The Man of Her Dreams

(a Robin of Sherwood ADULT story by Jette Goldie)

Disclaimers as standard - I do not own Robin of Sherwood or any of the characters therein.

This was the first ever ADULT story I wrote, in answer to a drunken challenge ("I don't write erotica", "That's cos you can't" "Oh yes I can" - this is the result, rough around the edges as it is)

Man of Her Dreams.

Tabitha started at the sudden noise. The forest was a fearful place at this hour and she shivered in fright at each shadow and owl hoot.

It was totally dark; the last hour of the night before dawn, so the girl hurried her pace. The old woman had been quite specific about the timing of the ceremony. She had to be gazing into the sacred pool just as the sun rose.

Brambles and bracken tore at her skirts as she moved and a chill air forced her to pull her shawl close around her head shoulders, but she could not slow down for the sky was growing light.

Ahead in a clearing she saw the glimmer of water and knew that she had reached the place. By a circular pool, which seemed to regular to be natural, stood a moss covered statue. The figure was faceless but female. Some said that it was the image of a saint or of the Holy Virgin, others that it was some ancient, pagan goddess, but all agreed that she guarded the spring and blessed the waters with the power of clear sight.

Tabitha knelt by the side of the pool, waiting for the moment of sunrise so that she might see him.

It was hard to tell, deep within the forest, just when the orb of the sun slipped above the horizon and she feared that she would miss the moment. Finally she decided that she would stare into the waters, so that she would be looking in the right place when the time came.

Long moments passed and the waters remained dark and clear. She bit her lip and fretted.

Then suddenly the sky lit with the ruddy tones of dawn and the waters blazed golden in reply. Eagerly Tabitha bent forward to study the mirror of water. On its surface she could see herself; and a man, dark of countenance and clothing. His jerkin was covered with blood, as was his face.

Startled she leapt back from this vision and felt herself collide with something, someone. She turned.

And screamed! For there was the man from the pool, blood and all. He looked at her for a long, terrifying moment, before he fell headlong onto the grassy bank.

Nasir felt the blackness surging over him like a wave as the woman cried out. All at once the pain in his head was intolerable and he could no longer control his body. He sank into the darkness, where the pain was not.

As she stared at the man lying, seemingly dead, at her feet, Tabitha cursed herself and her brazenness. Her nurse and the servant women had warned her of the dangers of the wild forest where wolves ran and outlaws hunted. Demons and ghosts haunted the woods and young ladies were not safe; but no, she had to go questing for magic pools in the dead of night.

Timidly she touched the man's shoulder and found it warm, then her fingers found the pulse point on his neck. The skin on his face was clammy but the blood throbbed strongly beneath her fingers. So he lived after all. She tried to turn him over.

His face was mostly hidden by the sticky crimson gore but she could see no wound. Dipping the hem of her under tunic in the pool she began to clean the blood off.

When she was finished the source of the bleeding was revealed to be a two-inch long gash at the edge of the hairline. Such wounds bled profusely, she knew, and the bruising around it seemed to indicate that he had received his injury from a blow, possibly from a sword. That would explain his collapse: her father had said that even a slight head wound could sometimes cause insensibility and even death. She hoped that this man would not die; after all, had she not seen him in the pool at sunrise? Was he not then her 'true love'?

Well, being cold and damp wouldn't help him, she decided, nor would lying there in the dew- laden grass.

Behind the statue there was a shallow cave. Its floor was smooth and someone had laid bracken and rushes there. If she could get her patient inside there he could be kept warm until he awoke - or not.

She bent down and tried to lift him, but though he was not tall, he was taller than she and muscular. She, on the other hand, was small and slightly plump and had never had to work a day in her life. She could not raise him an inch.

So she knelt behind him and hooked her arms into his armpits and began to pull. Slowly she moved him this way across the clearing and into the cave. By this time she was hot and out of breath and had had to remove her cloak and hitch up her skirts in a most unladylike way.

