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History of Literature

Howard Pyle
"The Merry Adventures
of Robin Hood"

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"The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood"
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XI. Robin Hood and Allan a Dale
It has just been told how three unlucky adventures fell upon
Robin Hood and Little John all in one day bringing them sore
ribs and aching bones. So next we will tell how they made up for
those ill happenings by a good action that came about not
without some small pain to Robin.
Two days had passed by, and
somewhat of the soreness had passed away from Robin Hood's
joints, yet still, when he moved of a sudden and without
thinking, pain here and there would, as it were, jog him,
crying, "Thou hast had a drubbing, good fellow."
The day was bright and jocund,
and the morning dew still lay upon the grass. Under the
greenwood tree sat Robin Hood; on one side was Will Scarlet,
lying at full length upon his back, gazing up into the clear
sky, with hands clasped behind his head; upon the other side sat
Little John, fashioning a cudgel out of a stout crab-tree limb;
elsewhere upon the grass sat or lay many others of the band.
"By the faith of my heart,"
quoth merry Robin, "I do bethink me that we have had no one to
dine with us for this long time. Our money groweth low in the
purse, for no one hath come to pay a reckoning for many a day.
Now busk thee, good Stutely, and choose thee six men, and get
thee gone to Fosse Way or thereabouts, and see that thou
bringest someone to eat with us this evening. Meantime we will
prepare a grand feast to do whosoever may come the greater
honor. And stay, good Stutely. I would have thee take Will
Scarlet with thee, for it is meet that he should become acquaint
with the ways of the forest."
"Now do I thank thee, good
master," quoth Stutely, springing to his feet, "that thou hast
chosen me for this adventure. Truly, my limbs do grow slack
through abiding idly here. As for two of my six, I will choose
Midge the Miller and Arthur a Bland, for, as well thou knowest,
good master, they are stout fists at the quarterstaff. Is it not
so, Little John?"
At this all laughed but Little
John and Robin, who twisted up his face. "I can speak for
Midge," said he, "and likewise for my cousin Scarlet. This very
blessed morn I looked at my ribs and found them as many colors
as a beggar's cloak."
So, having chosen four more
stout fellows, Will Stutely and his band set forth to Fosse Way,
to find whether they might not come across some rich guest to
feast that day in Sherwood with Robin and his band.
For all the livelong day they
abided near this highway. Each man had brought with him a good
store of cold meat and a bottle of stout March beer to stay his
stomach till the homecoming. So when high noontide had come they
sat them down upon the soft grass, beneath a green and
wide-spreading hawthorn bush, and held a hearty and jovial
feast. After this, one kept watch while the others napped, for
it was a still and sultry day.
Thus they passed the time
pleasantly enow, but no guest such as they desired showed his
face in all the time that they lay hidden there. Many passed
along the dusty road in the glare of the sun: now it was a bevy
of chattering damsels merrily tripping along; now it was a
plodding tinker; now a merry shepherd lad; now a sturdy farmer;
all gazing ahead along the road, unconscious of the seven stout
fellows that lay hidden so near them. Such were the travelers
along the way; but fat abbot, rich esquire, or money-laden
usurer came there none.
At last the sun began to sink
low in the heavens; the light grew red and the shadows long. The
air grew full of silence, the birds twittered sleepily, and from
afar came, faint and clear, the musical song of the milkmaid
calling the kine home to the milking.
Then Stutely arose from where
he was lying. "A plague of such ill luck!" quoth he. "Here have
we abided all day, and no bird worth the shooting, so to speak,
hath come within reach of our bolt. Had I gone forth on an
innocent errand, I had met a dozen stout priests or a score of
pursy money-lenders. But it is ever thus: the dun deer are never
so scarce as when one has a gray goose feather nipped betwixt
the fingers. Come, lads, let us pack up and home again, say I."
Accordingly, the others arose,
and, coming forth from out the thicket, they all turned their
toes back again to Sherwood. After they had gone some distance,
Will Stutely, who headed the party, suddenly stopped. "Hist!"
quoth he, for his ears were as sharp as those of a five-year-old
fox. "Hark, lads! Methinks I hear a sound." At this all stopped
and listened with bated breath, albeit for a time they could
hear nothing, their ears being duller than Stutely's. At length
they heard a faint and melancholy sound, like someone in
lamentation.
"Ha!" quoth Will Scarlet, "this
must be looked into. There is someone in distress nigh to us
here."
"I know not," quoth Will
Stutely, shaking his head doubtfully, "our master is ever rash
about thrusting his finger into a boiling pot; but, for my part,
I see no use in getting ourselves into mischievous coils. Yon is
a man's voice, if I mistake not, and a man should be always
ready to get himself out from his own pothers."
Then out spake Will Scarlet
boldly. "Now out upon thee, to talk in that manner, Stutely!
Stay, if thou dost list. I go to see what may be the trouble of
this poor creature."
"Nay," quoth Stutely, "thou
dost leap so quickly, thou'lt tumble into the ditch. Who said I
would not go? Come along, say I." Thus saying, he led the way,
the others following, till, after they had gone a short
distance, they came to a little opening in the woodland, whence
a brook, after gurgling out from under the tangle of overhanging
bushes, spread out into a broad and glassy-pebbled pool. By the
side of this pool, and beneath the branches of a willow, lay a
youth upon his face, weeping aloud, the sound of which had first
caught the quick ears of Stutely. His golden locks were tangled,
his clothes were all awry, and everything about him betokened
sorrow and woe. Over his head, from the branches of the osier,
hung a beautiful harp of polished wood inlaid with gold and
silver in fantastic devices. Beside him lay a stout ashen bow
and half a score of fair, smooth arrows.
"Halloa!" shouted Will Stutely,
when they had come out from the forest into the little open
spot. "Who art thou, fellow, that liest there killing all the
green grass with salt water?"
Hearing the voice, the stranger
sprang to his feet and; snatching up his bow and fitting a
shaft, held himself in readiness for whatever ill might befall
him.
"Truly," said one of the
yeomen, when they had seen the young stranger's face, "I do know
that lad right well. He is a certain minstrel that I have seen
hereabouts more than once. It was only a week ago I saw him
skipping across the hill like a yearling doe. A fine sight he
was then, with a flower at his ear and a cock's plume stuck in
his cap; but now, methinks, our cockerel is shorn of his gay
feathers."
"Pah!" cried Will Stutely,
coming up to the stranger, "wipe thine eyes, man! I do hate to
see a tall, stout fellow so sniveling like a girl of fourteen
over a dead tomtit. Put down thy bow, man! We mean thee no
harm."
But Will Scarlet, seeing how
the stranger, who had a young and boyish look, was stung by the
words that Stutely had spoken, came to him and put his hand upon
the youth's shoulder. "Nay, thou art in trouble, poor boy!" said
he kindly. "Mind not what these fellows have said. They are
rough, but they mean thee well. Mayhap they do not understand a
lad like thee. Thou shalt come with us, and perchance we may
find a certain one that can aid thee in thy perplexities,
whatsoever they may be."
"Yea, truly, come along," said
Will Stutely gruffly. "I meant thee no harm, and may mean thee
some good. Take down thy singing tool from off this fair tree,
and away with us."
The youth did as he was bidden
and, with bowed head and sorrowful step, accompanied the others,
walking beside Will Scarlet. So they wended their way through
the forest. The bright light faded from the sky and a glimmering
gray fell over all things. From the deeper recesses of the
forest the strange whispering sounds of night-time came to the
ear; all else was silent, saving only for the rattling of their
footsteps amid the crisp, dry leaves of the last winter. At last
a ruddy glow shone before them here and there through the trees;
a little farther and they came to the open glade, now bathed in
the pale moonlight. In the center of the open crackled a great
fire, throwing a red glow on all around. At the fire were
roasting juicy steaks of venison, pheasants, capons, and fresh
fish from the river. All the air was filled with the sweet smell
of good things cooking.
The little band made its way
across the glade, many yeomen turning with curious looks and
gazing after them, but none speaking or questioning them. So,
with Will Scarlet upon one side and Will Stutely upon the other,
the stranger came to where Robin Hood sat on a seat of moss
under the greenwood tree, with Little John standing beside him.
"Good even, fair friend," said
Robin Hood, rising as the other drew near. "And hast thou come
to feast with me this day?"
"Alas! I know not," said the
lad, looking around him with dazed eyes, for he was bewildered
with all that he saw. "Truly, I know not whether I be in a
dream," said he to himself in a low voice.
"Nay, marry," quoth Robin,
laughing, "thou art awake, as thou wilt presently find, for a
fine feast is a-cooking for thee. Thou art our honored guest
this day."
Still the young stranger looked
about him, as though in a dream. Presently he turned to Robin.
"Methinks," said he, "I know now where I am and what hath
befallen me. Art not thou the great Robin Hood?"
"Thou hast hit the bull's eye,"
quoth Robin, clapping him upon the shoulder. "Men hereabouts do
call me by that name. Sin' thou knowest me, thou knowest also
that he who feasteth with me must pay his reckoning. I trust
thou hast a full purse with thee, fair stranger."
"Alas!" said the stranger, "I
have no purse nor no money either, saving only the half of a
sixpence, the other half of which mine own dear love doth carry
in her bosom, hung about her neck by a strand of silken thread."
At this speech a great shout of
laughter went up from those around, whereat the poor boy looked
as he would die of shame; but Robin Hood turned sharply to Will
Stutely. "Why, how now," quoth he, "is this the guest that thou
hast brought us to fill our purse? Methinks thou hast brought
but a lean cock to the market."
"Nay, good master," answered
Will Stutely, grinning, "he is no guest of mine; it was Will
Scarlet that brought him thither."
Then up spoke Will Scarlet, and
told how they had found the lad in sorrow, and how he had
brought him to Robin, thinking that he might perchance aid him
in his trouble. Then Robin Hood turned to the youth, and,
placing his hand upon the other's shoulder, held him off at
arm's length, scanning his face closely.
"A young face," quoth he in a
low voice, half to himself, "a kind face, a good face. 'Tis like
a maiden's for purity, and, withal, the fairest that e'er mine
eyes did see; but, if I may judge fairly by thy looks, grief
cometh to young as well as to old." At these words, spoken so
kindly, the poor lad's eyes brimmed up with tears. "Nay, nay,"
said Robin hastily, "cheer up, lad; I warrant thy case is not so
bad that it cannot be mended. What may be thy name?"
"Allen a Dale is my name, good
master."
"Allen a Dale," repeated Robin,
musing. "Allen a Dale. It doth seem to me that the name is not
altogether strange to mine ears. Yea, surely thou art the
minstrel of whom we have been hearing lately, whose voice so
charmeth all men. Dost thou not come from the Dale of
Rotherstream, over beyond Stavely?"
"Yea, truly," answered Allan,
"I do come thence."
"How old art thou, Allan?" said
Robin.
"I am but twenty years of age."
"Methinks thou art overyoung to
be perplexed with trouble," quoth Robin kindly; then, turning to
the others, he cried, "Come, lads, busk ye and get our feast
ready; only thou, Will Scarlet, and thou, Little John, stay here
with me."
Then, when the others had gone,
each man about his business, Robin turned once more to the
youth. "Now, lad," said he, "tell us thy troubles, and speak
freely. A flow of words doth ever ease the heart of sorrows; it
is like opening the waste weir when the mill dam is overfull.
Come, sit thou here beside me, and speak at thine ease."
Then straightway the youth told
the three yeomen all that was in his heart; at first in broken
words and phrases, then freely and with greater ease when he saw
that all listened closely to what he said. So he told them how
he had come from York to the sweet vale of Rother, traveling the
country through as a minstrel, stopping now at castle, now at
hall, and now at farmhouse; how he had spent one sweet evening
in a certain broad, low farmhouse, where he sang before a stout
franklin and a maiden as pure and lovely as the first snowdrop
of spring; how he had played and sung to her, and how sweet
Ellen o' the Dale had listened to him and had loved him. Then,
in a low, sweet voice, scarcely louder than a whisper, he told
how he had watched for her and met her now and then when she
went abroad, but was all too afraid in her sweet presence to
speak to her, until at last, beside the banks of Rother, he had
spoken of his love, and she had whispered that which had made
his heartstrings quiver for joy. Then they broke a sixpence
between them, and vowed to be true to one another forever.
Next he told how her father had
discovered what was a-doing, and had taken her away from him so
that he never saw her again, and his heart was sometimes like to
break; how this morn, only one short month and a half from the
time that he had seen her last, he had heard and knew it to be
so, that she was to marry old Sir Stephen of Trent, two days
hence, for Ellen's father thought it would be a grand thing to
have his daughter marry so high, albeit she wished it not; nor
was it wonder that a knight should wish to marry his own sweet
love, who was the most beautiful maiden in all the world.
To all this the yeomen listened
in silence, the clatter of many voices, jesting and laughing,
sounding around them, and the red light of the fire shining on
their faces and in their eyes. So simple were the poor boy's
words, and so deep his sorrow, that even Little John felt a
certain knotty lump rise in his throat.
"I wonder not," said Robin,
after a moment's silence, "that thy true love loved thee, for
thou hast surely a silver cross beneath thy tongue, even like
good Saint Francis, that could charm the birds of the air by his
speech."
"By the breath of my body,"
burst forth Little John, seeking to cover his feelings with
angry words, "I have a great part of a mind to go straightway
and cudgel the nasty life out of the body of that same vile Sir
Stephen. Marry, come up, say I--what a plague--does an old
weazen think that tender lasses are to be bought like pullets o'
a market day? Out upon him!--I-- but no matter, only let him
look to himself."
Then up spoke Will Scarlet.
"Methinks it seemeth but ill done of the lass that she should so
quickly change at others' bidding, more especially when it
cometh to the marrying of a man as old as this same Sir Stephen.
I like it not in her, Allan."
"Nay," said Allan hotly, "thou
dost wrong her. She is as soft and gentle as a stockdove. I know
her better than anyone in all the world. She may do her father's
bidding, but if she marries Sir Stephen, her heart will break
and she will die. My own sweet dear, I--" He stopped and shook
his head, for he could say nothing further.
While the others were speaking,
Robin Hood had been sunk in thought. "Methinks I have a plan
might fit thy case, Allan," said he. "But tell me first,
thinkest thou, lad, that thy true love hath spirit enough to
marry thee were ye together in church, the banns published, and
the priest found, even were her father to say her nay?"
"Ay, marry would she," cried
Allan eagerly.
"Then, if her father be the man
that I take him to be, I will undertake that he shall give you
both his blessing as wedded man and wife, in the place of old
Sir Stephen, and upon his wedding morn. But stay, now I bethink
me, there is one thing reckoned not upon-- the priest. Truly,
those of the cloth do not love me overmuch, and when it comes to
doing as I desire in such a matter, they are as like as not to
prove stiff-necked. As to the lesser clergy, they fear to do me
a favor because of abbot or bishop.
"Nay," quoth Will Scarlet,
laughing, "so far as that goeth, I know of a certain friar that,
couldst thou but get on the soft side of him, would do thy
business even though Pope Joan herself stood forth to ban him.
He is known as the Curtal Friar of Fountain Abbey, and dwelleth
in Fountain Dale."
"But," quoth Robin, "Fountain
Abbey is a good hundred miles from here. An we would help this
lad, we have no time to go thither and back before his true love
will be married. Nought is to be gained there, coz."
"Yea," quoth Will Scarlet,
laughing again, "but this Fountain Abbey is not so far away as
the one of which thou speakest, uncle. The Fountain Abbey of
which I speak is no such rich and proud place as the other, but
a simple little cell; yet, withal, as cosy a spot as ever stout
anchorite dwelled within. I know the place well, and can guide
thee thither, for, though it is a goodly distance, yet methinks
a stout pair of legs could carry a man there and back in one
day."
"Then give me thy hand, Allan,"
cried Robin, "and let me tell thee, I swear by the bright hair
of Saint Aelfrida that this time two days hence Ellen a Dale
shall be thy wife. I will seek this same Friar of Fountain Abbey
tomorrow day, and I warrant I will get upon the soft side of
him, even if I have to drub one soft."
At this Will Scarlet laughed
again. "Be not too sure of that, good uncle," quoth he,
"nevertheless, from what I know of him, I think this Curtal
Friar will gladly join two such fair lovers, more especially if
there be good eating and drinking afoot thereafter."
But now one of the band came to
say that the feast was spread upon the grass; so, Robin leading
the way, the others followed to where the goodly feast was
spread. Merry was the meal. Jest and story passed freely, and
all laughed till the forest rang again. Allan laughed with the
rest, for his cheeks were flushed with the hope that Robin Hood
had given him.
At last the feast was done, and
Robin Hood turned to Allan, who sat beside him. "Now, Allan,"
quoth he, "so much has been said of thy singing that we would
fain have a taste of thy skill ourselves. Canst thou not give us
something?"
"Surely," answered Allan
readily; for he was no third-rate songster that must be asked
again and again, but said "yes" or "no" at the first bidding;
so, taking up his harp, he ran his fingers lightly over the
sweetly sounding strings, and all was hushed about the cloth.
Then, backing his voice with sweet music on his harp, he sang:
MAY ELLEN'S WEDDING
(Giving an account of how she
was beloved by a fairy prince, who took her to his own home.)
"May Ellen sat beneath a thorn
And in a shower around
The blossoms fell at every breeze
Like snow upon the ground,
And in a lime tree near was heard
The sweet song of a strange, wild bird.
"O sweet, sweet, sweet, O piercing sweet,
O lingering sweet the strain!
May Ellen's heart within her breast
Stood still with blissful pain:
And so, with listening, upturned face,
She sat as dead in that fair place.
" `Come down from out the
blossoms, bird!
Come down from out the tree,
And on my heart I'll let thee lie,
And love thee tenderly!'
Thus cried May Ellen, soft and low,
From where the hawthorn shed its snow.
"Down dropped the bird on
quivering wing,
From out the blossoming tree,
And nestled in her snowy breast.
`My love! my love!' cried she;
Then straightway home, 'mid sun and flower,
She bare him to her own sweet bower.
"The day hath passed to mellow
night,
The moon floats o'er the lea,
And in its solemn, pallid light
A youth stands silently:
A youth of beauty strange and rare,
Within May Ellen's bower there.
"He stood where o'er the
pavement cold
The glimmering moonbeams lay.
May Ellen gazed with wide, scared eyes,
Nor could she turn away,
For, as in mystic dreams we see
A spirit, stood he silently.
"All in a low and breathless
voice,
`Whence comest thou?' said she;
`Art thou the creature of a dream,
Or a vision that I see?'
Then soft spake he, as night winds shiver
Through straining reeds beside the river.
" `I came, a bird on feathered
wing,
From distant Faeryland
Where murmuring waters softly sing
Upon the golden strand,
Where sweet trees are forever green;
And there my mother is the queen.'
. . . . . . .
"No more May Ellen leaves her bower
To grace the blossoms fair;
But in the hushed and midnight hour
They hear her talking there,
Or, when the moon is shining white,
They hear her singing through the night.
" `Oh, don thy silks and jewels
fine,'
May Ellen's mother said,
`For hither comes the Lord of Lyne
And thou this lord must wed.'
May Ellen said, `It may not be.
He ne'er shall find his wife in me.'
"Up spoke her brother, dark and
grim:
`Now by the bright blue sky,
E'er yet a day hath gone for him
Thy wicked bird shall die!
For he hath wrought thee bitter harm,
By some strange art or cunning charm.'
"Then, with a sad and mournful
song,
Away the bird did fly,
And o'er the castle eaves, and through
The gray and windy sky.
`Come forth!' then cried the brother grim,
`Why dost thou gaze so after him?'
"It is May Ellen's wedding day,
The sky is blue and fair,
And many a lord and lady gay
In church are gathered there.
The bridegroom was Sir Hugh the Bold,
All clad in silk and cloth of gold.
"In came the bride in samite
white
With a white wreath on her head;
Her eyes were fixed with a glassy look,
Her face was as the dead,
And when she stood among the throng,
She sang a wild and wondrous song.
"Then came a strange and
rushing sound
Like the coming wind doth bring,
And in the open windows shot
Nine swans on whistling wing,
And high above the heads they flew,
In gleaming fight the darkness through.
"Around May Ellen's head they
flew
In wide and windy fight,
And three times round the circle drew.
The guests shrank in affright,
And the priest beside the altar there,
Did cross himself with muttered prayer.
"But the third time they flew
around,
Fair Ellen straight was gone,
And in her place, upon the ground,
There stood a snow-white swan.
Then, with a wild and lovely song,
It joined the swift and winged throng.
"There's ancient men at
weddings been,
For sixty years and more,
But such a wondrous wedding day,
They never saw before.
But none could check and none could stay,
The swans that bore the bride away."
Not a sound broke the stillness when Allan a Dale had done, but
all sat gazing at the handsome singer, for so sweet was his
voice and the music that each man sat with bated breath, lest
one drop more should come and he should lose it.
"By my faith and my troth,"
quoth Robin at last, drawing a deep breath, "lad, thou art--Thou
must not leave our company, Allan! Wilt thou not stay with us
here in the sweet green forest? Truly, I do feel my heart go out
toward thee with great love."
Then Allan took Robin's hand
and kissed it. "I will stay with thee always, dear master," said
he, "for never have I known such kindness as thou hast shown me
this day."
Then Will Scarlet stretched
forth his hand and shook Allan's in token of fellowship, as did
Little John likewise. And thus the famous Allan a Dale became
one of Robin Hood's band.

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XII. Robin Hood Seeks the Curtal
Friar
The stout yeomen of Sherwood Forest were ever early risers of a
morn, more especially when the summertime had come, for then in
the freshness of the dawn the dew was always the brightest, and
the song of the small birds the sweetest.
Quoth Robin, "Now will I go to
seek this same Friar of Fountain Abbey of whom we spake
yesternight, and I will take with me four of my good men, and
these four shall be Little John, Will Scarlet, David of
Doncaster, and Arthur a Bland. Bide the rest of you here, and
Will Stutely shall be your chief while I am gone." Then
straightway Robin Hood donned a fine steel coat of chain mail,
over which he put on a light jacket of Lincoln green. Upon his
head he clapped a steel cap, and this he covered by one of soft
white leather, in which stood a nodding cock's plume. By his
side he hung a good broadsword of tempered steel, the bluish
blade marked all over with strange figures of dragons, winged
women, and what not. A gallant sight was Robin so arrayed, I
wot, the glint of steel showing here and there as the sunlight
caught brightly the links of polished mail that showed beneath
his green coat.
So, having arrayed himself, he
and the four yeomen set forth upon their way, Will Scarlet
taking the lead, for he knew better than the others whither to
go. Thus, mile after mile, they strode along, now across a
brawling stream, now along a sunlit road, now adown some sweet
forest path, over which the trees met in green and rustling
canopy, and at the end of which a herd of startled deer dashed
away, with rattle of leaves and crackle of branches. Onward they
walked with song and jest and laughter till noontide was passed,
when at last they came to the banks of a wide, glassy, and
lily-padded stream. Here a broad, beaten path stretched along
beside the banks, on which path labored the horses that tugged
at the slow-moving barges, laden with barley meal or what not,
from the countryside to the many-towered town. But now, in the
hot silence of the midday, no horse was seen nor any man besides
themselves. Behind them and before them stretched the river, its
placid bosom ruffled here and there by the purple dusk of a
small breeze.
"Now, good uncle," quoth Will
Scarlet at last, when they had walked for a long time beside
this sweet, bright river, "just beyond yon bend ahead of us is a
shallow ford which in no place is deeper than thy mid-thigh, and
upon the other side of the stream is a certain little hermitage
hidden amidst the bosky tangle of the thickets wherein dwelleth
the Friar of Fountain Dale. Thither will I lead thee, for I know
the way; albeit it is not overhard to find."
"Nay," quoth jolly Robin,
stopping suddenly, "had I thought that I should have had to wade
water, even were it so crystal a stream as this, I had donned
other clothes than I have upon me. But no matter now, for after
all a wetting will not wash the skin away, and what must be,
must. But bide ye here, lads, for I would enjoy this merry
adventure alone. Nevertheless, listen well, and if ye hear me
sound upon my bugle horn, come quickly." So saying, he turned
and left them, striding onward alone.
