horse neighed shrilly as the man in the green cloak lunged towards Robin. Robin raised his sword, anticipating the clash of weapons. But the man stopped and drew himself up solemnly. The mist steamed from the man’s shoulders like the heat of his anger. Robin stared back uneasily at green eyes that flashed in the morning light.

There is no mortal man that owns the greenwood. Neither king nor commoner has claims to these words. What you take, you steal.”

Robin gave a harsh laugh. “If you think to shame me with such words you are mistaken. You are not from here or you would know that I am Robin Hood. I am a lord of thievery. I steal from the King, from the Sheriff and even you, strange lord, for I can see now by the fat purse hanging from your belt that you have not yet paid to Robin Hood his due.” Robin gripped his sword more firmly. He had lost the doe this morning by being over-cautious and waiting too long. He would not lose this second chance for profit.

The man in the green cloak smiled coldly. “My purse is a small bounty for a lord of thieves,” he answered. “If you would agree, I would make a contest for a more worthy prize.”

And what prize is that? Robin asked, curious, but wary. In the trees above a flock of crows had settled on the branches. They stopped their preening to stare at him with interest, cocking their heads to one side as they glimpsed him through their black-beaded eyes.

“I would give that which I prize most from my estate. A treasure that has no greater value.” He took the fat purse and emptied its contents on the ground. Robin held his breath as gold coins and three emeralds tumbled to the forest floor. “These are nothing compared to that which I offer from my estate at Kirkley Hall. ”

Robin knew the name of the estate. It was an old stone house deep in the heart of the greenwood. He had not known that a lord lived there for the look of it was a tumbled ruin. Still, his eyes could not deny the wealth that now lay scattered carelessly on the wet leaves.

“And how can I be certain of such a contest?”

The man laughed coldly again and he withdrew from his cloak a small gold horn. He blew three sharp blasts. The crows lifted noisily from the branches in alarm, their wings flapping frantically.

Robin stared up at their harsh cawing and their wild flight. As he lowered his gaze again to the man, he gasped. Sitting astride chestnut stallions, two men waited. Like the man, they dressed in cloaks of green, even their trousers were of green wool. Their faces were rugged, their features resembling roughly hewn wood. The horses were still, and only the steam rising from their flanks suggested they were creatures of flesh. Where had they come from? How had they answered the horn so quickly? Robin’s mind crackled with questions and a warning bell clanged in his thoughts.

“I will make these two witness to this contest. And if you win, they are charged with giving you my treasure,” the man was saying.

“And if I lose?” Robin asked. “What do I forfeit?”

“If you lose, you must ride the hunt with me as my servant man.

“Is that all?” .

The man shook his head. “No. I must know first before we seal the bargain whether you have honor. For a man without honor has blood that runs thinner than water and carries no power to the hunt.”

Robin’s face flushed angrily. “I may be a thief, but even thieves have honor. I do not steal from the poor, only take from the rich. And I will not permit any woman who travels in the greenwood to be harmed or molested.”

“It is enough,” replied the man and with a sudden movement freed his sword from his belt. He slashed the blade upward towards Robin’s head, the sword leaving a trail of silvery light.

Robin grunted in surprise and stumbled back, avoiding the rising sword. He lifted his own weapon to meet the attack and the two blades clashed with a grinding screech. Sparks ignited from the sword’s point.

Robin scrambled back another step, seeking an even footing. Roots from the fallen oak snaked unexpectedly from the ground and he stumbled again as the man’s sword drove him down. Crouching, Robin tried to face his attacker. The man’s sword landed a heavy blow on Robin s weapon. Robin screamed as he felt his shoulder wrenched with the force of the blow, his sword arm shoved from the socket with an explosion of pain. Stars lit up in his eyes and he heard the roaring of blood in his ears. Robin collapsed on the ground and rolled, sensing the fierce rush of air as the man’s sword chased him. He still gripped his sword but his injured arm refused to lift the weapon. He saw through eyes dazed with fear the bright arc of the sword above him once more. He rolled, instinct rather than courage pushing him away from certain death. The sword came down and the tip sliced neatly through his side. Pain bloomed again in his body and he cried out as his shirt grew wet with blood.

