Free A Hoboken Hipster In Sherwood Forest by Mari AKA Marianne Mancusi

harp and strums a few chords, and soon the camp is alive with the sounds of music, bawdy singing, and laughter.
    And I'm clearly the hero of Sherwood Forest.
     
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    After a time, the music dwindles and the fire smolders in its ashes. The mead has made us dull and lazy, and talk replaces song. I lay my head down on a patch of grassy leaves, wishing I'd brought my comfy camping chair with me or my memory foam pillow. Not to mention some kind of portable shower device with good steamy hot water pressure. And deodorant sure wouldn't go amiss. One day in medieval England and I'm filthy sweaty, and reek of smoke. Good thing they think I'm one of the guys, 'cause I certainly don't feel very girly.
    "How goes it in the villages these days?" Little John asks the Miller's wife.
    "Bad and getting worse, I'd say," 'she answers glumly. "I'd give me right arm for King Richard to return, I would. My left too, if he could knock that bastard Prince John and the Sheriff of Nottingham from power."
    "That bad, huh?" I ask.
    "We are starving, lad, while Prince John sits on a throne and stuffs himself with roast quail, fruits and cheeses. He grows fat while our children die of starvation. And does he care? No, he does not."
    "Me wife says the same," pipes up another man. "The taxmen raid the villages daily, taking bread from the mouths of babes."
    " 'Tis a damn shame, to be sure."
    "If only King Richard were to return."
    "Aye! Now there's a thought—King Richard back on the throne. We would all be free men. Pardoned for the crimes we did not commit."
    "Outlaws no longer. We would be back with our families."
    "We would regain our lands. Plow our own fields."
    "I remember moaning about plowing a field. What I would not give to have the chance to moan about it again."
    The bitching goes on and on 'til I can't stand it any more. What happened to the brave outlaws of the storybooks, the ones who risked their lives to better those of their countrymen? The Robin Hood I knew didn't hide away like a coward in the forest, drinking mead, chowing on roast deer and complaining about the government. He helped people. He stood up to The Man. Did the storybooks get it wrong? Or am I now in some kind of parallel back-in-time universe where Robin Hood was simply Prince of Pansies?
    I think back to the little girl in the hut earlier today. Her grubby hands, her gaunt, half-starved face. Parallel universe or not, I can't just sit around and let that happen. Besides, I've got time to kill while I wait for King Richard to show up with the Grail. Might as well make myself useful. Change history for the better and all that.
    "Why don't you stop complaining about the situation and do something about it?" I demand, making my decision. I just hope it doesn't get me kicked out of the camp. I'm likely on thin ice as it is, after defending Mrs. Much.
    "But what can we do?" asks Little John, with a shrug of his linebacker shoulders. "We are outlaws. We cannot live in the villages. Therefore we cannot take jobs to earn bread for our families."
    "Besides, even if we did manage to find work, all the wages we earned would be taxed until there's nothing left."
    "Bah, forget work," I say, scrambling to my feet. "I've got a better plan."
    I'm getting a bunch of skeptical looks, and half of me wants to just sit down and shut up, but I swallow hard and continue.
    "Together, you've got a small army here," I say, gesturing to the group. "And I bet you know Sherwood Forest a lot better than any of the sheriff's men."
    "Aye," agree a couple of the men.
    "And I'm sure you're much cleverer than all of those bozos put together." I add. It's funny how easy it is to rouse men to action by playing on their egos.
    "Aye!" I get a few cheers and chuckles this time.
    "And who's better with a bow than our dear old Robin here?" I say , looking down on the outlaw, praying that at least the legends didn't get that part wrong.
    "He's the best in the land!" calls out Allan a Dale, strumming his