Robin had walked no farther
than where the bend of the road hid his good men from his view,
when he stopped suddenly, for he thought that he heard voices.
He stood still and listened, and presently heard words passed
back and forth betwixt what seemed to be two men, and yet the
two voices were wondrously alike. The sound came from over
behind the bank, that here was steep and high, dropping from the
edge of the road a half a score of feet to the sedgy verge of
the river.
"'Tis strange," muttered Robin
to himself after a space, when the voices had ceased their
talking, "surely there be two people that spoke the one to the
other, and yet methinks their voices are mightily alike. I make
my vow that never have I heard the like in all my life before.
Truly, if this twain are to be judged by their voices, no two
peas were ever more alike. I will look into this matter." So
saying, he came softly to the river bank and laying him down
upon the grass, peered over the edge and down below.
All was cool and shady beneath
the bank. A stout osier grew, not straight upward, but leaning
across the water, shadowing the spot with its soft foliage. All
around grew a mass of feathery ferns such as hide and nestle in
cool places, and up to Robin's nostrils came the tender odor of
the wild thyme, that loves the moist verges of running streams.
Here, with his broad back against the rugged trunk of the willow
tree, and half hidden by the soft ferns around him, sat a stout,
brawny fellow, but no other man was there. His head was as round
as a ball, and covered with a mat of close-clipped, curly black
hair that grew low down on his forehead. But his crown was shorn
as smooth as the palm of one's hand, which, together with his
loose robe, cowl, and string of beads, showed that which his
looks never would have done, that he was a friar. His cheeks
were as red and shining as a winter crab, albeit they were
nearly covered over with a close curly black beard, as were his
chin and upper lip likewise. His neck was thick like that of a
north country bull, and his round head closely set upon
shoulders e'en a match for those of Little John himself. Beneath
his bushy black brows danced a pair of little gray eyes that
could not stand still for very drollery of humor. No man could
look into his face and not feel his heartstrings tickled by the
merriment of their look. By his side lay a steel cap, which he
had laid off for the sake of the coolness to his crown. His legs
were stretched wide apart, and betwixt his knees he held a great
pasty compounded of juicy meats of divers kinds made savory with
tender young onions, both meat and onions being mingled with a
good rich gravy. In his right fist he held a great piece of
brown crust at which he munched sturdily, and every now and then
he thrust his left hand into the pie and drew it forth full of
meat; anon he would take a mighty pull at a great bottle of
Malmsey that lay beside him.
"By my faith," quoth Robin to
himself, "I do verily believe that this is the merriest feast,
the merriest wight, the merriest place, and the merriest sight
in all merry England. Methought there was another here, but it
must have been this holy man talking to himself."
So Robin lay watching the
Friar, and the Friar, all unknowing that he was so overlooked,
ate his meal placidly. At last he was done, and, having first
wiped his greasy hands upon the ferns and wild thyme (and
sweeter napkin ne'er had king in all the world), he took up his
flask and began talking to himself as though he were another
man, and answering himself as though he were somebody else.
"Dear lad, thou art the
sweetest fellow in all the world, I do love thee as a lover
loveth his lass. La, thou dost make me shamed to speak so to me
in this solitary place, no one being by, and yet if thou wilt
have me say so, I do love thee as thou lovest me. Nay then, wilt
thou not take a drink of good Malmsey? After thee, lad, after
thee. Nay, I beseech thee, sweeten the draught with thy lips
(here he passed the flask from his right hand to his left). An
thou wilt force it on me so, I must needs do thy bidding, yet
with the more pleasure do I so as I drink thy very great health
(here he took a long, deep draught). And now, sweet lad, 'tis
thy turn next (here he passed the bottle from his left hand back
again to his right). I take it, sweet chuck, and here's wishing
thee as much good as thou wishest me." Saying this, he took
another draught, and truly he drank enough for two.
All this time merry Robin lay
upon the bank and listened, while his stomach so quaked with
laughter that he was forced to press his palm across his mouth
to keep it from bursting forth; for, truly, he would not have
spoiled such a goodly jest for the half of Nottinghamshire.
Having gotten his breath from
his last draught, the Friar began talking again in this wise:
"Now, sweet lad, canst thou not sing me a song? La, I know not,
I am but in an ill voice this day; prythee ask me not; dost thou
not hear how I croak like a frog? Nay, nay, thy voice is as
sweet as any bullfinch; come, sing, I prythee, I would rather
hear thee sing than eat a fair feast. Alas, I would fain not
sing before one that can pipe so well and hath heard so many
goodly songs and ballads, ne'ertheless, an thou wilt have it so,
I will do my best. But now methinks that thou and I might sing
some fair song together; dost thou not know a certain dainty
little catch called `The Loving Youth and the Scornful Maid'?
Why, truly, methinks I have heard it ere now. Then dost thou not
think that thou couldst take the lass's part gif I take the
lad's? I know not but I will try; begin thou with the lad and I
will follow with the lass."
Then, singing first with a
voice deep and gruff, and anon in one high and squeaking, he
blithely trolled the merry catch of
THE LOVING YOUTH AND THE
SCORNFUL MAID
HE
"Ah, it's wilt thou come with me, my love?
And it's wilt thou, love, he mine?
For I will give unto thee, my love,
Gay knots and ribbons so fine.
I'll woo thee, love, on my bended knee,
And I'll pipe sweet songs to none but thee.
Then it's hark! hark! hark!
To the winged lark
And it's hark to the cooing dove!
And the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill,
So come thou and be my love.
SHE
"Now get thee away, young man so fine;
Now get thee away, I say;
For my true love shall never be thine,
And so thou hadst better not stay.
Thou art not a fine enough lad for me,
So I'll wait till a better young man I see.
For it's hark! hark! hark!
To the winged lark,
And it's hark to the cooing dove!
And the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill,
Yet never I'll be thy love.
HE
"Then straight will I seek for another fair she,
For many a maid can be found,
And as thou wilt never have aught of me,
By thee will I never be bound.
For never is a blossom in the field so rare,
But others are found that are just as fair.
So it's hark! hark! hark!
To the joyous lark
And it's hark to the cooing dove!
And the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill,
And I'll seek me another dear love.
SHE
"Young man, turn not so very quick away
Another fair lass to find.
Methinks I have spoken in haste today,
Nor have I made up my mind,
And if thou only wilt stay with
me,
I'll love no other, sweet lad, but thee."
Here Robin could contain himself no longer but burst forth into
a mighty roar of laughter; then, the holy Friar keeping on with
the song, he joined in the chorus, and together they sang, or,
as one might say, bellowed:
"So it's hark! hark! hark!
To the joyous lark
And it's hark to the cooing dove!
For the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill
And I'll be thine own true love."
So they sang together, for the stout Friar did not seem to have
heard Robin's laughter, neither did he seem to know that the
yeoman had joined in with the song, but, with eyes half closed,
looking straight before him and wagging his round head from side
to side in time to the music, he kept on bravely to the end, he
and Robin finishing up with a mighty roar that might have been
heard a mile. But no sooner had the last word been sung than the
holy man seized his steel cap, clapped it on his head, and
springing to his feet, cried in a great voice, "What spy have we
here? Come forth, thou limb of evil, and I will carve thee into
as fine pudding meat as e'er a wife in Yorkshire cooked of a
Sunday." Hereupon he drew from beneath his robes a great
broadsword full as stout as was Robin's.
"Nay, put up thy pinking iron,
friend," quoth Robin, standing up with the tears of laughter
still on his cheeks. "Folk who have sung so sweetly together
should not fight thereafter." Hereupon he leaped down the bank
to where the other stood. "I tell thee, friend," said he, "my
throat is as parched with that song as e'er a barley stubble in
October. Hast thou haply any Malmsey left in that stout pottle?"
"Truly," said the Friar in a
glum voice, "thou dost ask thyself freely where thou art not
bidden. Yet I trust I am too good a Christian to refuse any man
drink that is athirst. Such as there is o't thou art welcome to
a drink of the same." And he held the pottle out to Robin.
Robin took it without more ado
and putting it to his lips, tilted his head back, while that
which was within said "glug! "lug! glug!" for more than three
winks, I wot. The stout Friar watched Robin anxiously the while,
and when he was done took the pottle quickly. He shook it, held
it betwixt his eyes and the light, looked reproachfully at the
yeoman, and straightway placed it at his own lips. When it came
away again there was nought within it.
"Doss thou know the country
hereabouts, thou good and holy man?" asked Robin, laughing.
"Yea, somewhat," answered the
other dryly.
"And dost thou know of a
certain spot called Fountain Abbey?"
"Yea, somewhat."
"Then perchance thou knowest
also of a certain one who goeth by the name of the Curtal Friar
of Fountain Abbey."
"Yea, somewhat."
"Well then, good fellow, holy
father, or whatever thou art," quoth Robin, "I would know
whether this same Friar is to be found upon this side of the
river or the other."
"That," quoth the Friar, "is a
practical question upon which the cunning rules appertaining to
logic touch not. I do advise thee to find that out by the aid of
thine own five senses; sight, feeling, and what not."
"I do wish much," quoth Robin,
looking thoughtfully at the stout priest, "to cross yon ford and
strive to find this same good Friar."
"Truly," said the other
piously, "it is a goodly wish on the part of one so young. Far
be it from me to check thee in so holy a quest. Friend, the
river is free to all."
"Yea, good father," said Robin,
"but thou seest that my clothes are of the finest and I fain
would not get them wet. Methinks thy shoulders are stout and
broad; couldst thou not find it in thy heart to carry me
across?"
"Now, by the white hand of the
holy Lady of the Fountain!" burst forth the Friar in a mighty
rage, "dost thou, thou poor puny stripling, thou kiss-my-lady-la
poppenjay; thou--thou What shall I call thee? Dost thou ask me,
the holy Tuck, to carry thee? Now I swear--" Here he paused
suddenly, then slowly the anger passed from his face, and his
little eyes twinkled once more. "But why should I not?" quoth he
piously.
"Did not the holy Saint
Christopher ever carry the stranger across the river? And should
I, poor sinner that I am, be ashamed to do likewise? Come with
me, stranger, and I will do thy bidding in an humble frame of
mind." So saying, he clambered up the bank, closely followed by
Robin, and led the way to the shallow pebbly ford, chuckling to
himself the while as though he were enjoying some goodly jest
within himself.
Having come to the ford, he
girded up his robes about his loins, tucked his good broadsword
beneath his arm, and stooped his back to take Robin upon it.
Suddenly he straightened up. "Methinks," quoth he, "thou'lt get
thy weapon wet. Let me tuck it beneath mine arm along with mine
own."
"Nay, good father," said Robin,
"I would not burden thee with aught of mine but myself."
"Dost thou think," said the
Friar mildly, "that the good Saint Christopher would ha' sought
his own ease so? Nay, give me thy tool as I bid thee, for I
would carry it as a penance to my pride."
Upon this, without more ado,
Robin Hood unbuckled his sword from his side and handed it to
the other, who thrust it with his own beneath his arm. Then once
more the Friar bent his back, and, Robin having mounted upon it,
he stepped sturdily into the water and so strode onward,
splashing in the shoal, and breaking all the smooth surface into
ever-widening rings. At last he reached the other side and Robin
leaped lightly from his back.
"Many thanks, good father,"
quoth he. "Thou art indeed a good and holy man. Prythee give me
my sword and let me away, for I am in haste."
At this the stout Friar looked
upon Robin for a long time, his head on one side, and with a
most waggish twist to his face; then he slowly winked his right
eye. "Nay, good youth," said he gently, "I doubt not that thou
art in haste with thine affairs, yet thou dost think nothing of
mine. Thine are of a carnal nature; mine are of a spiritual
nature, a holy work, so to speak; moreover, mine affairs do lie
upon the other side of this stream. I see by thy quest of this
same holy recluse that thou art a good young man and most
reverent to the cloth. I did get wet coming hither, and am sadly
afraid that should I wade the water again I might get certain
cricks and pains i' the joints that would mar my devotions for
many a day to come. I know that since I have so humbly done thy
bidding thou wilt carry me back again. Thou seest how Saint
Godrick, that holy hermit whose natal day this is, hath placed
in my hands two swords and in thine never a one. Therefore be
persuaded, good youth, and carry me back again."
Robin Hood looked up and he
looked down, biting his nether lip. Quoth he, "Thou cunning
Friar, thou hast me fair and fast enow. Let me tell thee that
not one of thy cloth hath so hoodwinked me in all my life
before. I might have known from thy looks that thou wert no such
holy man as thou didst pretend to be."
"Nay," interrupted the Friar,
"I bid thee speak not so scurrilously neither, lest thou mayst
perchance feel the prick of an inch or so of blue steel."
"Tut, tut," said Robin, "speak
not so, Friar; the loser hath ever the right to use his tongue
as he doth list. Give me my sword; I do promise to carry thee
back straightway. Nay, I will not lift the weapon against thee."
"Marry, come up," quoth the
Friar, "I fear thee not, fellow. Here is thy skewer; and get
thyself presently ready, for I would hasten back."
So Robin took his sword again
and buckled it at his side; then he bent his stout back and took
the Friar upon it.
Now I wot Robin Hood had a
heavier load to carry in the Friar than the Friar had in him.
Moreover he did not know the ford, so he went stumbling among
the stones, now stepping into a deep hole, and now nearly
tripping over a boulder, while the sweat ran down his face in
beads from the hardness of his journey and the heaviness of his
load. Meantime, the Friar kept digging his heels into Robin's
sides and bidding him hasten, calling him many ill names the
while. To all this Robin answered never a word, but, having
softly felt around till he found the buckle of the belt that
held the Friar's sword, he worked slyly at the fastenings,
seeking to loosen them. Thus it came about that, by the time he
had reached the other bank with his load, the Friar's sword belt
was loose albeit he knew it not; so when Robin stood on dry land
and the Friar leaped from his back, the yeoman gripped hold of
the sword so that blade, sheath, and strap came away from the
holy man, leaving him without a weapon.
"Now then," quoth merry Robin,
panting as he spake and wiping the sweat from his brow, "I have
thee, fellow. This time that same saint of whom thou didst speak
but now hath delivered two swords into my hand and hath stripped
thine away from thee. Now if thou dost not carry me back, and
that speedily, I swear I will prick thy skin till it is as full
of holes as a slashed doublet."
The good Friar said not a word
for a while, but he looked at Robin with a grim look. "Now,"
said he at last, "I did think that thy wits were of the heavy
sort and knew not that thou wert so cunning. Truly, thou hast me
upon the hip. Give me my sword, and I promise not to draw it
against thee save in self-defense; also, I promise to do thy
bidding and take thee upon my back and carry thee."
So jolly Robin gave him his
sword again, which the Friar buckled to his side, and this time
looked to it that it was more secure in its fastenings; then
tucking up his robes once more, he took Robin Hood upon his back
and without a word stepped into the water, and so waded on in
silence while Robin sat laughing upon his back. At last he
reached the middle of the ford where the water was deepest. Here
he stopped for a moment, and then, with a sudden lift of his
hand and heave of his shoulders, fairly shot Robin over his head
as though he were a sack of grain.
Down went Robin into the water
with a mighty splash. "There," quoth the holy man, calmly
turning back again to the shore, "let that cool thy hot spirit,
if it may."
Meantime, after much splashing,
Robin had gotten to his feet and stood gazing about him all
bewildered, the water running from him in pretty little rills.
At last he shot the water out of his ears and spat some out of
his mouth, and, gathering his scattered wits together, saw the
stout Friar standing on the bank and laughing. Then, I wot, was
Robin Hood a mad man. "Stay, thou villain!" roared he, "I am
after thee straight, and if I do not carve thy brawn for thee
this day, may I never lift finger again!" So saying, he dashed,
splashing, to the bank.
"Thou needst not hasten thyself
unduly," quoth the stout Friar. "Fear not; I will abide here,
and if thou dost not cry `Alack-a-day' ere long time is gone,
may I never more peep through the brake at a fallow deer."
And now Robin, having reached
the bank, began, without more ado, to roll up his sleeves above
his wrists. The Friar, also, tucked his robes more about him,
showing a great, stout arm on which the muscles stood out like
humps of an aged tree. Then Robin saw, what he had not wotted of
before, that the Friar had also a coat of chain mail beneath his
gown.
"Look to thyself," cried Robin,
drawing his good sword.
"Ay, marry," quoth the Friar,
who held his already in his hand. So, without more ado, they
came together, and thereupon began a fierce and mighty battle.
Right and left, and up and down and back and forth they fought.
The swords flashed in the sun and then met with a clash that
sounded far and near. I wot this was no playful bout at
quarterstaff, but a grim and serious fight of real earnest. Thus
they strove for an hour or more, pausing every now and then to
rest, at which times each looked at the other with wonder, and
thought that never had he seen so stout a fellow; then once
again they would go at it more fiercely than ever. Yet in all
this time neither had harmed the other nor caused his blood to
flow. At last merry Robin cried, "Hold thy hand, good friend!"
whereupon both lowered their swords.
"Now I crave a boon ere we
begin again," quoth Robin, wiping the sweat from his brow; for
they had striven so long that he began to think that it would be
an ill-done thing either to be smitten himself or to smite so
stout and brave a fellow.
"What wouldst thou have of me?"
asked the Friar.
"Only this," quoth Robin; "that
thou wilt let me blow thrice upon my bugle horn."
The Friar bent his brows and
looked shrewdly at Robin Hood. "Now I do verily think that thou
hast some cunning trick in this," quoth he. "Ne'ertheless, I
fear thee not, and will let thee have thy wish, providing thou
wilt also let me blow thrice upon this little whistle."
"With all my heart," quoth
Robin, "so, here goes for one." So saying, he raised his silver
horn to his lips and blew thrice upon it, clear and high.
Meantime, the Friar stood
watching keenly for what might come to pass, holding in his
fingers the while a pretty silver whistle, such as knights use
for calling their hawks back to their wrists, which whistle
always hung at his girdle along with his rosary.
Scarcely had the echo of the
last note of Robin's bugle come winding back from across the
river, when four tall men in Lincoln green came running around
the bend of the road, each with a bow in his hand and an arrow
ready nocked upon the string.
"Ha! Is it thus, thou traitor
knave!" cried the Friar. "Then, marry, look to thyself!" So
saying, he straightway clapped the hawk's whistle to his lips
and blew a blast that was both loud and shrill. And now there
came a crackling of the bushes that lined the other side of the
road, and presently forth from the covert burst four great,
shaggy hounds. "At 'em, Sweet Lips! At 'em, Bell Throat! At 'em,
Beauty! At 'em, Fangs!" cried the Friar, pointing at Robin.
And now it was well for that
yeoman that a tree stood nigh him beside the road, else had he
had an ill chance of it. Ere one could say "Gaffer Downthedale"
the hounds were upon him, and he had only time to drop his sword
and leap lightly into the tree, around which the hounds
gathered, looking up at him as though he were a cat on the
eaves. But the Friar quickly called off his dogs. "At 'em!"
cried he, pointing down the road to where the yeomen were
standing stock still with wonder of what they saw. As the hawk
darts down upon its quarry, so sped the four dogs at the yeomen;
but when the four men saw the hounds so coming, all with one
accord, saving only Will Scarlet, drew each man his goose
feather to his ear and let fly his shaft.
And now the old ballad telleth
of a wondrous thing that happened, for thus it says, that each
dog so shot at leaped lightly aside, and as the arrow passed him
whistling, caught it in his mouth and bit it in twain. Now it
would have been an ill day for these four good fellows had not
Will Scarlet stepped before the others and met the hounds as
they came rushing. "Why, how now, Fangs!" cried he sternly.
"Down, Beauty! Down, sirrah! What means this?"
At the sound of his voice each
dog shrank back quickly and then straightway came to him and
licked his hands and fawned upon him, as is the wont of dogs
that meet one they know. Then the four yeomen came forward, the
hounds leaping around Will Scarlet joyously. "Why, how now!"
cried the stout Friar, "what means this? Art thou wizard to turn
those wolves into lambs? Ha!" cried he, when they had come still
nearer, "can I trust mine eyes? What means it that I see young
Master William Gamwell in such company?"
"Nay, Tuck," said the young
man, as the four came forward to where Robin was now clambering
down from the tree in which he had been roosting, he having seen
that all danger was over for the time; "nay, Tuck, my name is no
longer Will Gamwell, but Will Scarlet; and this is my good
uncle, Robin Hood, with whom I am abiding just now."
"Truly, good master," said the
Friar, looking somewhat abashed and reaching out his great palm
to Robin, "I ha' oft heard thy name both sung and spoken of, but
I never thought to meet thee in battle. I crave thy forgiveness,
and do wonder not that I found so stout a man against me."
"Truly, most holy father," said
Little John, "I am more thankful than e'er I was in all my life
before that our good friend Scarlet knew thee and thy dogs. I
tell thee seriously that I felt my heart crumble away from me
when I saw my shaft so miss its aim, and those great beasts of
thine coming straight at me."
"Thou mayst indeed be thankful,
friend," said the Friar gravely. "But, Master Will, how cometh
it that thou dost now abide in Sherwood?"
"Why, Tuck, dost thou not know
of my ill happening with my father's steward?" answered Scarlet.
"Yea, truly, yet I knew not
that thou wert in hiding because of it. Marry, the times are all
awry when a gentleman must lie hidden for so small a thing."
"But we are losing time," quoth
Robin, "and I have yet to find that same Curtal Friar."
"Why, uncle, thou hast not far
to go," said Will Scarlet, pointing to the Friar, "for there he
stands beside thee."
"How?" quoth Robin, "art thou
the man that I have been at such pains to seek all day, and have
got such a ducking for?"
"Why, truly," said the Friar
demurely, "some do call me the Curtal Friar of Fountain Dale;
others again call me in jest the Abbot of Fountain Abbey; others
still again call me simple Friar Tuck."
"I like the last name best,"
quoth Robin, "for it doth slip more glibly off the tongue. But
why didst thou not tell me thou wert he I sought, instead of
sending me searching for black moonbeams?"
"Why, truly, thou didst not ask
me, good master," quoth stout Tuck; "but what didst thou desire
of me?"
"Nay," quoth Robin, "the day
groweth late, and we cannot stand longer talking here. Come back
with us to Sherwood, and I will unfold all to thee as we travel
along."
So, without tarrying longer,
they all departed, with the stout dogs at their heels, and
wended their way back to Sherwood again; but it was long past
nightfall ere they reached the greenwood tree.
Now listen, for next I will
tell how Robin Hood compassed the happiness of two young lovers,
aided by the merry Friar Tuck of Fountain Dale.

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XIII. Robin Hood Compasses a
Marriage
And now had come the morning
when fair Ellen was to be married, and on which merry Robin had
sworn that Allan a Dale should, as it were, eat out of the
platter that had been filled for Sir Stephen of Trent. Up rose
Robin Hood, blithe and gay, up rose his merry men one and all,
and up rose last of all stout Friar Tuck, winking the smart of
sleep from out his eyes. Then, while the air seemed to brim over
with the song of many birds, all blended together and all joying
in the misty morn, each man raved face and hands in the leaping
brook, and so the day began.
"Now," quoth Robin, when they
had broken their fast, and each man had eaten his fill, "it is
time for us to set forth upon the undertaking that we have in
hand for today. I will choose me one score of my good men to go
with me, for I may need aid; and thou, Will Scarlet, wilt abide
here and be the chief while I am gone." Then searching through
all the band, each man of whom crowded forward eager to be
chosen, Robin called such as he wished by name, until he had a
score of stout fellows, the very flower of his yeomanrie.
Besides Little John and Will Stutely were nigh all those famous
lads of whom I have already told you. Then, while those so
chosen ran leaping, full of joy, to arm themselves with bow and
shaft and broadsword, Robin Hood stepped aside into the covert,
and there donned a gay, beribboned coat such as might have been
worn by some strolling minstrel, and slung a harp across his
shoulder, the better to carry out that part.