Through the wild pounding of his own heart, Robin heard the man’s triumphant laugh and saw the silvery flash of his sword. Without hope, Robin raised the staff of oak he still clutched in his left hand. The hard wood took the edge of the man’s sword. Robin’s body shook violently as the oaken staff split, splinters raking his face.

And at once the man’s laughter turned to howls. Numbed with pain, Robin gazed up and saw the man stagger backward, the sword dangling from one hand, his face hidden in the crook of his other arm. Robin dropped the shattered staff and, using both hands, raised his sword from the ground. His shoulder throbbed but he ignored it as he forced his sword upright. Only one chance.

Already the man had lowered his arm, tightening his grip anew on his sword. Robin saw the green flash of rage in the man’s eyes as he turned once more to Robin’s prostrate figure.

Robin heaved his body upward, thrusting the point of his sword into man’s chest. The man shouted with outrage, his arms flailing the air. But he could not stop his body from falling onto Robin’s sword.

Robin held the sword steady, feeling the strangeness of the man dying on his blade. The sword drove deep, not finding bone, nor the soft parting of muscled flesh, but something different. It cleaved through the man’s chest like an ax separating layers of wood, splitting apart the grainy fibers. There was no blood, but a greenmist that boiled in the air around him. Robin gagged as the mist clung to his face, burning cold and wet. It was rank with the odor of rotten wood, of mould and decaying bone. His mind reeled with images of a grave, newly opened in the earth, and himself cast into its depths. He reached out a hand, scrabbling at the dead leaves of the forest floor. He choked in terror as the gold morning light dimmed and a darkness as thick as spring mud was cast over him.

“Robin?” a soft voice called.

Robin stirred, feeling a small hand gently shake his shoulder. He smiled, thinking of Marion. He could see the curve of her cheek, the tilt of her chin when she teased him. Then he frowned, knowing that there was something else to be remembered. Something ominous. Dangerous.

Robin’s eyes snapped open with panic. He gasped at the air and tried to raise himself up from the ground.

“Stay,” the voice urged. “Stay yourself and be at peace.” Two small hands rested on his chest, gently pushing him down again.

Robin stared up into a woman’s face, her smile sad, but kind. Her skin was a pale gold and he blinked, thinking it the light of the morning sun he saw reflected there. But as he lay back he saw her arms, naked to the shoulders, the same golden color. He stared again at her face and with a start recognized the bright green gaze of her eyes.

He inhaled, releasing the air slowly as he looked around him. He spied first the grey, lichen-covered stones of Kirkley Hall. He was not inside the Hall, but rather lying on a pallet outside the courtyard. He was covered with dark green blankets and he grew gradually aware that his body was dry and warm. Cautiously he pulled aside the blankets and looked at himself.

His brown cloak and white shirt were gone. In their place he had been dressed in the same green wool as the man who had attacked him in the forest. Robin raised himself on his elbow, astonished to discover that his swordarm was healed and that his side no longer bled. He started to lift the shirt when the woman stopped him, urging him to lie down again.

“You are well enough,” she said, covering him with the blankets.

“Who are you?” Robin asked.

“You may call me Vivian.”

“Do you know what has happened to me? How I came to be here?” He stared confused at Vivian. She wore a simple shift of pale green linen but no cloak. Her arms were bare and yet she seemed not in the least bit bothered by the cold morning air. She moved slowly, as if awakened too early from sleep. Her tousled brown hair had rust-colored streaks and hung around her shoulders in a knotted tangle.

“I know that my father’s men brought you here. I know that I am to serve you.”

“I fought a man dressed in green in the forest, ” Robin said, trying to remember clearly. “We held a contest. If I won, I was to gain the most valued treasure of his estate, here at Kirkley Hall.”

“Is that what he called me?” Vivian said sharply. “His treasure, that he bargained away for the hunt. Arrogant fool.” She began to cry, tears flowing down her gold-colored cheeks.

Robin lifted his hand to her, and wiped away the tears. “Stop now. I would ask nothing of you. I’ve no need of a servant.” As he brought his hand back to his chest, he caught the woody scent of tree sap. It came from the dampness of her tears on his hand.

“I have no choice, Robin. My father’s words have bound me, just as surely as he meant to bind you to him for the hunt had he won instead.”

