Everything is a Choice

Chapter 17

“Yes, I do love you,” Much says. “And I want you to be happy.  So if you have to go shoot arrows to feel better, then who am I to stop you?”

Dear Much. Sometimes his care for me is more than I can bear.

I’m not doing this, I think, half-turning, but Allan, eyes gleaming at the sight of bulging pouches hanging on hips, chooses that moment to nudge me forwards into a line of hopeful entrants.

“Blimey!” Allan exclaims. “Looks like every man and his dog is here, probably his cat, too. I reckon we...” He trails off, the glint of coins catching his eye.

“Typical,” Much mutters, as Allan shoulders his way past a couple of burly entrants talking bow skills and dives headlong into the throng of spectators.

“Leave him,” I say, grabbing Much’s arm. “Allan knows what he’s doing.”

“Fleecing the innocent.” Much scowls.

I chuckle. “Much, what happened to robbing the rich to feed the poor?”

“You don’t know these people are rich,” he says. “For all you know, the coin in their purses might be all they’ll see for a year.”

“That may be so,” I say, “but I told Allan only to lift fat purses. Besides, look at the way some of these people are dressed.” I point. “I’d say those ones eat more than pottage every day.”

“Still,” Much says. “It’s not as if we’ve any poor to feed here. Why take the risk?”

“We’re the poor now,” I say, giving him a gentle clump round the head. “Or have you forgotten that?”  I unsheathe my scimitar and give it to Much to look after while I am competing.

The line moves steadily along. Much says he can smell roasting pig and goes off in search of food. John, I notice, has positioned himself on the perimeter of the seething mass of people, standing atop an oxcart to keep an eye on proceedings. For a handful of heartbeats, I can’t see Allan, but then spot his mop of brown-blond hair poking up in the middle of a tight-knit group of men and women.  I smile.  Allan doesn’t need to speak or understand the language to work out where the rich pickings are. Already I can see coins rapidly changing hands.

As I move nearer to the dais where entrants are giving their names, I catch the odd word about those competing.  Philippe Dumont’s name comes up several times.  He is good, they are saying, a sure bet. 

Clutching my bow, I continue to make my way forward.  Once again, I catch sight of Allan, this time gesticulating wildly to a papery-skinned old man and pressing coins into his outstretched hand.  I run a finger down my bowstring, wondering on whom Allan is placing his coin. 

Finally, I am second in the line.

Dumont, the man who it seems is the one to beat, doesn’t even give his name but simply shakes the name-taker’s hand and whispers conspiratorially in his ear. He turns around and looks me up and down, as if to say, who are you? His eyes flick to my Saracen bow and his brow creases. “You think you can beat me with your woman-curved bow?”

Yes, I think.  I can beat you, and I will beat you.

Dumont pushes past me, knocking into my injured arm as he does so. I bite my tongue.

“Name?” the squat, bald-headed name-taker asks.

Who do I want to be?  Who would she want me to be?

“Robin Hood.” I wait. Back at home, I had oft heard people say that the name of Robin Hood had spread far beyond England’s shores. Neither the name-taker, nor any of the people standing nearby so much as blink.