The Outlaws of Sherwood by Robin McKinley Page B

prince might, in smooth red-dyed leather unmarked by age and little by use. There was even a touch of lace at his wrists and throat, which caught Robin’s attention more than the size of the bow over the man’s shoulder, which under other circumstances could have pleased him.
    Robin said harshly, “Why came you to Sherwood? This is no place for the likes of you.” To Much he said, “And why did you bring him here? It would have been better to have led him to Growling Falls—where it matters less who finds us.”
    Much said, “I led him nowhere. He arrived.”
    Robin, appalled, was silent. When he looked back to the stranger, the man smiled, a surprisingly sweet and wistful smile. But his first words were badly chosen: “I come willing to pay for my pleasure,” he said.
    Robin’s brows snapped together, and a few of those standing near moved to leave a little space around their leader and the yellow-haired stranger. But Much held up a fat and jingly purse; perhaps he shook it a little too forcefully to be in keeping with his casual expression; and he was careful that Robin’s eyes should be upon him when he raised his shoulders and eyebrows as if to say he did not understand it either but was willing to give the benefit of the doubt.
    â€œI heard,” the stranger said, “of a band of folk deep in Sherwood, who, having become outlaws because they were not permitted to earn an honest living, have been sending those poorer than themselves along their ways with coin in their pockets. And—” the stranger looked bashful but optimistic—“and I thought that this was an outlawry I would wish to ally myself with. And I thought I might begin by replacing a little of the coin spent in so honourable an undertaking.”
    The guilelessness of the stranger’s confidence was not lost on Robin; the worst of having been brought up in easy comfort was the notions it gave you about the fairness of life and the supremacy of virtue. It had crossed his mind once or twice, listening to Much in full cry, that too much high-mindedness could tantalize some careless scion of a great family into thinking outlawry romantic; but Much had no more use for the aristocracy than Robin did himself. Much’s mother had been a lady’s maid before she married the miller, and the tales she had told of the life of the gentry were similar to the ones that Robin’s mother had told—and that Marian could tell but rarely did because she did not like being reminded of them. Robin had hoped that they would be safe from scions in Sherwood because the more whimsical of Much’s philosophical raptures would fail to reach so high for lack of a messenger.
    â€œYou are but playing with words,” said Robin. “Speak plainly.”
    The stranger let his breath out with a grunt, and his voice was no longer light and charming. “Speak plainly, say you. I am the younger son of a father who has chosen to accept any ignominy the Normans wish to inflict on our family—and my older brother takes after him in all ways. We have lost much of our own substance in currying favour; let a Norman admire a thing and my father will press it upon him as a gift. So it has happened that a Norman lord has admired my sister. He is nearing fifty, and my sister is seventeen; he has buried two wives already, but he is soon to have a third.” The man stopped speaking and stared at the ground, and Robin felt his first belief in him, for his expression was now one he recognised; made up of anger and desperation, Robin had seen it on the face of everyone in Greentree. The man looked up and said, sternly, as if he would command belief, “I am a Saxon, sir.”
    â€œHow did you find us?” Robin asked, more gently; but still first in his mind was the safety of his people. Second he thought that this man was too confident to make a good outlaw; and third he permitted himself some