“I am no man’s servant,” Robin retorted sharply.

“My father was not a man,” Vivian said and stood. “He would have used you as all Oakmen use mortals. Blood is important to a good hunt. You would have run for him, like a fox before the hounds.”

Beneath the warm green blankets Robin shivered, hearing the truth spoken in her words, seeing again the hatred in the Oakman’s eyes.

He stood weakly and Vivian held his arm until he gained a steady stance. She took one blanket from the ground and wrapped it around his shoulders like a cloak. She took a second blanket for herself.

“Wrapped in the greencloth, you will never be seen either by your enemies, or by the game you seek. Come, let us go into the forest and I will show you the deer.”

Vivian hoisted his longbow on her shoulder and carried the quiver of arrows at her side. Robin followed, his steps uncertain at first and then growing more confident as he felt the blood flow in his cheeks and his heart beat strongly.

It was still morning when they entered the forest again, and Robin marveled that in so short a time the greenmist had flowed through the woods and brought them to life. The branches of trees were still black and leafless, but the air smelled sweet and pungent with new growth. Snow gave way to the mud and Vivian pointed out to him the bright orange blooms of the lichen set like goblets to catch the spring mist. Mosses along the trunks of trees turned dark green and yellowed fruiting stems bowed their heads with beads of dew. The sun slanted through the trees, chasing away the cold breath of winter.

They had not gone far into the woods when Vivian stopped him with a hand just touching his shoulder. She nodded toward a break in the trees. A young stag, his horns still a winter red, entered the clearing. Vivian handed Robin his longbow and arrows.

Robin smiled broadly, excitement threading his pulse as he nocked the arrow. He wouldn’t miss this time. He pulled the bowstring back and let loose the arrow. It wobbled slightly in its flight and Robin held his breath fearing failure. And then it landed unerringly in the stag’s chest.

The stag reared back his hooves in angry surprise. The tines of his horns crashed against the low-lying branches and his bellows filled the forest. He tried to run, but Robin shot a second arrow that landed close to the first. The stag leapt into the air and then landed heavily, the long slender legs collapsing beneath the huge body.

Robin cheered, raising the longbow high into the air. There would be game for the fire. And there would be dry wood with which to cook it, he thought, remembering the fallen tree where he had met the Oakman. He turned to thank Vivian and then stopped seeing the stricken expression on her face.

She lowered her eyes and he saw the beads of sweat on her upper lip. “Forgive me,” she said softly and Robin thought she meant it for him.

He smiled understandingly at her and clasped her by the shoulder. “The hunt is hard to see the first time. It gets easier.” Beneath his hand she trembled.

“The problem now is how to get the stag back to camp quickly,” he mused aloud. “I’ll dress it here, but there are others in these woods as hungry as my men. I don’t want to lose the meat to the scavengers.”

Vivian untied a small gold horn from her waist and handed it to Robin. He recognized it as the horn her father had used to call his men. “Use this whenever you need the assistance of your men. They will answer it, if they can hear it.”

Robin took the horn and placed it to his lips. He blew into it, hearing the long shrill notes of the horn soar above the forest. He stopped and was aware of the silence. He blew again and this time when he stopped he heard voices calling to him from the greenwood.

“Robin? Is that you?” cried a loud voice.

Robin smiled widely. “Little John, over here!”

“I told you it would be him,” said another voice triumphantly and Robin recognized Will Stutely.

“It was I told you,” grumbled a third voice, a little out of breath. Robin searched the trees and saw the black habit of Friar Tuck, his belly breaking first through the bushes.

“In God’s name, will you look at the stag!” Little John shouted, rushing to examine the fallen beast. He looked around, puzzlement on his broad face.

“Robin?” he called. “Are you still here?”

“Aye, I’m here,” Robin laughed. “Can you not see me standing next to you?”

Little John jumped at the sound of Robin’s voice so close to him in the woods. Robin let slip the cloak and moved closer, to stand by the stag.

“I would never have seen you had you not shown yourself.” Little John smiled with amazement. “You’ve a new game afoot, Robin. To wear such a green in the wood. We will all disappear.”

“That’s why he remains the leader of our band,” answered Will with pride.

“Wait, there is more,” Robin started to say, turning to look for Vivian. But she was gone. Robin frowned, searching the trees for sight of her.

“Well, then?” Little John said, already bending over the stag with his knife. He had opened its belly and begun the job of gutting it. Steam rose from the stag’s belly as the viscera, glistening like wet jewels, spilled out on to the leaves.

“Don’t hold back good fortune man,” encouraged Will, helping Little John to turn the stag’s body.

Robin hesitated. For an unknown reason he changed his mind about telling them of Vivian. He looked down at his belt and saw the pouch of money that had once belonged to the Oakman. Seizing it, he lifted it up to show them. “I’ve money here which I took in taxes off a man not used to paying them,” he said with a grin.

“Is that where you got the horn, too?” asked Friar Tuck.

“Indeed. I’ll use it from now on to call you, whether for trouble or good news.”

Friar Tuck approached Robin. The normally round face had become slack over the unforgiving winter. The skin of his shaven pate was spattered with freckles. He gazed at Robin worriedly and one hand grasped him firmly around the wrist. “The green of your cloak, Robin, concerns me,” he said in a low voice.

“It is a good practice in the woods,” Robin answered defensively. “Here, take this money and go into Barnsdale. There purchase bolts of Lincoln green wool. We shall all wear it. The better to fox the Sheriff’s men.”

“There is something in this that is not right, Robin,” the Friar whispered. “Tell me so that your soul will not be in danger. For I feel it in my bones that there is something wrong in this.”

Robin gave a short, barking laugh. “What you feel, my good Tuck, is your own hunger. I have done nothing wrong,” Robin answered with a smile. “I have taken wealth from a man in a fair contest.”

“A man dressed in green?” Friar Tuck asked.

Robin’s smile remained but he refused to say more.

“Come on, good Friar,” Little John yelled, “let us see how well you can cook this. It will be a feast in which to welcome the Spring!”

Friar Tuck turned away from Robin to help Little John and Will to bind the stag’s hooves to a long staff. They hoisted it on their shoulders and carried it away to camp. Behind them Robin fingered the horn and looked once more for signs of Vivian. Finding none, he followed his men to camp.

Throughout the Spring and into the long summer Robin and his men found a new life in the greenwood. The game that had once alluded them now scampered passed their waiting arrows. Friar Tuck had claimed to Robin that he had never in all his years of hunting the greenwood found so many wild morels and strawberries. The Elderberry trees were thick with wide heads of white blossoms and the good Friar watched them daily, waiting for the heads to turn and become studded with the small purple berries.

Robin s spirits soared in the greenwood. The sunlight shone only for him, he thought, drowsing in a shady thicket with the soft buzzing of summer bees. He glanced up sleepily at the trees, their canopy of green leaves sheltering him. His face had filled out during the prosperous summer. His cheeks were squared and strong, his eyes bright with good humor. He had closed his eyes to sleep again when a blade of grass tickled his nose.

He woke with a snort and found Vivian sitting beside him. He smiled at her, startled as always by her strange beauty. The summer sun had lightened the crown of her hair from rust to light brown. Her eyes were a soft green and her skin the color of honey.

“Is it well with you Robin?" she asked.

“Aye, very well, Vivian," he answered.

“They say the Sheriff of Nottingham rides the greenwood today, near the road to Kirkley Hall. I would bid you have a care."

Robin grinned and sat up. “More than a care, I think. Perhaps a bit of sport.”

And before long, Robin with the sounding of his horn, had assembled his band together. He had grown accustomed to Vivian's unexpected visits, and equally sudden disappearances. But acting on her advice, he led his men through the woods to Kirkley Hall. It was as she said. Robin saw the gloomy visage of the Sheriff of Nottingham, riding through the greenwood, his foresters dressed in bright livery beside him. Robin laughed quietly to note how close they passed him by without seeing him, despite the searching looks of the foresters.

