Royal Rebel

By Dana Taylor

Courageous, captivating, cunning—the Royal Rebel leads her band of freedom fighters against the tyranny of Prince John.

Robin, the secret daughter of King Richard, fights injustice as she awaits her father’s return from the Crusades. Joining forces with arrogant knight extraordinaire, Sir Simon of Loxley, the two undertake a mission to save the kingdom.

Inspired by the classic Errol Flynn film "The Adventures of Robin Hood," "Royal Rebel" twists a beloved legend with humor, whimsical imagination, and romance.

Winner of the “Great Expectations” and “Gotcha” contests of the Romance Writers of America

(Previously published as “Princess Robin.” Any historical accuracy is strictly coincidental.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dana Taylor
• Release date: Aug 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465899118

Dana Taylor

Dana Taylor writes books with humor and inspiration. Her work as an energy healer influences her tales of flawed humans seeking spiritual and emotional healing. Born and raised in California, she graduated from the University of Redlands. She has been published in various magazines, including the Ladies Home Journal. She hosted the Internet radio program Definitely Dana! at HealthyLife.net. and won various contests with the Romance Writers of America, including Best First Book from the Desert Quill Awards. Her published works include ROYAL REBEL, AIN’T LOVE GRAND? and DEVIL MOON: A MYSTIC ROMANCE. Her non-fiction book is entitled EVER-FLOWING STREAMS OF HEALING ENERGY. Her latest release is HOPE FOR THE HOLIDAYS. She is a founding member of the on-line community SupernalFriends.com and writes a blog at DefinitelyDana.wordpress.com. She can be reached at [e-mail].

Book preview

PART ONE

A Royal Secret

PROLOGUE

Merry Olde England, A Long Time Ago

Old Madge the Healer trod through Sherwood Forest, sniffing the air for familiar herbs, keeping her good eye out for curative mushrooms. She’d wandered far from the village this day in search of the medicinal plants to replenish her dwindling supply. A quiver and bow bounced on her back, ready to take down a hare or juicy grouse for the stew pot. A flash of orange on the matted forest floor caught her attention and she cackled in delight at the circle of thick-capped mushrooms lying in her path. Her short legs carried her to the spot where she gleefully began filling her pouch with flavorful fungus.

She looked up through the trees and realized she’d traveled close to the road leading to Nottingham Castle. A royal coach clipped along the rutted road, its red and gold insignia a grand contrast against the rich greens of the hills. In an instinctive move, she sunk lower to the ground to be concealed from the blue-blooded occupants of the vehicle. Her hands on the earth felt the rumble of more pounding horses before she saw them leap onto the road and surround the carriage.

Highwaymen. Madge squinted her good eye. She knew every thief and robber in the kingdom and these knaves were not what they pretended to be. Their chins were too well shaven beneath the robber’s masks that covered their eyes. The blighters’ clothes were too well kept. And it soon became obvious that thievery was not their intent, but murder.

Squawking black birds departed at the sound of shouting men. Silver swords clashed in the slanted afternoon sun. Chestnut horses stamped, adding their equine cries to the cacophony. While the coach guards fought valiantly, they were outnumbered and overwhelmed.

Madge flattened her old carcass on the weeds and watched the ensuing carnage. One barrel-necked cutthroat yanked the coach door open and pulled out a lady dressed in an emerald gown. The thug fell back under the woman’s hard shove and lost his footing. She made a dash for the woods in Madge’s direction. Barrel-Neck gained his footing and quickly pursued. Delicate boots showed beneath the lady’s hem as she held her cumbersome skirt high to make her escape. A few yards from Madge, the noble woman tripped over a branch, cried out and fell forward.