All the band stared and many
laughed, for never had they seen their master in such a
fantastic guise before.
"Truly," quoth Robin, holding
up his arms and looking down at himself, "I do think it be
somewhat of a gay, gaudy, grasshopper dress; but it is a pretty
thing for all that, and doth not ill befit the turn of my looks,
albeit I wear it but for the nonce. But stay, Little John, here
are two bags that I would have thee carry in thy pouch for the
sake of safekeeping. I can ill care for them myself beneath this
motley."
"Why, master," quoth Little
John, taking the bags and weighing them in his hand, "here is
the chink of gold."
"Well, what an there be," said
Robin, "it is mine own coin and the band is none the worse for
what is there. Come, busk ye, lads," and he turned quickly away.
"Get ye ready straightway." Then gathering the score together in
a close rank, in the midst of which were Allan a Dale and Friar
Tuck, he led them forth upon their way from the forest shades.
So they walked on for a long
time till they had come out of Sherwood and to the vale of
Rotherstream. Here were different sights from what one saw in
the forest; hedgerows, broad fields of barley corn, pasture
lands rolling upward till they met the sky and all dotted over
with flocks of white sheep, hayfields whence came the odor of
new-mown hay that lay in smooth swathes over which skimmed the
swifts in rapid flight; such they saw, and different was it, I
wot, from the tangled depths of the sweet woodlands, but full as
fair. Thus Robin led his band, walking blithely with chest
thrown out and head thrown back, snuffing the odors of the
gentle breeze that came drifting from over the hayfields.
"Truly," quoth he, "the dear
world is as fair here as in the woodland shades. Who calls it a
vale of tears? Methinks it is but the darkness in our minds that
bringeth gloom to the world. For what sayeth that merry song
thou singest, Little John? Is it not thus?
"For when my love's eyes do
thine, do thine,
And when her lips smile so rare,
The day it is jocund and fine, so fine,
Though let it be wet or be fair
And when the stout ale is all flowing so fast,
Our sorrows and troubles are things of the past."
"Nay," said Friar Tuck piously, "ye do think of profane things
and of nought else; yet, truly, there be better safeguards
against care and woe than ale drinking and bright eyes, to wit,
fasting and meditation. Look upon me, have I the likeness of a
sorrowful man?"
At this a great shout of
laughter went up from all around, for the night before the stout
Friar had emptied twice as many canakins of ale as any one of
all the merry men.
"Truly," quoth Robin, when he
could speak for laughter, "I should say that thy sorrows were
about equal to thy goodliness."
So they stepped along, talking,
singing, jesting, and laughing, until they had come to a certain
little church that belonged to the great estates owned by the
rich Priory of Emmet. Here it was that fair Ellen was to be
married on that morn, and here was the spot toward which the
yeomen had pointed their toes. On the other side of the road
from where the church stood with waving fields of barley around,
ran a stone wall along the roadside. Over the wall from the
highway was a fringe of young trees and bushes, and here and
there the wall itself was covered by a mass of blossoming
woodbine that filled all the warm air far and near with its
sweet summer odor. Then straightway the yeomen leaped over the
wall, alighting on the tall soft grass upon the other side,
frightening a flock of sheep that lay there in the shade so that
they scampered away in all directions. Here was a sweet cool
shadow both from the wall and from the fair young trees and
bushes, and here sat the yeomen down, and glad enough they were
to rest after their long tramp of the morning.
"Now," quoth Robin, "I would
have one of you watch and tell me when he sees anyone coming to
the church, and the one I choose shall be young David of
Doncaster. So get thee upon the wall, David, and hide beneath
the woodbine so as to keep watch."
Accordingly young David did as
he was bidden, the others stretching themselves at length upon
the grass, some talking together and others sleeping. Then all
was quiet save only for the low voices of those that talked
together, and for Allan's restless footsteps pacing up and down,
for his soul was so full of disturbance that he could not stand
still, and saving, also, for the mellow snoring of Friar Tuck,
who enjoyed his sleep with a noise as of one sawing soft wood
very slowly. Robin lay upon his back and gazed aloft into the
leaves of the trees, his thought leagues away, and so a long
time passed.
Then up spoke Robin, "Now tell
us, young David of Doncaster, what dost thou see?"
Then David answered, "I see the
white clouds floating and I feel the wind a-blowing and three
black crows are flying over the wold; but nought else do I see,
good master."
So silence fell again and
another time passed, broken only as I have said, till Robin,
growing impatient, spake again. "Now tell me, young David, what
dost thou see by this?"
And David answered, "I see the
windmills swinging and three tall poplar trees swaying against
the sky, and a flock of fieldfares are flying over the hill; but
nought else do I see, good master."
So another time passed, till at
last Robin asked young David once more what he saw; and David
said, "I hear the cuckoo singing, and I see how the wind makes
waves in the barley field; and now over the hill to the church
cometh an old friar, and in his hands he carries a great bunch
of keys; and lo! Now he cometh to the church door."
Then up rose Robin Hood and
shook Friar Tuck by the shoulder. "Come, rouse thee, holy man!"
cried he; whereupon, with much grunting, the stout Tuck got to
his feet. "Marry, bestir thyself," quoth Robin, "for yonder, in
the church door, is one of thy cloth. Go thou and talk to him,
and so get thyself into the church, that thou mayst be there
when thou art wanted; meantime, Little John, Will Stutely, and I
will follow thee anon."
So Friar Tuck clambered over
the wall, crossed the road, and came to the church, where the
old friar was still laboring with the great key, the lock being
somewhat rusty and he somewhat old and feeble.
"Hilloa, brother," quoth Tuck,
"let me aid thee." So saying, he took the key from the other's
hand and quickly opened the door with a turn of it.
"Who art thou, good brother?"
asked the old friar, in a high, wheezing voice. "Whence comest
thou, and whither art thou going?" And he winked and blinked at
stout Friar Tuck like an owl at the sun.
"Thus do I answer thy
questions, brother," said the other. "My name is Tuck, and I go
no farther than this spot, if thou wilt haply but let me stay
while this same wedding is going forward. I come from Fountain
Dale and, in truth, am a certain poor hermit, as one may say,
for I live in a cell beside the fountain blessed by that holy
Saint Ethelrada. But, if I understand aught, there is to be a
gay wedding here today; so, if thou mindest not, I would fain
rest me in the cool shade within, for I would like to see this
fine sight."
"Truly, thou art welcome,
brother," said the old man, leading the way within. Meantime,
Robin Hood, in his guise of harper, together with Little John
and Will Stutely, had come to the church. Robin sat him down on
a bench beside the door, but Little John, carrying the two bags
of gold, went within, as did Will Stutely.
So Robin sat by the door,
looking up the road and down the road to see who might come,
till, after a time, he saw six horsemen come riding sedately and
slowly, as became them, for they were churchmen in high orders.
Then, when they had come nearer, Robin saw who they were, and
knew them. The first was the Bishop of Hereford, and a fine
figure he cut, I wot. His vestments were of the richest silk,
and around his neck was a fair chain of beaten gold. The cap
that hid his tonsure was of black velvet, and around the edges
of it were rows of jewels that flashed in the sunlight, each
stone being set in gold. His hose were of flame-colored silk,
and his shoes of black velvet, the long, pointed toes being
turned up and fastened to his knees, and on either instep was
embroidered a cross in gold thread. Beside the Bishop rode the
Prior of Emmet upon a mincing palfrey. Rich were his clothes
also, but not so gay as the stout Bishop's. Behind these were
two of the higher brethren of Emmet, and behind these again two
retainers belonging to the Bishop; for the Lord Bishop of
Hereford strove to be as like the great barons as was in the
power of one in holy orders.
When Robin saw this train
drawing near, with flash of jewels and silk and jingle of silver
bells on the trappings of the nags, he looked sourly upon them.
Quoth he to himself, "Yon Bishop is overgaudy for a holy man. I
do wonder whether his patron, who, methinks, was Saint Thomas,
was given to wearing golden chains about his neck, silk clothing
upon his body, and pointed shoes upon his feet; the money for
all of which, God wot, hath been wrung from the sweat of poor
tenants. Bishop, Bishop, thy pride may have a fall ere thou
wottest of it."
So the holy men came to the
church; the Bishop and the Prior jesting and laughing between
themselves about certain fair dames, their words more befitting
the lips of laymen, methinks, than holy clerks. Then they
dismounted, and the Bishop, looking around, presently caught
sight of Robin standing in the doorway. "Hilloa, good fellow,"
quoth he in a jovial voice, "who art thou that struttest in such
gay feathers?"
"A harper am I from the north
country," quoth Robin, "and I can touch the strings, I wot, as
never another man in all merry England can do. Truly, good Lord
Bishop, many a knight and burgher, clerk and layman, have danced
to my music, willy-nilly, and most times greatly against their
will; such is the magic of my harping. Now this day, my Lord
Bishop, if I may play at this wedding, I do promise that I will
cause the fair bride to love the man she marries with a love
that shall last as long as that twain shall live together."
"Ha! is it so?" cried the
Bishop. "Meanest thou this in sooth?" And he looked keenly at
Robin, who gazed boldly back again into his eyes. "Now, if thou
wilt cause this maiden (who hath verily bewitched my poor cousin
Stephen) thus to love the man she is to marry, as thou sayst
thou canst, I will give thee whatsoever thou wilt ask me in due
measure. Let me have a taste of thy skill, fellow."
"Nay," quoth Robin, "my music
cometh not without I choose, even at a lord bishop's bidding. In
sooth, I will not play until the bride and bridegroom come."
"Now, thou art a saucy varlet
to speak so to my crest," quoth the Bishop, frowning on Robin.
"Yet, I must needs bear with thee. Look, Prior, hither cometh
our cousin Sir Stephen, and his ladylove."
And now, around the bend of the
highroad, came others, riding upon horses. The first of all was
a tall, thin man, of knightly bearing, dressed all in black
silk, with a black velvet cap upon his head, turned up with
scarlet. Robin looked, and had no doubt that this was Sir
Stephen, both because of his knightly carriage and of his gray
hairs. Beside him rode a stout Saxon franklin, Ellen's father,
Edward of Deirwold; behind those two came a litter borne by two
horses, and therein was a maiden whom Robin knew must be Ellen.
Behind this litter rode six men-at-arms, the sunlight flashing
on their steel caps as they came jingling up the dusty road.
So these also came to the
church, and there Sir Stephen leaped from his horse and, coming
to the litter, handed fair Ellen out therefrom. Then Robin Hood
looked at her, and could wonder no longer how it came about that
so proud a knight as Sir Stephen of Trent wished to marry a
common franklin's daughter; nor did he wonder that no ado was
made about the matter, for she was the fairest maiden that ever
he had beheld. Now, however, she was all pale and drooping, like
a fair white lily snapped at the stem; and so, with bent head
and sorrowful look, she went within the church, Sir Stephen
leading her by the hand.
"Why dost thou not play,
fellow?" quoth the Bishop, looking sternly at Robin.
"Marry," said Robin calmly, "I
will play in greater wise than Your Lordship thinks, but not
till the right time hath come."
Said the Bishop to himself,
while he looked grimly at Robin, "When this wedding is gone by I
will have this fellow well whipped for his saucy tongue and bold
speech."
And now fair Ellen and Sir
Stephen stood before the altar, and the Bishop himself came in
his robes and opened his book, whereat fair Ellen looked up and
about her in bitter despair, like the fawn that finds the hounds
on her haunch. Then, in all his fluttering tags and ribbons of
red and yellow, Robin Hood strode forward. Three steps he took
from the pillar whereby he leaned, and stood between the bride
and bridegroom.
"Let me look upon this lass,"
he said in a loud voice. "Why, how now! What have we here? Here
be lilies in the cheeks, and not roses such as befit a bonny
bride. This is no fit wedding. Thou, Sir Knight, so old, and she
so young, and thou thinkest to make her thy wife? I tell thee it
may not be, for thou art not her own true love."
At this all stood amazed, and
knew not where to look nor what to think or say, for they were
all bewildered with the happening; so, while everyone looked at
Robin as though they had been changed to stone, he clapped his
bugle horn to his lips and blew three blasts so loud and clear,
they echoed from floor to rafter as though they were sounded by
the trump of doom. Then straightway Little John and Will Stutely
came leaping and stood upon either side of Robin Hood, and
quickly drew their broadswords, the while a mighty voice rolled
over the heads of all, "Here be I, good master, when thou
wantest me"; for it was Friar Tuck that so called from the organ
loft.
And now all was hubbub and
noise. Stout Edward strode forward raging, and would have seized
his daughter to drag her away, but Little John stepped between
and thrust him back. "Stand back, old man," said he, "thou art a
hobbled horse this day."
"Down with the villains!" cried
Sir Stephen, and felt for his sword, but it hung not beside him
on his wedding day.
Then the men-at-arms drew their
swords, and it seemed like that blood would wet the stones; but
suddenly came a bustle at the door and loud voices, steel
flashed in the light, and the crash of blows sounded. The
men-at-arms fell back, and up the aisle came leaping eighteen
stout yeomen all clad in Lincoln green, with Allan a Dale at
their head. In his hand he bore Robin Hood's good stout trusty
bow of yew, and this he gave to him, kneeling the while upon one
knee.
Then up spake Edward of
Deirwold in a deep voice of anger, "Is it thou, Allan a Dale,
that hath bred all this coil in a church?"
"Nay," quoth merry Robin, "that
have I done, and I care not who knoweth it, for my name is Robin
Hood."
At this name a sudden silence
fell. The Prior of Emmet and those that belonged to him gathered
together like a flock of frightened sheep when the scent of the
wolf is nigh, while the Bishop of Hereford, laying aside his
book, crossed himself devoutly. "Now Heaven keep us this day,"
said he, "from that evil man!"
"Nay," quoth Robin, "I mean you
no harm; but here is fair Ellen's betrothed husband, and she
shall marry him or pain will be bred to some of you."
Then up spake stout Edward in a
loud and angry voice, "Now I say nay! I am her father, and she
shall marry Sir Stephen and none other."
Now all this time, while
everything was in turmoil about him, Sir Stephen had been
standing in proud and scornful silence. "Nay, fellow," said he
coldly, "thou mayst take thy daughter back again; I would not
marry her after this day's doings could I gain all merry England
thereby. I tell thee plainly, I loved thy daughter, old as I am,
and would have taken her up like a jewel from the sty, yet,
truly, I knew not that she did love this fellow, and was beloved
by him. Maiden, if thou dost rather choose a beggarly minstrel
than a high-born knight, take thy choice. I do feel it shame
that I should thus stand talking amid this herd, and so I will
leave you." Thus saying, he turned and, gathering his men about
him, walked proudly down the aisle. Then all the yeomen were
silenced by the scorn of his words. Only Friar Tuck leaned over
the edge of the choir loft and called out to him ere he had
gone, "Good den, Sir Knight. Thou wottest old bones must alway
make room for young blood." Sir Stephen neither answered nor
looked up, but passed out from the church as though he had heard
nought, his men following him.
Then the Bishop of Hereford
spoke hastily, "I, too, have no business here, and so will
depart." And he made as though he would go. But Robin Hood laid
hold of his clothes and held him. "Stay, my Lord Bishop," said
he, "I have yet somewhat to say to thee." The Bishop's face
fell, but he stayed as Robin bade him, for he saw he could not
go.
Then Robin Hood turned to stout
Edward of Deirwold, and said he, "Give thy blessing on thy
daughter's marriage to this yeoman, and all will be well. Little
John, give me the bags of gold. Look, farmer. Here are two
hundred bright golden angels; give thy blessing, as I say, and I
will count them out to thee as thy daughter's dower. Give not
thy blessing, and she shall be married all the same, but not so
much as a cracked farthing shall cross thy palm. Choose."
Then Edward looked upon the
ground with bent brows, turning the matter over and over in his
mind; but he was a shrewd man and one, withal, that made the
best use of a cracked pipkin; so at last he looked up and said,
but in no joyous tone, "If the wench will go her own gait, let
her go. I had thought to make a lady of her; yet if she chooses
to be what she is like to be, I have nought to do with her
henceforth. Ne'ertheless I will give her my blessing when she is
duly wedded."
"It may not be," spake up one
of those of Emmet. "The banns have not been duly published,
neither is there any priest here to marry them."
"How sayst thou?" roared Tuck
from the choir loft. "No priest? Marry, here stands as holy a
man as thou art, any day of the week, a clerk in orders, I would
have thee know. As for the question of banns, stumble not over
that straw, brother, for I will publish them." So saying, he
called the banns; and, says the old ballad, lest three times
should not be enough, he published them nine times o'er. Then
straightway he came down from the loft and forthwith performed
the marriage service; and so Allan and Ellen were duly wedded.
And now Robin counted out two
hundred golden angels to Edward of Deirwold, and he, upon his
part, gave his blessing, yet not, I wot, as though he meant it
with overmuch good will. Then the stout yeomen crowded around
and grasped Allan's palm, and he, holding Ellen's hand within
his own, looked about him all dizzy with his happiness.
Then at last jolly Robin turned
to the Bishop of Hereford, who had been looking on at all that
passed with a grim look. "My Lord Bishop," quoth he, "thou mayst
bring to thy mind that thou didst promise me that did I play in
such wise as to cause this fair lass to love her husband, thou
wouldst give me whatsoever I asked in reason. I have played my
play, and she loveth her husband, which she would not have done
but for me; so now fulfill thy promise. Thou hast upon thee that
which, methinks, thou wouldst be the better without; therefore,
I prythee, give me that golden chain that hangeth about thy neck
as a wedding present for this fair bride."
Then the Bishop's cheeks grew
red with rage and his eyes flashed. He looked at Robin with a
fell look, but saw that in the yeoman's face which bade him
pause. Then slowly he took the chain from about his neck and
handed it to Robin, who flung it over Ellen's head so that it
hung glittering about her shoulders. Then said merry Robin, "I
thank thee, on the bride's part, for thy handsome gift, and
truly thou thyself art more seemly without it. Now, shouldst
thou ever come nigh to Sherwood I much hope that I shall give
thee there such a feast as thou hast ne'er had in all thy life
before."
"May Heaven forfend!" cried the
Bishop earnestly; for he knew right well what manner of feast it
was that Robin Hood gave his guests in Sherwood Forest.
But now Robin Hood gathered his
men together, and, with Allan and his young bride in their
midst, they all turned their footsteps toward the woodlands. On
the way thither Friar Tuck came close to Robin and plucked him
by the sleeve. "Thou dost lead a merry life, good master," quoth
he, "but dost thou not think that it would be for the welfare of
all your souls to have a good stout chaplain, such as I, to
oversee holy matters? Truly, I do love this life mightily." At
this merry Robin Hood laughed amain, and bade him stay and
become one of their band if he wished.
That night there was such a
feast held in the greenwood as Nottinghamshire never saw before.
To that feast you and I were not bidden, and pity it is that we
were not; so, lest we should both feel the matter the more
keenly, I will say no more about it.

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XIV. Robin Hood Aids a Sorrowful
Knight
So passed the gentle springtime away in budding beauty; its
silver showers and sunshine, its green meadows and its flowers.
So, likewise, passed the summer with its yellow sunlight, its
quivering heat and deep, bosky foliage, its long twilights and
its mellow nights, through which the frogs croaked and fairy
folk were said to be out on the hillsides. All this had passed
and the time of fall had come, bringing with it its own
pleasures and joyousness; for now, when the harvest was gathered
home, merry bands of gleaners roamed the country about, singing
along the roads in the daytime, and sleeping beneath the
hedgerows and the hay-ricks at night. Now the hips burned red in
the tangled thickets and the hews waxed black in the hedgerows,
the stubble lay all crisp and naked to the sky, and the green
leaves were fast turning russet and brown. Also, at this merry
season, good things of the year are gathered in in great store.
Brown ale lies ripening in the cellar, hams and bacon hang in
the smoke-shed, and crabs are stowed away in the straw for
roasting in the wintertime, when the north wind piles the snow
in drifts around the gables and the fire crackles warm upon the
hearth.
So passed the seasons then, so
they pass now, and so they will pass in time to come, while we
come and go like leaves of the tree that fall and are soon
forgotten.
Quoth Robin Hood, snuffing the
air, "Here is a fair day, Little John, and one that we can ill
waste in idleness. Choose such men as thou dost need, and go
thou east while I will wend to the west, and see that each of us
bringeth back some goodly guest to dine this day beneath the
greenwood tree."
"Marry," cried Little John,
clapping his palms together for joy, "thy bidding fitteth my
liking like heft to blade. I'll bring thee back a guest this
day, or come not back mine own self."
Then they each chose such of
the band as they wished, and so went forth by different paths
from the forest.
Now, you and I cannot go two
ways at the same time while we join in these merry doings; so we
will e'en let Little John follow his own path while we tuck up
our skirts and trudge after Robin Hood. And here is good
company, too; Robin Hood, Will Scarlet, Allan a Dale, Will
Scathelock, Midge, the Miller's son, and others. A score or more
of stout fellows had abided in the forest, with Friar Tuck, to
make ready for the homecoming, but all the rest were gone either
with Robin Hood or Little John.
They traveled onward, Robin
following his fancy and the others following Robin. Now they
wended their way through an open dale with cottage and farm
lying therein, and now again they entered woodlands once more.
Passing by fair Mansfield Town, with its towers and battlements
and spires all smiling in the sun, they came at last out of the
forest lands. Onward they journeyed, through highway and byway,
through villages where goodwives and merry lasses peeped through
the casements at the fine show of young men, until at last they
came over beyond Alverton in Derbyshire. By this time high
noontide had come, yet they had met no guest such as was worth
their while to take back to Sherwood; so, coming at last to a
certain spot where a shrine stood at the crossing of two roads,
Robin called upon them to stop, for here on either side was
shelter of high hedgerows, behind which was good hiding, whence
they could watch the roads at their ease, while they ate their
midday meal. Quoth merry Robin, "Here, methinks, is good
lodging, where peaceful folk, such as we be, can eat in
quietness; therefore we will rest here, and see what may,
perchance, fall into our luck-pot." So they crossed a stile and
came behind a hedgerow where the mellow sunlight was bright and
warm, and where the grass was soft, and there sat them down.
Then each man drew from the pouch that hung beside him that
which he had brought to eat, for a merry walk such as this had
been sharpens the appetite till it is as keen as a March wind.
So no more words were spoken, but each man saved his teeth for
better use-- munching at brown crust and cold meat right
lustily.
In front of them, one of the
highroads crawled up the steep hill and then dipped suddenly
over its crest, sharp-cut with hedgerow and shaggy grass against
the sky. Over the top of the windy hill peeped the eaves of a
few houses of the village that fell back into the valley behind;
there, also, showed the top of a windmill, the sails slowly
rising and dipping from behind the hill against the clear blue
sky, as the light wind moved them with creaking and labored
swing.
So the yeomen lay behind the
hedge and finished their midday meal; but still the time slipped
along and no one came. At last, a man came slowly riding over
the hill and down the stony road toward the spot where Robin and
his band lay hidden. He was a good stout knight, but sorrowful
of face and downcast of mien. His clothes were plain and rich,
but no chain of gold, such as folk of his stand in life wore at
most times, hung around his neck, and no jewel was about him;
yet no one could mistake him for aught but one of proud and
noble blood. His head was bowed upon his breast and his hands
drooped limp on either side; and so he came slowly riding, as
though sunk in sad thoughts, while even his good horse, the
reins loose upon his neck, walked with hanging head, as though
he shared his master's grief.
Quoth Robin Hood, "Yon is
verily a sorry-looking gallant, and doth seem to have donned
ill-content with his jerkin this morning; nevertheless, I will
out and talk with him, for there may be some pickings here for a
hungry daw. Methinks his dress is rich, though he himself is so
downcast. Bide ye here till I look into this matter." So saying,
he arose and left them, crossed the road to the shrine, and
there stood, waiting for the sorrowful knight to come near him.