That night Robin and his men feasted the Sheriff of Nottingham, after first depriving his foresters of their lives and then the Sheriff of his purse. They fed him a meal of venison from the King's own deer and to add insult to the injury, they served him on the silver plates they had stolen from him earlier. At the next daylight, they tied the Sheriff's hands and legs and hoisted him over the back of a horse. A farmer, making his way to Nottingham market, found the Sheriff cursing Robin’s name as he lay facedown tied to his horse, while the lazy creature cropped the grass growing by the side of the road. Before the end of market day, the word had scattered from one mouth to another of Robin’s daring attack on the Sheriff of Nottingham. And from that night on, in many cottages, the outlaws found a renewed welcome.

The winter came, but still the game followed the camp. The green Lincoln wool of their cloaks kept Robin and his men dry and in the worst of weather, there were many inns willing to hide them for a night or two. Robin often looked for Vivian in the woods when he rambled alone. Sometimes she appeared, wearing a green dress bordered with the seed down of milkweeds, and other times she wore cape of snow-white wool, owl feathers stitched about the hem. She stayed with him briefly, telling him news of the greenwood that would be of use to him and his men. She showed him where different animals wintered over, their dens covered by mounded snow. And even when she wasn’t there, Robin always felt her presence in the snapping of twigs underfoot, or the tired creak of the oaks, and he knew that had he need of her, she would be there.

When the spring came again, Vivian met him in the woods. She had gathered wild garlic in her apron and gave it to him.

“They say the Sheriff of Nottingham intends to have an archery contest,” she told him. “The prize is a golden arrow.”

Robin grinned at her. “Then I mean to go and win that arrow.

“I thought you might.” She reached into the pocket of her apron and withdrew a small pot of brown cream. “It will stain your skin brown and give you a good disguise.”

Robin laughed and snatching up the pot tossed it lightly into the air. “I shall go as a poor wanderer. And I shall win beneath the very noses of the Sheriff and his men.”

“You will succeed, Robin, as always,” Vivian said quietly.

Despite the warnings of his men, Robin went to the archery contest. He had it in his mind to win the golden arrow and give it to Vivian. He smiled to himself, standing unrecognized amid the Sheriff’s men. Only one other contestant had given him cause to worry. A man with a patch over one eye whose shooting was confident and straight-arrowed. Robin’s palms sweat with anticipation. He would have to be better than the stranger.

His eyes glanced up at the stand where the Sheriff and his daughter awaited the outcome of the contest. Robin froze suddenly, recognizing the woman sitting farther back from the Sheriff’s daughter. It was Marion, returned at long last from France. Robin’s heart soared with delight to see her, her face changed from a coltish girl into an elegant young woman. But there was still a spark of mischief in her, for he saw in the blue eyes that stared back at him that she alone had penetrated his disguise. He tipped his hat to her as he took his place in line. She nodded back and then looked away, but not before he had seen her smile.

Robin raised his longbow for the final match. The stranger had shot well. Very well, and for a moment Robin doubted the worth of his own skill to beat the man. There was a fitful breeze. It fluttered the flags of the tents and worried the fletch of his arrow. It would be hard to shoot straight in such a wind. Robin tried to slow the rapid beating of his heart, and take careful aim. The target seemed so vague and distant.

In the corner of his eye he glimpsed a face peering at him from the crowds that eagerly lined the edges of the contest grounds. Rust-colored hair billowed in the breeze around a face with honey-colored skin. At once the wind calmed. The target that had seemed so distant became sharp and clear in Robin’s mind. He released his arrow and watched it soar, upward at first and then glide down unerringly to split the shaft of his opponent’s arrow as the head buried itself in the center of the target.

The roar of the crowd’s approval was not half as loud as Robin’s own joy.

He looked again to the crowd but the face he sought was not there.

Later, after his return and the celebration that followed in the camp, Robin walked out by himself through the greenwood. The moon shone brilliantly above the trees, the silvery light dappling the bushes. He walked to Kirkley Hall and in the bright moonlight the stones of the old manor gleamed.

“Well met, Robin,” said Vivian stepping from the shadows of the trees to meet him. “And did you win today?”

“Aye,” he answered. “I did.” And then he bowed his head sheepishly. “I had meant to bring you the golden arrow as a gift. But in the heat of my victory, I forgot and gave it to another. ”

Vivian laughed and Robin stared astonished, for he had never heard her laugh before. It was a bittersweet sound, without joy. “It were better given to Marion, Robin. I have no need for golden arrows.” As she approached him, Robin saw an expression of longing on her face. “I have served you faithfully for a year, Robin. There is no one in the greenwood who does not speak well of you. You are a man others will follow, will love. You no longer need me.”

