A young Maid Marian resolves to show her best friend Robin Hood the best Yuletide celebration ever.
~ ~ ~
With a warmth the winter had forgotten, Marian's fingertips touched Robin's. The young foxes pranced and dipped in time to a fiddle and pipes, which echoed in the disused hall. Bright fires in hearths failed to chase the chill from the stones of the oldest section of Castle Nottingham. She felt it through faded rug and silk slippers, but it couldn't dampen the cozy lightness in her chest as she danced with her friend. Watching him smile, she wouldn't have traded dance lessons in a musty inner keep for a ball in the royal palace.
If her height had anything to say about it, young Marian would have never learned to dance at all. As a small fox, she had few options in the castle who didn't tower over her. Scarlet, a Shetland pony, had proved close enough in height, but too ample in the hip. More than once, she'd knocked Marian with her rump hard enough to send her scrambling.
Her dance tutor had disturbed the entire castle staff to measure them against her, but found no one who met his approval. He very pointedly didn't have her stand back to back with Robin, having already established his disapproval of the boy. In the end, though, Robin won the day by finding every reason to keep showing up.
In the weeks that followed, she'd learned all the latest dances from the royal court and even a few from the continent. The myriad poses completed in sequence reminded her of sword practice. By studying the diagrams her new tutor had drawn, she had learned the subtle differences that separated a roundabout ronde from a capricious capriole. Through resolute study, she memorized the musical styles that aligned to each sort of courtly dance.
Robin, meanwhile, mirrored her moves. His lithe limbs swung to copy her, at a delay the first time, but with ready ease every time thereafter. The pair traced across the great and empty hall, lifting a hand here and tilting a muzzle there.
Her renowned instructor of the prancing arts, Michael of London clapped his paws and lashed his long tail. "Five! Six! Seven! Eight!" Triangular ears aligned on the pair as they twirled, listening to ensure their footsteps fell in time with the beat. "Hoist those bottle-brushes! Leave the floor for the maids to sweep. One, two, three, hop!"
The foxes hopped.
"Am I training frogs?" The feline flung his arms to either side, shouting over his piping assistant. "I shouldn't see a bend of the knee."
The moment his back was to the tutor, Robin stuck out his quick pink tongue at her.
She stifled a laugh, not missing a step.
The silk-clad feline yowled nonetheless. "Maid Marian! The boy doesn't look any different from the last time you stared at him. Your eyes should be as much a part of this dance as the rest of you. That's better."
His apprentice, Alfred, plucked a jaunty tune on his fiddle. The dog's thick claws traipsed along taut strings. Wood dowels and brass fittings held panpipes to his jowled muzzle, for the odd fluted harmony. He sat on an old chest, tapping his boot and flicking his tail.
In cheeky compliance, Robin completed the next round of the dance with his eyes closed. His scrawny frame matched hers move for move. When his green eyes shone again in the firelight, he grinned at finding himself not a half-step off. His quiet chuckle reached her ears, though likely no further because of the music. He flashed her a proud look. A twirl brushed his slim tail along hers.
Her heart fluttered at the contact. She touched him often, but rarely with anyone watching. Her arithmetic tutor never had them whisking their tails together while doing sums, which in retrospect subtracted from the experience. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed scampering through wooded lots and scrambling over hedgerows with him, such cooperative exercise now impossible due to the cold, until these dance lessons. She couldn't wait for spring.
A song ended and another began. The young dog took up his bow and applied it with gusto. The fiddle sang, sweet as summer in spite of the snow. Pan pipes trilled like a serenade of songbirds, vibrant in the grey hall.
The dance tutor pressed a hand to his face, while waving the other. "Stop. Stop. No, this won't do at all. You're curtsying too low. Again. Oh, I never had these troubles in the capital…"
The music trailed off. With some hesitation, the kits slowed and stopped, though their fingertips lingered together.
Michael of London, knower of the latest dances, snatched the violin from his apprentice and held it out for her inspection. "Do you know what this is?"
Marian glanced at the instrument. Adults often sprang such questions on her, so she straightened and delivered her best answer. "A fiddle, named for Vitula, the Roman spirit of joy—"
"No." He huffed, tail puffed with annoyance. "It is a hunting horn, a war trumpet, a longship rower's drum—a signal for where to put your paws and when."
She nodded. A moment later, Robin nodded too, as if still copying her movements.
"If you cannot focus on dance as you would any other subject, I don't know what good I'm to do here. You must allow yourself no distractions." Setting the violin on the table beside him, he grabbed a cup, sipped, and took on a sour look. "Alfred, this cider is cold."
Pan pipes bouncing on his chest, the apprentice hurried to one of the fireplaces, where a pot hung near the flames, and ladled his master a fresh cup. He then raced back.
The cat accepted the offering with a glum gulp. Waxed strings whispered as he waved the bow to and fro, counting his numerous woes. "Oh, how am I to teach with all the gods slinging afflictions at me?"
Robin's brow arched in amusement.
Sharp-slitted eyes narrowed on the pupil. "Worst among them this ragamuffin!" With a quick hiss, the tutor swatted at him with the fiddlestick.
No stranger to ducking blows, the young tod sidestepped the swipe, but then yapped as if struck and cradled his arm. He tossed her a wink to show he was unhurt.
Having already forgotten the boy, Michael tossed the bow to his apprentice. His arms cast to either side, splashing cider on the old rug. "Have you no other youths in this whole castle?"
The small vixen folded her hands in front of her. "No, nor any staff who are close enough height-wise. We could measure them again, if you like."