So, presently, when the knight came riding slowly along, jolly
Robin stepped forward and laid his hand upon the bridle rein.
"Hold, Sir Knight," quoth he. "I prythee tarry for a short time,
for I have a few words to say to thee."
"What art thou, friend, who
dost stop a traveler in this manner upon his most gracious
Majesty's highway?" said the Knight.
"Marry," quoth Robin, "that is
a question hard to answer. One man calleth me kind, another
calleth me cruel; this one calleth me good honest fellow, and
that one, vile thief. Truly, the world hath as many eyes to look
upon a man withal as there are spots on a toad; so, with what
pair of eyes thou regardest me lieth entirely with thine own
self. My name is Robin Hood."
"Truly, good Robin," said the
Knight, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, "thou
hast a quaint conceit. As for the pair of eyes with which I
regard thee, I would say that they are as favorable as may be,
for I hear much good of thee and little ill. What is thy will of
me?"
"Now, I make my vow, Sir
Knight," quoth Robin, "thou hast surely learned thy wisdom of
good Gaffer Swanthold, for he sayeth, `Fair words are as easy
spoke as foul, and bring good will in the stead of blows.' Now I
will show thee the truth of this saying; for, if thou wilt go
with me this day to Sherwood Forest, I will give thee as merry a
feast as ever thou hadst in all thy life."
"Thou art indeed kind," said
the Knight, "but methinks thou wilt find me but an ill-seeming
and sorrowful guest. Thou hadst best let me pass on my way in
peace."
"Nay," quoth Robin, "thou
mightst go thine own way but for one thing, and that I will tell
thee. We keep an inn, as it were, in the very depths of
Sherwood, but so far from highroads and beaten paths that guests
do not often come nigh us; so I and my friends set off merrily
and seek them when we grow dull of ourselves. Thus the matter
stands, Sir Knight; yet I will furthermore tell thee that we
count upon our guests paying a reckoning."
"I take thy meaning, friend,"
said the Knight gravely, "but I am not thy man, for I have no
money by me."
"Is it sooth?" said Robin,
looking at the Knight keenly. "I can scarce choose but believe
thee; yet, Sir Knight, there be those of thy order whose word is
not to be trusted as much as they would have others believe.
Thou wilt think no ill if I look for myself in this matter."
Then, still holding the horse by the bridle rein, he put his
fingers to his lips and blew a shrill whistle, whereupon
fourscore yeomen came leaping over the stile and ran to where
the Knight and Robin stood. "These," said Robin, looking upon
them proudly, "are some of my merry men. They share and share
alike with me all joys and troubles, gains and losses. Sir
Knight, I prythee tell me what money thou hast about thee."
For a time the Knight said not
a word, but a slow red arose into his cheeks; at last he looked
Robin in the face and said, "I know not why I should be ashamed,
for it should be no shame to me; but, friend, I tell thee the
truth, when I say that in my purse are ten shillings, and that
that is every groat that Sir Richard of the Lea hath in all the
wide world."
When Sir Richard ended a
silence fell, until at last Robin said, "And dost thou pledge me
thy knightly word that this is all thou hast with thee?"
"Yea," answered Sir Richard, "I
do pledge thee my most solemn word, as a true knight, that it is
all the money I have in the world. Nay, here is my purse, ye may
find for yourselves the truth of what I say." And he held his
purse out to Robin.
"Put up thy purse, Sir
Richard," quoth Robin. "Far be it from me to doubt the word of
so gentle a knight. The proud I strive to bring low, but those
that walk in sorrow I would aid if I could. Come, Sir Richard,
cheer up thy heart and go with us into the greenwood. Even I may
perchance aid thee, for thou surely knowest how the good
Athelstane was saved by the little blind mole that digged a
trench over which he that sought the king's life stumbled."
"Truly, friend," said Sir
Richard, "methinks thou meanest kindness in thine own way;
nevertheless my troubles are such that it is not likely that
thou canst cure them. But I will go with thee this day into
Sherwood." Hereupon he turned his horse's head, and they all
wended their way to the woodlands, Robin walking on one side of
the Knight and Will Scarlet on the other, while the rest of the
band trudged behind.
After they had traveled thus
for a time Robin Hood spake. "Sir Knight," said he, "I would not
trouble thee with idle questions; but dost thou find it in thy
heart to tell me thy sorrows?"
"Truly, Robin," quoth the
Knight, "I see no reason why I should not do so. Thus it is: My
castle and my lands are in pawn for a debt that I owe. Three
days hence the money must be paid or else all mine estate is
lost forever, for then it falls into the hands of the Priory of
Emmet, and what they swallow they never give forth again."
Quoth Robin, "I understand not
why those of thy kind live in such a manner that all their
wealth passeth from them like snow beneath the springtide sun."
"Thou wrongest me, Robin," said
the Knight, "for listen: I have a son but twenty winters old,
nevertheless he has won his spurs as knight. Last year, on a
certain evil day, the jousts were held at Chester, and thither
my son went, as did I and my lady wife. I wot it was a proud
time for us, for he unhorsed each knight that he tilted against.
At last he ran a course with a certain great knight, Sir Walter
of Lancaster, yet, though my son was so youthful, he kept his
seat, albeit both spears were shivered to the heft; but it
happened that a splinter of my boy's lance ran through the visor
of Sir Walter's helmet and pierced through his eye into his
brain, so that he died ere his esquire could unlace his helm.
Now, Robin, Sir Walter had great friends at court, therefore his
kinsmen stirred up things against my son so that, to save him
from prison, I had to pay a ransom of six hundred pounds in
gold. All might have gone well even yet, only that, by ins and
outs and crookedness of laws, I was shorn like a sheep that is
clipped to the quick. So it came that I had to pawn my lands to
the Priory of Emmet for more money, and a hard bargain they
drove with me in my hour of need. Yet I would have thee
understand I grieve so for my lands only because of my dear lady
wife."
"But where is thy son now?"
asked Robin, who had listened closely to all the Knight had
said.
"In Palestine," said Sir
Richard, "battling like a brave Christian soldier for the cross
and the holy sepulcher. Truly, England was an ill place for him
because of Sir Walter's death and the hate of the Lancastrian's
kinsmen."
"Truly," said Robin, much
moved, "thine is a hard lot. But tell me, what is owing to Emmet
for thine estates?"
"Only four hundred pounds,"
said Sir Richard.
At this, Robin smote his thigh
in anger. "O the bloodsuckers!" cried he. "A noble estate to be
forfeit for four hundred pounds! But what will befall thee if
thou dost lose thy lands, Sir Richard?"
"It is not mine own lot that
doth trouble me in that case," said the Knight, "but my dear
lady's; for should I lose my land she will have to betake
herself to some kinsman and there abide in charity, which,
methinks, would break her proud heart. As for me, I will over
the salt sea, and so to Palestine to join my son in fight for
the holy sepulcher."
Then up spake Will Scarlet.
"But hast thou no friend that will help thee in thy dire need?"
"Never a man," said Sir
Richard. "While I was rich enow at home, and had friends, they
blew great boasts of how they loved me. But when the oak falls
in the forest the swine run from beneath it lest they should be
smitten down also. So my friends have left me; for not only am I
poor but I have great enemies."
Then Robin said, "Thou sayst
thou hast no friends, Sir Richard. I make no boast, but many
have found Robin Hood a friend in their troubles. Cheer up, Sir
Knight, I may help thee yet."
The Knight shook his head with
a faint smile, but for all that, Robin's words made him more
blithe of heart, for in truth hope, be it never so faint,
bringeth a gleam into darkness, like a little rushlight that
costeth but a groat.
The day was well-nigh gone when
they came near to the greenwood tree. Even at a distance they
saw by the number of men that Little John had come back with
some guest, but when they came near enough, whom should they
find but the Lord Bishop of Hereford! The good Bishop was in a
fine stew, I wot. Up and down he walked beneath the tree like a
fox caught in a hencoop. Behind him were three Black Friars
standing close together in a frightened group, like three black
sheep in a tempest. Hitched to the branches of the trees close
at hand were six horses, one of them a barb with gay trappings
upon which the Bishop was wont to ride, and the others laden
with packs of divers shapes and kinds, one of which made Robin's
eyes glisten, for it was a box not overlarge, but heavily bound
with bands and ribs of iron.
When the Bishop saw Robin and
those with him come into the open he made as though he would
have run toward the yeoman, but the fellow that guarded the
Bishop and the three friars thrust his quarterstaff in front, so
that his lordship was fain to stand back, though with frowning
brow and angry speech.
"Stay, my Lord Bishop," cried
jolly Robin in a loud voice, when he saw what had passed, "I
will come to thee with all speed, for I would rather see thee
than any man in merry England." So saying, he quickened his
steps and soon came to where the Bishop stood fuming.
"How now," quoth the Bishop in
a loud and angry voice, when Robin had so come to him, "is this
the way that thou and thy band treat one so high in the church
as I am? I and these brethren were passing peacefully along the
highroad with our pack horses, and a half score of men to guard
them, when up comes a great strapping fellow full seven feet
high, with fourscore or more men back of him, and calls upon me
to stop--me, the Lord Bishop of Hereford, mark thou! Whereupon
my armed guards--beshrew them for cowards!--straight ran away.
But look ye; not only did this fellow stop me, but he threatened
me, saying that Robin Hood would strip me as bare as a winter
hedge. Then, besides all this, he called me such vile names as
`fat priest,' `man-eating bishop,' `money-gorging usurer,' and
what not, as though I were no more than a strolling beggar or
tinker."
At this, the Bishop glared like
an angry cat, while even Sir Richard laughed; only Robin kept a
grave face. "Alas! my lord," said he, "that thou hast been so
ill-treated by my band! I tell thee truly that we greatly
reverence thy cloth. Little John, stand forth straightway."
At these words Little John came
forward, twisting his face into a whimsical look, as though he
would say, "Ha' mercy upon me, good master." Then Robin turned
to the Bishop of Hereford and said, "Was this the man who spake
so boldly to Your Lordship?"
"Ay, truly it was the same,"
said the Bishop, "a naughty fellow, I wot.
"And didst thou, Little John,"
said Robin in a sad voice, "call his lordship a fat priest?"
"Ay," said Little John
sorrowfully.
"And a man-eating bishop?"
"Ay," said Little John, more
sorrowfully than before.
"And a money-gorging usurer?"
"Ay," said Little John in so
sorrowful a voice that it might have drawn tears from the Dragon
of Wentley.
"Alas, that these things should
be!" said jolly Robin, turning to the Bishop, "for I have ever
found Little John a truthful man."
At this, a roar of laughter
went up, whereat the blood rushed into the Bishop's face till it
was cherry red from crown to chin; but he said nothing and only
swallowed his words, though they well-nigh choked him.
"Nay, my Lord Bishop," said
Robin, "we are rough fellows, but I trust not such ill men as
thou thinkest, after all. There is not a man here that would
harm a hair of thy reverence's head. I know thou art galled by
our jesting, but we are all equal here in the greenwood, for
there are no bishops nor barons nor earls among us, but only
men, so thou must share our life with us while thou dost abide
here. Come, busk ye, my merry men, and get the feast ready.
Meantime, we will show our guests our woodland sports."
So, while some went to kindle
the fires for roasting meats, others ran leaping to get their
cudgels and longbows. Then Robin brought forward Sir Richard of
the Lea. "My Lord Bishop," said he, "here is another guest that
we have with us this day. I wish that thou mightest know him
better, for I and all my men will strive to honor you both at
this merrymaking."
"Sir Richard," said the Bishop
in a reproachful tone, "methinks thou and I are companions and
fellow sufferers in this den of--" He was about to say
"thieves," but he stopped suddenly and looked askance at Robin
Hood.
"Speak out, Bishop," quoth
Robin, laughing. "We of Sherwood check not an easy flow of
words. `Den of thieves' thou west about to say."
Quoth the Bishop, "Mayhap that
was what I meant to say, Sir Richard; but this I will say, that
I saw thee just now laugh at the scurrilous jests of these
fellows. It would have been more becoming of thee, methinks, to
have checked them with frowns instead of spurring them on by
laughter."
"I meant no harm to thee," said
Sir Richard, "but a merry jest is a merry jest, and I may truly
say I would have laughed at it had it been against mine own
self."
But now Robin Hood called upon
certain ones of his band who spread soft moss upon the ground
and laid deerskins thereon. Then Robin bade his guests be
seated, and so they all three sat down, some of the chief men,
such as Little John, Will Scarlet, Allan a Dale, and others,
stretching themselves upon the ground near by. Then a garland
was set up at the far end of the glade, and thereat the bowmen
shot, and such shooting was done that day as it would have made
one's heart leap to see. And all the while Robin talked so
quaintly to the Bishop and the Knight that, the one forgetting
his vexation and the other his troubles, they both laughed aloud
again and again.
Then Allan a Dale came forth
and tuned his harp, and all was hushed around, and he sang in
his wondrous voice songs of love, of war, of glory, and of
sadness, and all listened without a movement or a sound. So
Allan sang till the great round silver moon gleamed with its
clear white light amid the upper tangle of the mazy branches of
the trees. At last two fellows came to say that the feast was
ready spread, so Robin, leading his guests with either hand,
brought them to where great smoking dishes that sent savory
smells far and near stood along the white linen cloth spread on
the grass. All around was a glare of torches that lit everything
up with a red light. Then, straightway sitting down, all fell to
with noise and hubbub, the rattling of platters blending with
the sound of loud talking and laughter. A long time the feast
lasted, but at last all was over, and the bright wine and
humming ale passed briskly. Then Robin Hood called aloud for
silence, and all was hushed till he spoke.
"I have a story to tell you
all, so listen to what I have to say," quoth he; whereupon,
without more ado, he told them all about Sir Richard, and how
his lands were in pawn. But, as he went on, the Bishop's face,
that had erst been smiling and ruddy with merriment, waxed
serious, and he put aside the horn of wine he held in his hand,
for he knew the story of Sir Richard, and his heart sank within
him with grim forebodings. Then, when Robin Hood had done, he
turned to the Bishop of Hereford. "Now, my Lord Bishop," said
he, "dost thou not think this is ill done of anyone, much more
of a churchman, who should live in humbleness and charity?"
To this the Bishop answered not
a word but looked upon the ground with moody eyes.
Quoth Robin, "Now, thou art the
richest bishop in all England; canst thou not help this needy
brother?" But still the Bishop answered not a word.
Then Robin turned to Little
John, and quoth he, "Go thou and Will Stutely and bring forth
those five pack horses yonder." Whereupon the two yeomen did as
they were bidden, those about the cloth making room on the
green, where the light was brightest, for the five horses which
Little John and Will Stutely presently led forward.
"Who hath the score of the
goods?" asked Robin Hood, looking at the Black Friars.
Then up spake the smallest of
all, in a trembling voice-- an old man he was, with a gentle,
wrinkled face. "That have I; but, I pray thee, harm me not."
"Nay," quoth Robin, "I have
never harmed harmless man yet; but give it to me, good father."
So the old man did as he was bidden, and handed Robin the tablet
on which was marked down the account of the various packages
upon the horses. This Robin handed to Will Scarlet, bidding him
to read the same. So Will Scarlet, lifting his voice that all
might hear, began:
"Three bales of silk to
Quentin, the mercer at Ancaster."
"That we touch not," quoth
Robin, "for this Quentin is an honest fellow, who hath risen by
his own thrift." So the bales of silk were laid aside unopened.
" One bale of silk velvet for
the Abbey of Beaumont."
"What do these priests want of
silk velvet?" quoth Robin. "Nevertheless, though they need it
not, I will not take all from them. Measure it off into three
lots, one to be sold for charity, one for us, and one for the
abbey." So this, too, was done as Robin Hood bade.
"Twoscore of great wax candles
for the Chapel of Saint Thomas."
"That belongeth fairly to the
chapel," quoth Robin, "so lay it to one side. Far be it from us
to take from the blessed Saint Thomas that which belongeth to
him." So this, also, was done according to Robin's bidding, and
the candles were laid to one side, along with honest Quentin's
unopened bales of silk. So the list was gone through with, and
the goods adjudged according to what Robin thought most fit.
Some things were laid aside untouched, and many were opened and
divided into three equal parts, for charity, for themselves, and
for the owners. And now all the ground in the torchlight was
covered over with silks and velvets and cloths of gold and cases
of rich wines, and so they came to the last line upon the
tablet--" A box belonging to the Lord Bishop of Hereford."
At these words the Bishop shook
as with a chill, and the box was set upon the ground.
"My Lord Bishop, hast thou the
key of this box?" asked Robin.
The Bishop shook his head.
"Go, Will Scarlet," said Robin,
"thou art the strongest man here-- bring a sword straightway,
and cut this box open, if thou canst." Then up rose Will Scarlet
and left them, coming back in a short time, bearing a great
two-handed sword. Thrice he smote that strong, ironbound box,
and at the third blow it burst open and a great heap of gold
came rolling forth, gleaming red in the light of the torches. At
this sight a murmur went all around among the band, like the
sound of the wind in distant trees; but no man came forward nor
touched the money.
Quoth Robin, "Thou, Will
Scarlet, thou, Allan a Dale, and thou, Little John, count it
over."
A long time it took to count
all the money, and when it had been duly scored up, Will Scarlet
called out that there were fifteen hundred golden pounds in all.
But in among the gold they found a paper, and this Will Scarlet
read in a loud voice, and all heard that this money was the
rental and fines and forfeits from certain estates belonging to
the Bishopric of Hereford.
"My Lord Bishop," said Robin
Hood, "I will not strip thee, as Little John said, like a winter
hedge, for thou shalt take back one third of thy money. One
third of it thou canst well spare to us for thy entertainment
and that of thy train, for thou art very rich; one third of it
thou canst better spare for charity, for, Bishop, I hear that
thou art a hard master to those beneath thee and a close hoarder
of gains that thou couldst better and with more credit to
thyself give to charity than spend upon thy own likings."
At this the Bishop looked up,
but he could say never a word; yet he was thankful to keep some
of his wealth.
Then Robin turned to Sir
Richard of the Lea, and quoth he, "Now, Sir Richard, the church
seemed like to despoil thee, therefore some of the overplus of
church gains may well be used in aiding thee. Thou shalt take
that five hundred pounds laid aside for people more in need than
the Bishop is, and shalt pay thy debts to Emmet therewith."
Sir Richard looked at Robin
until something arose in his eyes that made all the lights and
the faces blur together. At last he said, "I thank thee, friend,
from my heart, for what thou doest for me; yet, think not ill if
I cannot take thy gift freely. But this I will do: I will take
the money and pay my debts, and in a year and a day hence will
return it safe either to thee or to the Lord Bishop of Hereford.
For this I pledge my most solemn knightly word. I feel free to
borrow, for I know no man that should be more bound to aid me
than one so high in that church that hath driven such a hard
bargain." "Truly, Sir Knight," quoth Robin, "I do not understand
those fine scruples that weigh with those of thy kind; but,
nevertheless, it shall all be as thou dost wish. But thou hadst
best bring the money to me at the end of the year, for mayhap I
may make better use of it than the Bishop." Thereupon, turning
to those near him, he gave his orders, and five hundred pounds
were counted out and tied up in a leathern bag for Sir Richard.
The rest of the treasure was divided, and part taken to the
treasurehouse of the band, and part put by with the other things
for the Bishop.
Then Sir Richard arose. "I
cannot stay later, good friends," said he, "for my lady will wax
anxious if I come not home; so I crave leave to depart."
Then Robin Hood and all his
merry men arose, and Robin said, "We cannot let thee go hence
unattended, Sir Richard."
Then up spake Little John,
"Good master, let me choose a score of stout fellows from the
band, and let us arm ourselves in a seemly manner and so serve
as retainers to Sir Richard till he can get others in our
stead."
"Thou hast spoken well, Little
John, and it shall be done," said Robin.
Then up spake Will Scarlet,
"Let us give him a golden chain to hang about his neck, such as
befits one of his blood, and also golden spurs to wear at his
heels."
Then Robin Hood said, "Thou
hast spoken well, Will Scarlet, and it shall be done."
Then up spake Will Stutely,
"Let us give him yon bale of rich velvet and yon roll of cloth
of gold to take home to his noble lady wife as a present from
Robin Hood and his merry men all."
At this all clapped their hands
for joy, and Robin said: "Thou hast well spoken, Will Stutely,
and it shall be done."
Then Sir Richard of the Lea
looked all around and strove to speak, but could scarcely do so
for the feelings that choked him; at last he said in a husky,
trembling voice, "Ye shall all see, good friends, that Sir
Richard o' the Lea will ever remember your kindness this day.
And if ye be at any time in dire need or trouble, come to me and
my lady, and the walls of Castle Lea shall be battered down ere
harm shall befall you. I--" He could say nothing further, but
turned hastily away.
But now Little John and
nineteen stout fellows whom he had chosen for his band, came
forth all ready for the journey. Each man wore upon his breast a
coat of linked mail, and on his head a cap of steel, and at his
side a good stout sword. A gallant show they made as they stood
all in a row. Then Robin came and threw a chain of gold about
Sir Richard's neck, and Will Scarlet knelt and buckled the
golden spurs upon his heel; and now Little John led forward Sir
Richard's horse, and the Knight mounted. He looked down at Robin
for a little time, then of a sudden stooped and kissed his
cheek. All the forest glades rang with the shout that went up as
the Knight and the yeomen marched off through the woodland with
glare of torches and gleam of steel, and so were gone.
Then up spake the Bishop of
Hereford in a mournful voice, "I, too, must be jogging, good
fellow, for the night waxes late."
But Robin laid his hand upon
the Bishop's arm and stayed him. "Be not so hasty, Lord Bishop,"
said he. "Three days hence Sir Richard must pay his debts to
Emmet; until that time thou must be content to abide with me
lest thou breed trouble for the Knight. I promise thee that thou
shalt have great sport, for I know that thou art fond of hunting
the dun deer. Lay by thy mantle of melancholy, and strive to
lead a joyous yeoman life for three stout days. I promise thee
thou shalt be sorry to go when the time has come."
So the Bishop and his train
abided with Robin for three days, and much sport his lordship
had in that time, so that, as Robin had said, when the time had
come for him to go he was sorry to leave the greenwood. At the
end of three days Robin set him free, and sent him forth from
the forest with a guard of yeomen to keep freebooters from
taking what was left of the packs and bundles.
But, as the Bishop rode away,
he vowed within himself that he would sometime make Robin rue
the day that he stopped him in Sherwood.
But now we shall follow Sir
Richard; so listen, and you shall hear what befell him, and how
he paid his debts at Emmet Priory, and likewise in due season to
Robin Hood.

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XV. How Sir Richard of the Lea
Paid His Debts
The long highway stretched straight on, gray and dusty in the
sun. On either side were dikes full of water bordered by osiers,
and far away in the distance stood the towers of Emmet Priory
with tall poplar trees around.
Along the causeway rode a
knight with a score of stout men-at-arms behind him. The Knight
was clad in a plain, long robe of gray serge, gathered in at the
waist with a broad leathern belt, from which hung a long dagger
and a stout sword. But though he was so plainly dressed himself,
the horse he rode was a noble barb, and its trappings were rich
with silk and silver bells.
So thus the band journeyed
along the causeway between the dikes, till at last they reached
the great gate of Emmet Priory. There the Knight called to one
of his men and bade him knock at the porter's lodge with the
heft of his sword.
The porter was drowsing on his
bench within the lodge, but at the knock he roused himself and,
opening the wicket, came hobbling forth and greeted the Knight,
while a tame starling that hung in a wicker cage within piped
out, "In coelo quies! In coelo quies!" such being the words that
the poor old lame porter had taught him to speak.
"Where is thy prior?" asked the
Knight of the old porter.
"He is at meat, good knight,
and he looketh for thy coming," quoth the porter, "for, if I
mistake not, thou art Sir Richard of the Lea."
"I am Sir Richard of the Lea;
then I will go seek him forthwith," said the Knight.
"But shall I not send thy horse
to stable?" said the porter. "By Our Lady, it is the noblest
nag, and the best harnessed, that e'er I saw in all my life
before." And he stroked the horse's flank with his palm.