The hunter halted before his prey and tossed back his dark cloak to reveal a soldier’s sapphire uniform—one of Prince John’s minions. Madge wanted to spit through her five good teeth. Young John was proving himself to be Satan’s own spawn. Barrel-Neck drew his sword, ready to execute his quarry without a blink of an eye. Old Madge grabbed her bow and plucked an arrow as she stood to her full gnome-like height. Zing! The arrow flew straight and true to its mark, the broad back of the blade-wielding executioner. Steel glinted in saffron sun light as the sword tumbled uselessly from his hand.

By God, she’d gotten him clean through the heart! Barrel-Neck stumbled and dropped, felled like a mighty oak.

Madge’s surge of satisfaction was short-lived as she realized she’d just killed one of Prince John’s men. She’d better make herself scarce.

But the lady. She couldn’t leave the lady to be murdered. She trotted over to the fallen woman, who continued to lay curled, moaning on the ground. Madge’s claw hand pushed the lady over on her back to reveal the titian-haired woman was greatly pregnant, holding her belly in familiar agony.

Oh, Madge knew she was in the soup for sure. Come on, my lady, you must away from here. It will only be a moment before they realize you’ve made your escape.

The lady nodded and forced herself up. You must help me. I must save my babe.

Madge recognized the woman now--Lady Rosalind, rumored to be King Richard’s beloved. Madge hoisted Rosalind to her feet. They disappeared into the dense underbrush, an ashen hag and a rose-lipped beauty, both intent on protecting an unborn child.

Hours later, deep in the heart of Sherwood Forest, a dim hut bustled with the activity of childbirth. Old Madge’s assistant, Bethy, wiped Lady Rosalind’s brow. Madge hoped the highborn woman had the strength to finish the birthing process.

Push, my lady, just a bit more. You’re almost there.

Rosalind’s scream rent the evening air. Madge and Bethy did all they could for the Lady, but the fall and the long trek to the village had taken their toll. Hours of labor had left the once exquisite noblewoman wan and sallow. But it was over. A babe’s cry filled the hut. Using all of her healing abilities, Madge tried to stop the bleeding, but in vain. She felt a weak hand on her arm.

The babe is Richard’s child. I’ve waited and waited. But he’s not come and now it’s too late. Too late. Tell Richard…tell Richard that I loved him so…

Lady Rosalind drifted to death, crimson blood pumping from her womb until all strength was gone. Old Madge knew she’d lost the battle. Rosalind’s beautiful face turned white as marble, peaceful as a portrait. A tear spilled from Madge’s good eye and Bethy nudged her.

It’s a girl, Madge. Fair and pink, she is. Already looking for her mother’s breast, poor sprite.

Madge took the swaddled infant in her arms, a miracle in her hands. She pushed back the blanket hood on the small head. A full cap of copper-red hair covered the delicate skull. And sure enough, the cherry mouth opened like a nestling baby bird.

Weel, it’s a wee robin been birthed today. A royal bird at that. I christen thee…Princess Robin.

CHAPTER ONE

Twenty Years Later

Robin paused in the jetty-dark, secret passage of Nottingham Castle and peered through the peek hole into the grand dining hall. Her hands scraped the cold grey stonewall as she leaned in for a better view. Amber firelight cast flickering shadows on the rows of rough wooden tables filled with castle lackeys. The smell of charred meat, sour bread, and yeasty beer assailed her nostrils. Mongrel dogs wandered about grabbing errant gristled bones.

There they sat at the main table, the usurpers and masters of the downtrodden, filling their fat faces with mutton and ale, laughing in drunken merriment with no care of the misery that lay just outside the castle walls. Misery brought on by their greed and treachery. Her hands formed tense fists; her stomach clenched at the sight of her enemies.

Oh, how she hated them—the pretender king, Prince John, and his hawked-nose Chancellor, Lord Basil. And how she longed to take her rightful place on the royal dais, next to the rightful King, Richard. Richard the Lion Heart they called him. Her secret father.