Robin frowned at her words. They made him uncomfortable.

“I would ask one boon of you, Robin.”

“Name it.”

“It takes courage.”

“I am Robin Hood,” he answered, as if that were enough.

“I wish to be released from my service to you. I wish to return to my own life,” she said.

“You have always been free to go, Vivian.”

“To release me, you must kill me,” she said. She stepped back from him, her arms opened wide. “Shoot me, Robin, that I may be returned to my life.”

Robin’s hands chilled. His heart thudded in his chest. “I will not,” he stammered. “No Vivian, I will not. I rob the rich to give to the poor and I am protector of women in the greenwood. I can not go against my own word and kill you.”

“I am not a mortal woman. I beg of you, Robin, release me.”

Robin spun angrily on his heel and began to run. He didn’t want to be convinced into so shameful an act by the look of pleading on her face. “No,” he told himself as he ran, “I will not kill a woman,” reminding himself of his own vows as he tore through the woods, branches snapping underfoot. But beneath his resolve Robin felt the scratch of doubt. It festered in his heart like a thorn lodged too deep to be pulled free. Until then, he had not questioned his good fortune. Now he asked himself, How much of his skill did he owe to Vivian? How much of his name, of his success was her doing? Robin hacked at a bush with his sword seeing again the glimpse of her face at the archery contest. And he knew he battled the rising fear that in losing Vivian, he might lose his own future.

“No!” he shouted aloud. “I am my own man. No servant to any. I will not kill Vivian because on my word as a man, as Robin Hood, I will not harm any woman.”

As he neared the camp, he heard Allan-a-Dale singing. The smooth tenor voice eased away the sting of Robin’s doubt. Allan-a-Dale was singing of Robin’s victory at the archery contest. And when he entered the camp again, Robin smiled at the shouts of praise that greeted him. He belonged here. However it had happened, he had made a name for himself and nothing would change that.

The years followed and so did Robin's fame, spreading wide from Nottingham and Barnsdale, throughout the county of Lincolnshire and to the King himself. There was no act too daring, or too dangerous, for Robin and his men. They had made a great sport of the Sheriff of Nottingham, frustrating his every attempt to bring them to the gallows. And always and without fail, Robin’s arrows with the grey-goose fletch found their mark in the Sheriff’s men.

Robin walked the greenwood as if it were his own estate, the deer his deer and the purses of the wealthy his own private tax. There was only one change in him, hardly discernible by the closest of his own men. He almost never walked the woods alone. Once it had been his pleasure, but now he avoided it. For it was in those private moments that Vivian would come to him. Every time he saw her, she would beg again for her release.

“Kill me, Robin, that I may return to my life.”

“Kill yourself,” he replied once cruelly, enraged by her persistence.

Her face stilled to a wooden mask, her eyes dulled like stone. “I cannot. My father bound me to you. Only you can release me. I will stand here before you. It will take no skill of the bow to free me.”

“Damn you!” Robin cursed, turning his back to her.

“You already have,” she answered bitterly.

It was summer when the word was cried through Nottingham s markets that King Henry was dead and his son Richard the Lionhearted was crowned King. And before the summer was over, Richard himself had come to the greenwood, curious to see if the tales of Robin Hood were true.

They met in the greenwood and after a night of feasting on the King’s own deer, Richard was impressed enough in Robin’s skill as a leader to award Robin clemency and the return of his noble rank. To the men that had followed Robin loyally, Richard offered the positions of foresters. They accepted, since no other life but one in the forest held any interest to them.

Robin married Marion in a quiet ceremony, ringed by the trees of Kirkley Hall that had since been turned into a small abbey. He kissed her beneath the spreading oaks, and pledged his heart to her. He promised her a life of peace and happiness.

And they were happy, for a while. But the calm, sedate life of a lord bored Robin and he soon became restless. He missed the challenge of living in the greenwood, the hard ground for his bed and the openness of the night sky. And deep within his heart, there stirred another pain as the thorn pushed deeper and he knew he missed Vivian as well.