Robin's tail flicked at the mention, which had resulted in an entire day away from their more bookish studies.
The feline rubbed his eyes, mumbling and mewling. "May Thor hammer my tent stakes… Have the good people of Nottingham forgotten how to have children?" He pinched fingers to the bridge of his muzzle. "If I must instruct them on that too, I'll continue charging my daily rates…"
Unseen, Alfred mimicked pouring the cold cider back in the pot, but drank it instead.
The tutor paced in front of the foxes, as a general might in front of his army. His hands clasped behind his proud back and bounced at the base of his swishing tail. "Dance is a serious matter. It is how you will convey to courts and suitors that you are not a frivolous wisp." He poked the bow in the direction of Robin. "Someday, that woodland creature you frolic with will be a memory."
The young tod beheld their dance tutor with open pity. The feline had lost all sense, according to the cant of scrawny arms propped on his hips. Fortune nudged the instructor's gaze on from him, meaning his cheek went unseen and his cheeks went unslapped.
The cat carried on. "You'll be in the royal court and only perfection will do. And you ought to be perfect: my reputation depends on it."
Marian stood at attention. She'd learned that, if she showed any doubt, he'd recite a list of all the prestigious nobles he'd educated. And, most alien to her mind, reciting lists seemed only to upset him.
The esteemed tutor downed the last of his cider, then looked down his muzzle at her. "Perhaps no one has explained this to you, Maid Marian, but you are in a prime territory for husband hunting. A brief stint as a lady-in-waiting can win you an advantageous marriage, even a rich foreign prince. Fathers want to marry their sons into that sort of position. All you need do is nod, titter, and dance properly and you'll be so high up you'll never clap eyes on a rustic like him. You're a lucky girl." His gaze flicked to the young dog trying to adjust his pan pipes, violin, and bow all in one muddle. "Now, if my apprentice can find which end of his fiddle to hold, we can start from the beginning…" The feline spun to urge a song from his domesticated minstrel.
Caught in the midst of a stretch, the one-dog band hurried to reassemble his instruments. A few beats later, the song began.
Clearing her throat to Robin, Marian raised a paw.
The boy's ceaseless motion stilled. He lifted his palm to meet hers.
Seated behind Marian, Scarlet picked up the soft-bristle brush and began sorting out the small vulpine's hair. "Well, that was an ordeal. I thought you'd drive the tailor mad trying to pick a fabric."
Under sweeps of the brush, Marian's ears flattened. "I had to be sure we had the right color! Robin has such lovely fur." In the time she'd known him, Robin's coat had brightened every season, from the fallen-leaf brown of kits to a rich autumn rust. Marian pondered the fur above her elbow, which by contrast hardly seemed to have changed at all. "Mother's side of the family is nearly that red, but it seems I'm to be brown like Father."
A snort from the handmaid behind her and a tug on her hair got her head facing forward again. "Your father is a rather striking bronze, my lady. When your mother is feeling romantic, she compares him to the statue of Mercury in their foyer. Not that the color of your pelt is likely to make any difference to your little yeoman."
Her tail flicked with joy under the skirt. All this fuss would be worthwhile when they pranced into the Saturnalia party, arm in arm, wreathed in matching finery. "I hardly remember that statue. I do miss Malperdy, sometimes. Nottingham Castle isn't bad —quite lovely in fact— though it still feels a bit…strange."
"Strange?"
"Just little things. All these chandeliers and none can snap shut on one like a spring-trap." Her hand clamped closed to illustrate. "I've checked them."
"Ah." Scarlet narrowed her eyes at the gesture, as if she didn't miss Castle Malperdy one bit. "With all due deference to your lordly and ladylike parents, I dinna know how you survived your toddler years in their castle."
"Oh, it wasn't as bad as that. I was too short and too light to be caught in most traps. I hope they still have the ones that lead into the moat. The staff kept getting rubbish stuck in them and Father threatened to seal them." Her black paws clasped on the fond recollection. "Oh, but Castle Nottingham used to put me on edge, not being able to find even one trap. I kept thinking they were just very well hidden. I do like it now, though."
Heavy-hooved fingers separated the vixen's hair into locks and wove them together with practiced motion. "I shall inform your parents in my next letter, dear child, that there is still something of them in you."
"And Robin's such a good match for Castle Nottingham." Her heart pattered in her chest. "He's just what he appears."
"And in such abundance." The horse hefted an amused sigh.
"Have you seen how nicely his tail is growing in?" Excitement tried turning Marian's head to her handmaid, but the braid in progress tethered her.
Scarlet nickered. "Aye, if only his sense would grow to match."
The young noble's mind drifted back to her dance partner. "…During our lessons, Michael said I'd never see Robin when I was older."
The equine winced, then resumed her dutiful braiding. "Some things are written in the stars. Some aren't."
Cold gloom settled on the vulpine like a fog. "You agree with Michael?"
"I can't say. You're in different worlds. Up until now that hasn't mattered because you've been in the world of children."
"So I should give up my best friend? That isn't fair."
"I am more aware than most that life is unfair, my lady. I was born a noble, but now I'm not. I have a sweet little child I rarely see. Life shifts us about with little regard for what we want."
The girl pondered that in silence.
Scarlet patted her mistress's slim shoulder. "You, at least, know the separation is coming, that it's likely a ways off, and where to find him, even when you're in London."