The man moaned slightly and Tabitha was instantly at his side, examining him. His face felt warm to her touch yet he shivered. Fever. She would have to warm him. She fetched her cloak and shawl from where she had not dropped them. Before covering him with them she decided to remove his wet jerkin and those two odd sword sheathes that he wore on his back. He would never rest comfortably while he wore those.

As she worked, she studied him curiously. His skin was dark, with one or two paler scars. Unlike her father and her brothers, who were the only men Tabitha had ever seen naked to the waist until now, this man was smooth of skin with very little hair showing on his body.

Cautiously she stroked his chest, gently, but stopped when he sighed and murmured something in a tongue foreign to her. However he did not wake, so after a moment, she continued. Then, quite overcome by her night's excursions and her morning's exertions she laid one arm across his chest and drew the cloak tightly about them both.

Nasir awoke and the pain in his head was gone. He felt weak but well and he was aware of the warm softness at his side.

"Allah is merciful," he breathed in Arabic, "for I am in Paradise."

"Pardon?" asked the girl sleepily.

He studied her and reconsidered. Obviously he was not dead after all, for houris should be like the maidens of his own lands - sloe eyed and amber skinned, not cream and rose-gold with agate eyes. Nor should they speak English.

He tried to sit up but fell back as the pain re-awoke in his skull.

"Please lie still," said the girl. "Your head was injured and that can be dangerous." She frowned slightly and asked, "You can understand me, can't you?"

"I understand," he assured her.

"Good." She sat up and fussed with his coverings, avoiding looking him in the face.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Tabitha de Harcla of Breedon," she replied.

"I am Nasir," he told her, adding his full name and lineage.

"How do you say that again?" she asked, puzzled.

"Call me Nasir," he smiled, "as my other English friends do."

"Nasir," she repeated. "Are you a Saracen?"

"Yes."

"My father went to the Holy Land," she told him. "He went the king to the crusades but he admired the Saracens he met there and he gave me a Saracen name."

Nasir nodded.

"He was a physician," she added.

"In Breedon?" he asked. "Then why are you here? It is far from Breedon for a young girl, alone as you seem to be."

"Do you feel dizzy? Or sick?"

"No, I am hungry and you are not answering my questions."

"I've got bread and cheese and a little wine."

He accepted the food and the silence. If the girl would not answer him then let her keep her secrets for now.

"I should rejoin my friends."

"First you should rest," she told him. "You have no fever now and your wound seems clean. If you are not dizzy then probably the sickness of the mind that sometimes comes from a head wound has not affected you."

"I am not dizzy, only weak."

"Then in a day, perhaps two, you will be fit to travel," she decided. "I will stay here with you until then."

"And what of your family?"

"They will not care," she replied firmly.

Once Nasir slept, Tabitha wept quietly. It was true that her family would not care. She had no family. Her brothers had joined the King's crusades and been killed far from home. Her father, the physician, had fallen ill of a malady no physic could cure. It was called grief. All she had left now was her mother's brother, who had dismissed all the old family servants, even her nurse. No one in Breedon would care one jot if she never returned.

Eventually she cried her self to sleep.

The swords sang their disharmonious melody as the soldiers pressed forward their attack on the three outlaws.

"Will, Mutch," he called, "run. I will hold them and join you later."

"You're nuts!" Scarlett replied.

"We're not leaving you, Nas," the boy answered.

"Run, I will lead them a merry dance," the Saracen returned. His head ached from the force of the blow his late opponent had struck. He had parried the blade but even then he had been struck. Unchecked the blow would have clove him in two.

The fight was now three against three and each finished his enemy quickly.

"Whew!" sighed Scarlett. "I hope there are no more of them around."

As if his words were a signal a shout rang out from around the bend of the track.

"Get a move on, you imbeciles!"

"Gisbourne," recognised Mutch.

"And more soldiers," realised Scarlett.

"We must split up," Nasir suggested. "Each of us take a different route back to camp."

"Confuse them, you mean?" asked Will.

"They cannot follow us all," the Saracen replied.

"They can," amended Will, "but you're right - they won't. Don't get caught, you two."

Nasir grinned a reply and the three friends bolted in three different directions.