"Nay," quoth Sir Richard, "the
stables of this place are not for me, so make way, I prythee."
So saying, he pushed forward, and, the gates being opened, he
entered the stony courtyard of the Priory, his men behind him.
In they came with rattle of steel and clashing of swords, and
ring of horses' feet on cobblestones, whereat a flock of pigeons
that strutted in the sun flew with flapping wings to the high
eaves of the round towers.
While the Knight was riding
along the causeway to Emmet, a merry feast was toward in the
refectory there. The afternoon sun streamed in through the great
arched windows and lay in broad squares of light upon the stone
floor and across the board covered with a snowy linen cloth,
whereon was spread a princely feast. At the head of the table
sat Prior Vincent of Emmet all clad in soft robes of fine cloth
and silk; on his head was a black velvet cap picked out with
gold, and around his neck hung a heavy chain of gold, with a
great locket pendant therefrom. Beside him, on the arm of his
great chair, roosted his favorite falcon, for the Prior was fond
of the gentle craft of hawking. On his right hand sat the
Sheriff of Nottingham in rich robes of purple all trimmed about
with fur, and on his left a famous doctor of law in dark and
sober garb. Below these sat the high cellarer of Emmet, and
others chief among the brethren.
Jest and laughter passed
around, and all was as merry as merry could be. The wizened face
of the man of law was twisted into a wrinkled smile, for in his
pouch were fourscore golden angels that the Prior had paid him
in fee for the case betwixt him and Sir Richard of the Lea. The
learned doctor had been paid beforehand, for he had not overmuch
trust in the holy Vincent of Emmet.
Quoth the Sheriff of
Nottingham, "But art thou sure, Sir Prior, that thou hast the
lands so safe?"
"Ay, marry," said Prior
Vincent, smacking his lips after a deep draught of wine, "I have
kept a close watch upon him, albeit he was unawares of the same,
and I know right well that he hath no money to pay me withal."
"Ay, true," said the man of law
in a dry, husky voice, "his land is surely forfeit if he cometh
not to pay; but, Sir Prior, thou must get a release beneath his
sign manual, or else thou canst not hope to hold the land
without trouble from him."
"Yea," said the Prior, "so thou
hast told me ere now, but I know that this knight is so poor
that he will gladly sign away his lands for two hundred pounds
of hard money.
Then up spake the high
cellarer, "Methinks it is a shame to so drive a misfortunate
knight to the ditch. I think it sorrow that the noblest estate
in Derbyshire should so pass away from him for a paltry five
hundred pounds. Truly, I--"
"How now," broke in the Prior
in a quivering voice, his eyes glistening and his cheeks red
with anger, "dost thou prate to my very beard, sirrah? By Saint
Hubert, thou hadst best save thy breath to cool thy pottage,
else it may scald thy mouth."
"Nay," said the man of law
smoothly, "I dare swear this same knight will never come to
settlement this day, but will prove recreant. Nevertheless, we
will seek some means to gain his lands from him, so never fear."
But even as the doctor spoke,
there came a sudden clatter of horses' hoofs and a jingle of
iron mail in the courtyard below. Then up spake the Prior and
called upon one of the brethren that sat below the salt, and
bade him look out of the window and see who was below, albeit he
knew right well it could be none but Sir Richard.
So the brother arose and went
and looked, and he said, "I see below a score of stout
men-at-arms and a knight just dismounting from his horse. He is
dressed in long robes of gray which, methinks, are of poor
seeming; but the horse he rideth upon hath the richest coursing
that ever I saw. The Knight dismounts and they come this way,
and are even now below in the great hall."
"Lo, see ye there now," quoth
Prior Vincent. "Here ye have a knight with so lean a purse as
scarce to buy him a crust of bread to munch, yet he keeps a band
of retainers and puts rich trappings upon his horse's hide,
while his own back goeth bare. Is it not well that such men
should be brought low?"
"But art thou sure," said the
little doctor tremulously, "that this knight will do us no harm?
Such as he are fierce when crossed, and he hath a band of
naughty men at his heels. Mayhap thou hadst better give an
extension of his debt." Thus he spake, for he was afraid Sir
Richard might do him a harm.
"Thou needst not fear," said
the Prior, looking down at the little man beside him. "This
knight is gentle and would as soon think of harming an old woman
as thee."
As the Prior finished, a door
at the lower end of the refectory swung open, and in came Sir
Richard, with folded hands and head bowed upon his breast. Thus
humbly he walked slowly up the hall, while his men-at-arms stood
about the door. When he had come to where the Prior sat, he
knelt upon one knee. "Save and keep thee, Sir Prior," said he,
"I am come to keep my day."
Then the first word that the
Prior said to him was "Hast thou brought my money?"
"Alas! I have not so much as
one penny upon my body," said the Knight; whereat the Prior's
eyes sparkled.
"Now, thou art a shrewd debtor,
I wot," said he. Then, "Sir Sheriff, I drink to thee."
But still the Knight kneeled
upon the hard stones, so the Prior turned to him again. "What
wouldst thou have?" quoth he sharply.
At these words, a slow red
mounted into the Knight's cheeks; but still he knelt. "I would
crave thy mercy," said he. "As thou hopest for Heaven's mercy,
show mercy to me. Strip me not of my lands and so reduce a true
knight to poverty."
"Thy day is broken and thy
lands forfeit," said the man of law, plucking up his spirits at
the Knight's humble speech.
Quoth Sir Richard, "Thou man of
law, wilt thou not befriend me in mine hour of need?"
"Nay," said the other, "I hold
with this holy Prior, who hath paid me my fees in hard gold, so
that I am bounder to him."
"Wilt thou not be my friend,
Sir Sheriff?" said Sir Richard.
"Nay, 'fore Heaven," quoth the
Sheriff of Nottingham, "this is no business of mine, yet I will
do what I may," and he nudged the Prior beneath the cloth with
his knee. "Wilt thou not ease him of some of his debts, Sir
Prior?"
At this the Prior smiled
grimly. "Pay me three hundred pounds, Sir Richard," said he,
"and I will give thee quittance of thy debt."
"Thou knowest, Sir Prior, that
it is as easy for me to pay four hundred pounds as three
hundred," said Sir Richard. "But wilt thou not give me another
twelvemonth to pay my debt?"
"Not another day," said the
Prior sternly.
"And is this all thou wilt do
for me?" asked the Knight.
"Now, out upon thee, false
knight!" cried the Prior, bursting forth in anger. "Either pay
thy debt as I have said, or release thy land and get thee gone
from out my hall."
Then Sir Richard arose to his
feet. "Thou false, lying priest!" said he in so stern a voice
that the man of law shrunk affrighted, "I am no false knight, as
thou knowest full well, but have even held my place in the press
and the tourney. Hast thou so little courtesy that thou wouldst
see a true knight kneel for all this time, or see him come into
thy hall and never offer him meat or drink?"
Then quoth the man of law in a
trembling voice, "This is surely an ill way to talk of matters
appertaining to business; let us be mild in speech. What wilt
thou pay this knight, Sir Prior, to give thee release of his
land?"
"I would have given him two
hundred pounds," quoth the Prior, "but since he hath spoken so
vilely to my teeth, not one groat over one hundred pounds will
he get."
"Hadst thou offered me a
thousand pounds, false prior," said the Knight, "thou wouldst
not have got an inch of my land." Then turning to where his
men-at-arms stood near the door, he called, "Come hither," and
beckoned with his finger; whereupon the tallest of them all came
forward and handed him a long leathern bag. Sir Richard took the
bag and shot from it upon the table a glittering stream of
golden money. "Bear in mind, Sir Prior," said he, "that thou
hast promised me quittance for three hundred pounds. Not one
farthing above that shalt thou get." So saying, he counted out
three hundred pounds and pushed it toward the Prior.
But now the Prior's hands
dropped at his sides and the Prior's head hung upon his
shoulder, for not only had he lost all hopes of the land, but he
had forgiven the Knight one hundred pounds of his debt and had
needlessly paid the man of law fourscore angels. To him he
turned, and quoth he, "Give me back my money that thou hast."
"Nay," cried the other shrilly,
"it is but my fee that thou didst pay me, and thou gettest it
not back again." And he hugged his gown about him.
"Now, Sir Prior," quoth Sir
Richard, "I have held my day and paid all the dues demanded of
me; so, as there is no more betwixt us, I leave this vile place
straightway." So saying, he turned upon his heel and strode
away.
All this time the Sheriff had
been staring with wide-open eyes and mouth agape at the tall
man-at-arms, who stood as though carved out of stone. At last he
gasped out, "Reynold Greenleaf!"
At this, the tall man-at-arms,
who was no other than Little John, turned, grinning, to the
Sheriff. "I give thee good den, fair gossip," quoth he. "I would
say, sweet Sheriff, that I have heard all thy pretty talk this
day, and it shall be duly told unto Robin Hood. So, farewell for
the nonce, till we meet again in Sherwood Forest." Then he,
also, turned and followed Sir Richard down the hall, leaving the
Sheriff, all pale and amazed, shrunk together upon his chair.
A merry feast it was to which
Sir Richard came, but a sorry lot he left behind him, and little
hunger had they for the princely food spread before them. Only
the learned doctor was happy, for he had his fee.
Now a twelvemonth and a day
passed since Prior Vincent of Emmet sat at feast, and once more
the mellow fall of another year had come. But the year had
brought great change, I wot, to the lands of Sir Richard of the
Lea; for, where before shaggy wild grasses grew upon the meadow
lands, now all stretch away in golden stubble, betokening that a
rich and plentiful crop had been gathered therefrom. A year had
made a great change in the castle, also, for, where were empty
moats and the crumbling of neglect, all was now orderly and well
kept.
Bright shone the sun on
battlement and tower, and in the blue air overhead a Hock of
clattering jackdaws flew around the gilded weather vane and
spire. Then, in the brightness of the morning, the drawbridge
fell across the moat with a rattle and clank of chains, the gate
of the castle swung slowly open, and a goodly array of
steel-clad men-at-arms, with a knight all clothed in chain mail,
as white as frost on brier and thorn of a winter morning, came
flashing out from the castle courtyard. In his hand the Knight
held a great spear, from the point of which fluttered a
blood-red pennant as broad as the palm of one's hand. So this
troop came forth from the castle, and in the midst of them
walked three pack horses laden with parcels of divers shapes and
kinds.
Thus rode forth good Sir
Richard of the Lea to pay his debt to Robin Hood this bright and
merry morn. Along the highway they wended their way, with
measured tramp of feet and rattle and jingle of sword and
harness. Onward they marched till they came nigh to Denby,
where, from the top of a hill, they saw, over beyond the town,
many gay flags and streamers floating in the bright air. Then
Sir Richard turned to the man-at-arms nearest to him. "What is
toward yonder at Denby today?" quoth he.
"Please Your Worship," answered
the man-at-arms, "a merry fair is held there today, and a great
wrestling match, to which many folk have come, for a prize hath
been offered of a pipe of red wine, a fair golden ring, and a
pair of gloves, all of which go to the best wrestler."
"Now, by my faith," quoth Sir
Richard, who loved good manly sports right well, "this will be a
goodly thing to see. Methinks we have to stay a little while on
our journey, and see this merry sport." So he turned his horse's
head aside toward Denby and the fair, and thither he and his men
made their way.
There they found a great hubbub
of merriment. Flags and streamers were floating, tumblers were
tumbling on the green, bagpipes were playing, and lads and
lasses were dancing to the music. But the crowd were gathered
most of all around a ring where the wrestling was going forward,
and thither Sir Richard and his men turned their steps.
Now when the judges of the
wrestling saw Sir Richard coming and knew who he was, the chief
of them came down from the bench where he and the others sat,
and went to the Knight and took him by the hand, beseeching him
to come and sit with them and judge the sport. So Sir Richard
got down from his horse and went with the others to the bench
raised beside the ring.
Now there had been great doings
that morning, for a certain yeoman named Egbert, who came from
Stoke over in Staffordshire, had thrown with ease all those that
came against him; but a man of Denby, well known through all the
countryside as William of the Scar, had been biding his time
with the Stoke man; so, when Egbert had thrown everyone else,
stout William leaped into the ring. Then a tough bout followed,
and at last he threw Egbert heavily, whereat there was a great
shouting and shaking of hands, for all the Denby men were proud
of their wrestler.
When Sir Richard came, he found
stout William, puffed up by the shouts of his friends, walking
up and down the ring, daring anyone to come and try a throw with
him. "Come one, come all!" quoth he. "Here stand I, William of
the Scar, against any man. If there is none in Derbyshire to
come against me, come all who will, from Nottingham, Stafford,
or York, and if I do not make them one and all root the ground
with their noses like swine in the forests, call me no more
brave William the wrestler."
At this all laughed; but above
all the laughter a loud voice was heard to cry out, "Sin' thou
talkest so big, here cometh one from Nottinghamshire to try a
fall with thee, fellow"; and straightway a tall youth with a
tough quarterstaff in his hand came pushing his way through the
crowd and at last leaped lightly over the rope into the ring. He
was not as heavy as stout William, but he was taller and broader
in the shoulders, and all his joints were well knit. Sir Richard
looked upon him keenly, then, turning to one of the judges, he
said, "Knowest thou who this youth is? Methinks I have seen him
before."
"Nay," said the judge, "he is a
stranger to me."
Meantime, without a word, the
young man, laying aside his quarterstaff, began to take off his
jerkin and body clothing until he presently stood with naked
arms and body; and a comely sight he was when so bared to the
view, for his muscles were cut round and smooth and sharp like
swift-running water.
And now each man spat upon his
hands and, clapping them upon his knees, squatted down, watching
the other keenly, so as to take the vantage of him in the grip.
Then like a flash they leaped together, and a great shout went
up, for William had gotten the better hold of the two. For a
short time they strained and struggled and writhed, and then
stout William gave his most cunning trip and throw, but the
stranger met it with greater skill than his, and so the trip
came to nought. Then, of a sudden, with a twist and a wrench,
the stranger loosed himself, and he of the scar found himself
locked in a pair of arms that fairly made his ribs crack. So,
with heavy, hot breathing, they stood for a while straining,
their bodies all glistening with sweat, and great drops of sweat
trickling down their faces. But the stranger's hug was so close
that at last stout William's muscles softened under his grip,
and he gave a sob. Then the youth put forth all his strength and
gave a sudden trip with his heel and a cast over his right hip,
and down stout William went, with a sickening thud, and lay as
though he would never move hand nor foot again.
But now no shout went up for
the stranger, but an angry murmur was heard among the crowd, so
easily had he won the match. Then one of the judges, a kinsman
to William of the Scar, rose with trembling lip and baleful
look. Quoth he, "If thou hath slain that man it will go ill with
thee, let me tell thee, fellow." But the stranger answered
boldly, "He took his chance with me as I took mine with him. No
law can touch me to harm me, even if I slew him, so that it was
fairly done in the wrestling ring."
"That we shall see," said the
judge, scowling upon the youth, while once more an angry murmur
ran around the crowd; for, as I have said, the men of Denby were
proud of stout William of the Scar.
Then up spoke Sir Richard
gently. "Nay," said he, "the youth is right; if the other dieth,
he dieth in the wrestling ring, where he took his chance, and
was cast fairly enow."
But in the meantime three men
had come forward and lifted stout William from the ground and
found that he was not dead, though badly shaken by his heavy
fall. Then the chief judge rose and said, "Young man, the prize
is duly thine. Here is the red-gold ring, and here the gloves,
and yonder stands the pipe of wine to do with whatsoever thou
dost list."
At this, the youth, who had
donned his clothes and taken up his staff again, bowed without a
word, then, taking the gloves and the ring, and thrusting the
one into his girdle and slipping the other upon his thumb, he
turned and, leaping lightly over the ropes again, made his way
through the crowd, and was gone.
"Now, I wonder who yon youth
may be," said the judge, turning to Sir Richard, "he seemeth
like a stout Saxon from his red cheeks and fair hair. This
William of ours is a stout man, too, and never have I seen him
cast in the ring before, albeit he hath not yet striven with
such great wrestlers as Thomas of Cornwall, Diccon of York, and
young David of Doncaster. Hath he not a firm foot in the ring,
thinkest thou, Sir Richard?"
"Ay, truly, and yet this youth
threw him fairly, and with wondrous ease. I much wonder who he
can be." Thus said Sir Richard in a thoughtful voice.
For a time the Knight stood
talking to those about him, but at last he arose and made ready
to depart, so he called his men about him and, tightening the
girths of his saddle, he mounted his horse once more.
Meanwhile the young stranger
had made his way through the crowd, but, as he passed, he heard
all around him such words muttered as "Look at the cockerel!"
"Behold how he plumeth himself!" "I dare swear he cast good
William unfairly!" "Yea, truly, saw ye not birdlime upon his
hands?" "It would be well to cut his cock's comb!" To all this
the stranger paid no heed, but strode proudly about as though he
heard it not. So he walked slowly across the green to where the
booth stood wherein was dancing, and standing at the door he
looked in on the sport. As he stood thus, a stone struck his arm
of a sudden with a sharp jar, and, turning, he saw that an angry
crowd of men had followed him from the wrestling ring. Then,
when they saw him turn so, a great hooting and yelling arose
from all, so that the folk came running out from the dancing
booth to see what was to do. At last a tall, broad-shouldered,
burly blacksmith strode forward from the crowd swinging a mighty
blackthorn club in his hand.
"Wouldst thou come here to our
fair town of Denby, thou Jack in the Box, to overcome a good
honest lad with vile, juggling tricks?" growled he in a deep
voice like the bellow of an angry bull. "Take that, then!" And
of a sudden he struck a blow at the youth that might have felled
an ox. But the other turned the blow deftly aside, and gave back
another so terrible that the Denby man went down with a groan,
as though he had been smitten by lightning. When they saw their
leader fall, the crowd gave another angry shout; but the
stranger placed his back against the tent near which he stood,
swinging his terrible staff, and so fell had been the blow that
he struck the stout smith that none dared to come within the
measure of his cudgel, so the press crowded back, like a pack of
dogs from a bear at bay. But now some coward hand from behind
threw a sharp jagged stone that smote the stranger on the crown,
so that he staggered back, and the red blood gushed from the cut
and ran down his face and over his jerkin. Then, seeing him
dazed with this vile blow, the crowd rushed upon him, so that
they overbore him and he fell beneath their feet.
Now it might have gone ill with
the youth, even to the losing of his young life, had not Sir
Richard come to this fair; for of a sudden, shouts were heard,
and steel flashed in the air, and blows were given with the flat
of swords, while through the midst of the crowd Sir Richard of
the Lea came spurring on his white horse. Then the crowd, seeing
the steel-clad knight and the armed men, melted away like snow
on the warm hearth, leaving the young man all bloody and dusty
upon the ground.
Finding himself free, the youth
arose and, wiping the blood from his face, looked up. Quoth he,
"Sir Richard of the Lea, mayhap thou hast saved my life this
day."
"Who art thou that knowest Sir
Richard of the Lea so well?" quoth the Knight. "Methinks I have
seen thy face before, young man."
"Yea, thou hast," said the
youth, "for men call me David of Doncaster."
"Ha!" said Sir Richard, "I
wonder that I knew thee not, David; but thy beard hath grown
longer, and thou thyself art more set in manhood since this day
twelvemonth. Come hither into the tent, David, and wash the
blood from thy face. And thou, Ralph, bring him straightway a
clean jerkin. Now I am sorry for thee, yet I am right glad that
I have had a chance to pay a part of my debt of kindness to thy
good master Robin Hood, for it might have gone ill with thee had
I not come, young man."
So saying, the Knight led David
into the tent, and there the youth washed the blood from his
face and put on the clean jerkin.
In the meantime a whisper had
gone around from those that stood nearest that this was none
other than the great David of Doncaster, the best wrestler in
all the mid-country, who only last spring had cast stout Adam o'
Lincoln in the ring at Selby, in Yorkshire, and now held the
mid-country champion belt, Thus it happened that when young
David came forth from the tent along with Sir Richard, the blood
all washed from his face, and his soiled jerkin changed for a
clean one, no sounds of anger were heard, but all pressed
forward to see the young man, feeling proud that one of the
great wrestlers of England should have entered the ring at Denby
fair. For thus fickle is a mass of men.
Then Sir Richard called aloud,
"Friends, this is David of Doncaster; so think it no shame that
your Denby man was cast by such a wrestler. He beareth you no
ill will for what hath passed, but let it be a warning to you
how ye treat strangers henceforth. Had ye slain him it would
have been an ill day for you, for Robin Hood would have harried
your town as the kestrel harries the dovecote. I have bought the
pipe of wine from him, and now I give it freely to you to drink
as ye list. But never hereafterward fall upon a man for being a
stout yeoman."
At this all shouted amain; but
in truth they thought more of the wine than of the Knight's
words. Then Sir Richard, with David beside him and his
men-at-arms around, turned about and left the fair.
But in after days, when the men
that saw that wrestling bout were bent with age, they would
shake their heads when they heard of any stalwart game, and say,
"Ay, ay; but thou shouldst have seen the great David of
Doncaster cast stout William of the Scar at Denby fair."
Robin Hood stood in the merry
greenwood with Little John and most of his stout yeomen around
him, awaiting Sir Richard's coming. At last a glint of steel was
seen through the brown forest leaves, and forth from the covert
into the open rode Sir Richard at the head of his men. He came
straight forward to Robin Hood and leaping from off his horse,
clasped the yeoman in his arms.
"Why, how now," said Robin,
after a time, holding Sir Richard off and looking at him from
top to toe, "methinks thou art a gayer bird than when I saw thee
last."
"Yes, thanks to thee, Robin,"
said the Knight, laying his hand upon the yeoman's shoulder.
"But for thee I would have been wandering in misery in a far
country by this time. But I have kept my word, Robin, and have
brought back the money that thou didst lend me, and which I have
doubled four times over again, and so become rich once more.
Along with this money I have brought a little gift to thee and
thy brave men from my dear lady and myself." Then, turning to
his men, he called aloud, "Bring forth the pack horses."
But Robin stopped him. "Nay,
Sir Richard," said he, "think it not bold of me to cross thy
bidding, but we of Sherwood do no business till after we have
eaten and drunk." Whereupon, taking Sir Richard by the hand, he
led him to the seat beneath the greenwood tree, while others of
the chief men of the band came and seated themselves around.
Then quoth Robin, "How cometh it that I saw young David of
Doncaster with thee and thy men, Sir Knight?"
Then straightway the Knight
told all about his stay at Denby and of the happening at the
fair, and how it was like to go hard with young David; so he
told his tale, and quoth he, "It was this, good Robin, that kept
me so late on the way, otherwise I would have been here an hour
agone."
Then, when he had done
speaking, Robin stretched out his hand and grasped the Knight's
palm. Quoth he in a trembling voice, "I owe thee a debt I can
never hope to repay, Sir Richard, for let me tell thee, I would
rather lose my right hand than have such ill befall young David
of Doncaster as seemed like to come upon him at Denby."
So they talked until after a
while one came forward to say that the feast was spread;
whereupon all arose and went thereto. When at last it was done,
the Knight called upon his men to bring the pack horses forward,
which they did according to his bidding. Then one of the men
brought the Knight a strongbox, which he opened and took from it
a bag and counted out five hundred pounds, the sum he had gotten
from Robin.
"Sir Richard," quoth Robin,
"thou wilt pleasure us all if thou wilt keep that money as a
gift from us of Sherwood. Is it not so, my lads?"
Then all shouted "Ay" with a
mighty voice.
"I thank you all deeply," said
the Knight earnestly, "but think it not ill of me if I cannot
take it. Gladly have I borrowed it from you, but it may not be
that I can take it as a gift."
Then Robin Hood said no more
but gave the money to Little John to put away in the treasury,
for he had shrewdness enough to know that nought breeds ill will
and heart bitterness like gifts forced upon one that cannot
choose but take them.