Marian nodded. She shouldn't have been so selfish, given the many privileges her class afforded her. Everybody had hardships in keeping the millstone of society turning. She would no doubt have some of her own. Still, she ought to enjoy seeing Robin now while she could. The future might be unknown, but she resolved to make this the best Saturnalia ever.
~ ~ ~
The great hall of Castle Nottingham glowed with a blazing fire and as many candles as could be stuck on ledges and tables. Rows of tables displayed more food than the guests could possibly eat, though few did more than nibble.
A trio of minstrels fluttered a flute, strummed a lute, and, with the aid of specialized spoons, hammered a dulcimer. Ancient winter melodies attempted to fill the hall with cheer, punctuated here and there by the tiny bells the trio had tied on their tails with silk ribbon in intricate bows. They had instructions not to sing, lest they interrupt the gossip and revelry. Alas, all gossip centered on the lack of revelry. Nobility clumped along the tables, exchanging strained smiles and minced words.
Young Maid Marian sat in a chair too large for her. Being one of the highest-ranked nobles, she had embraced the spirit of Saturnalia and allowed herself to be seated in a remote and unglamorous bench along the far wall. She stirred a fine silver bowl. The soup was enriched with cream, on which sailed a fleet of tiny bread boats crewed by peas. It was, of course, a trick soup, where the challenge was to eat it without capsizing the ships.
Beside her, Robin Hood worked his way through the "twelve sauces of Saturnalia" with an enthusiasm that would leave the cook proud. For such a small fox, he was making a fine showing on the roast wings left over from the construction of the "cockerel hydra," which struck an intimidating pose at the head table.
Her friend's fingertips bent a bare wingbone to fire it up into the chandelier. There he paused, then adjusted his aim, firing it instead into a basket of refuse. No doubt Scarlet would have chastised him, but she was visiting her relations back in Shetland.
Watching the boy, Marian's drooped tail flicked. Robin could, once made to promise, behave himself in courtly society. Courtly society, however, was behaving sourly in front of him.
"I don't understand. Saturnalia is usually more…jolly." She nibbled the tail end of an ouroboros-shaped biscuit—or perhaps it had been an attempt at forging Father Time's sickle from dough. "Last year, you could scarcely hear yourself think."
The young tod swept a fresh wing at the hall of overly-behaved guests, its plum sauce sparkling in the candlelight. "They've enough money to make any sort of merry in the world—and instead, they're making none. No one's danced a step."
Seated at her usual place at the head table, the Queen Consort Constance distributed stern looks and favored her court only with the many necks of the great roast bird. The nobles received them with grace and attempted to pick the meat out with dignity.
Having made the rounds topping off cups, her daughter, Princess Adelaide, settled into a chair with the lightness of a daisy petal. "You will have to forgive my mother. The drink last year flowed too easily and gave life to unfortunate rhymes, which the royal court sung in her honor. Only their unanimous participation saved them from royal justice: one cannot banish an entire court."
His green eyes flashed to her, ears swiveling to follow. "Must have been a very good song."
"It did not win universal love." Adelaide set down the pitcher with the solemnity of a priest pouring libations.
His scrawny tail flicked. "I'd like to hear it."
The ermine princess bowed, slow as the sway of a willow, as if she were savoring the gesture. "By your leave, Master Robin, I must refuse your order. Life, like chess, is to be considered a few moves ahead. Maid Marian would not forgive me for setting you up to be checkmated by my mother."
The boy munched at another wing, this one dipped in fig gravy. "She could always go to her chambers, if she dislikes the party."
"She could." The Princess nodded, her chin dipping gently as the falling snow. "We often inflict more suffering on ourselves than is necessary."
Letting loose a heavy sigh, he dropped to one side, then grabbed the beam of a heavy chair and swung himself around it. He came nose to nose with his best friend. "We could still make for my parents' party."
Marian paused in brushing crumbs from her dress, glancing up. "Oh, but we can't leave."
"No one can stop us." One hand lifted to the door, the other to his scrawny chest. "This is Saturnalia—and I'm uncommonly common."
The girl closed her eyes to avoid glimpsing his charms. "Even so, I have duties."
Robin looked to the Crown Princess for help.
Locating a clean cup, the ermine poured herself a drink with the last dregs from the pitcher. "Perhaps you should go, Maid Marian, before the snow piles up."
"But surely you can't send me away in the middle of a formal dinner." The girl shut her muzzle. Yes, this Saturnalia was lackluster, but one could also take a joke too far. No need to command royalty.
"Too true!" The boy sprang up from his chair. "Good old Add-A-Ladle is your social inferior until sunrise." He patted the Crown Princess on the back, careful to land his taps between pours of wine. "She can't send you anywhere."
Marian's blood chilled at the sight of her friend throwing an arm over the royal shoulders.
"Indeed, Master Robin." In spite of the lad's bluster, the ermine sipped red wine without staining even one whisker. "As a yeoman, you are further up the social order than I. I see no point in confining such fine foxes to a single party tonight…" The ermine surveyed the chamber. "…especially when this is one of them."
The young vixen straightened and tried to copy the dignity of her royal mistress. "But you have to stay, your highness?"
"Of course." Her muzzle lifted in the direction of the unopened casks. "Someone must pour the wine."
Marian considered the appearance and implications of vanishing from one of the more splendid gatherings of the year.
Robin, allowing her to think, followed his muzzle. Beside the Princess, a tray had been left unattended with a small fortune in spices. It was packed into a linen cone, which hung in a brass stand. His sniffing black nose led him in the direction of the device. "Is this spice bag set out for its scent?"
