The Archer

His stomach growled.

A gentle rain broke on the forest green canopy and dripped down his matching green hood. He found the gentle pitter patter of rain soothing. Jahn had complained it was a terrible day for an ambush, but what did that little man know?

Yes, rain was good for an ambush—it hid the smell from the horses, and the dogs if they had them. A trick he learned during his time in Normandy.

As the sound of the approaching caravan echoed down the forest road, he knocked an arrow. A gentle rustle, indistinguishable from the swaying leaves, indicated the rest of his band doing the same.

Through the cover of the branches, he took aim at the lead rider; how brave of the Bishop to ride at the head. They would certainly burn him for this; should they catch him, of course. Even that would be a blessing compared to watching his Marian starve.

His stomach growled again, but he kept his hands steady against the shaking hunger. Oh, how he longed for Normandy, that land of true knights and kings. These provincials, these barbarians, were little more than savages by comparison.

He counted six wagons—all laden with Nottingham’s most recent tithes. Even in the haze, the Bishop’s golden cross sparkled.

“For the poor,” Robyn Le Huede whispered.

The screams of horses drowned out the gentle rain falling in Sherwood Forest until dusk silenced all.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N:

Crushed through 1500 words on the WIP, and treated myself to a little micro. I enjoy the thought that "Robin Hood" was a French bandit.

If you've enjoyed this, please leave a like and an insight below. If you really enjoyed this, tips to fuel my coffee addiction are always appreciated. All formatting is designed for desktops. Want to read more? Below are the best of the very best of my works: