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“Ah, ” he said, and his hand took mine again, tight. “Hurting you is the best way I know to punish myself. And, despite that I’m not much proud of it, I can’t truly control myself when I see you even looking at John. ” He chuckled. “Or Jenny Percy. ”
“Christ, you’re a stupid boy, ” I said, shaking my head.
“And you still haven’t said what I want to hear. ”
I met his eyes. “What do you want to hear?”
“If I’m a fool to even think about you. ” He looked down.
“If you’re with John. ”
I smiled a little. “Are you a fool? Of course. I ain’t the sort of girl you ought to have. The sort you deserve. ” I pressed my mouth to his knuckles, then looked up to his ocean eyes. “But tucked inside of you is the only place my heart’s ever been at home. ” A grin took over my mouth. “And I weren’t never with John. ”
His fi ngers loosed mine, and before I could cry their loss, his trembly hand slid over my cheek. “I’ll keep your heart, Scar, ” he whispered. “If you keep mine. ”
I nodded. Fair shy, I touched his face, running over a bruise on his cheek. He let me, closing his eyes and dropping his hands from my face as I touched his skin.
“Gisbourne won’t stop looking for me, even with the Sheriff gone. ”
His hand gripped my knee. “You can’t ever go back to him— you know that, yes?”
“Yes. ”
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He nodded. “He won’t have such an easy time of it now. The new sheriff won’t be named for a while, and until then, the land reverts to King Richard— and Prince John’s care while he’s away. Gisbourne lacks authority here now. And when a new sheriff is appointed, they’ll have to start with rebuilding the keep. We’ve got time. ”
He groaned, and my lip twisted. “Do you want to rest?” I asked.
Rob nodded, and I helped him lie on his side, lowering him down to his pallet by the fi re. Moving closer to him, I hung there, unsure and leaning over him. I were fair shy to do it, but I kissed his cheek.
He caught my hand and tugged me closer before I moved away. “Stay here, ” he said. “Please. ”
“I wouldn’t go nowhere, ” I told him.
He tugged again. “Stay
here,
” he said, and kept tugging till I were against him. He pulled my hips against his, my back to his front, and held on tight to me. His breath huff ed into my hair and shivers broke like fi re sparks all over my body. I squeezed his hand. “We’ll keep fi ghting. For the people, and for you and me. ”
“One day, we’ll all be free. ”
I sighed, looking at the glowing tongues of the fi re. “Or we’ll be dead. But then, I suppose that’s a kind of freedom too. ”
He twisted our fi ngers together again. It seemed to be how he best liked my hand, like we could tie us together as easy as braiding fi ngers. “Let’s try not to be quite that free, Scar. ” He 212-47765_ch01_1P.indd 286
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were quiet for a moment, and his nose nudged my head. “Should I be calling you Marian now?”
I sighed. “Not sure. I never wanted to be Marian, but it’s not as easy as just saying I never were. Or that all I am is Scarlet. ”
“Maybe I’ll call you Lady Gisbourne. ”
“You can try. See how long you live. ”
He pulled me closer, and I took a breath, letting my shoulders roll back against him. His breath went slow and even, and it settled in my chest till I breathed the same. I were cut and clobbered, but holding his hand, deep in Sherwood, even as a married woman, I never felt so safe, and I never felt so free. 212-47765_ch01_1P.indd 287
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A U T H O R ’ S N O T E
Why did I want to retell the story of Robin Hood when there are already so many diff erent versions and interpretations of the Robin Hood legend? Between the numerous books, TV
shows, and movies, there’s obviously already a lot of material out there. Yet it’s a story that gets continually retold in almost every generation.
I felt compelled to write
Scarlet
because I really love Robin Hood. I have always been fascinated with him— the pain he must have endured, and how tough and strong he was— but especially because he was tough
for
the people he loved and strong
because
of their love. That was the best part. My Robin is a little younger and perhaps a little moodier than most Robin Hoods, but I couldn’t change much else about him— because I have loved every juicy detail I could collect about the classic Robin Hood legend.
Little about Robin is known for sure. Some historians believe that Robin Hood must have been an outlaw in the twelfth century; others insist it was a name given to many outlaws in early medieval times. Most legends place Robin in Sherwood Forest, but there are historical references to many diff erent parts of En gland. There is no one person historians can agree was the real Robin Hood. If he did really exist, historians believe that he could have lived at any time during a 212-47765_ch01_1P.indd 289
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roughly two-hundred-year stretch from the twelfth to the fourteenth centuries. His title, history, and personal ethos all vary dramatically, but the one thing that remains the same through all Robin Hood stories is that he robs the rich to give to the poor.
Whether or not Robin participated in the Crusades, the story is typically set during the time of King Richard I, when En gland had a heroic king who was never at home, and King Richard’s jealous brother Prince John was left to manage the country. This fi ts so well because Prince John did in fact heavily tax the people of En gland to pay for King Richard’s ransom at the end of the Crusades (he was captured by an Austrian duke who, frankly, was kind of kicking him when he was down, but that’s another story)— even though John didn’t really want his brother to come back to En gland. I’ve thought a lot about the kind of ruler John must have been to allow for an environment where Robin Hood had to exist. He may not be directly involved in Scarlet’s story, but he is the driving force behind the deterioration of Nottinghamshire’s situation. Within the last hundred years, most Robin Hood stories have featured Robin as an outlaw, typically a former noble, who resides in Sherwood Forest. There’s a little wiggle room with the cast of characters (Little John, Will Scarlet, Friar Tuck, Much, Allan A Dale, to name a few); as versions pick and choose and reinterpret, I’ve certainly done the same. Traditionally, the stories see Friar Tuck as a drunken monk, Little John as a brawny woodsman, Much the Miller’s son as the quintessential villager, and Will Scarlet as Robin’s closest friend. 212-47765_ch01_1P.indd 290
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A U T H O R ’ S
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Will Scarlet is always shown with his knives, usually wearing red, and often portrayed as the moody or more mysterious one of the band. To each of these traditional characters I’ve made my own adjustments so that I could portray one way that Robin’s story might have begun: Tuck is a slightly drunken barkeep, Little John is still brawny but has a heart beneath his fl irtatious exterior, Much is (I hope) more complex but still the one who best fi ts in with the townspeople. Then there’s Scarlet— mysterious, moody, and handy with knives, she’s obviously connected to the legacy of Will Scarlet and yet wholly diff erent. Other characters, like Allan A Dale, aren’t in
Scarlet
because at the time of my story, Rob is still a young man and hasn’t met many people beyond the local townspeople and his fellow Crusaders. John and Much, however, are— in modern terminology— his “boys. ”
I also took liberties with the rest of the history, ballads, and interpretations that have come before mine— especially regarding Marian, and, by proxy, my dear Scarlet. Reading the stories and watching the movies, I always found Marian problematic, because though I had a crush on Robin, I could never see myself as Marian. She was always doe-eyed and waiting to be rescued— not exactly something I identifi ed with, nor what Rob really deserved. Come on, a simpering maiden for the dashing, brave, angsty Robin Hood? To me, true love is about fi nding someone who not only sees and accepts your demons but also is willing to step up and fi ght them when you stumble. Marian couldn’t do that for Robin, but Scarlet certainly could. I am intrigued by the idea that history could have been 212-47765_ch01_1P.indd 291
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rewritten to take a girl named Scarlet and, over the centuries, turn her into Will Scarlet— one of Robin Hood’s Merry Men. I like to think of history as a very long game of Telephone; it’s never going to come out at the end exactly (or even close) to the way it started. So as the legends and ballads got passed along—
and because there’s a long tradition of writing women out of history and an inability to believe that a mere girl could do all that Scarlet does— people heard the story wrong and passed along their changed versions of it.
Is it possible that Will Scarlet might have been a girl? Absolutely. Like I said, there’s virtually no historical fact, and the legends mostly started from ballads that were spoken and changed several times within the course of a day, much less over centuries. Women like Eleanor of Aquitaine prove that medieval women could be tough and smart and incredibly cunning. So why couldn’t Scar really exist?
There will always be people who think a woman— especially a young woman— isn’t capable of all that Scarlet believes she is. I don’t buy it. If history didn’t leave a place for a strong (and yes, sometimes unbelievably grumpy) young woman to exist, then it is my plea sure and delight to shake things up and start making some revisions. 212-47765_ch01_1P.indd 292
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A R O B I N H O O D S A M P L E R
(TK)
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A C K N O W L E D G M E N T S
I knew I wanted to be a published author when I was in the fi rst grade; all along the way, I’ve found naysayers and rejections aplenty, but what has really stuck with me is the true generosity of spirit that so many people have off ered me. This list is a shabby microcosm of all the people who truly deserve my thanks.
To my superstar agent, Minju Chang, thank you for being the fi rst one to believe in Scarlet. Your enthusiasm and passion have gotten us this far, and I’m so grateful. Thank you to my amazing editors, Emily Easton and Mary Kate Castellani, who both loved Scarlet as she was and also saw ways to make her shine that little bit more. You both inspire Wayne’s World-esque “I am not worthys”!
Thank you to the rest of the team at Walker and Bloomsbury, including Jennifer Healey who, as a copy editor, picks up on things that my mind can’t even pro cess (I used that word
how many times
?), the foreign rights team, and the design and marketing teams. I’ve heard it takes a village, but in reality it just takes one amazing publishing house. Thank you all for being a part of it with me.
To Panera Bread— refi llable Diet Coke and/or tea is a godsend. Cheers. To the W Boston hotel, thank you for letting me write in the wee hours of the morning.
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To Alex, Iggy, Ashley, Nacie, Leah, and Renee— beta readers, test dummies, cabinets that I throw emotional pasta against, you are unconditional friends that cheer me on, support me, distract me, and occasionally give me vivisection faces when you know I’m wrong. Nothing but love.
To Connie Chapin, Greer Underwood, Meaghan Delahunt, John Burnside, Debbie Harris, the incomparable and very much missed Catherine Doyle, and all the other En glish teachers that have supported and taught me, I was forever changed by the love you have for your profession. Your students are listening, and you are changing their lives. Thank you.
To Kev and Mike— whoever thought my biggest cheerleaders would be two dudes? Thank you for always standing beside me and laughing at me until I remember to laugh at myself. Best brothers ever.
To my mum, who both knew with absolute certainty that this day would come and yet also acknowledges that it’s a bit of a miracle that it did; and to my dad, who gave me a great education, love, encouragement, and a total addiction to books (but I still don’t want to read
Stranger in a Strange Land.
Sorry, Dad!). You both taught me what joy there is in the written word. Thank you.
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