Marian donned a tutorial tone. "That is a Hippocratic sleeve. It flavors wine, though at first it was meant to filter water."
"Hippocrates?" The boy propped both paws on his slim hips, then shook his head and tutted at the sack. "He'd never stand for this many spices in one drink. Might do someone harm."
The royal eyebrows inclined a degree or two. "Some years ago, Sir Hector took a dare to eat the leftover nutmegs and fell into a fit."
The young noble opened her mouth to chide Robin Hood for stealing from the richly scented spice filter, then hesitated. "Actually, do grab some of those. The cinnamon sticks would do nicely."
The boy liberated one of the curled, brown sheets of bark. "What for?"
"For impressing your mother."
"Mum tries very hard to have stealing not impress her."
"She is hosting a wassail party, so, in order to improve the party, I should improve the wassail."
He nodded at her logic. "How many should I take?" He took a couple more.
"How much cinnamon is best for cider?"
"Dunno. We've never had any before."
"Oh."
The kits tilted their heads at the spice hoard, but it revealed no secrets. Instead, they looked to the kingdom's future ruler.
The faint wisp of a smile tightened the corners of the princess's eyes. "I must thank you for revealing a gap in my education. I have never prepared my own cider." Her pink paw graced the silver pitcher. "I have only enough training to pour it."
Marian turned to her friend. "Half a dozen?"
"Half a dozen." Robin stuck a paw deep into the hippocras apparatus, harvesting cinnamon sticks. "Here, hold these." He handed her a fragrant few, fishing for more. "No body will question you having them."
An ever greater amount of cinnamon in her grasp, the young vixen glanced to her mistress. "You're sure you don't need me?"
"I am certain I do." The ermine watched the looting of the royal spice stock without a hint of pique. "Which is why I advise you seek out some much-needed cheer."
Marian smiled. She closed one paw around the last of the spice chest spoils. The other she placed in Robin's. Together, they slipped from the hall of Castle Nottingham.
~ ~ ~
THE COMMONER FEAST
Winter air fluffed the young foxes' fur as their breath puffed through it. They headed up the path to the Hood cottage, some little distance into Sherwood. Delicate flakes of snow fell, as intricate and crystalline as any falling on Castle Nottingham.
Maid Marian crunched over the fresh snow. "What am I meant to do once we're inside?"
Robin tromped beside her in his new doublet and hand-me-down boots. "Give my mother those cinnamons."
She nodded at what must be the first stage of his plan. "And then…"
His eyebrows quirked. The winter moon danced in his eyeshine. "Eat, drink, and be merry?"
The young vixen worried that his plan might only have one stage.
But then they had arrived at the front door and Robin opened it without ceremony. Warm light spread over them from inside. In the close space, people bustled here and there, pushing each other's tails out of the way. The scent of baking bread and boiling soup reached her nose.
Robin took her by the paw and towed her inside. He shut out the dark and chill behind them.
The hubbub continued unabated around and over her. The partygoers chattered, chittered, and laughed in a wholly different register than in the castle. Her ears swiveled and strained in her hat to follow the topics: seed grains and wood grains, barley and barns, sewing needles and sowing methods, patches and thatches. Two musicians in opposite corners played at least two tunes.
Little John looked up from polishing the inside of a bowl with his tongue, his nose decorated with a tiny dollop of almond pudding. He waved a massive paw at the householder's son, then saw the tiny noble beside her and bowed as much as sitting and a table allowed.
Marian nodded back. She had spoken with the large fellow enough to not be intimidated by his towering bulk, but still found remarkable that he was twice the size of any other guest.
Rather than a conventional greeting, Robin pointed to his own pointed snout.
The bear's brown eyes flicked to the candlelit dessert dabbed on his nose, then, rather than reaching for any of the numerous napkins or even his shirtsleeve, licked it clean with his long, pink tongue. He gave the kit a nod of thanks.
A light vulpine voice called from the kitchen. "Is that my son slinking in from the snow?"
He shook the snow off his doublet like water from fur, then hung it on a peg by the door. "And Marian!"
His mother's soot-black ears perked, even as she finished flipping oat cakes on a pan over the fire. With just a quick glance over her shoulder, she finished her pastry maneuvers with a few steady-pawed flicks of the wrist.
At the boy's yap, a rust-furred tod slipped from the crowd. His dark paw dusted the snow from Robin's ears, then hauled him into as much of a hug as could be given with a full wooden bowl in the other hand. "Well, my own sweet son. They treat you well up at the castle? What reason did you give them to chase you back down here early?"
Amid a nuzzle along his father's chest, the lad looked up with a chuckle. "None! I behaved better than anyone."
"But better good or bad behaving, that's the question." He ruffled his son's scruff and turned to the girl. "And Maid Marian, always a ray of summer sun on a winter evening."
Looking over from trying in vain to get her jacket to hang on an unfamiliar peg, she curtsied to the older tod. "I hope I'm not intruding."
"Of course not, my lady. What is Yule for if it's not for friends?" Roland Hood straightened and gave her a bow, complete with a twirl of the arm. "When more, then merrier."
Robin's mother, Wrenna, appeared at their side and held out a paw for the stubborn jacket. "If I may, Lady Marian…" When it was placed in her hand, she folded it smartly and perched it on a wall peg with one fluid motion.
Robin bumped her elbow.
Marian remembered that the hand below it clutched a small cache of cinnamon sticks. "I'm told everyone is meant to bring something to put in the wassail?"
