The untold story of Robyn Hoode. Prologue

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Action and Adventure  |  House: Booksie Classic
This will be an ongoing adventure story featuring the legendary Robin Hood as never been told before.

Submitted: July 25, 2017

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Submitted: July 25, 2017



The untold adventures of Robyn Hoode.


1191 The third crusade, Jerusalem.


‘Oh god, help me!’

The plea was a whisper escaping between dry parched and cracked lips, from lungs that burned from the devilishly searing hot sun.

The crucified soldier’s head hung down on his chest, his long sweat soaked lank hair covered his face. He was one of dozens of soldiers captured by the Devil’s own men, those ruthless assassins of Salahadin. With their white toothed grins and oiled beards and dark soulless eyes and dark skin.

They were the elite of Salahadin’s army. They moved liked ghosts unseen and unheard. Their weapon skills and unarmed combat skills were unmatched by Good King Richard’s men.

The crucified soldier had never seen anyone fight with such, grace, such technique and such deadly force. He admired them for it, even though they had captured him, tortured him in ways that he could never have imagined in his worst nightmares. And now they had crucified him and a dozen of his comrades on a hill overlooking their failed attempt at gaining control of the holy city of God.

He knew he was close to death; his breath came in short agonising rasps. He was lucky he thought strangely that when it came to his turn to be made a martyr and nailed to a cross like his saviour. They had actually run out of nails.

He had laughed as they argued and gesticulated in their barbarous tongue with each other over the predicament. So they bound him to the wooden cross with leather thongs, which now had stopped the blood flow to his hands and feet which had turned a nasty purple and had gone numb hours ago.

‘Oh god, help me!’

How long had he been hanging there? Hours, days, years, an eternity it felt like. He could not remember anything of his life up until this moment. His body at last had gone completely numb, devoid of any feeling. Perhaps God had heard his cries and in his benevolent mercy had taken away his pain and suffering.

Slowly noises, sounds began to filter into his tortured brain, at first he could not make out what they were, then a snort and a whinny filtered through; Horses the jingling of horse trappings and armour and weapons.

Perhaps the enemy had grown tired of watching them die slowly; perhaps they had found mercy in their black hearts and had ridden out from the city to put an end to their suffering.

He tried to lift his head to defiantly look his enemy in the eyes one last time, but the effort was too great.

A horse with rider stopped before him as a hand grabbed his hair and lifted his head up. The pain of the movement was excruciating. The soldier opened his eyes but could not focus. The glint of metal a helmet and a crest of somesort stared at him.

‘This one is still lives, my King.’ The voice, English with a Wessex accent to it. The sound was like that of an angel singing in his ears. He was saved. He tried to laugh then, but could not muster up the strength to do so, instead a gurgle like that of a babe escaped from his mouth.

‘Then cut him down, quickly, man.’ The strong voice of a leader shouted.

‘Aye, my King,’ was the quick reply as his bonds were cut and he was lifted down to the ground.

‘There is another alive, my King,’ Another voice echoed in his ears. ‘There’s just the two of them.’

Quickly knight give him water, just dab his lips with it, do not let him drink he will choke.’ The King ordered.

Oh the feeling of dampness on his burned chapped lips, pain and wondrous pleasure all at once. Slowly a trickle passed his lips and dripped onto his dry swollen tongue.

He coughed and spluttered as it hit the back of his throat. He could not even swallow; his tongue was so swollen and thick.

Again a small amount was dabbed on his lips, and then a wet cloth was wiped across his face.

The soldier opened his eyes. Slowly his blurred vision began to sharpen. A man, a knight stood over him, his armour gleaming in the sun. On his helmet there was a circlet of gold. His tabard was white with an emblazoned Lion.

‘My... King!’ The soldier croaked as tears spilled from his eyes.

‘You are lucky to be alive, soldier. Thank God for that mercy.’ The King said. ‘What is your name?’

The soldier coughed beckoned for a sip of water, swilled it around his mouth and croaked.

‘I am a yeoman in the third division of the Nottinghamshire Ravens; my name is Will Scathelocke, my King.’

‘Well, Will Scathelocke of the Nottinghamshire Ravens, it seems you and your comrade are very lucky to be alive indeed.’ Then turning to one of his men, The King shouted, ‘What is the other fellow’s name?’

‘He says he is an archer his name is, Hoode, my King, Robyn Hoode,’ the knight replied.

‘Well then, Will Scathelocke and Robyn Hoode, I think you have earned yourselves a place on the next ship to our stronghold in Cyprus where you can rest and gain your strength before returning to us when we take Jerusalem back for the whole of Christendom.’

‘Aye, my King.’ Will answered proudly.

Looking over to where his comrade, Will mustered up the strength to call to him, ‘Still with us eh, Robyn?’

Robyn lifted his head. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat, yet his long strong features still showed from beneath his straggly filth encrusted beard. His eyes were still as keen as a hawk’s and a deep emerald green.

‘Ay, my brother,’ Robyn croaked before taking a sip of water. ‘Cyprus, eh? They say the local women there are exotic looking, and how shall I say, Very welcoming to visitors.’ Robyn cracked a smile and winked at Will.

 Will laughed. ‘Same old Hoode! Even a crucifixion hasn’t changed you eh? You little stocking ferret.’

Robyn laughed and raised his cup, ‘To Cyprus, brother.’

‘Aye to Cyprus, brother.’

© Copyright 2017 Celtic-Scribe63. All rights reserved.

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