Robin dreamed of the life she would lead if ever Richard would return from the Holy Lands on his interminable Crusades. But there he stayed; allowing his brother to rule in his stead, thinking all was well, when all was rotten. She understood why Richard avoided the painful return to England when his beloved Rosalind was dead, and her unborn babe supposedly with her. He remained ignorant of John’s treachery in setting highwaymen to attack Rosalind’s carriage. Her escape with the old healer into the forest where she gave birth and then expired remained a sworn secret to a handful of forest inhabitants.

And Richard never, never knew of the daughter who daily fought his battles at home. Princess Robin--ruler of beggars, orphans, widows and all outcasts of good society.

Robin, the Royal Rebel.

Robin traveled the secret passages of the castle with the stealth of a cat. Her task tonight was simple, one she’d performed many times in the past years, so she took a few moments to watch the evening’s revelry. A new face sat beside John this evening. A fair maiden, indeed, with her blond hair and flowing golden gown. Robin glanced down at her own simple grey woolen clothing, men’s garments worn to perform dangerous work. Perhaps someday, circumstances would change and she would wear colorful, courtly dresses.

Double-chinned John spoke with the slur of too much ale. Come Lady Marion, sing a song for us! The beauty of your voice is legend. Sing me a love song for our coming nuptials.

Marion looked anything but happy as she sat demurely next to the self-indulgent Prince. I fear I am not in good voice this evening, Your Highness.

Lord Basil leaned toward the lady and spoke with snake-like coldness. The Prince has commanded a song.

A lute was thrust into Marion’s hand. Her fair face colored with distress, her wispy light hair fluttering in the drafty hall. She appeared close to tears as she strummed the strings. White fingers plucked haltingly on the instrument. Her voice drifted like mist, shallow and thin.

"Away, my love, away!

To meet me on the bright new day…"

Tears streamed down Marion’s face and she lost the ability to sing. The room of soldiers, scullery maids and token royalty mocked the weeping girl. John leered with obvious lascivious intent. Robin figured the thought of fornicating the disgusting ruler would make anyone cry.

Suddenly, a strong baritone voice picked up the melody.

"Away, my love, all troubles we will slay…"

A tall stranger, dressed in brilliant clothes, sang and strolled through the crowd. Multi-colored ribbons crossed his vest and he wore tight breeches of the brightest blue Robin had ever seen on a man. His face seemed almost chiseled to perfection with dark, handsome features marked by a deep-cleft chin. Black wavy hair caught the fire’s glint. Broad shoulders stretched the fine material of his clothes.

Though his voice sent an unknown thrill of awareness through Robin, she immediately dismissed the good-looking singer as a mere entertainer, a court jester. He probably peddled false remedies to gullible peasants. Still, he possessed a voice that sent rumbles to her belly and she sighed when he drew closer to the royal table while singing to the lovely Marion. As he finished his song, Marion appeared greatly cheered and happily accepted a bouquet of magenta and yellow flowers that magically sprang from the jester’s sleeve.

Best wishes, my Lady, on a happy future.

Thank you, kind sir. Marion’s sweet voice echoed through the stone hall.

I say, Jester, said the Prince. I don’t recall seeing your face before in my royal presence. And God knows I’d remember those clothes!

Everyone in the hall laughed at the Prince’s great joke. Amuse me. Can you perform tricks? Can you throw knives, perchance?

The tall jester looked askance. Knives, Your Majesty? Perish the thought! I am but a humble singer and juggler. Knives and swords send me into a swoon. But let me show you this game of many-colored scarves while I sing you a song about a certain notorious nobleman from Normandy.

Robin stared at the sharp profile of the unknown jester as he began his bawdy song while juggling a circle of weighted scarves in the air. Too bad such a fine figure of a male was wasted on a foolish clown.

Well, she thought, enough lollygagging, to work my girl. Slipping away as quietly as possible, Robin ascended the dark stairs to the Chancellor’s special chambers.

CHAPTER TWO

A stone rolled back in the wall of Lord Basil’s room as Robin slipped from the secret passage, then closed in place behind her. She lit a small candle and hurried to the desk, barely glancing about the familiar room with its chests, boxes and assorted pieces of loot stolen by the Prince’s henchmen. Brass goblets, silver candlesticks, strands of iridescent pearls, rubies and emeralds glittered in the light.