The older vixen's eyes widened. She glanced to her husband. When he offered only a subtle shrug and a look around to check that no one was watching, she delicately took the offered spices. "That's quite a fine gift, my lady. Thank you. This ought to melt the icicles off anyone's snout." She winked at the small noble.
The girl's tail swished.
Somewhere in the turn to face the crowd, all but one of the sticks vanished. She held it up in triumph for all to see. "Look at this! Our noble guest has brought a whole stick of cinnamon for the wassail pot."
A general huzzah rose from the partygoers. Someone with a wooden flute in the far corner trilled into a fresh song in her honor. The crowd joined in, singing about Odin, his eight-legged steed, and his flying sleigh of gifts.
Marian winced. She had tried to impress Robin's mother, but then had to be saved by her. By giving a gift too lavish for the context, she'd demonstrated either she didn't understand the situation or couldn't be bothered to. She resolved to do more research in the future.
Wrenna Hood paraded the kits along, with the cinnamon stick hoisted as an emblem, then dropped it into the gently bubbling cauldron of cider. This ingredient was marked with even louder singing.
The song only faded in volume when it entered a second verse few remembered. It soon dissolved into competing versions, which featured the names and personal histories of various participants.
Marian leaned to her companion. "So they sang a song to Odin because of his syncretism with Mercury and Hermes, with me a Hermeline?"
The boy shook his head. "Because you brought a gift."
"Oh."
She was given a culinary tour of the dishes on offer, from parsnip mash with honey to turnip pies with kale and arugula in mushroom gravy and a cheese stew with flat dumplings cut into squares, known as "checkerboard soup." She sampled a polite amount of each, finding them rough but pleasant.
Roland shooed two of his other guests away from a large serving bowl to allow her access to his esteemed birch-syrup eggnog, a liquid custard. He ladled a generous amount into a wooden cup for her. He described the delicate alchemy required to prepare it. The process started with tapping silver birches for their sap at the right time of year.
She nodded as she sipped with care from the wide-brimmed vessel. Around her, others lapped the liquid without a care.
Robin hopped on a stool to portion himself an equally generous cup, but was set upon by three larger youths, two wolves and a hound. The small tod was hoisted with a yip and tossed playfully.
Each of the canines caught him in turn and lobbed him to the next. Joyous growls marked their efforts.
One swung him horizontal. "Hoy! Look here! It's our little Robin-Bobbin!"
Another mussed his fine clothes, then flipped him upside-down to straighten them. "Somebody's spun fine thread on him!"
The last hefted him over her shoulders and around her back. "Hasn't made him much heavier, though!"
"Marian! These are—" The boy yapped a giggle, flung so high his ears brushed boughs of holly and mistletoe in the rafters. "—my cousins!"
One tucked him under an arm, then nodded to the small noble. "So this is who you've been playing with instead of us. Good to finally meet you, my lady. You're all he talks about."
Another stole Robin Hood from the first, so as to cradle him in her arms and pinch his cheek ruff for her to see. "We can't blame you for wanting him about, my lady. He's a handsome lad, once scrubbed clean."
The last took him by both arms, which she held level to suspend him. "He's a bit small for a scarecrow, my lady, but easily ported about."
Pliant and compliant, Robin grinned and allowed the cousins to pass him between them. For all the rough play, he looked unworried they would drop him. Sometimes, he swung a tad too close to the stone floor, but not a whisker touched it.
Drink forgotten in her hands, Marian marveled at the display of involuntary acrobatics. Her family and nurse had stopped picking her up years ago. And they'd never swung her about like a grain flail.
A wayward paw grazed the dinner table, quivering pudding and crumbling flakes from pastry, though with no visible effect on the mashed turnips.
The boy's father steadied his precious nog bowl. "Will you three put my kit down before you knock something over?" With a thrust of the ladle, he directed them where to offload the lad.
"Yes, Uncle Roland…" Reluctant, the waggish trio released him from their clutches, like the Fates surrendering a thread of destiny. They straightened most of what they had mussed, then together nuzzled the top of his head on their way to the arrayed delicacies.
Robin, undamaged and even invigorated by this horseplay, returned to his friend's side. One of the cousins had stolen his cup, filled it, and was drinking from it.
Marian passed him hers. "Do they often just fling you about like that?"
"Only when they see me." He shrugged and sipped the eggnog. Unlike the rest of the crowd, his tongue stayed in his muzzle while drinking.
The rich scent of cinnamon wafted from the black iron cauldron, a hint of distant lands amid all the homey English dishes. The spice was of Indic origin, but had passed through Alexandria and Rome before reaching Nottingham, haggled over in a dozen languages. Had its original cultivator imagined it could travel nearly a quarter of the way around the world before stewing in a cottage cider pot? Was said cinnamon coppicer howling a three-part carol to Cerberus, under the name Sharvara, but still multi-headed and spotted, just like the present song at this party? No, Marian calculated. Her theorized Indic forester was almost certainly asleep.
Partygoers hustled into a line to try the reinvigorated cider. The strong drink had weakened during its hours of cooking, but the promise of cinnamon tempted everyone back. The ensuing discussion ran as heated as those among the royal court's epicureans.
An ursine snore rattled the cottage. Whether from hibernation or ale, Little John had slumped his great brown bulk forward onto the table.
"John? Oh, John." A middle-aged mouse poked him, but got no response. "Dormez-vous?"—Are you sleeping? In reply, he received only snorts and sighs. His whiskers glinted in the firelight as he hopped up on the bench to regard his fellows. "Here's a bit of sport. I'll bet any of you a copper the Hood boy can land an apple square in Little John's mouth from across the room." He leaned forward, propping his pink paws atop the slumping giant's head. "Any takers?"