It had not taken Nasir long to lose his pursuers; but when he had, he soon realised that he had lost himself too.

The wound on his forehead bled freely now. Blood stung his eyes and blinded him. He stumbled, disorientated, into the deep woodlands as night fell.

A series of disjointed images - a stag, a tree, moonlight on a quiet grove. Finally a pool - cool water for his throat - and a woman's scream. Nasir awoke.

At his side the girl, Tabitha, woke with him. Night was falling again after the short autumn day and the air was chill. He shivered and saw her shiver too.

"We need a fire," he told her.

She looked away. "I brought no way to make one," she replied, shamefacedly.

"In my pouch is flint and steel," he told her. "Gather wood and tinder."

She scrambled to obey. Half of what she brought he discarded as being too damp but fairly soon they had a small fire ablaze.

The two sat side by side, gazing into the flames and sharing her cloak, as the night grew colder. Soon the first snows of winter would fall, Nasir thought, and Robin and the others would be forced to seek shelter with the villagers.

Tabitha had rinsed his shirt and jerkin clean of blood and laid the damp cloth and slimy leather on a stone near the fire to dry, while they shared the last of her bread and cheese and drank the wine.

He studied the girl. She was young but of marriageable age, surely, and her hands were soft and white. This girl was used to servants, not hard work. Her eyes were, as he had noticed earlier, green and took on an amber tint in the firelight. Her hair showed copper and blood by the flames and her mouth was sweet and plump. A rosebud made for kissing. Altogether she was indeed fit to be a houri in Paradise - if Allah had Frankish houris.

As he watched her, he noticed her studying him in return, with shyly downcast eyes.

"You are neither serf nor peasant. You say your father is a physician - surely a wealthy man," he said at last. "What are you doing here alone in Sherwood?"

"I came to the pool," she mumbled, flushing scarlet.

"The pool?"

"The Lady Pool. The Pool of Seeing," she explained. "The women said that if you looked into it at sunrise at certain times of the year you would see your future lover."

He shook his head, smiling. "You were so eager to see this lover of yours that you came alone? In autumn when the wolves begin to run?"

"There were none to come with me," she replied, "and I had to come now. My uncle - he is my guardian - has said that on All Saint's Day I shall enter the convent of St Bridget."

"And you do not with to," he realised.

"No," she scowled. "I want to be loved by a man and love him back. Not to be a nun and love only God."

"And if you had seen your lover? What then?"

"Why then, I would have gone to find him. I wasn't going home to Breedon," she smiled at him saucily. "But I don't have to go find you. You are here."

He ignored her comment, though it and her smile woke in him a certain hunger that was not for bread and cheese.

"Why does your uncle not marry you to someone? You are fair and surely have a good dowry."

"Because of my father's will. If I do not marry then my uncle remains my guardian and manages my monies and affairs. If I marry then my father's wealth passes to my husband."

"And if you die?"

She shrugged. "Then my uncle inherits - but he has some honour. He would not have me killed. Kin slaying is a mortal sin."

"He may not need to have you killed. If you flee you will surely die, for you cannot survive in the forest. Winter is coming."

"The outlaws do," she retorted defiantly. "I will join them and become an outlaw too. I will seek out Robin in the Hood and join him."

He laughed. "And what makes you think they would have you? Besides, even they spend winter with friends in the villages."

"How do you know?" she challenged.

"Because I am one of them," he told her.

"Oh!" This gave her pause, then, "Can you not make them take me in?"

He chuckled. "Perhaps. Perhaps I would not wish to. The forest is no place for a lady."

"What about Lady Marion?" she demanded.

"She is different," he replied. "She is wed to the forest and under Herne's protection. Anyway, can you pull a longbow or wield a sword as she does?"

"No, but I can heal a wound or dose a fever."

"Which you could do from a convent," he pointed out.

"I'd make a terrible nun," she finished.

Silently he agreed. Those soft generous curves were meant to be held, not hidden beneath a habit, and that dimpled mouth was made for pleasure, not prayer. The rules of obedience and chastity would crush this girl. Apart from that, it was a shameful waste.