“The life of a lord does not suit you, my love,” Marion said to him on his return from seeing the King. He had ridden hard in the rain and his cloak was soaked and mud-spattered.

He smiled at her. “Is it that easy to see?”

She nodded, her hands on her hips, waiting for him to speak.

He placed his hands on her shoulders and gazed into her troubled eyes. “I have spoken to the King. I want to go to Palestine. To see more of the world.”

Her eyes sparkled with determination. “Then I will go with you.”

Robin clasped her tightly until Marion laughed, gaily protesting his wet cloak and dripping hair.

He left her to make the necessary arrangements and walked out into the night toward the greenwood. Out of habit, he slung his longbow over his shoulder and carried his quiver of arrows. The rain had abated and overhead only a few lingering clouds scudded across the clearing night sky. The half moon shone brightly.

In the shifting play of shadows, Robin saw Vivian, waiting for him in the garden beside a bush of drenched roses. White petals had scattered on the walk around her feet.

“You go to Palestine,” she said, her face downturned.

“Aye,” he answered.

She looked up at him and in the moonlight her eyes glowed green. “Robin, if you leave the greenwood I cannot serve you. I cannot protect you as in the past.”

He had been prepared to offer some words of kindness to her, perhaps even reconciliation. But the words she spoke now angered him.

“I have no need of your help,” he snapped.

“But I have need of yours,” she replied evenly. “If you should die without releasing me, I am doomed forever in this form. Forever. As you say, you do not need me anymore. Then kill me that I might go free at last.”

“I am Robin Hood,” he said, drawing his cloak tighter around his shoulders against the sudden chilly wind that blew between them. More petals scattered in the air like new snow. “I robbed from the rich to give to the poor and I never harmed a woman in the greenwood.”

Vivian raised her hands to her face and cried out one long piercing wail. She fled into the woods, her bare arms flickering in the moonlight like the wings of a moth.

Robin stared after her, pride warring with doubt. He clutched his longbow, his gaze following the ghostly white shadow of her form. He could kill her now, if he chose. But he hesitated and she disappeared into the darkened forest. When Marion’s voice called out to him, he turned slowly and left the garden to join her.

Five years later Robin returned from Palestine much aged. The world there had been hot, dry and full of dust. The color of the landscape a sun-faded brown mingled with the red blood of the dying. The battles had been too many and without reason. He had done well, though not any better than any other man. He had received a wound in the side that had taken months to heal. And even now he felt it throb with a cold ache. His hands trembled with fever and his mouth was always parched. But worst of all, Marion was dead. The fever that lingered in him had taken her quickly. He had buried her far from the cool green of Lincolnshire in a grave guarded by rocks and Cedar trees. There was nothing left of his life that gave him joy.

Robin had returned to the greenwood in order to recover something of the past, a purpose in his life that he could comprehend amidst his grief. But the greenwood had changed in his absence as well. King John held the throne now and once again Robin found himself out of favor with the King’s court.

He had wandered the greenwood alone for two days, until he came to Kirkley Hall. He saw the grey stones of the old manor and something stirred in his heart. Robin nodded over his horse, feeling dizzy and faint. He slipped clumsily from the saddle and sat in the cool grass beneath the trees, his back to an oak.

A sharp pain in his side caused him to glance down. His white shirt was stained with fresh blood. The wound in his side had opened and begun to bleed. Robin tried to drag himself upright. At once, he felt a hand on his arm, pulling him, helping him to stand.

A nun in a brown habit tucked an arm around him and half supporting him, helped him into Kirkley Hall. Robin’s heels fairly dragged across the stone flagons as she led him toward a small cell where a single bed faced a window. She laid him down gently on the bed.

Robin sighed with relief, his tired body sinking into the softness of the bed.

“I am bleeding,” he said.

The nun straightened up and pulled back the cowl of her habit. Rust-colored hair spilled from the hood and framed her face. Vivian’s green eyes were wet with tears.

Robin gasped, startled at seeing her and reached his hand to touch her cheek. His hand returned to his chest and he smiled at the familiar woody scent on his fingers.

"You have returned,” she said.

“Just,” he answered with a weak smile. “I have a wound that has begun to bleed. Please help me.”