Marian looked to Robin, wondering what joke she'd missed.
The young tod, though, had already chosen his projectile from a basket of apples on the floor. It bounced in his paw, like a stone he was hefting to skip across water. "This one'll fit if you keep his jaws open wide."
Tipsy chuckles arose from the others around the table. Purses rattled, with worn copper coins slapped down on the table. The bets placed on either side of the brown bear's head did not stir him in the slightest.
Appearing at her kit's side, Wrenna shook her muzzle. "Derwent, don't have the boy throw apples at blameless bears." She plucked the fruit from her son's paw, but replaced it with a dinner roll. "Use bread. It won't knock his teeth."
"Butter it!" One of the cousins yapped.
"A good hefty pat of it!" Another yipped.
"The butter stays on or it's a miss!" The last grabbed a blunt knife from the table and tossed it to her little cousin.
The cutlery spun toward the boy, who snatched it by the repaired wooden handle. At a three-headed hoot from his cousins, he wielded the old brass blade in a spirited duel with the butter dish.
"Stand clear, you lot!" Wiping his paws clean first, the small mouse fellow pried his friend's heavy jaws open. "Anyone touching the roll on its way in forfeits their wager."
The crowd parted, but the constraints of the cottage left Robin only a narrow alley to throw down.
Someone scoffed. "He'll never hit the mark."
"At that distance?" The householder stood and waved a dismissive paw. "If he misses, I'll eat it off the floor."
Amid the resulting hubbub, his wife set her hands on her hips. "Roland, don't eat off the floor."
"Waste not, want not, my treasure." He pressed rough paw pads to his chest. He winked at his son and swished his handsome tail. "But I won't have to."
Robin's thinner tail flicked at his father's confidence.
Snoring at a different tone with his mouth propped, Little John's tongue lolled out onto the table. Derwent tucked it back in with a spoon. "Now, John, don't make it easier on the lad."
"Throw!" A musician waved his silent flute, like a pole with an unseen pennant.
The competing piper for once played the same tune. "Yes, throw, before he wakes up for spring."
Unhurried by the banter, the young tod flashed Marian a smile, then studied his target with care. His body stilled. His grin slacked to a steady line on that scruffy, white muzzle. Then, with a smooth toss, he flung the little loaf —butter first— into the bear's propped mouth.
A cheer arose from the crowd. Even those who had lost a copper laughed at the shot.
Awaking to find himself the target of everyone's congratulations, the bear sat up, blinked away his sleep, then chewed. The mouse totaled up the winnings and divided them accordingly.
The chatter and chitter almost drowned out Marian's cultured clapping, but her friend noticed, strutting to her side. He received a pat on the ears from his father, who then shrugged at his mother with a grin. Arms crossed her arms, she gave a proud wag of the tail, keen green eyes flitting between husband and son. The young tod watched his parents silent conversation, then bumped shoulder to shoulder with the noble.
A merry knock rapped at the front door. Roland Hood extracted himself from between table and bench to see who had arrived.
As soon as the door swung open, a great wave of song rolled in. She didn't recognize it, but the refrain made great use of "jolly Yule" and "jeweled holly." By the volume, she judged that at least two dozen people were singing.
Keeping hidden behind other partygoers, Marian peered out the door.
A gaggle of singers swayed and bobbed, dressed in outrageous and monstrous costumes. The carolers pushed a wheelbarrow with a potted apple sapling, festooned with little straw yule-goats and surrounded by a ring of lit candles springing out of the dirt. Now and then, one of the crowd would toast a bit of bread or fruitcake on the flames for nibbling, even as they sang. A fair supply of both baked goods rode in the back of the wheel barrow.
The pipers inside the Hood house joined in, followed by its other denizens. Marian found herself the only person who didn't know the words. Robin appeared at her side, though, and sang with particular exaggeration, which helped her join in now and again.
When the song concluded, the party clapped and cheered. The majority of them bustled toward the door, led by the yapping trio of cousins. They pulled on hats, scarves, boots, and jackets. The singers walked to the door, one after another, to accept a cup of wassail from the lady of the house, each a more outlandish troll or fairy than the last.
Amid the tumult, Tuck waddled into the cottage. He wore a cloak and broad hat, with a gnarled walking stick in his paw. A strip of cloth looped over one eye. "Ho there! Good solstice, my children!"
"Father Yule!" Roland patted the badger on his broad back. "How goes the Wild Hunt?"
The priest propped black paws on his hips, then looked back at his band. "Well, I'm meant to be the lord of frenzy and prophecy, but I suppose the lord of drunken merrymaking will have to do."
"Perhaps it will tide you over until Bacchanalia."
"I don't know if we're quite that merry yet, but the night is young."
Roland chuckled as he swept a plate of fresh rolls into a bag and loaded on the back of the wheel barrow, beside other food.
"We've run out of the mead of poetry, my good Odin." Mistress Hood ladled another cup of the steaming brew and held it out for him, avoiding guests as they scurried past. "But may I tempt you with a bit of wassail?"
"I'd be rude to refuse a drink from the lady of the house." The costumed priest accepted the beverage, then took a sip that arched the strips of his face. "By all the sprites and pixies, what have you put in this?" He took another, larger sip. "It's delicious."
"One of our guests brought a bit of cinnamon." Wrenna Hood winked in the young noble's direction.
