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 carelessly scattered on the wet leaves.
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.
“Vivian” © Midori Snyder. This story may not be reproduced without the express and written permission of the author. Art: Alan Lee