GREENWOOD

                                                           By Jo

PART TWO:

At last! At long, long last he was going to be recognized for who he was, what he was capable of doing. There was no way Thomas Millerhold could hide his satisfied smile as he was being ushered along the stone corridors to the presence chambers of the king. Yes, the king himself! Thomas practically glowed, had been glowing ever since the royal messenger had brought the news to Nottingham that he was being summoned to present himself before the king. Then the corridor gave way to the chamber and there King John was, sitting on his throne. Thomas stopped, almost overwhelmed at where he was, then his inborn opinion of himself reasserted its
usual control and he strode across the paving stones, sweeping into the low bow he'd practiced for the last couple of days.

He was then presented to the king, who eyed him carefully. "You have control in Nottingham now, I take it?" John asked.

"Indeed, Your Majesty," Thomas replied with confidence. "I am the Sheriff there and have been for some years."

"Well, things have changed. Robin Longstride lurks in Sherwood these days. You are aware of that, I presume?"

"Very aware, Sire. I was most, um, gratified when I learned the man had been outlawed by you personally."

"Gratified, were you?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. The imposter came to Nottingham bold as brass and acted as though he had some right to Peper Harrow and the town."

"Peper Harrow? Is that the Loxley manor house?"

"It was, Sire, until old Sir Walter died and left no heir. I have been residing there since as it needs someone to watch over its care."

"I have no interest in Peper Harrow, Sheriff. My attention lies with what is going on in Sherwood. I understand the outlaw is gathering the peasantry."

"He is, Your Majesty, and all of them flaunt your laws and decrees most openly. It is a foul state of affairs."

John narrowed his dark eyes, looking again at Thomas with great care. "I do not wish that... state of affairs...to continue. It must, in fact, be nipped in the bud immediately. And you, being the Sheriff there, must see to it that it is."

"It will be my great pleasure, Your Majesty.  The man is a blot upon the face of England."

John smiled slightly. He'd found Longstride a blot ever since the day he'd spoken out at Barnsdale. "To that end, Sheriff, I am increasing your title to that of the Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham and you will return there accompanied by twenty-five of my personal guard. I expect, " he stood, looking intensely down at Thomas, "results. I expect them soon. I want Longstride hung and his head brought to me in a sack. His followers you may dispatch in any manner you see fit, but dispatch them you will."

Thomas bowed again. "I understand, Your Majesty, and so it will be done."

"See to it, Lord High Sheriff. See to it!"

Thomas backed out of the chamber and once in the corridor, he straightened, his grin spreading ear to ear. Lord High Sheriff. Ah, what a great sound that had!
 

Timothy Foster dismounted in the deep shade of a large oak at the edge of the treeline near 

Nottingham, surveying what was left of the village. A number of structures had been burned, but 

not so many as in Barnsdale and other places he'd been. Longstride and his men had arrived in 

time to prevent the total destruction Godfrey intended. He looked across the fields of newly-

harvested grain toward the remnants of the old stone gate that led to Peper Harrow. For the 

first time in generations no Loxley lived there. The Sheriff had taken over the manor house when 

Robin had been recently outlawed.

Turning, he shifted his gaze toward the forest. He was to find Longstride in there, find him when 

no one knew exactly where he was. He'd decided it would be best simply to let himself be found. 

With a slight smile he mounted his horse, surprised as he did so by a sudden, sharp sting high on 

his left shoulder where an arrow ripped through his green shirt and grazed his flesh.  

The Sheriff and ten of the king's men had been returning from a fruitless foray into Sherwood 

and Thomas was gritting his teeth with disappointment when he'd spied the man under the oak 

staring at the village. Dressed in Lincoln green and leather, it was immediately obvious to him 

the man had to be one of Longstride's and he'd signaled for a warning arrow to be loosed. Before 

Timothy could wheel his horse, he was surrounded and yanked from his saddle. Thomas stared 

down at him where he lay in the dirt, his teeth clenched as he clutched at the shoulder he'd fallen 

on.

"So," the Sheriff said, his voice thick with satisfaction, "you think to spy on Nottingham? 

Longstride is planning something, is he not?"

Timothy remained silently as he was but a guard kicked him in his side and he winced, rising to 

a sitting position. 

"Where...is...Longstride?  Tell me and I may spare you some of the agony of your coming death."

"I...I don't know...where he is."  That was the truth.

"Come now," the Sheriff said, cocking his head. "You can do better than that."

"I don't know. I've never been to his camp."

Thomas nodded and as one guard hauled Timothy to his feet, another slammed a fist hard into 

his ribcage, doubling him up. He would have fallen but for the man holding his upper arms from 

behind.

"Do you still not know?"

"I...don't...know."

The guard in front of him slammed him again, leaving Timothy gasping for breath.  Twice more 

this happened then the Sheriff said, "Hang him. At least I can report that to the king."

A man on horseback produced a rope, a noose already knotted in one end. Timothy's hands 

were bound behind his back. He had to be held erect as his legs wouldn't support him any longer. 

His horse was brought and, roughly, he was hoisted up into the saddle, the rope flung over a 

thick branch of the oak.

"I like this tree," the Sheriff purred. "I think all our hangings will take place here."

The guard with the rope had tied it to his saddle and was backing his horse up so that when 

Timothy's horse was sent out from under him,  the rope would be held taut.  He was smiling as 

he backed in anticipation of watching the man swing. Suddenly he gasped and toppled from his 

saddle, an arrow between his shoulder blades.  His horse panicked, starting to bolt, pulling 

Timothy up by his neck almost out of his saddle until there was a blur of movement in the oak 

and a slender boy dropped onto the branch, cutting the rope with a single blow from a small axe. 

Two more guards fell from their saddles before the Sheriff spurred his mount and he and the 

remaining seven guards galloped down the slope, pounding through the village and up the far 

road to the gates of Peper Harrow.

Timothy swayed in his saddle, barely conscious from lack of air.  A hand grabbed his arm and 

another loosened the noose, sliding it over his head and let it drop to the ground. "Close call," a 

deep voice said.

Timothy blinked, trying to focus on the face of the man who leaned toward him from the back of 

a white horse.  "I...," but he couldn't quite form words. He was aware someone from behind him

was cutting the bonds on his wrists.

"Why?" the voice continued. "Why did they wish to hang you?"

His hand rubbing his throat, Timothy managed. "Long...stride. Because of  Longstride."

The grip on his arm tightened. "You are not one of his men."

"No...no, not...yet."

"Not yet?"

"I...I was hoping to...be."

The man let go of Timothy's arm, sitting back into his saddle. "Why?"

Timothy's mind was beginning to work again. These had to be some of the Sherwood men. He 

haltingly began the story William Marshal had told him to offer. "My...my home...burned. 

Family killed. I have no place...no work...nothing. I thought...."  His voice faded away as he 

clutched his saddle horn with one hand, his other across his eyes, not faking that.

"You thought...what?"

"I thought...hoped...," he looked up, meeting the green eyes of the man beside him, "that 

Longstride might have need of a good archer."

"And you would be...?"

"Timothy...Timothy Foster of Rotherham."  That was, in fact, the village where he'd been born. 

"You have been in the army, Timothy Foster?"

"Aye, that I have.  Under William Marshal."

"Marshal is a good man," the other allowed.

"The best. There is no warrior his equal."  He could be open about that, he figured.  He swayed 

again, closing his eyes, hoping his ribs weren't broken.

"You are injured?"

"Not much. I think."

"It may be well to check on that, Timothy Foster. Do you wish to come with us?"

"You...you're going into Sherwood?"  His near-hanging just might have positive results.

"We are, but until I know you better, you cannot know the way. If you wish to accompany us, 

you must wear this."  He held up a scarf. "If not, go on your way and I will bid you good day."

"I wish to come."

The man on the white smiled and leaned out again, tying the scarf as a blindfold, then taking the 

newcomer's reins to lead his horse.