Marian lifted her nog in the druid's direction and gave a tiny curtsy. Clerics had a hierarchy quite separate from nobles, but she lost no status by being polite. "To our own Jólnir—on the jolliest night of the year." She hoisted her cup to him.
The mingling crowds looked at her askance. The pun was lost on everyone, though a few found an excuse to gulp the last of a particular drinks. None made particular contact at the small, misplaced noble.
Tuck blinked at her, as if he hadn't heard properly, but was the surrounded by guests brushing the snow from his shoulders and wishing him a vigorous well.
Robin's green eyes, however, glinted her way, his thin tail swishing. However, amid the tumult, his father hoisted him up on his shoulders to converse with a Clydesdale.
Marian drifted back toward the table, the influx of revelry prompting her to duck under it. She had used her best oratory voice, the one her tutors praised. Yet, the conversation had rolled over top of her. Did commoners not orate in cottages? Or perhaps not in the same vocal register? She emerged on the other side of the table.
Greeting her with a squeak and a smile, the middle-aged mouse scooted on the bench to make room for her. In the increasing clamor, he gestured for her to prop up the ursine tipping down onto her, then vanished into the fray.
At her touch, John wobbled upright. His sleepy gaze dropped to her level. Heavy eyebrows rose. The changing of his guard confounded him only for a moment. "Maid Marian." He studied her face. "What ever's the matter?"
Part of her considered not blabbing how out of place she felt, but that part wasn't her mouth. "I mustn't be very good at this party. I must not understand the rules."
"Oh?" His little ears flicked up at her. Sleep evaporated in the light of his concern.
She nodded. The muddled moments played out in her mind like a tragedy rehearsed by bad actors. "I've just done it all wrong. The whole night hasn't gone properly."
He yawned. "Begging your noble pardon, but that's impossible. Look at them. Everybody's having a fine time."
She observed the clatter and chatter, the pouring of drinks and the slapping of backs.
Little John tipped a huge paw back and forth, leaning back against the wall as his eyelids drooped. "That's the nature of parties. They're like a walk in the woods. So long as you're enjoying yourself, that's the right way."
The vixen contemplated his assertion. While the prior parties she'd attended fell outside so eloquent a philosophy, she could not deny the current affair fit cozily within it. "Thank you, my good woodsman…"
The bear snored. He'd gotten too comfortable against the wall, broad muzzle pointing to the roof. A long pink tongue draped from the corner of his muzzle like a banner from the battlements.
A string of bright notes perked her ears. A truce had been struck by the pipers, who tootled a merry countermelody for each other.
Now filling the little cottage, the crowd debated which draft animals pulled in the first verse of "Woden's Sleigh A-Wobbling," though the ravens won out. Four quick claps led the chorus in on the agreed verse. Howls and mewls filled the room, the crowd mixed in a merry tumult.
Through the fluff of winter coats and the sparkle of melting snow, Marian glimpsed Robin's parents joining in the dance, with him still perched on his father's shoulders. With no further advice coming from the slumbering sage, Maid Marian stood, straightened her dress, and took a breath to focus. She then dashed through the dancers. Her dainty black paws gripped her tail, keeping it from being trod on. She ducked under a cat being dipped back entirely off her feet and wove between a pair of hounds as they chased each other’s tails.
Around the cottage periphery, those not dancing clapped their hands and stopped their feet, singing along to the ancient Yuletide carol. They wassailed that the gods would rest her merry, but she would have traded a tub of glad tidings for them to clear a path.
She followed cheery vulpine yaps until she found the mistress and master of the house dancing, with their progeny on the latter’s shoulders. Finding only the lad’s tail at her height, she tugged it like a bell rope.
In response to her summons, the boy tipped backward, legs throttling his father’s neck, if not his enthusiasm. He grinned and extended his hands.
She took them. Did he mean to just swing around in front of her until his father lost his balance?
With a tumble of ruddy fur and Lincoln green, the boy flipped down into her embrace. He trusted her not to panic and move, which would have resulted in him flopping to the floor. Instead, he landed before her like a feather on end.
His parents glanced askance at his antics, until they saw him grinning in the girl’s arms. With a roll of the eyes and a shake of the muzzles, they sashayed back into their own dance.
Her nose pressed to his shoulder, the fine fabric unfamiliar, but the faint scent quite so—herbal soap and enthusiasm. The music swayed her, causing her to rock him side to side. Even under the weight of chuckles and comments around them, she let the beat move her body, just a little.
Heeding her signal, Robin Hood wagged and bounced from foot to foot, building up speed. With enough momentum, he twirled down one of her arms. At the end, he clasped her hand again and pranced back to her, whisker to whisker.
The young vixen thought through all the dance routines they’d practiced, but none had featured that maneuver. Buoyed by his enthusiasm, she bobbed through motions that seemed applicable.
Robin’s yip of approval splashed like a single wave amid the rolling sea of key-jingles, flute-piping, and reckless caroling. With the same ease he used leaping over logs and ducking branches, he hopped with her over cat tails and dodged a horse traipsing on a spilled pudding.
Hoisting skirt-hem above snow-boots, she bounced along the wooden floor, adding a few fresh scuffs. Even so heavily-shoed, she flew further aloft than they'd ever been allowed in their lessons. Hand in hand, Robin matched her move for move.
Just as she lost herself in the music, the song's final note faded. She stood facing her friend, as guests patted each other on the back and helped each other into thick winter cloaks. His cousins had captured a trio of men between them, switching off one to the next, but were forced to release them back into the wild.