Then Sir Richard had the packs
laid upon the ground and opened, whereupon a great shout went up
that made the forest ring again, for lo, there were tenscore
bows of finest Spanish yew, all burnished till they shone again,
and each bow inlaid with fanciful figures in silver, yet not
inlaid so as to mar their strength. Beside these were tenscore
quivers of leather embroidered with golden thread, and in each
quiver were a score of shafts with burnished heads that shone
like silver; each shaft was feathered with peacock's plumes,
innocked with silver.
Sir Richard gave to each yeoman
a bow and a quiver of arrows, but to Robin he gave a stout bow
inlaid with the cunningest workmanship in gold, while each arrow
in his quiver was innocked with gold.
Then all shouted again for joy
of the fair gift, and all swore among themselves that they would
die if need be for Sir Richard and his lady.
At last the time came when Sir
Richard must go, whereupon Robin Hood called his band around
him, and each man of the yeomen took a torch in his hand to
light the way through the woodlands. So they came to the edge of
Sherwood, and there the Knight kissed Robin upon the cheeks and
left him and was gone.
Thus Robin Hood helped a noble
knight out of his dire misfortunes, that else would have
smothered the happiness from his life.

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XVI. Little John Turns Barefoot
Friar
Cold winter had passed and
spring had come. No leafy thickness had yet clad the woodlands,
but the budding leaves hung like a tender mist about the trees.
In the open country the meadow lands lay a sheeny green, the
cornfields a dark velvety color, for they were thick and soft
with the growing blades. The plowboy shouted in the sun, and in
the purple new-turned furrows flocks of birds hunted for fat
worms. All the broad moist earth smiled in the warm light, and
each little green hill clapped its hand for joy.
On a deer's hide, stretched on
the ground in the open in front of the greenwood tree, sat Robin
Hood basking in the sun like an old dog fox. Leaning back with
his hands clasped about his knees, he lazily watched Little John
rolling a stout bowstring from long strands of hempen thread,
wetting the palms of his hands ever and anon, and rolling the
cord upon his thigh. Near by sat Allan a Dale fitting a new
string to his harp.
Quoth Robin at last, "Methinks
I would rather roam this forest in the gentle springtime than be
King of all merry England. What palace in the broad world is as
fair as this sweet woodland just now, and what king in all the
world hath such appetite for plover's eggs and lampreys as I for
juicy venison and sparkling ale? Gaffer Swanthold speaks truly
when he saith, `Better a crust with content than honey with a
sour heart.' "
"Yea," quoth Little John, as he
rubbed his new-made bowstring with yellow beeswax, "the life we
lead is the life for me. Thou speakest of the springtime, but
methinks even the winter hath its own joys. Thou and I, good
master, have had more than one merry day, this winter past, at
the Blue Boar. Dost thou not remember that night thou and Will
Stutely and Friar Tuck and I passed at that same hostelry with
the two beggars and the strolling friar?"
"Yea," quoth merry Robin,
laughing, "that was the night that Will Stutely must needs
snatch a kiss from the stout hostess, and got a canakin of ale
emptied over his head for his pains."
"Truly, it was the same," said
Little John, laughing also. "Methinks that was a goodly song
that the strolling friar sang. Friar Tuck, thou hast a quick ear
for a tune, dost thou not remember it?"
"I did have the catch of it one
time," said Tuck. "Let me see," and he touched his forefinger to
his forehead in thought, humming to himself, and stopping ever
and anon to fit what he had got to what he searched for in his
mind. At last he found it all and clearing his throat, sang
merrily:
"In the blossoming hedge the
robin cock sings,
For the sun it is merry and bright,
And he joyfully hops and he flutters his wings,
For his heart is all full of delight.
For the May bloometh fair,
And there's little of care,
And plenty to eat in the Maytime rare.
When the flowers all die,
Then off he will fly,
To keep himself warm
In some jolly old barn
Where the snow and the wind neither chill him nor harm.
"And such is the life of the
strolling friar,
With aplenty to eat and to drink;
For the goodwife will keep him a seat by the fire,
And the pretty girls smile at his wink.
Then he lustily trolls
As he onward strolls,
A rollicking song for the saving of souls.
When the wind doth blow,
With the coming of snow,
There's a place by the fire
For the fatherly friar,
And a crab in the bowl for his heart's desire."
Thus Friar Tuck sang in a rich and mellow voice, rolling his
head from side to side in time with the music, and when he had
done, all clapped their hands and shouted with laughter, for the
song fitted him well.
"In very sooth," quoth Little
John, "it is a goodly song, and, were I not a yeoman of Sherwood
Forest, I had rather be a strolling friar than aught else in the
world."
"Yea, it is a goodly song,"
said Robin Hood, "but methought those two burly beggars told the
merrier tales and led the merrier life. Dost thou not remember
what that great black-bearded fellow told of his begging at the
fair in York?"
"Yea," said Little John, "but
what told the friar of the harvest home in Kentshire? I hold
that he led a merrier life than the other two."
"Truly, for the honor of the
cloth," quoth Friar Tuck, "I hold with my good gossip, Little
John."
"Now," quoth Robin, "I hold to
mine own mind. But what sayst thou, Little John, to a merry
adventure this fair day? Take thou a friar's gown from our chest
of strange garments, and don the same, and I will stop the first
beggar I meet and change clothes with him. Then let us wander
the country about, this sweet day, and see what befalls each of
us."
"That fitteth my mind," quoth
Little John, "so let us forth, say I."
Thereupon Little John and Friar
Tuck went to the storehouse of the band, and there chose for the
yeoman the robe of a Gray Friar. Then they came forth again, and
a mighty roar of laughter went up, for not only had the band
never seen Little John in such guise before, but the robe was
too short for him by a good palm's-breadth. But Little John's
hands were folded in his loose sleeves, and Little John's eyes
were cast upon the ground, and at his girdle hung a great, long
string of beads.
And now Little John took up his
stout staff, at the end of which hung a chubby little leathern
pottle, such as palmers carry at the tips of their staves; but
in it was something, I wot, more like good Malmsey than cold
spring water, such as godly pilgrims carry. Then up rose Robin
and took his stout staff in his hand, likewise, and slipped ten
golden angels into his pouch; for no beggar's garb was among the
stores of the band, so he was fain to run his chance of meeting
a beggar and buying his clothes of him.
So, all being made ready, the
two yeomen set forth on their way, striding lustily along all in
the misty morning. Thus they walked down the forest path until
they came to the highway, and then along the highway till it
split in twain, leading on one hand to Blyth and on the other to
Gainsborough. Here the yeomen stopped.
Quoth jolly Robin, "Take thou
the road to Gainsborough, and I will take that to Blyth. So,
fare thee well, holy father, and mayst thou not ha' cause to
count thy beads in earnest ere we meet again."
"Good den, good beggar that is
to be," quoth Little John, "and mayst thou have no cause to beg
for mercy ere I see thee next."
So each stepped sturdily upon
his way until a green hill rose between them, and the one was
hid from the sight of the other.
Little John walked along,
whistling, for no one was nigh upon all the road. In the budding
hedges the little birds twittered merrily, and on either hand
the green hills swept up to the sky, the great white clouds of
springtime sailing slowly over their crowns in lazy flight. Up
hill and down dale walked Little John, the fresh wind blowing in
his face and his robes fluttering behind him, and so at last he
came to a crossroad that led to Tuxford. Here he met three
pretty lasses, each bearing a basket of eggs to market. Quoth
he, "Whither away, fair maids?" And he stood in their path,
holding his staff in front of them, to stop them.
Then they huddled together and
nudged one another, and one presently spake up and said, "We are
going to the Tuxford market, holy friar, to sell our eggs."
"Now out upon it!" quoth Little
John, looking upon them with his head on one side. "Surely, it
is a pity that such fair lasses should be forced to carry eggs
to market. Let me tell you, an I had the shaping of things in
this world, ye should all three have been clothed in the finest
silks, and ride upon milk-white horses, with pages at your side,
and feed upon nothing but whipped cream and strawberries; for
such a life would surely befit your looks."
At this speech all three of the
pretty maids looked down, blushing and simpering. One said,
"La!" another, "Marry, a' maketh sport of us!" and the third,
"Listen, now, to the holy man!" But at the same time they looked
at Little John from out the corners of their eyes.
"Now, look you," said Little
John, "I cannot see such dainty damsels as ye are carrying
baskets along a highroad. Let me take them mine own self, and
one of you, if ye will, may carry my staff for me."
"Nay," said one of the lasses,
"but thou canst not carry three baskets all at one time."
"Yea, but I can," said Little
John, "and that I will show you presently. I thank the good
Saint Wilfred that he hath given me a pretty wit. Look ye, now.
Here I take this great basket, so; here I tie my rosary around
the handle, thus; and here I slip the rosary over my head and
sling the basket upon my back, in this wise." And Little John
did according to his words, the basket hanging down behind him
like a peddler's pack; then, giving his staff to one of the
maids, and taking a basket upon either arm, he turned his face
toward Tuxford Town and stepped forth merrily, a laughing maid
on either side, and one walking ahead, carrying the staff. In
this wise they journeyed along, and everyone they met stopped
and looked after them, laughing, for never had anybody seen such
a merry sight as this tall, strapping Gray Friar, with robes all
too short for him, laden with eggs, and tramping the road with
three pretty lasses. For this Little John cared not a whit, but
when such folks gave jesting words to him he answered back as
merrily, speech for speech.
So they stepped along toward
Tuxford, chatting and laughing, until they came nigh to the
town. Here Little John stopped and set down the baskets, for he
did not care to go into the town lest he should, perchance, meet
some of the Sheriff's men. "Alas! sweet chucks," quoth he, "here
I must leave you. I had not thought to come this way, but I am
glad that I did so. Now, ere we part, we must drink sweet
friendship." So saying, he unslung the leathern pottle from the
end of his staff, and, drawing the stopper therefrom, he handed
it to the lass who had carried his staff, first wiping the mouth
of the pottle upon his sleeve. Then each lass took a fair drink
of what was within, and when it had passed all around, Little
John finished what was left, so that not another drop could be
squeezed from it. Then, kissing each lass sweetly, he wished
them all good den, and left them. But the maids stood looking
after him as he walked away whistling. "What a pity," quoth one,
"that such a stout, lusty lad should be in holy orders."
"Marry," quoth Little John to
himself, as he strode along, "yon was no such ill happening;
Saint Dunstan send me more of the like."
After he had trudged along for
a time he began to wax thirsty again in the warmth of the day.
He shook his leathern pottle beside his ear, but not a sound
came therefrom. Then he placed it to his lips and tilted it high
aloft, but not a drop was there. "Little John! Little John!"
said he sadly to himself, shaking his head the while, "woman
will be thy ruin yet, if thou dost not take better care of
thyself."
But at last he reached the
crest of a certain hill, and saw below a sweet little thatched
inn lying snugly in the dale beneath him, toward which the road
dipped sharply. At the sight of this, a voice within him cried
aloud, "I give thee joy, good friend, for yonder is thy heart's
delight, to wit, a sweet rest and a cup of brown beer." So he
quickened his pace down the hill and so came to the little inn,
from which hung a sign with a stag's head painted upon it. In
front of the door a clucking hen was scratching in the dust with
a brood of chickens about her heels, the sparrows were
chattering of household affairs under the eaves, and all was so
sweet and peaceful that Little John's heart laughed within him.
Beside the door stood two stout cobs with broad soft-padded
saddles, well fitted for easy traveling, and speaking of rich
guests in the parlor. In front of the door three merry fellows,
a tinker, a peddler, and a beggar, were seated on a bench in the
sun quaffing stout ale.
"I give you good den, sweet
friends," quoth Little John, striding up to where they sat.
"Give thee good den, holy
father," quoth the merry Beggar with a grin. "But look thee, thy
gown is too short. Thou hadst best cut a piece off the top and
tack it to the bottom, so that it may be long enough. But come,
sit beside us here and take a taste of ale, if thy vows forbid
thee not."
"Nay," quoth Little John, also
grinning, "the blessed Saint Dunstan hath given me a free
dispensation for all indulgence in that line." And he thrust his
hand into his pouch for money to pay his score.
"Truly," quoth the Tinker,
"without thy looks belie thee, holy friar, the good Saint
Dunstan was wise, for without such dispensation his votary is
like to ha' many a penance to make. Nay, take thy hand from out
thy pouch, brother, for thou shalt not pay this shot. Ho,
landlord, a pot of ale!"
So the ale was brought and
given to Little John. Then, blowing the froth a little way to
make room for his lips, he tilted the bottom of the pot higher
and higher, till it pointed to the sky, and he had to shut his
eyes to keep the dazzle of the sunshine out of them. Then he
took the pot away, for there was nothing in it, and heaved a
full deep sigh, looking at the others with moist eyes and
shaking his head solemnly.
"Ho, landlord!" cried the
Peddler, "bring this good fellow another pot of ale, for truly
it is a credit to us all to have one among us who can empty a
canakin so lustily."
So they talked among themselves
merrily, until after a while quoth Little John, "Who rideth
those two nags yonder?"
"Two holy men like thee,
brother," quoth the Beggar. "They are now having a goodly feast
within, for I smelled the steam of a boiled pullet just now. The
landlady sayeth they come from Fountain Abbey, in Yorkshire, and
go to Lincoln on matters of business."
"They are a merry couple," said
the Tinker, "for one is as lean as an old wife's spindle, and
the other as fat as a suet pudding."
"Talking of fatness," said the
Peddler, "thou thyself lookest none too ill-fed, holy friar."
"Nay, truly," said Little John,
"thou seest in me what the holy Saint Dunstan can do for them
that serve him upon a handful of parched peas and a trickle of
cold water."
At this a great shout of
laughter went up. "Truly, it is a wondrous thing," quoth the
Beggar, "I would have made my vow, to see the masterly manner in
which thou didst tuck away yon pot of ale, that thou hadst not
tasted clear water for a brace of months. Has not this same holy
Saint Dunstan taught thee a goodly song or two?"
"Why, as for that," quoth
Little John, grinning, "mayhap he hath lent me aid to learn a
ditty or so."
"Then, prythee, let us hear how
he hath taught thee," quoth the Tinker.
At this Little John cleared his
throat and, after a word or two about a certain hoarseness that
troubled him, sang thus:
"Ah, pretty, pretty maid,
whither dost thou go?
I prythee, prythee, wait for thy lover also,
And we'll gather the rose
As it sweetly blows,
For the merry, merry winds are blo-o-o-wing."
Now it seemed as though Little John's songs were never to get
sung, for he had got no farther than this when the door of the
inn opened and out came the two brothers of Fountain Abbey, the
landlord following them, and, as the saying is, washing his
hands with humble soap. But when the brothers of Fountain Abbey
saw who it was that sang, and how he was clad in the robes of a
Gray Friar, they stopped suddenly, the fat little Brother
drawing his heavy eyebrows together in a mighty frown, and the
thin Brother twisting up his face as though he had sour beer in
his mouth. Then, as Little John gathered his breath for a new
verse, "How, now," roared forth the fat Brother, his voice
coming from him like loud thunder from a little cloud, "thou
naughty fellow, is this a fit place for one in thy garb to
tipple and sing profane songs?"
"Nay," quoth Little John, "sin'
I cannot tipple and sing, like Your Worship's reverence, in such
a goodly place as Fountain Abbey, I must e'en tipple and sing
where I can."
"Now, out upon thee," cried the
tall lean Brother in a harsh voice, "now, out upon thee, that
thou shouldst so disgrace thy cloth by this talk and bearing."
"Marry, come up!" quoth Little
John. "Disgrace, sayest thou? Methinks it is more disgrace for
one of our garb to wring hard-earned farthings out of the gripe
of poor lean peasants. It is not so, brother?"
At this the Tinker and the
Peddler and the Beggar nudged one another, and all grinned, and
the friars scowled blackly at Little John; but they could think
of nothing further to say, so they turned to their horses. Then
Little John arose of a sudden from the bench where he sat, and
ran to where the brothers of Fountain Abbey were mounting. Quoth
he, "Let me hold your horses' bridles for you. Truly, your words
have smitten my sinful heart, so that I will abide no longer in
this den of evil, but will go forward with you. No vile
temptation, I wot, will fall upon me in such holy company."
"Nay, fellow," said the lean
Brother harshly, for he saw that Little John made sport of them,
"we want none of thy company, so get thee gone."
"Alas," quoth Little John, "I
am truly sorry that ye like me not nor my company, but as for
leaving you, it may not be, for my heart is so moved, that,
willy-nilly, I must go with you for the sake of your holy
company."
Now, at this talk all the good
fellows on the bench grinned till their teeth glistened, and
even the landlord could not forbear to smile. As for the friars,
they looked at one another with a puzzled look, and knew not
what to do in the matter. They were so proud that it made them
feel sick with shame to think of riding along the highroad with
a strolling friar, in robes all too short for him, running
beside them, but yet they could not make Little John stay
against his will, for they knew he could crack the bones of both
of them in a twinkling were he so minded. Then up spake the fat
Brother more mildly than he had done before. "Nay, good
brother," said he, "we will ride fast, and thou wilt tire to
death at the pace."
"Truly, I am grateful to thee
for the thought of me," quoth Little John, "but have no fear,
brother; my limbs are stout, and I could run like a hare from
here to Gainsborough."
At these words a sound of
laughing came from the bench, whereat the lean Brother's wrath
boiled over, like water into the fire, with great fuss and
noise. "Now, out upon thee, thou naughty fellow!" he cried. "Art
thou not ashamed to bring disgrace so upon our cloth? Bide thee
here, thou sot, with these porkers. Thou art no fit company for
us."
"La, ye there now!" quoth
Little John. "Thou hearest, landlord; thou art not fit company
for these holy men; go back to thine alehouse. Nay, if these
most holy brothers of mine do but give me the word, I'll beat
thy head with this stout staff till it is as soft as whipped
eggs."
At these words a great shout of
laughter went up from those on the bench, and the landlord's
face grew red as a cherry from smothering his laugh in his
stomach; but he kept his merriment down, for he wished not to
bring the ill-will of the brothers of Fountain Abbey upon him by
unseemly mirth. So the two brethren, as they could do nought
else, having mounted their nags, turned their noses toward
Lincoln and rode away.
"I cannot stay longer, sweet
friends," quoth Little John, as he pushed in betwixt the two
cobs, "therefore I wish you good den. Off we go, we three." So
saying, he swung his stout staff over his shoulder and trudged
off, measuring his pace with that of the two nags.
The two brothers glowered at
Little John when he so pushed himself betwixt them, then they
drew as far away from him as they could, so that the yeoman
walked in the middle of the road, while they rode on the
footpath on either side of the way. As they so went away, the
Tinker, the Peddler, and the Beggar ran skipping out into the
middle of the highway, each with a pot in his hand, and looked
after them laughing.
While they were in sight of
those at the inn, the brothers walked their horses soberly, not
caring to make ill matters worse by seeming to run away from
Little John, for they could not but think how it would sound in
folks' ears when they heard how the brethren of Fountain Abbey
scampered away from a strolling friar, like the Ugly One, when
the blessed Saint Dunstan loosed his nose from the red-hot tongs
where he had held it fast; but when they had crossed the crest
of the hill and the inn was lost to sight, quoth the fat Brother
to the thin Brother, "Brother Ambrose, had we not better mend
our pace?"
"Why truly, gossip," spoke up
Little John, "methinks it would be well to boil our pot a little
faster, for the day is passing on. So it will not jolt thy fat
too much, onward, say I."
At this the two friars said
nothing, but they glared again on Little John with baleful
looks; then, without another word, they clucked to their horses,
and both broke into a canter. So they galloped for a mile and
more, and Little John ran betwixt them as lightly as a stag and
never turned a hair with the running. At last the fat Brother
drew his horse's rein with a groan, for he could stand the
shaking no longer. "Alas," said Little John, with not so much as
a catch in his breath, "I did sadly fear that the roughness of
this pace would shake thy poor old fat paunch."
To this the fat Friar said
never a word, but he stared straight before him, and he gnawed
his nether lip. And now they traveled forward more quietly,
Little John in the middle of the road whistling merrily to
himself, and the two friars in the footpath on either side
saying never a word.
Then presently they met three
merry minstrels, all clad in red, who stared amain to see a Gray
Friar with such short robes walking in the middle of the road,
and two brothers. with heads bowed with shame, riding upon
richly caparisoned cobs on the footpaths. When they had come
near to the minstrels, Little John waved his staff like an usher
clearing the way. "Make way!" he cried in a loud voice. "Make
way! make way! For here we go, we three!" Then how the minstrels
stared, and how they laughed! But the fat Friar shook as with an
ague, and the lean Friar bowed his head over his horse's neck.
Then next they met two noble
knights in rich array, with hawk on wrist, and likewise two fair
ladies clad in silks and velvets, all a-riding on noble steeds.
These all made room, staring, as Little John and the two friars
came along the road. To them Little John bowed humbly. "Give you
greetings, lords and ladies," said he. "But here we go, we
three."
Then all laughed, and one of
the fair ladies cried out, "What three meanest thou, merry
friend?"
Little John looked over his
shoulder, for they had now passed each other, and he called
back, "Big Jack, lean Jack and fat Jack-pudding."
At this the fat Friar gave a
groan and seemed as if he were like to fall from his saddle for
shame; the other brother said nothing, but he looked before him
with a grim and stony look.
Just ahead of them the road
took a sudden turn around a high hedge, and some twoscore paces
beyond the bend another road crossed the one they were riding
upon. When they had come to the crossroad and were well away
from those they had left, the lean Friar drew rein suddenly.
"Look ye, fellow," quoth he in a voice quivering with rage, "we
have had enough of thy vile company, and care no longer to be
made sport of. Go thy way, and let us go ours in peace."
"La there, now!" quoth Little
John. "Methought we were such a merry company, and here thou
dost blaze up like fat in the pan. But truly, I ha' had enow of
you today, though I can ill spare your company. I know ye will
miss me, but gin ye want me again, whisper to Goodman Wind, and
he will bring news thereof to me. But ye see I am a poor man and
ye are rich. I pray you give me a penny or two to buy me bread
and cheese at the next inn."
"We have no money, fellow,"
said the lean Friar harshly. "Come, Brother Thomas, let us
forward."
But Little John caught the
horses by the bridle reins, one in either hand. "Ha' ye in truth
no money about you whatsoever?" said he. "Now, I pray you,
brothers, for charity's sake, give me somewhat to buy a crust of
bread, e'en though it be only a penny."
"I tell thee, fellow, we have
no money," thundered the fat little Friar with the great voice.
"Ha' ye, in holy truth, no
money?" asked Little John.
"Not a farthing," said the lean
Friar sourly.
"Not a groat," said the fat
Friar loudly.
"Nay," quoth Little John, "this
must not be. Far be it from me to see such holy men as ye are
depart from me with no money. Get both of you down straightway
from off your horses, and we will kneel here in the middle of
the crossroads and pray the blessed Saint Dunstan to send us
some money to carry us on our journey."
"What sayest thou, thou limb of
evil!" cried the lean Friar, fairly gnashing his teeth with
rage. "Doss thou bid me, the high cellarer of Fountain Abbey, to
get down from my horse and kneel in the dirty road to pray to
some beggarly Saxon saint?"
"Now," quoth Little John, "I
ha' a great part of a mind to crack thy head for thee for
speaking thus of the good Saint Dunstan! But get down
straightway, for my patience will not last much longer, and I
may forget that ye are both in holy orders." So saying, he
twirled his stout staff till it whistled again.
At this speech both friars grew
as pale as dough. Down slipped the fat Brother from off his
horse on one side, and down slipped the lean Brother on the
other.
"Now, brothers, down on your
knees and pray," said Little John; thereupon, putting his heavy
hands upon the shoulder of each, he forced them to their knees,
he kneeling also. Then Little John began to beseech Saint
Dunstan for money, which he did in a great loud voice. After he
had so besought the Saint for a time, he bade the friars feel in
their pouches and see if the Saint had sent them anything; so
each put his hand slowly in the pouch that hung beside him, but
brought nothing thence.