To Timothy it seemed a long and winding way.  His torso hurt as did his throat but he was 

fulfilling what Marshal had sent him to do. He was heading into Sherwood to Longstride's camp. 

Soon he'd meet Longstride himself. He was looking forward to that. Marshal had told him how
the man had spoken up in Barnsdale, how he'd been a major force in repelling the French attack 

on the southern coast.  He'd also been told the story of Longstride's father, Thomas, of his death 

at the hands of Henry II's men and the subsequent spiriting away of the small boy to France. 

Finally the man leading Timothy's horse stopped, turned and came alongside him, untying the 

blindfold and gesturing with a hand at their surroundings, said with a smile, "It isn't much, but 

it's what we've got."

Timothy blinked several times, surprised that in so short a time the makings of almost a small 

village had sprouted somewhere in the depth of the forest. It was, to be sure, all rudimentary and 

made with the supplies at hand, but it was quite serviceable...and very busy. People of all ages 

moved about, each seemingly intent on some task.  There seemed to him, however, almost a 

disproportionate number of boys. Several of the men were engaged in showing some of those how 

to make different things, from the correct fletch of an arrow, to the wielding of a staff. A woman 

with long, dark hair was spooning some sort of tonic into the mouth of a small boy.  The hum of 

bees sounded just off a bit in a wildflower meadow and he could see several hives there, a stout 

man in friar's robes, netting over his hat, tending to them. There were cookfires here and there, 

all with large, steaming pots. Groups of men and boys were constructing more shelters, more 

storage facilities. Someone was hammering at a platform high up in a tree, probably a 

watchtower, he figured.  Four men were heading back into camp from hunting, one with a king's 

deer slung over his shoulders. That man, a large figure, indeed, greeted the rider on the white 

horse.

"Robin! What've you got there?  Don't look much like a deer," he grinned, dropping his own.

The man smiled in return. "The Sheriff was about to make dead meat of him nonetheless."

"Robin?" Timothy asked. "You...you're Longstride?"

Robin tipped his head down in a slight bow. "At your service."

"You...you didn't say."

"There was no need to say. Not then."

"Why was the Sheriff intendin' to stretch your neck?" the big man asked.

"He didn't like it that I wouldn't tell him how to find your camp."

"You didn't know how to find it," Robin shrugged.

"I tried to tell him that. You can see what good it was doing me. He said if he hung me at least 

he would have that much to report to the king."

Robin glanced quickly at Little John. "So he's reporting now to the king, is he?"  He dismounted

and turned to look up at Timothy. "You can get down?"

Timothy nodded and with some effort got off his horse, standing there, a hand spread over his

rib cage. 

"Come," Robin said, leading him toward where the dark-haired woman sat. "Marion, would

you have a look at this man's ribs? Seems the Sheriff's men tried to tenderize him a bit before

they had themselves a hanging."

"Marion? Lady Marion?" Timothy had been told that Sir Robert Loxley's widow now lived in

the greenwood, too.

"No titles here," she looked up at him as she stroked the back of the young boy's head and sent

him on his way. "In the greenwood, each man is the same as any other."

Robin's lips were twitching. "And each woman."

Marion chuckled and Robin went on to explain, "She, in armor, fought with us against the

invasion."

Timothy looked at her with great interest.  " Lady Marion Loxley in the greenwood."

"Marion Longstride," she corrected, her eyes shining as she looked at Robin. "Plain Marion

Longstride."

"Though not so very plain," Robin grinned. 

Marion then turned her attention to Timothy, her fingers probing his ribcage. "You'll be

bruised, and that quite smartly I would think, but I don't find any breaks. A day or so's rest

and you'll be good as new."  She applied some ointment to the arrow's graze on his shoulder

but as it had bled very little, didn't bind it up. 

"He says he's a fine archer." Robin looked back at Timothy. "When you can draw the bow

smoothly again, you'll be showing me that. Now," he sniffed the air, "I think it's time for some

rabbit stew. You hungry, Timothy?"

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