She imagined Lord Basil basked in the glory of his ill-gotten gain. A mahogany wardrobe towered in the corner. Beside it, a cot rested against one wall. Maybe the villain slept there grasping strings of fine gems. Bloodless lovers for a bloodthirsty fiend.

Robin pulled a packet from her bosom and unfolded the ochre parchment. She smiled at the perfect forgery of an order from Prince John commanding a transfer of gold from the royal treasury to the bearer of the note. Some of John’s outrageous tax revenue would be handed over to her ambassador—her mentor, teacher and surrogate father, Friar Tuck. The wily holy man would procure the funds, then purchase items necessary for the inhabitants of Sherwood Forest. And the Prince would be none the wiser. She grabbed the golden royal seal, melted a dollop of wax, and pressed the mark. She folded the precious paper and placed it against her heart for safekeeping.

At that moment, a jiggling at the door caught her attention. She blew out the candle and made her way toward the secret exit, heard the lock on the door spring and knew she had no time for escape. Robin felt her way in the darkness and found the wardrobe. She slipped inside the opening and pulled the door closed behind her. A few garments hung in the cedar closet. She shoved her way to the side wall and stood against the wood. For once her cursed lack of height worked to her advantage.

Someone entered the chamber and lit a candle. Robin tilted her head to peek through the crack where two boards didn’t quite come together.

God’s teeth, it was the new jester! Though cloaked in black, she recognized the strong cleft chin, the shock of wavy black hair. What the devil was he doing? It soon became obvious--the man was nothing but a common thief!

Well, to be fair, Robin only consorted with thieves and criminals, but in her case crime served the greater good. This popinjay was obviously only out to fleece the Prince and be on his merry way.

Darn picky he was, too. He rejected gold necklaces, candlesticks and every assortment of jewels. Finally, his hand lit on a shiny wooden box. He withdrew a tiny key from his pocket and turned the box’s lock. As he lifted the lid, he smiled in delight--a rather beguiling smile she had to admit. Just as he was about to take the contents from the box, the door rattled. He slammed the lid, locked the box and blew out the candle, casting Robin into darkness once more.

When the wardrobe shook, Robin realized she was no longer alone in her hiding place. The tall thief had joined her and soon bumped into her body. He grazed her arm, obviously recognized flesh and bone when he felt it and immediately flung his hand about her neck. She gasped and stood neatly pinned against the wooden plank behind her. The stranger made a quick search of her waistband with his free hand, discovered and removed the knife she kept hooked in the top of the man’s pants.

Lord Basil entered and lit a wall sconce as Robin and the jester made their unintentional acquaintance. His hand patted her person in a search for more weapons and froze on the rise of her breast. His face was barely visible in the light shining through the cracks of the wardrobe now, but she saw his eyes widen at his discovery as he bent uncomfortably over her. His grip lessened on her throat as his other hand traveled a leisurely path across her chest to her other breast, this time cupping it, with a caress. He smiled, damn him, and his teeth gleamed in the darkness.

No longer in danger of being strangled, Robin grabbed his wandering hand between hers and pulled back hard on his thumb until he released her neck and nodded a surrender with his head.

They knew their lives depended on remaining very still and quiet with Lord Basil in the room. Both their heads turned to view the actions of the Chancellor through the crack. The jester placed his hands on Robin’s shoulders for support. Her arms wrapped around him for balance. Thus, the two strangers found themselves entwined together and utterly trapped.

Basil appeared in no hurry as he approached his desk, adjusted his blood-red robes, sat and began composing a letter. He poured himself a goblet of burgundy wine, jerky movements betraying his already inebriated state.