"I say. This is quite a gathering." Tuck raised his cup to his hosts and to Marian, to show he hadn't forgotten the stray noble. Then he tipped it to his striped muzzle. "Ah! Simply divine. Well, I must be off. This barrow of goodies won't deliver itself." He waggled a claw toward the door.
The door swung open as guests exited in ones and twos, each exchanged for a roll of cold air along the floor. As one of the lowest in the room, the highborn fox should have minded the chill. However, the heat of dancing and the blush from dancing with her sweetheart left her warm through and through. She stood shoulder to shoulder with him as he bid goodnight to each of them by name.
All the most bacchanalian creatures sallied forth from the cottage, marching to the tune of the pipers, who had at last compromised on a single song. This left only Robin, his parents, the slumbering bear, and the scruffy mouse around Marian.
Tuck led away the carolers to Nottingham to burn the Yule goats, made from the last straw to be cut from each field around Nottingham. The carolers tied on masks with much hooting and revelry. As the procession vanished into the snowy night, these trolls trolled another ancient Yuletide carol: "Mímir, the Pickled Æsir," which helped one remember many medicinal and culinary herbs, all of which the song assured were used to restore life to the god's wayward noggin.
With the band of merrymakers out of earshot, the house stood quiet. Master Hood tidied up after his guests, while his wife saw to the last of the cooking. Robin and Marian helped gather plates and spoons, though a few were pinned under Little John and would have to be liberated later. Derwent hopped astride the big fellow, for once at the highest vantage in the room, and leaned against the wall. His whiskers danced in the firelight as he compared the evening's festivities to those of previous years.
With no other work to do or people to charm, Marian felt unsure what to do with herself. Robin, however, knew just what to do with her and sat her down beside him in front of the fire. They watched the snow, which fell in great white curtains. Somehow, her nose found its way onto his shoulder, then into his neck ruff. Even in a remote cottage in the middle of winter, she found her nose could be warm.
At the table, his parents chatted with Derwent. Little John snored, now and then emerging from hibernation long enough to comment on this or that. The Yule log crackled. All the world felt terribly cozy.
Some time later, Wrenna Hood gestured to the window. "Beg your pardon, my lady, but you'd have a tough walk back into Nottingham and to the castle. The snow's coming down thick as oatmeal."
"Oh dear." Marian looked to her companion. "Then what am I meant to do?"
Robin shrugged. "Nothing, I'd say."
"Won't the Princess wonder where I am?"
"She told you to go here and you're here." Robin crossed scrawny arms. "You did as she told you."
His mother crossed her arms. "Ah, so you do understand the concept."
The young vixen tried her best to think of why she ought to leave the comforts of her friend's little home and brave the snow all the way back to the castle, where she would only have to be warmed up again. No reasons presented themselves. Sitting on the grain ark, her feet didn't reach the floor. She relaxed against him, sleepy from so much food and running about. For a moment, she worried she might be improper, cuddling up to a boy, but his family seemed fond of her and he was just so very fluffy and warm. Then his arm slipped around her and she decided it would be proper to return the favor.
Natural hues painted the cottage interior. White chalk wash captured firelight on the walls. Grey-brown timbers told of countless scuffs, standing resolute through the decades. Table linens shimmered like frost-laced gold, here and there mended with stitched blue flowers.
The home seemed so natural that she could see why her friend considered it a far more proper way to live than towering castles and imported finery.
He wrapped his cloak around her shoulders. Her muzzle slid under his. Her head settled on his slim chest.
The Hoods and their friends spoke at the table, their words contented rumbles. Flames danced along the last branches of the Yule log. Robin's heartbeat thrummed in her ear. For the first time she could recall, Marian did nothing whatsoever. She ought not get a taste for it, she knew, but if she was to do nothing, at least she had Robin there to instruct her in the art.
At some point, she slept. She woke to the gentle vibration of Wrenna Hood wobbling her son's muzzle.
"Hmm?" His green eyes opened to faded light from the Yule fire. "Mum?"
She petted his ears. "Robin, take your friend up to bed. You'd cramp your tails sitting on that ark all night."
"Mmm." The boy shook a bit of sleep from his face, then stretched to stand. "This way, Marian."
His mother took a lit candle off the table and gestured up the stairs. "With your kind permission, my lady."
Together, they climbed the narrow stairs. The scent of apples greeted them, which her nose informed her were stored in the rafters. Marian expected the loft to be chilly, but found the cots had been warmed with hot stones wrapped in cloth. She resolved to thank the Hoods in the morning for their hospitality.
Robin slipped into his bed after her. The two small foxes found they had just enough space.
Roland pulled on his night shirt and looked over at his candlelit mate. "You're making our noble guest share a bed?"
His wife yapped a tired laugh. "If you want to pry them apart, husband, you have my blessing to try. I'm going to sleep."
Marian blushed at the conversation. Finding it had already arrived at the result she would have argued for, she decided to keep silent. So, without another word, she snuggled into her best friend's embrace and fell into a deep midwinter sleep, her muzzle safely buried in his fur.
~ ~ ~
The second preview for my new novel Marian. It's a retelling of the Robin Hood legends from Maid Marian's point of view, with a fair amount of the Reynard the Fox fables mixed in. This chapter is one of the flashbacks to when they are kids, while the bulk of the book follows them as adults. Stay tuned for more stories and art as I finish it up.
Hope you liked it. Been working on it for quite a while. Feel free to let me know what you think.