Vivian shook her head. “I cannot. There is nothing more I can do. The years you were gone have weakened my power. The wound you now have is the one my father gave you so long ago by his fallen oak. I can no longer stop its bleeding. ”

Robin closed his eyes and turned his head toward the wall.

“Robin,” Vivian whispered and he knew what she wanted to say.

He shook his head, bitterness rising in his throat like gall.

“The pain you feel now is the same that I have lived with since our first meeting.” She spoke gently and without rancor.

He refused to look at her. Then he felt her stand, heard her bare feet begin to pace the floor.

“How I despise my life. How my limbs burn in this shape, the soles of my feet cut by the rocks. I long for the peace of the earth, for the sleep of winter, for the sweet silence of the new spring. Robin, do not let me remain thus.”

Her pleading stabbed at Robin’s heart. The thorn of doubt twisted, causing him to cry out. In desperation, he reached for the gold horn at his side and blew three shrill blasts on it.

“No,” Vivian sobbed and fled.

Alone in the room Robin stared hopelessly at the ceiling. If any of his men were near, they would come to him. He would not die alone, nor die tormented by Vivian’s pleading.

The steady beat of Robin’s heart slowed. The sheets were soaked with blood. On the ceiling of the quiet cell Robin thought he saw his life drawn in the faint etchings of its cracks and seams. He followed the patterns, seeing the tiny flecks of green that resembled Vivian at every turn of the lines.

If he had killed her and she was mortal flesh, he would have dishonored his own vow. He would have failed in his own eyes.

The pattern of the ceiling twisted around the line of a tree, its branches tipped with the buds of new leaves. And if he did kill her, and she was not mortal, but an Oakman’s daughter, a greenfairy, then he must accept that his accomplishments had been a lie. A lie shaped for the eyes of other men by Vivian’s hand.

Would that he had died that spring, he thought angrily, suddenly resentful of Vivian. At least he would have died his own man.

No, his mind retaliated, not your own man. But cursed to be the Oakman’s servant, just as Vivian was his servant now. And Robin knew remembering the look of hatred in those green eyes, that had he begged for mercy, pleaded for release from bondage, the Oakman would have served Robin no better than he now served Vivian.

He felt overcome with anguish, terrified to look into his heart and pluck out the thorn of doubt. Without the illusion of his deeds, what was he?

"God’s mercy, it is Robin!” boomed a voice from the door of his cell.

Robin turned his head slowly and saw Little John.

“I heard the horn. I knew it was you!” he cried and rushed to Robin’s side. “But you are wounded!”

“I am dying,” Robin answered softly.

“No,” Little John groaned and lifted Robin from the bed by the shoulders. He wept, big tears streaming down the sides of his face into his beard.

Robin stared at him, and an easiness settled over the wound in his heart. Love and loyalty. However false his deeds may have been, he had found truth in his companionships. He had loved them without duplicity and in that, he had gained strength. •

“Give me my bow and an arrow,” Robin said weakly.

Little John propped Robin up in the bed, and held the bow up for him.

Robin stared out the window and saw Vivian standing amid the trees. She was facing him, smiling, her arms opened wide to receive the arrow. His hand shook but he willed it steady. Sweat trickled down the side of his face. This shot must be his own; its aim true.

“Where the arrow lands,” he said to Little John, “bury me.”

Robin let loose the arrow, hearing its hard twang echo in his ear. The shaft buried itself cleanly in the center of Vivian’s chest.

As her arms flung skyward, she changed. The nun’s habit spiraled around her legs, darkening into the rough hue of bark. Her arms sprouted branches and then leaves. Her head of tousled hair rounded into a burl at the base of two lifting branches. Before Robin was lain back on the bed again, he had seen his arrow fall harmlessly from its target to rest at the base of a young sapling oak.

His breathing was shallow, death brushing the dust of his final thoughts. He closed his eyes wearily. He was aware of Little John holding him, but his mind turned elsewhere. He imagined Vivian, her long roots deep in the earth tangled around his skeleton, clinging protectively to his bones. His eyes snapped open in surprise as he smelled the sweet fragrance of fresh sap in the air. Then he smiled, and closing his eyes once more, relinquished himself to the mercy of the greenwood.