The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Fifth Annual Collection

He woke with a snort and found Vivian sitting beside him. He smiled at her, startled as always by her strange beauty. The summer sun had lightened the crown of her hair from rust to light brown. Her eyes were a soft green and her skin the color of honey.

“Is it well with you Robin?" she asked.

“Aye, very well, Vivian," he answered.

“They say the Sheriff of Nottingham rides the greenwood today, near the road to Kirkley Hall. I would bid you have a care."

Robin grinned and sat up. “More than a care, I think. Perhaps a bit of sport.”

And before long, Robin with the sounding of his horn, had assembled his band together. He had grown accustomed to Vivian's unexpected visits, and equally sudden disappearances. But acting on her advice, he led his men through the woods to Kirkley Hall. It was as she said. Robin saw the gloomy visage of the Sheriff of Nottingham, riding through the greenwood, his foresters dressed in bright livery beside him. Robin laughed quietly to note how close they passed him by without seeing him, despite the searching looks of the foresters.

That night Robin and his men feasted the Sheriff of Nottingham, after first depriving his foresters of their lives and then the Sheriff of his purse. They fed him a meal of venison from the King's own deer and to add insult to the injury, they served him on the silver plates they had stolen from him earlier. At the next daylight, they tied the Sheriff's hands and legs and hoisted him over the back of a horse. A farmer, making his way to Nottingham market, found the Sheriff cursing Robin’s name as he lay facedown tied to his horse, while the lazy creature cropped the grass growing by the side of the road. Before the end of market day, the word had scattered from one mouth to another of Robin’s daring attack on the Sheriff of Nottingham. And from that night on, in many cottages, the outlaws found a renewed welcome.

The winter came, but still the game followed the camp. The green Lincoln wool of their cloaks kept Robin and his men dry and in the worst of weather, there were many inns willing to hide them for a night or two. Robin often looked for Vivian in the woods when he rambled alone. Sometimes she appeared, wearing a green dress bordered with the seed down of milkweeds, and other times she wore cape of snow-white wool, owl feathers stitched about the hem. She stayed with him briefly, telling him news of the greenwood that would be of use to him and his men. She showed him where different animals wintered over, their dens covered by mounded snow. And even when she wasn’t there, Robin always felt her presence in the snapping of twigs underfoot, or the tired creak of the oaks, and he knew that had he need of her, she would be there.

When the spring came again, Vivian met him in the woods. She had gathered wild garlic in her apron and gave it to him.

“They say the Sheriff of Nottingham intends to have an archery contest,” she told him. “The prize is a golden arrow.”

Robin grinned at her. “Then I mean to go and win that arrow.

“I thought you might.” She reached into the pocket of her apron and withdrew a small pot of brown cream. “It will stain your skin brown and give you a good disguise.”

Robin laughed and snatching up the pot tossed it lightly into the air. “I shall go as a poor wanderer. And I shall win beneath the very noses of the Sheriff and his men.”

“You will succeed, Robin, as always,” Vivian said quietly.

Despite the warnings of his men, Robin went to the archery contest. He had it in his mind to win the golden arrow and give it to Vivian. He smiled to himself, standing unrecognized amid the Sheriff’s men. Only one other contestant had given him cause to worry. A man with a patch over one eye whose shooting was confident and straight-arrowed. Robin’s palms sweat with anticipation. He would have to be better than the stranger.

His eyes glanced up at the stand where the Sheriff and his daughter awaited the outcome of the contest. Robin froze suddenly, recognizing the woman sitting farther back from the Sheriff’s daughter. It was Marion, returned at long last from France. Robin’s heart soared with delight to see her, her face changed from a coltish girl into an elegant young woman. But there was still a spark of mischief in her, for he saw in the blue eyes that stared back at him that she alone had penetrated his disguise. He tipped his hat to her as he took his place in line. She nodded back and then looked away, but not before he had seen her smile.

Robin raised his longbow for the final match. The stranger had shot well. Very well, and for a moment Robin doubted the worth of his own skill to beat the man. There was a fitful breeze. It fluttered the flags of the tents and worried the fletch of his arrow. It would be hard to shoot straight in such a wind. Robin tried to slow the rapid beating of his heart, and take careful aim. The target seemed so vague and distant.

In the corner of his eye he glimpsed a face peering at him from the crowds that eagerly lined the edges of the contest grounds. Rust-colored hair billowed in the breeze around a face with honey-colored skin. At once the wind calmed. The target that had seemed so distant became sharp and clear in Robin’s mind. He released his arrow and watched it soar, upward at first and then glide down unerringly to split the shaft of his opponent’s arrow as the head buried itself in the center of the target.