Robyn and the Hoodettes
Read Robyn and the Hoodettes Online
Authors: Ebony McKenna
Tags: #romance, #adventure, #young adult, #folklore, #fairtale
Robyn and the Hoodettes
Ebony McKenna
Copyright © 2016 Ebony McKenna
Cover design Fiona Jayde Media 2016
All rights reserved. This book or any portion
thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner
whatsoever
without the express written permission of the
publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book
review.
Published in the United States of America
First Edition, 2016
ISBN
978 1 3119 5464 0
Smashwords ebook edition
www.ebonymckenna.com
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my wonderful readers who love a
rollicking adventure and a happy ever after.
Huge thanks for the amazing support from the Romance
Writers of Australia, and my home-grown cheer squad in the Saturday
Ladies’ Bridge Club; Alison, Carol, Clare, Denise, Louise and Sara.
Mega hugs to my mate Nicole, PhD (Awesomeness).
CHAPTER ONE
Northern England, 1192 A.D.
“Run, girl!” Mother Eleanor said. “Run like you stole
something!”
Clutching the bag of wheat in her apron, Robyn ran like a
rabbit with a slathering dog on her heels. Faster, faster, her feet
pounded the ground. Her chest strained. Her legs burned. Wheat
seeds flew out with every thumped landing.
On she
ran, away from the tax collectors who’d suddenly appeared on their
outlying fields only a few minutes ago, on she ran towards the
heart of her village. To the familiar buildings that would give her
cover so she could hide this precious bag of grain.
Surprise shocked her into stillness. Whose carriage was that,
sitting in the village green? Its panels gleamed in the autumn
sunlight, its coat of arms on the door polished to a neat shine;
golden stags on a sash of blue.
Hang
on, she’d just seen that same insignia on the carriage that pulled
up next to the field they’d been ploughing and sowing. The one
she’d run from. Where tax collectors were storming about demanding
seventeen marks of wheat, when every villager knew they barely had
ten.
And
now a matching carriage sat in the middle of Loxley village, which
had to mean there were more tax collectors all around her, raiding
every cottage.
Not
good.
Very,
very, very not good.
Darting away, she raced for the safety of the barn. She
slumped against the outside wall, taking huge gulps of air while
trying desperately to keep quiet. Had she made too much
noise?
Had
anyone seen her dash to the shed?
Panic
swirled crazy ideas through her. She should hide inside the
building. A loose section of wall was almost big enough to lift
aside to crawl through. Curse her growth spurt, she’d never get in
there.
It
took an age for her heart to stop whacking against her ribs. With
willpower and several prayers, she brought her breath half way back
to normal. Throat parched, she looked ravenously towards the well
for a drink. Not a chance. She’d be spotted for sure if she drew up
a pail of water.
The
bag of wheat was mostly safe, though. As long as nobody followed
the trail of seeds to her hiding place.
Screaming and shouting filled Robyn’s ears. Peering around the
side of the barn, she saw armoured men helping themselves to rolls
of fabric from the Miller’s cottage. Men in armour? Since when did
tax collectors need that level of protection?
“
Oi!
Put that back! You’ve no right!” Grannyma Miller screamed, then
swatted at them with an embroidery hoop in one arm. Her wailing
grandson, Tuppence, swung in her other. The hoop broke into
splinters on the tax collector’s helmets, but to Robyn’s relief,
Grannyma did not hit them with Tuppence. With another yell of
defiance, Grannyma ripped the fully-loaded swaddling off the babby
and flung it at them. The stinky bomb missed its target and
splattered on the ground. The smell carried all the way to the barn
where Robyn had to breathe through her already desiccated mouth so
she didn’t retch.
Fearing nobody, the men turned their backs on Grannyma and her
screaming babby, then sauntered into the blacksmith’s hut like they
owned it. Most likely to help themselves to whatever was in
there.
An
ache Robyn couldn’t name welled in her chest. If only her father
were here, he’d know what to do. How to handle this. But her father
wasn’t here to protect Loxley. Neither were the rest of the men in
the village. Not since they’d marched off under the king’s banner
of three golden lions on a red field, to join something called a
crusade.
Leaving Loxley defenseless.
Anger
overrode Robyn’s instinct to hide, as she watched these men take
whatever they wanted. The dirty, filthy thieves! How dare they! Red
mist clouded her vision. They were acting like thieves, not taxmen.
Maybe they’d stolen those shiny carriages and were only pretending
to be tax collectors?
She
had to do something. Anything. To save her village.
Making
sure the strangers were well inside the smithy, Robyn crept in the
other direction towards the carriage and made friends with the two
horses attached to it.
“
Easy
there, easy.”
Such
fine horseflesh, their coats fair gleamed. They were shod and
everything. These horses were used to taking the high road, not the
low dales. A plan formed in Robyn’s mind, but it meant parting with
some of the precious grain. If she had time to think of anything
else, she would, but time was in desperately short supply. She
plunged her hand into the bag of grain in her apron and offered
half a palm full to one horse, then the other. They’d need a quick
burst of energy in a moment.
Sneaking between the beasts, Robyn found the belts connecting
the harness to the carriage and wiggled them free. Now the tax
collectors could load as much as they wanted, but the carriage
would go nowhere.
Somebody had left a hooded travelling cloak on the driver’s
seat. Robyn slipped it over her shoulders and tied the fastener.
Now the men wouldn’t see her face if they spotted her.
With a
quick shake of her hands to steady the nerves, Robyn set to untying
the rest of the harness buckles and belts, setting the horses
free.
“
Now
scram!” she said.
They
didn’t budge.
Any
other horse or cow-even pig-would have leapt at the chance of
freedom. These animals were so placid, so tame . . . so stupid,
they went on munching and standing so stupidly still. Panic made
Robyn desperate. These horses had to move, and quickly. Maybe a
shove from behind would help?
She
climbed onto the front of the carriage, to the driver’s
seat.
“
You
there!” One of the men said.
Uh-oh,
they were out of the smithy, ready to load up their stolen stuff.
Terrified, Robyn put the bag of wheat safely on the driver’s seat
for now, then threw herself onto the back of one horse, her long
dark hair flinging over her eyes, making it hard to see. She
grabbed onto the mane and clamped her knees in tightly.
“
Yar!”
Nothing.
Not
even a wobble from the animal below her. An animal that smelled of
soap and little work. Not like the cows in the field that filled
the air with dung, sweat and dust.
“
Get
down lad!” The man dropped his bounty and charged for
Robyn.
Running hot and cold from worry and excitement, Robyn yelled,
“Giddyup!”
Still
nothing!
A
man’s hard hand grabbed her by the boot. She kicked out in defence;
her boot flew off but so did his hand. Her foot sprang back onto
the horse’s flank. Startled, the beast shot off like an loosed
arrow and charged. The other horse made a whinny and cantered after
them. Robyn kept her body low, fists clenched in the mane, knees
pressed in hard to keep balance. Only now did she remember she had
absolutely no idea how to control a horse.
Left
a bit.
Right
a bit.
Bad
wobble. Hang on!
Don’t
fall off! Quick correction.
Onwards the horse galloped, Robyn twisted her grip into its
mane. Thump thump, tha-thump, thump. The hooves hitting the ground
matched Robyn’s pulse. On the animal raced, up into the wooded
hills and further into the Shire Wood.
After
her initial panic wore off, and she’d not fallen off, Robyn began
to notice something of a pattern in the horse’s gait and she could
anticipate the rhythm of bumps and thumps. Growing more confident
as they reached the crest of a hill, she shifted her weight to look
back. The hood of her cloak flipped onto her head, blocking the
edges of her vision, but she saw enough of Loxley down
below.
Free
from its harness, the other horse had bolted away, towards the
village wheat field. Relief sagged her body. Maybe the men would
catch the other stray horse before they came after her? At least
she had a great head start on them.
They
did have the bag of grain though; the bag Robyn had left behind in
her panic. She could have smacked herself. She had one job, to
protect that bag, and she’d failed. Now, through the gap in the
trees, she saw what her actions cost. Curse it! A man upended the
bag and tipped the seeds all over the ground.
Of all
the disrespectful, wasteful things to do! Robyn gritted her teeth
in anger and failure. She was in charge of protecting that grain,
it might have been all the winter wheat the village had left to
plant. She should have hidden it in the shed, but no, she’d left it
out in the open.
“
You
are such an idiot!” she said through gritted teeth.
The
horse made a weird sound.
“
Not
you, horse. Me. I’m the idiot.”
She
couldn’t look at the village any more, didn’t want to see the
wanton destruction. Also, her foot was cold from losing her boot,
but that was the least of her issues right now.
Robyn
urged the horse farther into the wood. As the animal slowed to a
trot, then walked at an even pace, Robyn’s blank, adrenalin-filled
head let some proper thoughts through. Useful thoughts.
Constructive, practical thoughts.
There
was no way those men in the village were real tax collectors. Not
with the way they were being so wasteful. After all, would tax
collectors demand seventeen marks of wheat, then tip half a mark
into the ground? Not likely. Maybe they’d stolen the carriages,
then gone on a raiding spree? They were only pretending to
represent the Sheriff, so they could take advantage of unprotected
villages like hers.
For a
moment, smug satisfaction filled Robyn with righteous indignation.
Then a new thought crashed hard on the previous one. What if they
really had been tax collectors after all? Just a little brutal and
stupid about it?