Robin knew from frequent observations that the castle inhabitants drank themselves into a stupor on a nightly basis. Basil’s ink quill scratched the parchment as he mumbled to himself. His jeweled hand could decree insufferable hardships to the masses with the stroke of a pen. Robin vaguely wondered what grievous new law he was concocting to squeeze the peasants dry.

However, her ability to concentrate on Basil was greatly hindered by the man in her arms. Her head nestled beside the jester’s cheek as her chest rested against his. She’d rarely been this close to a man--well, truth be known, she’d never been this close to a man before. Unless you counted brief hugs with Friar Tuck, who smelled of wine and garlic. Oh, she’d occasionally been in mock combat with fellow soldiers on training exercises. But this sustained holding, this breathing in and breathing out, this feeling the other’s heart beating against hers was an entirely new experience.

It was most peculiar, really. At first their breathing had been short, nervous, out of sync, but as the minutes ticked by, breaths grew in length and took on a rhythmic unity. His exhalations tickled her temple and sent funny shivers down her spine. He smelled nothing like the old Friar. The warm stranger in her arms permeated her senses with a spicy, enticing new scent to be added to her catalog of aromas. Something about the jester’s aura reminded her of coming home to a warm cottage on a rain-soaked day. Without thinking, she snuggled closer.

His grip on her shoulder loosened and changed to a caress on her upper arms. Heat emanated from his body, engulfing her in its wave. Could a person melt from such an embrace? For something in her innards seemed to be doing just that—melting, warming, pooling. She was somehow losing herself in this man and would have pushed him away if her life hadn’t depended on staying still. She would truly have pushed away, wouldn’t she?

Now his head moved ever-so-slightly and nuzzled her brow. Tiny, tender wisps of kisses ran across her forehead and she helplessly turned her face toward him. Reason thoroughly fled as the moment took on a dream-like quality, wrapped in warmth, filled with unknown longings. She followed instinct and lifted her mouth up, slightly open to the lips that explored her eyelids and cheeks, teasing her until she wanted to beg a kiss, a real kiss. Her first kiss. And then her wish was fulfilled as his mouth settled on hers, a tender brushing at first, followed by a thorough exploration sending quivers down to her toes. Time ceased to exist as his lips stirred, aroused and utterly overwhelmed her.

He pulled away and she uttered a mournful, Oh…

Reality struck; she’d made a noise. They were done for! Her head turned quickly to see Lord Basil’s reaction to her blunder.

The room was empty.

The Chancellor left several minutes ago, m’sweet closet mouse. The jester’s baritone whisper vibrated against her ear.

With a quick intake of breath and a sudden withdrawal of her arms, Robin shoved his chest with all her might and sent the jester rolling out of the wardrobe. She scrambled out of the enclosure into the chamber. Fury and embarrassment overcame her as she realized she’d been so besotted by this interloper, this clown, that Lord Basil’s exit had gone completely unnoticed.

She hissed at the jester as she straightened the dark woolen cloak that covered her shirt and breeches. Her hand pushed wild red hair out of her face. Fiend! Thief! Bounder!

The jester laughed, his white teeth shining in his darkly handsome face. His arms crossed over the bright jester’s vest. The wee mouse can speak. So what are you about? Thievery? Murder, perhaps? Were you planning on planting your knife in the heart of our illustrious Chancellor?

Robin clamped her mouth tight, thinking. Best make the knave think she was about simple theft. She put on her poorest country accent. I’m ‘ere same as you, Sir. Just came to lift a bauble or two from the Prince’s treasury. ‘E won’t miss a trifle and me poor sick mum needs a few coins for bread and such. There’s plenty here for the two of us to pinch.

His eyes blinked in surprise. You think I’m a common thief?

Well, ain’t ye?

He hesitated slightly and then smiled. Of course. A thief, just like you. I must say nothing has pleasured my thieving soul as much as stealing a few kisses from you, my little country mouse.

Infuriated by the memory of her closet capitulation, the princess dropped her role-playing. Stop calling me a mouse, you worthless fop.