"I will speak to Robin for you," he promised. "It will be his decision, but I will speak for you."

He kissed her gently to seal the bargain and found his kiss being returned with passion, untutored but fierce.

Her small, soft hands were firm on his back beneath the cloak they shared as she pulled him to her. Fire burned in her and spread to him as she pressed herself against him. Her hands wandered, exploring the skin of his shoulders and back, touching, stroking.

He kissed her mouth, her jawline, her ear and the hollow of her throat. She moaned in pleasure and nuzzled at his neck in return.

His fingers found the lacings of her gown - then stopped. He looked questioningly at her.

"Yes," she breathed and helped him shrug the garments from her shoulders. He pushed them to her waist and laid her down upon the shawl.

Her breasts were full and heavy but young, firm and proud. Milk white they were, tipped with rose like her lips. Gently he licked the nipples, then more forcefully, sucked hard. She moaned again and arched beneath him to meet his mouth.

The tension was building him, pushing his hips against hers in a powerful rhythmic movement. He fought for control; this was no willing peasant wench ready for a tumble in the hay, or an experienced body slave in the tents of his homeland. This was a gentlewoman and a maiden who held fond thoughts of love and of loving.

Quietly he spoke. "It will be better if we remove your gowns completely," he told her.

She nodded and he sat up to let her strip. While she shed kirtle and undertunic, he doffed his own breeches and boots. Then he lay the assorted clothing in the bracken bed for her to lie on. Finally he lay beside her and pulled the cloak around them both.

Tabitha gazed at him while he undressed. She had seen the boy children of her house women fully naked before, but never a grown man. It seemed that men grew unevenly, for the difference in height did not explain the difference in size between a child's and a man's member. There was a moment of doubt. She knew what should happen now but could she really take that inside her? But this was easily dismissed. There was a growing need within her, an emptiness that would not be denied. She lay back on the clothing and waited.

She was surprised when Nasir did not lie atop her as the women had told her would happen, but reclined beside her and drew her into the crook of his arm. Then with one hand he caressed her shoulder and breasts - while the other!

Nasir reached down with his free hand between her legs. His fingers found the centre of her womanhood and began to stroke it.

Faster and faster his fingers caressed her, harder and more insistent until she found herself pushing upwards against him. She felt a gentle ache growing inside her as he worked at his task. Her heart raced and her breath was short and rapid.

Just when she knew that she could take no more - so sweet, ecstasy to agony - he drew his arm from under her shoulders and placed himself between her thighs.

With a passionate kiss he thrust and Tabitha felt the world come apart.

The ache was gone, replaced with a sense of fullness. Like a hungry man who has been given a full meal, she felt complete now and cried out in pleasure.

Nasir did not stop, however, but continued to thrust inside her, gently at first then harder and harder.

And now something new was building up within her. A tingle coursed through her limbs, her hips worked independently of her mind, thrusting up to meet his downward moves. Faster and faster they drove themselves together and it seemed to her that there was a rushing sound in her ears, like the wind through the trees. It was drowning out everything except Nasir speaking her name.

When the rushing swept over her head like a wave, there was a moment when time stood still. A feeling of intense joy and a powerful electric tingle through her whole body.

"Aah!" she cried, gripping her tightly to him, arms and legs locked around him. A moment later he echoed her cry, thrust once more, harder than before, shuddered and lay still in her hold.

In the quiet hours that followed Nasir considered the girl who slept so trustfully in his arms, a warm smile of contentment on her lips.

He could not now abandon her. The teachings of the Koran forbade that any woman be left to fend for herself. It was man's duty to care for her; and indeed, if a man died, his brother was instructed to take the widow into his own household. Even without this holy instruction Nasir would have felt responsible for Tabitha.

He could not, however, take her to Sherwood to live in their camp. Robin had strict rules about women in the band. Marion was different. She predated this Robin and was one of them completely. Sometimes Nasir thought that the band was together again for her sake, not Robert of Huntington's.

The abbey, on the other hand, was out of the question. Tabitha would not go and, if forced, would not stay. Plus a good healer, a physician in all but name, would be useful both to them and to the peasants they protected.