"Ha!" quoth Little John, "have
your prayers so little virtue? Then let us at it again." Then
straightway he began calling on Saint Dunstan again, somewhat in
this wise: "O gracious Saint Dunstan! Send some money
straightway to these poor folk, lest the fat one waste away and
grow as lean as the lean one, and the lean one waste away to
nothing at all, ere they get to Lincoln Town; but send them only
ten shillings apiece, lest they grow puffed up with pride, Any
more than that that thou sendest, send to me.
"Now," quoth he, rising, "let
us see what each man hath." Then he thrust his hand into his
pouch and drew thence four golden angels. "What have ye,
brothers?" said he.
Then once again each friar
slowly thrust his hand into his pouch, and once again brought it
out with nothing in it.
"Have ye nothing?" quoth Little
John. "Nay, I warrant there is somewhat that hath crept into the
seams of your pouches, and so ye ha' missed it. Let me look."
So he went first to the lean
Friar, and, thrusting his hand into the pouch, he drew forth a
leathern bag and counted therefrom one hundred and ten pounds of
golden money. "I thought," quoth Little John, "that thou hadst
missed, in some odd corner of thy pouch, the money that the
blessed Saint had sent thee. And now let me see whether thou
hast not some, also, brother." Thereupon he thrust his hand into
the pouch of the fat Friar and drew thence a bag like the other
and counted out from it threescore and ten pounds. "Look ye
now," quoth he, "I knew the good Saint had sent thee some
pittance that thou, also, hadst missed."
Then, giving them one pound
between them, he slipped the rest of the money into his own
pouch, saying, "Ye pledged me your holy word that ye had no
money. Being holy men, I trust that ye would not belie your word
so pledged, therefore I know the good Saint Dunstan hath sent
this in answer to my prayers. But as I only prayed for ten
shillings to be sent to each of you, all over and above that
belongeth by rights to me, and so I take it. I give you good
den, brothers, and may ye have a pleasant journey henceforth."
So saying, he turned and left them, striding away. The friars
looked at one another with a woeful look, and slowly and sadly
they mounted their horses again and rode away with never a word.
But Little John turned his
footsteps back again to Sherwood Forest, and merrily he whistled
as he strode along.
And now we will see what befell
Robin Hood in his venture as beggar.

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XVII. Robin Hood Turns Beggar
After jolly Robin had left Little John at the forking of the
roads, he walked merrily onward in the mellow sunshine that
shone about him. Ever and anon he would skip and leap or sing a
snatch of song, for pure joyousness of the day; for, because of
the sweetness of the springtide, his heart was as lusty within
him as that of a colt newly turned out to grass. Sometimes he
would walk a long distance, gazing aloft at the great white
swelling clouds that moved slowly across the deep blue sky; anon
he would stop and drink in the fullness of life of all things,
for the hedgerows were budding tenderly and the grass of the
meadows was waxing long and green; again he would stand still
and listen to the pretty song of the little birds in the
thickets or hearken to the clear crow of the cock daring the sky
to rain, whereat he would laugh, for it took but little to
tickle Robin's heart into merriment. So he trudged manfully
along, ever willing to stop for this reason or for that, and
ever ready to chat with such merry lasses as he met now and
then. So the morning slipped along, but yet he met no beggar
with whom he could change clothes. Quoth he, "If I do not change
my luck in haste, I am like to have an empty day of it, for it
is well nigh half gone already, and, although I have had a merry
walk through the countryside, I know nought of a beggar's life."
Then, after a while, he began
to grow hungry, whereupon his mind turned from thoughts of
springtime and flowers and birds and dwelled upon boiled capons,
Malmsey, white bread, and the like, with great tenderness. Quoth
he to himself, "I would I had Willie Wynkin's wishing coat; I
know right well what I should wish for, and this it should be."
Here he marked upon the fingers of his left hand with the
forefinger of his right hand those things which he wished for.
"Firstly, I would have a sweet brown pie of tender larks; mark
ye, not dry cooked, but with a good sop of gravy to moisten it
withal. Next, I would have a pretty pullet, fairly boiled, with
tender pigeons' eggs, cunningly sliced, garnishing the platter
around. With these I would have a long, slim loaf of wheaten
bread that hath been baked upon the hearth; it should be warm
from the fire, with glossy brown crust, the color of the hair of
mine own Maid Marian, and this same crust should be as crisp and
brittle as the thin white ice that lies across the furrows in
the early winter's morning. These will do for the more solid
things; but with these I must have three potties, fat and round,
one full of Malmsey, one of Canary, and one brimming full of
mine own dear lusty sack." Thus spoke Robin to himself, his
mouth growing moist at the corners with the thoughts of the good
things he had raised in his own mind.
So, talking to himself, he came
to where the dusty road turned sharply around the hedge, all
tender with the green of the coming leaf, and there he saw
before him a stout fellow sitting upon a stile, swinging his
legs in idleness. All about this lusty rogue dangled divers
pouches and bags of different sizes and kinds, a dozen or more,
with great, wide, gaping mouths, like a brood of hungry daws.
His coat was gathered in at his waist, and was patched with as
many colors as there are stripes upon a Maypole in the
springtide. On his head he wore a great tall leathern cap, and
across his knees rested a stout quarterstaff of blackthorn, full
as long and heavy as Robin's. As jolly a beggar was he as ever
trod the lanes and byways of Nottinghamshire, for his eyes were
as gray as slate, and snapped and twinkled and danced with
merriment, and his black hair curled close all over his head in
little rings of kinkiness.
"Halloa, good fellow," quoth
Robin, when he had come nigh to the other, "what art thou doing
here this merry day, when the flowers are peeping and the buds
are swelling?"
Then the other winked one eye
and straightway trolled forth in a merry voice:
"I sit upon the stile,
And I sing a little while
As I wait for my own true dear, O,
For the sun is shining bright,
And the leaves are dancing light,
And the little fowl sings she is near, O.
"And so it is with me, bully boy, saving that my doxy cometh
not."
"Now that is a right sweet
song," quoth Robin, "and, were I in the right mind to listen to
thee, I could bear well to hear more; but I have two things of
seriousness to ask of thee; so listen, I prythee."
At this the jolly Beggar cocked
his head on one side, like a rogue of a magpie. Quoth he, "I am
an ill jug to pour heavy things into, good friend, and, if I
mistake not, thou hast few serious words to spare at any time."
"Nay," quoth jolly Robin, "what
I would say first is the most serious of all thoughts to me, to
wit, `Where shall I get somewhat to eat and drink?' "
"Sayst thou so?" quoth the
Beggar. "Marry, I make no such serious thoughts upon the matter.
I eat when I can get it, and munch my crust when I can get no
crumb; likewise, when there is no ale to be had I wash the dust
from out my throat with a trickle of cold water. I was sitting
here, as thou camest upon me, bethinking myself whether I should
break my fast or no. I do love to let my hunger grow mightily
keen ere I eat, for then a dry crust is as good to me as a
venison pasty with suet and raisins is to stout King Harry. I
have a sharp hunger upon me now, but methinks in a short while
it will ripen to a right mellow appetite."
"Now, in good sooth," quoth
merry Robin, laughing, "thou hast a quaint tongue betwixt thy
teeth. But hast thou truly nought but a dry crust about thee?
Methinks thy bags and pouches are fat and lusty for such thin
fare."
"Why, mayhap there is some
other cold fare therein," said the Beggar slyly.
"And hast thou nought to drink
but cold water?" said Robin.
"Never so much as a drop,"
quoth the Beggar. "Over beyond yon clump of trees is as sweet a
little inn as ever thou hast lifted eyelid upon; but I go not
thither, for they have a nasty way with me. Once, when the good
Prior of Emmet was dining there, the landlady set a dear little
tart of stewed crabs and barley sugar upon the window sill to
cool, and, seeing it there, and fearing it might be lost, I took
it with me till that I could find the owner thereof. Ever since
then they have acted very ill toward me; yet truth bids me say
that they have the best ale there that ever rolled over my
tongue."
At this Robin laughed aloud.
"Marry," quoth he, "they did ill toward thee for thy kindness.
But tell me truly, what hast thou in thy pouches?"
"Why," quoth the Beggar,
peeping into the mouths of his bags, "I find here a goodly piece
of pigeon pie, wrapped in a cabbage leaf to hold the gravy. Here
I behold a dainty streaked piece of brawn, and here a fair lump
of white bread. Here I find four oaten cakes and a cold knuckle
of ham. Ha! In sooth, 'tis strange; but here I behold six eggs
that must have come by accident from some poultry yard
hereabouts. They are raw, but roasted upon the coals and spread
with a piece of butter that I see--"
"Peace, good friend!" cried
Robin, holding up his hand. "Thou makest my poor stomach quake
with joy for what thou tellest me so sweetly. If thou wilt give
me to eat, I will straightway hie me to that little inn thou
didst tell of but now, and will bring a skin of ale for thy
drinking and mine."
"Friend, thou hast said
enough," said the Beggar, getting down from the stile. "I will
feast thee with the best that I have and bless Saint Cedric for
thy company. But, sweet chuck, I prythee bring three quarts of
ale at least, one for thy drinking and two for mine, for my
thirst is such that methinks I can drink ale as the sands of the
River Dee drink salt water."
So Robin straightway left the
Beggar, who, upon his part, went to a budding lime bush back of
the hedge, and there spread his feast upon the grass and roasted
his eggs upon a little fagot fire, with a deftness gained by
long labor in that line. After a while back came Robin bearing a
goodly skin of ale upon his shoulder, which he laid upon the
grass. Then, looking upon the feast spread upon the ground--and
a fair sight it was to look upon-- he slowly rubbed his hand
over his stomach, for to his hungry eyes it seemed the fairest
sight that he had beheld in all his life.
"Friend," said the Beggar, "let
me feel the weight of that skin.
"Yea, truly," quoth Robin,
"help thyself, sweet chuck, and meantime let me see whether thy
pigeon pie is fresh or no."
So the one seized upon the ale
and the other upon the pigeon pie, and nothing was heard for a
while but the munching of food and the gurgle of ale as it left
the skin.
At last, after a long time had
passed thus, Robin pushed the food from him and heaved a great
sigh of deep content, for he felt as though he had been made all
over anew.
"And now, good friend," quoth
he, leaning upon one elbow, "I would have at thee about that
other matter of seriousness of which I spoke not long since."
"How!" said the Beggar
reproachfully, "thou wouldst surely not talk of things
appertaining to serious affairs upon such ale as this!"
"Nay," quoth Robin, laughing.
"I would not check thy thirst, sweet friend; drink while I talk
to thee. Thus it is: I would have thee know that I have taken a
liking to thy craft and would fain have a taste of a beggar's
life mine own self."
Said the Beggar, "I marvel not
that thou hast taken a liking to my manner of life, good fellow,
but `to like' and `to do' are two matters of different sorts. I
tell thee, friend, one must serve a long apprenticeship ere one
can learn to be even so much as a clapper-dudgeon, much less a
crank or an Abraham-man.[3] I tell thee, lad, thou art too old
to enter upon that which it may take thee years to catch the
hang of."
[3] Classes of traveling
mendicants that infested England as late as the middle of the
seventeenth century. Vide Dakkar's English Villainies, etc.
"Mayhap that may be so," quoth
Robin, "for I bring to mind that Gaffer Swanthold sayeth Jack
Shoemaker maketh ill bread; Tom Baker maketh ill shoon.
Nevertheless, I have a mind to taste a beggar's life, and need
but the clothing to be as good as any."
"I tell thee, fellow," said the
Beggar, "if thou wert clad as sweetly as good Saint Wynten, the
patron of our craft, thou wouldst never make a beggar. Marry,
the first jolly traveler that thou wouldst meet would beat thee
to a pudding for thrusting thy nose into a craft that belongeth
not to thee."
"Nevertheless," quoth Robin, "I
would have a try at it; and methinks I shall change clothes with
thee, for thy garb seemeth to be pretty, not to say gay. So not
only will I change clothes, but I will give thee two golden
angels to boot. I have brought my stout staff with me, thinking
that I might have to rap some one of the brethren of thy cloth
over the head by way of argument in this matter, but I love thee
so much for the feast thou hast given me that I would not lift
even my little finger against thee, so thou needst not have a
crumb of fear."
To this the Beggar listened
with his knuckles resting against his hips, and when Robin had
ended he cocked his head on one side and thrust his tongue into
his cheek.
"Marry, come up," quoth he at
last. "Lift thy finger against me, forsooth! Art thou out of thy
wits, man? My name is Riccon Hazel, and I come from Holywell, in
Flintshire, over by the River Dee. I tell thee, knave, I have
cracked the head of many a better man than thou art, and even
now I would scald thy crown for thee but for the ale thou hast
given me. Now thou shalt not have so much as one tag-rag of my
coat, even could it save thee from hanging."
"Now, fellow," said Robin, "it
would ill suit me to spoil thy pretty head for thee, but I tell
thee plainly, that but for this feast I would do that to thee
would stop thy traveling the country for many a day to come.
Keep thy lips shut, lad, or thy luck will tumble out of thy
mouth with thy speech!"
"Now out, and alas for thee,
man, for thou hast bred thyself ill this day!" cried the Beggar,
rising and taking up his staff. "Take up thy club and defend
thyself, fellow, for I will not only beat thee but I will take
from thee thy money and leave thee not so much as a clipped
groat to buy thyself a lump of goose grease to rub thy cracked
crown withal. So defend thyself, I say."
Then up leaped merry Robin and
snatched up his staff also. "Take my money, if thou canst,"
quoth he. "I promise freely to give thee every farthing if thou
dost touch me." And he twirled his staff in his fingers till it
whistled again.
Then the Beggar swung his staff
also, and struck a mighty blow at Robin, which the yeoman
turned. Three blows the Beggar struck, yet never one touched so
much as a hair of Robin's head. Then stout Robin saw his chance,
and, ere you could count three, Riccon's staff was over the
hedge, and Riccon himself lay upon the green grass with no more
motion than you could find in an empty pudding bag.
"How now!" quoth merry Robin,
laughing. "Wilt thou have my hide or my money, sweet chuck?" But
to this the other answered never a word. Then Robin, seeing his
plight, and that he was stunned with the blow, ran, still
laughing, and brought the skin of ale and poured some of it on
the Beggar's head and some down his throat, so that presently he
opened his eyes and looked around as though wondering why he lay
upon his back.
Then Robin, seeing that he had
somewhat gathered the wits that had just been rapped out of his
head, said, "Now, good fellow, wilt thou change clothes with me,
or shall I have to tap thee again? Here are two golden angels if
thou wilt give me freely all thy rags and bags and thy cap and
things. If thou givest them not freely, I much fear me I shall
have to--" and he looked up and down his staff.
Then Riccon sat up and rubbed
the bump on his crown. "Now, out upon it!" quoth he. "I did
think to drub thee sweetly, fellow. I know not how it is, but I
seem, as it were, to have bought more beer than I can drink. If
I must give up my clothes, I must, but first promise me, by thy
word as a true yeoman, that thou wilt take nought from me but my
clothes."
"I promise on the word of a
true yeoman," quoth Robin, thinking that the fellow had a few
pennies that he would save.
Thereupon the Beggar drew a
little knife that hung at his side and, ripping up the lining of
his coat, drew thence ten bright golden pounds, which he laid
upon the ground beside him with a cunning wink at Robin. "Now
thou mayst have my clothes and welcome," said he, "and thou
mightest have had them in exchange for thine without the cost of
a single farthing, far less two golden angels."
"Marry," quoth Robin, laughing,
"thou art a sly fellow, and I tell thee truly, had I known thou
hadst so much money by thee maybe thou mightst not have carried
it away, for I warrant thou didst not come honestly by it."
Then each stripped off his
clothes and put on those of the other, and as lusty a beggar was
Robin Hood as e'er you could find of a summer's day. But stout
Riccon of Holywell skipped and leaped and danced for joy of the
fair suit of Lincoln green that he had so gotten. Quoth he, "I
am a gay-feathered bird now. Truly, my dear Moll Peascod would
never know me in this dress. Thou mayst keep the cold pieces of
the feast, friend, for I mean to live well and lustily while my
money lasts and my clothes are gay."
So he turned and left Robin
and, crossing the stile, was gone, but Robin heard him singing
from beyond the hedge as he strode away:
"For Polly is smiling and Molly
is glad
When the beggar comes in at the door,
And Jack and Dick call him a fine lusty lad,
And the hostess runs up a great score.
Then hey, Willy Waddykin,
Stay, Billy Waddykin,
And let the brown ale flow free, flow free,
The beggar's the man for me."
Robin listened till the song ended in the distance, then he also
crossed the stile into the road, but turned his toes away from
where the Beggar had gone. The road led up a gentle hill and up
the hill Robin walked, a half score or more of bags dangling
about his legs. Onward he strolled for a long time, but other
adventure he found not. The road was bare of all else but
himself, as he went kicking up little clouds of dust at each
footstep; for it was noontide, the most peaceful time of all the
day, next to twilight. All the earth was silent in the
restfulness of eating time; the plowhorses stood in the furrow
munching, with great bags over their noses holding sweet food,
the plowman sat under the hedge and the plowboy also, and they,
too, were munching, each one holding a great piece of bread in
one fist and a great piece of cheese in the other.
So Robin, with all the empty
road to himself, strode along whistling merrily, his bags and
pouches bobbing and dangling at his thighs. At last he came to
where a little grass-grown path left the road and, passing
through a stile and down a hill, led into a little dell and on
across a rill in the valley and up the hill on the other side,
till it reached a windmill that stood on the cap of the rise
where the wind bent the trees in swaying motion. Robin looked at
the spot and liked it, and, for no reason but that his fancy led
him, he took the little path and walked down the grassy sunny
slope of the open meadow, and so came to the little dingle and,
ere he knew it, upon four lusty fellows that sat with legs
outstretched around a goodly feast spread upon the ground.
Four merry beggars were they,
and each had slung about his neck a little board that rested
upon his breast. One board had written upon it, "I am blind,"
another, "I am deaf," another, "I am dumb," and the fourth,
"Pity the lame one." But although all these troubles written
upon the boards seemed so grievous, the four stout fellows sat
around feasting as merrily as though Cain's wife had never
opened the pottle that held misfortunes and let them forth like
a cloud of flies to pester us.
The deaf man was the first to
hear Robin, for he said, "Hark, brothers, I hear someone
coming." And the blind man was the first to see him, for he
said, "He is an honest man, brothers, and one of like craft to
ourselves." Then the dumb man called to him in a great voice and
said, "Welcome, brother; come and sit while there is still some
of the feast left and a little Malmsey in the pottle." At this,
the lame man, who had taken off his wooden leg and unstrapped
his own leg, and was sitting with it stretched out upon the
grass so as to rest it, made room for Robin among them. "We are
glad to see thee, brother," said he, holding out the flask of
Malmsey.
"Marry," quoth Robin, laughing,
and weighing the flask in his hands ere he drank, "methinks it
is no more than seemly of you all to be glad to see me, seeing
that I bring sight to the blind, speech to the dumb, hearing to
the deaf, and such a lusty leg to a lame man. I drink to your
happiness, brothers, as I may not drink to your health, seeing
ye are already hale, wind and limb."
At this all grinned, and the
Blind beggar, who was the chief man among them, and was the
broadest shouldered and most lusty rascal of all, smote Robin
upon the shoulder, swearing he was a right merry wag.
"Whence comest thou, lad?"
asked the Dumb man.
"Why," quoth Robin, "I came
this morning from sleeping overnight in Sherwood."
"Is it even so?" said the Deaf
man. "I would not for all the money we four are carrying to
Lincoln Town sleep one night in Sherwood. If Robin Hood caught
one of our trade in his woodlands he would, methinks, clip his
ears."
"Methinks he would, too," quoth
Robin, laughing. "But what money is this that ye speak of?"
Then up spake the Lame man.
"Our king, Peter of York," said he, "hath sent us to Lincoln
with those moneys that--"
"Stay, brother Hodge," quoth
the Blind man, breaking into the talk, "I would not doubt our
brother here, but bear in mind we know him not. What art thou,
brother? Upright-man, Jurkman, Clapper-dudgeon, Dommerer, or
Abraham-man?"
At these words Robin looked
from one man to the other with mouth agape. "Truly," quoth he,
"I trust I am an upright man, at least, I strive to be; but I
know not what thou meanest by such jargon, brother. It were much
more seemly, methinks, if yon Dumb man, who hath a sweet voice,
would give us a song."
At these words a silence fell
on all, and after a while the Blind man spoke again. Quoth he,
"Thou dost surely jest when thou sayest that thou dost not
understand such words. Answer me this: Hast thou ever fibbed a
chouse quarrons in the Rome pad for the loure in his bung?"[4]
[4] I.E., in old beggar's cant,
"beaten a man or gallant upon the highway for the money in his
purse." Dakkar's ENGLISH VILLAINIES.
"Now out upon it," quoth Robin
Hood testily, "an ye make sport of me by pattering such
gibberish, it will be ill for you all, I tell you. I have the
best part of a mind to crack the heads of all four of you, and
would do so, too, but for the sweet Malmsey ye have given me.
Brother, pass the pottle lest it grow cold."
But all the four beggars leaped
to their feet when Robin had done speaking, and the Blind man
snatched up a heavy knotted cudgel that lay beside him on the
grass, as did the others likewise. Then Robin, seeing that
things were like to go ill with him, albeit he knew not what all
the coil was about, leaped to his feet also and, catching up his
trusty staff, clapped his back against the tree and stood upon
his guard against them. "How, now!" cried he, twirling his staff
betwixt his fingers, "would you four stout fellows set upon one
man? Stand back, ye rascals, or I will score your pates till
they have as many marks upon them as a pothouse door! Are ye
mad? I have done you no harm."
"Thou liest!" quoth the one who
pretended to be blind and who, being the lustiest villain, was
the leader of the others, "thou liest! For thou hast come among
us as a vile spy. But thine ears have heard too much for thy
body's good, and thou goest not forth from this place unless
thou goest feet foremost, for this day thou shalt die! Come,
brothers, all together! Down with him!" Then, whirling up his
cudgel, he rushed upon Robin as an angry bull rushes upon a red
rag. But Robin was ready for any happening. "Crick! Crack!" he
struck two blows as quick as a wink, and down went the Blind
man, rolling over and over upon the grass.
At this the others bore back
and stood at a little distance scowling upon Robin. "Come on, ye
scum!" cried he merrily. "Here be cakes and ale for all. Now,
who will be next served?"
To this speech the beggars
answered never a word, but they looked at Robin as great
Blunderbore looked upon stout Jack the slayer of giants, as
though they would fain eat him, body and bones; nevertheless,
they did not care to come nigher to him and his terrible staff.
Then, seeing them so hesitate, Robin of a sudden leaped upon
them, striking even as he leaped. Down went the Dumb man, and
away flew his cudgel from his hand as he fell. At this the
others ducked to avoid another blow, then, taking to their
heels, scampered, the one one way and the other the other, as
though they had the west wind's boots upon their feet. Robin
looked after them, laughing, and thought that never had he seen
so fleet a runner as the Lame man; but neither of the beggars
stopped nor turned around, for each felt in his mind the wind of
Robin's cudgel about his ears.
Then Robin turned to the two
stout knaves lying upon the ground. Quoth he, "These fellows
spake somewhat about certain moneys they were taking to Lincoln;
methinks I may find it upon this stout blind fellow, who hath as
keen sight as e'er a trained woodsman in Nottingham or
Yorkshire. It were a pity to let sound money stay in the pockets
of such thieving knaves." So saying, he stooped over the burly
rascal and searched among his rags and tatters, till presently
his fingers felt a leathern pouch slung around his body beneath
his patched and tattered coat. This he stripped away and,
weighing it in his hands, bethought himself that it was mighty
heavy. "It were a sweet thing," said he to himself, "if this
were filled with gold instead of copper pence." Then, sitting
down upon the grass, he opened the pocket and looked into it.