He raised one ebony eyebrow and bowed slightly. Forgive me. Perhaps we should be properly introduced. I am Sir Simon, entertainer to the royalty of the realm. And whom do I have the honor of addressing?

Robin pursed her lips. She needed to make her escape but daren’t reveal the secret passage.

Sir Simon began to make a leisurely circle around her. Ah, a mystery woman, hm? Or are you using that old feminine ploy of playing hard to get? It’s a little late for that now, after our entanglement in the closet. He slid his arm around her shoulder. Come along, sweetheart, tell me your name and perhaps we can steal away to my room and finish what we started in yon wardrobe. I can’t think of a more pleasant way to spend the evening.

Even though his intoxicating scent surrounded her once again, she fought the curious power he had over her and elbowed him hard in the ribs.

Ooof… He backed away and rubbed his side.

Keep your hands off me, Jester. I’m not a scullery wench to be used for your pleasure.

Simon’s eyes narrowed and he approached her once again as a cat stalks its prey. No, I can hear from your speech now that you are not the country mouse I at first mistook you for. You’re not just stealing some bauble for your mum here, are you? What is your game, red-headed witch?

Robin backed away. Her darting gaze lit upon a jewel-handled sword. She grabbed it, swirled about and caught the tip of the blade neatly under Sir Simon’s chin.

Stay perfectly still. I would not hesitate to run this steel through your throat and ruin your warbling singing voice.

Simon leaned back from the sharp end and looked down on his fiery opponent with obvious amusement. Be careful, Mouse; ‘twould be a shame if you cut yourself.

With that, he deftly kicked the sword from her hands, sending it flying across the room. Robin turned instinctively to run, and though she pushed a few obstacles in his path, there was nowhere for her to hide. She was trapped as surely as a bird in a cage. He caught her from behind with his arm about her waist, lifting her in the air as if she were a pouch of feathers. She kicked and squirmed until he hurled her onto the cot against the wall. She lay flat on her back with him straddled above her. He clamped his hands over hers above her head; his superior strength easily overwhelmed all the fighting spirit in her diminutive body. Oh, how she wished for the might of a warrior.

She bucked in frustration. Let me go or you’ll be sorry.

He smiled a lazy grin. "On the contrary, I’ll be very sorry if I do let you go. Now where were we? Ah yes. Your name."

His vise-like grip offered no escape, so she feigned capitulation. Oh, very well. I’ll tell you if you’ll let me up.

He stared down at her as if weighing her sincerity. She forced herself to relax and sighed in surrender, tucking her head so he could no longer read her eyes.

He smiled smugly and eased his hold. Now you’re being sensible.

Robin scooted away and sat up on the cot, out of his snare. She eyed the door and decided she’d take her chances dashing down the hall and escaping into the shadows. Surely her speed would be an advantage.

It’s…Rumplestilzkin!

She leapt across a trunk and had the door half open when he slammed it shut and twirled her about, once again using brute force to suspend her against the wooden surface.

Tamping down the urge to kick and scream, she maintained her dignity. I’m getting exceedingly tired of being your captive, Sir Ridiculous.

His hands locked her arms at her sides as he lowered her to the floor. Sir Simon. You may call me Simon. I must say this is the most fun I’ve had since I took a steam bath in a Sultan’s harem.

Let me go, Fool. We could be discovered at any moment and our lives wouldn’t be worth a tinker’s dam.

Lord Basil finished off a jug of port. He’s probably snoring on his brocade bedspread. Besides, if he does appear, I’ll say I heard a noise and discovered you stealing his lordship’s gems.

Oh, fine. You’d save your neck and turn me over to the executioners. I can imagine what they’d do to me before I felt the blade at the chopping block.

Such a lovely neck and pretty face. Simon’s hands moved up her arms and cradled the side of her skull. ’Twould be a shame indeed to see such a beautiful head severed from its firm little body.

His thumbs caressed her throat with small circles as those shivers again tingled down her spine. He closed the