"Nasir? Nasir, where are you?"

"Ssh. Do you wish to wake the whole forest?"

"I was afraid. I woke up and you had gone."

"And you thought I had left you? No, Tabitha, I would not do that."

The girl blushed. "I was afraid you were only a dream," she murmured.

"No dream," he answered her with a smile. "I was hunting. Now, I have two fat rabbits for our breakfast, then we have some miles to go to reach Robin's camp."

"You'll take me there?" she exclaimed, leaping up to embrace him.

"For now," he told her, "but first you must dress. What would Robin and the others think if they saw you now?"

"Oh!" she stammered, blushing harder, and began gathering up her discarded clothing.

"She can't stay!" hissed Scarlett. He had quickly gotten over the joy of finding his missing friend alive and well and was now objection to Nasir's companion.

Tabitha was working on a dressing for young Mutch's hand. He had tried to fetch his sword when it had landed in the fire and had suffered worse than the blade.

"How does that feel?" she asked.

"Much better, my lady," the boy replied. "You're a real physician."

"My father was," she told him, "but women can't be physicians, or so the bishop says. But I watched my father and helped him all the time."

"You're a darn sight better than most of the village healers or wisewomen," John Little observed.

"And many physicians," agreed Robin. "Those who will cup a man for a wound when he's already lost a great deal of blood."

"My father didn't believe in bleeding his patients, except for a poisoned wound," she explained. "And I can't abide leeches," she finished with a shudder.

"Now, girl, leeches have their place too," Tuck admonished her. "The Good Lord created them too."

"Mmm," she agreed non-commitally. "Keep the dressing on for a day or so and keep the hand out of water. Clean wounds heal best, so keep it out of the dirt," she ordered.

The boy mumbled his thanks and she smiled at him before moving to the fire to get some food.

Tuck served her a helping of stew and Robin watched her eat it daintily and wash her hands afterwards. He drew Marion aside.

"Will is right," he said. "She can't stay. She'd never survive the winter, even in the village."

"But where is she to go?" Marion countered. "To the convent? Nasir is right too. Tabitha is the kind who is made to love a man and have his children. The convent would kill her spirit and stifle her. Her uncle? He would send her to the sisters if she returns home. So she would run away; and without money, lands or family to protect her and support her, she will die."

"In the convent she could use her healing skills without fear."

"She needs more than that. She's a healer, yes, and a good one, but she's a woman first; and that means she needs love. The love of a man…"

"Nasir?" he interjected.

"Perhaps, perhaps not. That's up to him, Robin, and to her. Besides, as a nun, whom would she heal? The wealthy who can afford to travel to St Bridget's. No, her skills would be better used in Nottingham, for those who cannot afford to travel."

"Where the Sheriff would quickly arrest her as a witch. You know how the church, as typified by de Rainault's brother, feels about healwives."

"Not if she had money of her own. Not if she appeared to be of a good family and wealthy. As a young widow of good name she could minister to the sick and poor of Nottingham - and," she paused, "perhaps find a suitable husband."

He stared at her. "You want to give her the last tax shipment we retrieved," he realised.

"Not all of it. Enough for a house, clothes, the medicines she would need, and a servant. We can give her more later, from other tax shipments." She smiled. "I can't think of a better way to use the money."

"We could give it back to the people it was taken from," he replied darkly.

"And the Sheriff or Gisbourne will find them with it and say 'if they have this much left after being taxed, either they are not poor, or they are in league with Robin in the Hood'."

He thought about this for a moment.

"A widow, you say?"

She nodded. "She's old enough. Lots of girls are married at thirteen and, thanks to the Crusades, widowed at sixteen."

"We'd need to find her a new name."

"Her own would do. It's a good Norman name and fairly common among the yeomanry. The de Harclas are numerous in Northumberland. No one need connect the young Widow de Harcla from Northumberland with the young Mistress de Harcla of Breedon Manor."

He considered further. "She certainly could be useful to us in Nottingham," he mused.

Marion smiled. "Yes, she could," she agreed.

The End.