There he found four round rolls wrapped up in dressed sheepskin;
one of these rolls he opened; then his mouth gaped and his eyes
stared, I wot, as though they would never close again, for what
did he see but fifty pounds of bright golden money? He opened
the other pockets and found in each one the same, fifty bright
new-stamped golden pounds. Quoth Robin, "I have oft heard that
the Beggars' Guild was over-rich, but never did I think that
they sent such sums as this to their treasury. I shall take it
with me, for it will be better used for charity and the good of
my merry band than in the enriching of such knaves as these." So
saying, he rolled up the money in the sheepskin again, and
putting it back in the purse, he thrust the pouch into his own
bosom. Then taking up the flask of Malmsey, he held it toward
the two fellows lying on the grass, and quoth he, "Sweet
friends, I drink your health and thank you dearly for what ye
have so kindly given me this day, and so I wish you good den."
Then, taking up his staff, he left the spot and went merrily on
his way.
But when the two stout beggars
that had been rapped upon the head roused themselves and sat up,
and when the others had gotten over their fright and come back,
they were as sad and woebegone as four frogs in dry weather, for
two of them had cracked crowns, their Malmsey was all gone, and
they had not so much as a farthing to cross their palms withal.
But after Robin left the little
dell he strode along merrily, singing as he went; and so blithe
was he and such a stout beggar, and, withal, so fresh and clean,
that every merry lass he met had a sweet word for him and felt
no fear, while the very dogs, that most times hate the sight of
a beggar, snuffed at his legs in friendly wise and wagged their
tails pleasantly; for dogs know an honest man by his smell, and
an honest man Robin was-- in his own way.
Thus he went along till at last
he had come to the wayside cross nigh Ollerton, and, being
somewhat tired, he sat him down to rest upon the grassy bank in
front of it. "It groweth nigh time," quoth he to himself, "that
I were getting back again to Sherwood; yet it would please me
well to have one more merry adventure ere I go back again to my
jolly band."
So he looked up the road and
down the road to see who might come, until at last he saw
someone drawing near, riding upon a horse. When the traveler
came nigh enough for him to see him well, Robin laughed, for a
strange enough figure he cut. He was a thin, wizened man, and,
to look upon him, you could not tell whether he was thirty years
old or sixty, so dried up was he even to skin and bone. As for
the nag, it was as thin as the rider, and both looked as though
they had been baked in Mother Huddle's Oven, where folk are
dried up so that they live forever.
But although Robin laughed at
the droll sight, he knew the wayfarer to be a certain rich corn
engrosser of Worksop, who more than once had bought all the
grain in the countryside and held it till it reached even famine
prices, thus making much money from the needs of poor people,
and for this he was hated far and near by everyone that knew
aught of him.
So, after a while, the Corn
Engrosser came riding up to where Robin sat; whereupon merry
Robin stepped straightway forth, in all his rags and tatters,
his bags and pouches dangling about him, and laid his hand upon
the horse's bridle rein, calling upon the other to stop.
"Who art thou, fellow, that
doth dare to stop me thus upon the King's highway?" said the
lean man, in a dry, sour voice.
"Pity a poor beggar," quoth
Robin. "Give me but a farthing to buy me a piece of bread."
"Now, out upon thee!" snarled
the other. "Such sturdy rogues as thou art are better safe in
the prisons or dancing upon nothing, with a hempen collar about
the neck, than strolling the highways so freely."
"Tut," quoth Robin, "how thou
talkest! Thou and I are brothers, man. Do we not both take from
the poor people that which they can ill spare? Do we not make
our livings by doing nought of any good? Do we not both live
without touching palm to honest work? Have we either of us ever
rubbed thumbs over honestly gained farthings? Go to! We are
brothers, I say; only thou art rich and I am poor; wherefore, I
prythee once more, give me a penny."
"Doss thou prate so to me,
sirrah?" cried the Corn Engrosser in a rage. "Now I will have
thee soundly whipped if ever I catch thee in any town where the
law can lay hold of thee! As for giving thee a penny, I swear to
thee that I have not so much as a single groat in my purse. Were
Robin Hood himself to take me, he might search me from crown to
heel without finding the smallest piece of money upon me. I
trust I am too sly to travel so nigh to Sherwood with money in
my pouch, and that thief at large in the woods."
Then merry Robin looked up and
down, as if to see that there was no one nigh, and then, coming
close to the Corn Engrosser, he stood on tiptoe and spake in his
ear, "Thinkest thou in sooth that I am a beggar, as I seem to
be? Look upon me. There is not a grain of dirt upon my hands or
my face or my body. Didst thou ever see a beggar so? I tell thee
I am as honest a man as thou art. Look, friend." Here he took
the purse of money from his breast and showed to the dazzled
eyes of the Corn Engrosser the bright golden pieces. "Friend,
these rags serve but to hide an honest rich man from the eyes of
Robin Hood."
"Put up thy money, lad," cried
the other quickly. "Art thou a fool, to trust to beggar's rags
to shield thee from Robin Hood? If he caught thee, he would
strip thee to the skin, for he hates a lusty beggar as he doth a
fat priest or those of my kind."
"Is it indeed so?" quoth Robin.
"Had I known this, mayhap I had not come hereabouts in this
garb. But I must go forward now, as much depends upon my
journeying. Where goest thou, friend?"
"I go to Grantham," said the
Corn Engrosser, "but I shall lodge tonight at Newark, if I can
get so far upon my way."
"Why, I myself am on the way to
Newark," quoth merry Robin, "so that, as two honest men are
better than one in roads beset by such a fellow as this Robin
Hood, I will jog along with thee, if thou hast no dislike to my
company."
"Why, as thou art an honest
fellow and a rich fellow," said the Corn Engrosser, "I mind not
thy company; but, in sooth, I have no great fondness for
beggars."
"Then forward," quoth Robin,
"for the day wanes and it will be dark ere we reach Newark." So
off they went, the lean horse hobbling along as before, and
Robin running beside, albeit he was so quaking with laughter
within him that he could hardly stand; yet he dared not laugh
aloud, lest the Corn Engrosser should suspect something. So they
traveled along till they reached a hill just on the outskirts of
Sherwood. Here the lean man checked his lean horse into a walk,
for the road was steep, and he wished to save his nag's
strength, having far to go ere he reached Newark. Then he turned
in his saddle and spake to Robin again, for the first time since
they had left the cross. "Here is thy greatest danger, friend,"
said he, "for here we are nighest to that vile thief Robin Hood,
and the place where he dwells. Beyond this we come again to the
open honest country, and so are more safe in our journeying."
"Alas!" quoth Robin, "I would
that I had as little money by me as thou hast, for this day I
fear that Robin Hood will get every groat of my wealth."
Then the other looked at Robin
and winked cunningly. Quoth he, "I tell thee, friend, that I
have nigh as much by me as thou hast, but it is hidden so that
never a knave in Sherwood could find it."
"Thou dost surely jest," quoth
Robin. "How could one hide so much as two hundred pounds upon
his person?"
"Now, as thou art so honest a
fellow, and, withal, so much younger than I am, I will tell thee
that which I have told to no man in all the world before, and
thus thou mayst learn never again to do such a foolish thing as
to trust to beggar's garb to guard thee against Robin Hood.
Seest thou these clogs upon my feet?"
"Yea," quoth Robin, laughing,
"truly, they are large enough for any man to see, even were his
sight as foggy as that of Peter Patter, who never could see when
it was time to go to work."
"Peace, friend," said the Corn
Engrosser, "for this is no matter for jesting. The soles of
these clogs are not what they seem to be, for each one is a
sweet little box; and by twisting the second nail from the toe,
the upper of the shoe and part of the sole lifts up like a lid,
and in the spaces within are fourscore and ten bright golden
pounds in each shoe, all wrapped in hair, to keep them from
clinking and so telling tales of themselves."
When the Corn Engrosser had
told this, Robin broke into a roar of laughter and, laying his
hands upon the bridle rein, stopped the sad-looking nag. "Stay,
good friend," quoth he, between bursts of merriment, "thou art
the slyest old fox that e'er I saw in all my life!--In the soles
of his shoon, quotha!--If ever I trust a poor-seeming man again,
shave my head and paint it blue! A corn factor, a horse jockey,
an estate agent, and a jackdaw for cunningness, say I!" And he
laughed again till he shook in his shoes with mirth.
All this time the Corn
Engrosser had been staring at Robin, his mouth agape with
wonder. "Art thou mad," quoth he, "to talk in this way, so loud
and in such a place? Let us forward, and save thy mirth till we
are safe and sound at Newark."
"Nay," quoth Robin, the tears
of merriment wet on his cheeks, "on second thoughts I go no
farther than here, for I have good friends hereabouts. Thou
mayst go forward if thou dost list, thou sweet pretty fellow,
but thou must go forward barefoot, for I am afraid that thy
shoon must be left behind. Off with them, friend, for I tell
thee I have taken a great fancy to them."
At these words the corn factor
grew pale as a linen napkin. "Who art thou that talkest so?"
said he.
Then merry Robin laughed again,
and quoth he, "Men hereabouts call me Robin Hood; so, sweet
friend, thou hadst best do my bidding and give me thy shoes,
wherefore hasten, I prythee, or else thou wilt not get to fair
Newark Town till after dark."
At the sound of the name of
Robin Hood, the corn factor quaked with fear, so that he had to
seize his horse by the mane to save himself from falling off its
back. Then straightway, and without more words, he stripped off
his clogs and let them fall upon the road. Robin, still holding
the bridle rein, stooped and picked them up. Then he said,
"Sweet friend, I am used to ask those that I have dealings with
to come and feast at Sherwood with me. I will not ask thee,
because of our pleasant journey together; for I tell thee there
be those in Sherwood that would not be so gentle with thee as I
have been. The name of Corn Engrosser leaves a nasty taste upon
the tongue of all honest men. Take a fool's advice of me and
come no more so nigh to Sherwood, or mayhap some day thou mayst
of a sudden find a clothyard shaft betwixt thy ribs. So, with
this, I give thee good den." Hereupon he clapped his hand to the
horse's flank and off went nag and rider. But the man's face was
all bedewed with the sweat of fright, and never again, I wot,
was he found so close to Sherwood Forest as he had been this
day.
Robin stood and looked after
him, and, when he was fairly gone, turned, laughing, and entered
the forest carrying the shoes in his hand.
That night in sweet Sherwood
the red fires glowed brightly in wavering light on tree and
bush, and all around sat or lay the stout fellows of the band to
hear Robin Hood and Little John tell their adventures. All
listened closely, and again and again the woods rang with shouts
of laughter.
When all was told, Friar Tuck
spoke up. "Good master," said he, "thou hast had a pretty time,
but still I hold to my saying, that the life of the barefoot
friar is the merrier of the two."
"Nay," quoth Will Stutely, "I
hold with our master, that he hath had the pleasanter doings of
the two, for he hath had two stout bouts at quarterstaff this
day."
So some of the band held with
Robin Hood and some with Little John. As for me, I think--But I
leave it with you to say for yourselves which you hold with.

Robin Hood
|
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XVIII. Robin Hood Shoots Before
Queen Eleanor
The highroad stretched white and dusty in the hot summer
afternoon sun, and the trees stood motionless along the
roadside. All across the meadow lands the hot air danced and
quivered, and in the limpid waters of the lowland brook, spanned
by a little stone bridge, the fish hung motionless above the
yellow gravel, and the dragonfly sat quite still, perched upon
the sharp tip of a spike of the rushes, with its wings
glistening in the sun.
Along the road a youth came
riding upon a fair milk-white barb, and the folk that he passed
stopped and turned and looked after him, for never had so lovely
a lad or one so gaily clad been seen in Nottingham before. He
could not have been more than sixteen years of age, and was as
fair as any maiden. His long yellow hair flowed behind him as he
rode along, all clad in silk and velvet, with jewels flashing
and dagger jingling against the pommel of the saddle. Thus came
the Queen's Page, young Richard Partington, from famous London
Town down into Nottinghamshire, upon Her Majesty's bidding, to
seek Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest.
The road was hot and dusty and
his journey had been long, for that day he had come all the way
from Leicester Town, a good twenty miles and more; wherefore
young Partington was right glad when he saw before him a sweet
little inn, all shady and cool beneath the trees, in front of
the door of which a sign hung pendant, bearing the picture of a
blue boar. Here he drew rein and called loudly for a pottle of
Rhenish wine to be brought him, for stout country ale was too
coarse a drink for this young gentleman. Five lusty fellows sat
upon the bench beneath the pleasant shade of the wide-spreading
oak in front of the inn door, drinking ale and beer, and all
stared amain at this fair and gallant lad. Two of the stoutest
of them were clothed in Lincoln green, and a great heavy oaken
staff leaned against the gnarled oak tree trunk beside each
fellow.
The landlord came and brought a
pottle of wine and a long narrow glass upon a salver, which he
held up to the Page as he sat upon his horse. Young Partington
poured forth the bright yellow wine and holding the glass aloft,
cried, "Here is to the health and long happiness of my royal
mistress, the noble Queen Eleanor; and may my journey and her
desirings soon have end, and I find a certain stout yeoman men
call Robin Hood."
At these words all stared, but
presently the two stout yeomen in Lincoln green began whispering
together. Then one of the two, whom Partington thought to be the
tallest and stoutest fellow he had ever beheld, spoke up and
said, "What seekest thou of Robin Hood, Sir Page? And what does
our good Queen Eleanor wish of him? I ask this of thee, not
foolishly, but with reason, for I know somewhat of this stout
yeoman."
"An thou knowest aught of him,
good fellow," said young Partington, "thou wilt do great service
to him and great pleasure to our royal Queen by aiding me to
find him."
Then up spake the other yeoman,
who was a handsome fellow with sunburned face and nut-brown,
curling hair, "Thou hast an honest look, Sir Page, and our Queen
is kind and true to all stout yeomen. Methinks I and my friend
here might safely guide thee to Robin Hood, for we know where he
may be found. Yet I tell thee plainly, we would not for all
merry England have aught of harm befall him."
"Set thy mind at ease; I bring
nought of ill with me," quoth Richard Partington. "I bring a
kind message to him from our Queen, therefore an ye know where
he is to be found, I pray you to guide me thither."
Then the two yeomen looked at
one another again, and the tall man said, "Surely it were safe
to do this thing, Will"; whereat the other nodded. Thereupon
both arose, and the tall yeoman said, "We think thou art true,
Sir Page, and meanest no harm, therefore we will guide thee to
Robin Hood as thou dost wish."
Then Partington paid his score,
and the yeomen coming forward, they all straightway departed
upon their way.
Under the greenwood tree, in
the cool shade that spread all around upon the sward, with
flickering lights here and there, Robin Hood and many of his
band lay upon the soft green grass, while Allan a Dale sang and
played upon his sweetly sounding harp. All listened in silence,
for young Allan's singing was one of the greatest joys in all
the world to them; but as they so listened there came of a
sudden the sound of a horse's feet, and presently Little John
and Will Stutely came forth from the forest path into the open
glade, young Richard Partington riding between them upon his
milk-white horse. The three came toward where Robin Hood sat,
all the band staring with might and main, for never had they
seen so gay a sight as this young Page, nor one so richly clad
in silks and velvets and gold and jewels. Then Robin arose and
stepped forth to meet him, and Partington leaped from his horse
and doffing his cap of crimson velvet, met Robin as he came.
"Now, welcome!" cried Robin. "Now, welcome, fair youth, and tell
me, I prythee, what bringeth one of so fair a presence and clad
in such noble garb to our poor forest of Sherwood?"
Then young Partington said, "If
I err not, thou art the famous Robin Hood, and these thy stout
band of outlawed yeomen. To thee I bring greetings from our
noble Queen Eleanor. Oft hath she heard thee spoken of and thy
merry doings hereabouts, and fain would she behold thy face;
therefore she bids me tell thee that if thou wilt presently come
to London Town, she will do all in her power to guard thee
against harm, and will send thee back safe to Sherwood Forest
again. Four days hence, in Finsbury Fields, our good King Henry,
of great renown, holdeth a grand shooting match, and all the
most famous archers of merry England will be thereat. Our Queen
would fain see thee strive with these, knowing that if thou wilt
come thou wilt, with little doubt, carry off the prize.
Therefore she hath sent me with this greeting, and furthermore
sends thee, as a sign of great good will, this golden ring from
off her own fair thumb, which I give herewith into thy hands."
Then Robin Hood bowed his head
and taking the ring, kissed it right loyally, and then slipped
it upon his little finger. Quoth he, "Sooner would I lose my
life than this ring; and ere it departs from me, my hand shall
be cold in death or stricken off at the wrist. Fair Sir Page, I
will do our Queen's bidding, and will presently hie with thee to
London; but, ere we go, I will feast thee here in the woodlands
with the very best we have."
"It may not be," said the Page;
"we have no time to tarry, therefore get thyself ready
straightway; and if there be any of thy band that thou wouldst
take with thee, our Queen bids me say that she will make them
right welcome likewise."
"Truly, thou art right," quoth
Robin, "and we have but short time to stay; therefore I will get
me ready presently. I will choose three of my men, only, to go
with me, and these three shall be Little John, mine own true
right-hand man, Will Scarlet, my cousin, and Allan a Dale, my
minstrel. Go, lads, and get ye ready straightway, and we will
presently off with all speed that we may. Thou, Will Stutely,
shall be the chief of the band while I am gone."
Then Little John and Will
Scarlet and Allan a Dale ran leaping, full of joy, to make
themselves ready, while Robin also prepared himself for the
journey. After a while they all four came forth, and a right
fair sight they made, for Robin was clad in blue from head to
foot, and Little John and Will Scarlet in good Lincoln green,
and as for Allan a Dale, he was dressed in scarlet from the
crown of his head to the toes of his pointed shoes. Each man
wore beneath his cap a little head covering of burnished steel
set with rivets of gold, and underneath his jerkin a coat of
linked mail, as fine as carded wool, yet so tough that no arrow
could pierce it. Then, seeing all were ready, young Partington
mounted his horse again, and the yeomen having shaken hands all
around, the five departed upon their way.
That night they took up their
inn in Melton Mowbray, in Leicestershire, and the next night
they lodged at Kettering, in Northamptonshire; and the next at
Bedford Town; and the next at St. Albans, in Hertfordshire. This
place they left not long after the middle of the night, and
traveling fast through the tender dawning of the summer day,
when the dews lay shining on the meadows and faint mists hung in
the dales, when the birds sang their sweetest and the cobwebs
beneath the hedges glimmered like fairy cloth of silver, they
came at last to the towers and walls of famous London Town,
while the morn was still young and all golden toward the east.
Queen Eleanor sat in her royal
bower, through the open casements of which poured the sweet
yellow sunshine in great floods of golden light. All about her
stood her ladies-in-waiting chatting in low voices, while she
herself sat dreamily where the mild air came softly drifting
into the room laden with the fresh perfumes of the sweet red
roses that bloomed in the great garden beneath the wall. To her
came one who said that her page, Richard Partington, and four
stout yeomen waited her pleasure in the court below. Then Queen
Eleanor arose joyously and bade them be straightway shown into
her presence.
Thus Robin Hood and Little John
and Will Scarlet and Allan a Dale came before the Queen into her
own royal bower. Then Robin kneeled before the Queen with his
hands folded upon his breast, saying in simple phrase, "Here am
I, Robin Hood. Thou didst bid me come, and lo, I do thy bidding.
I give myself to thee as thy true servant, and will do thy
commanding, even if it be to the shedding of the last drop of my
life's blood."
But good Queen Eleanor smiled
pleasantly upon him, bidding him to arise. Then she made them
all be seated to rest themselves after their long journey. Rich
food was brought them and noble wines, and she had her own pages
to wait upon the wants of the yeomen. At last, after they had
eaten all they could, she began questioning them of their merry
adventures. Then they told her all of the lusty doings herein
spoken of, and among others that concerning the Bishop of
Hereford and Sir Richard of the Lea, and how the Bishop had
abided three days in Sherwood Forest. At this, the Queen and the
ladies about her laughed again and again, for they pictured to
themselves the stout Bishop abiding in the forest and ranging
the woods in lusty sport with Robin and his band. Then, when
they had told all that they could bring to mind, the Queen asked
Allan to sing to her, for his fame as a minstrel had reached
even to the court at London Town. So straightway Allan took up
his harp in his hand, and, without more asking, touched the
strings lightly till they all rang sweetly, then he sang thus:
"Gentle river, gentle river,
Bright thy crystal waters flow,
Sliding where the aspens shiver,
Gliding where the lilies blow,
"Singing over pebbled shallows,
Kissing blossoms bending low,
Breaking 'neath the dipping swallows,
Purpling where the breezes blow.
"Floating on thy breast forever
Down thy current I could glide;
Grief and pain should reach me never
On thy bright and gentle tide.
"So my aching heart seeks
thine, love,
There to find its rest and peace,
For, through loving, bliss is mine, love,
And my many troubles cease."
Thus Allan sang, and as he sang all eyes dwelled upon him and
not a sound broke the stillness, and even after he had done the
silence hung for a short space. So the time passed till the hour
drew nigh for the holding of the great archery match in Finsbury
Fields.
A gay sight were famous
Finsbury Fields on that bright and sunny morning of lusty
summertime. Along the end of the meadow stood the booths for the
different bands of archers, for the King's yeomen were divided
into companies of fourscore men, and each company had a captain
over it; so on the bright greensward stood ten booths of striped
canvas, a booth for each band of the royal archers, and at the
peak of each fluttered a flag in the mellow air, and the flag
was the color that belonged to the captain of each band. From
the center booth hung the yellow flag of Tepus, the famous bow
bearer of the King; next to it, on one hand, was the blue flag
of Gilbert of the White Hand, and on the other the blood-red
pennant of stout young Clifton of Buckinghamshire. The seven
other archer captains were also men of great renown; among them
were Egbert of Kent and William of Southampton; but those first
named were most famous of all. The noise of many voices in talk
and laughter came from within the booths, and in and out ran the
attendants like ants about an ant-hill. Some bore ale and beer,
and some bundles of bowstrings or sheaves of arrows. On each
side of the archery range were rows upon rows of seats reaching
high aloft, and in the center of the north side was a raised
dais for the King and Queen, shaded by canvas of gay colors, and
hung about with streaming silken pennants of red and blue and
green and white. As yet the King and Queen had not come, but all
the other benches were full of people, rising head above head
high aloft till it made the eye dizzy to look upon them.
Eightscore yards distant from the mark from which the archers
were to shoot stood ten fair targets, each target marked by a
flag of the color belonging to the band that was to shoot
thereat. So all was ready for the coming of the King and Queen.
At last a great blast of bugles
sounded, and into the meadow came riding six trumpeters with
silver trumpets, from which hung velvet banners heavy with rich
workings of silver and gold thread. Behind these came stout King
Henry upon a dapple-gray stallion, with his Queen beside him
upon a milk-white palfrey. On either side of them walked the
yeomen of the guard, the bright sunlight flashing from the
polished blades of the steel halberds they carried. Behind these
came the Court in a great crowd, so that presently all the lawn
was alive with bright colors, with silk and velvet, with waving
plumes and gleaming gold, with flashing jewels and sword hilts;
a gallant sight on that bright summer day.
Then all the people arose and
shouted, so that their voices sounded like the storm upon the
Cornish coast, when the dark waves run upon the shore and leap
and break, surging amid the rocks; so, amid the roaring and the
surging of the people, and the waving of scarfs and kerchiefs,
the King and Queen came to their place, and, getting down from
their horses, mounted the broad stairs that led to the raised
platform, and there took their seats on two thrones bedecked
with purple silks and cloths of silver and of gold.
When all was quiet a bugle
sounded, and straightway the archers came marching in order from
their tents. Fortyscore they were in all, as stalwart a band of
yeomen as could be found in all the wide world. So they came in
orderly fashion and stood in front of the dais where King Henry
and his Queen sat. King Henry looked up and down their ranks
right proudly, for his heart warmed within him at the sight of
such a gallant band of yeomen. Then he bade his herald Sir Hugh
de Mowbray stand forth and proclaim the rules governing the
game. So Sir Hugh stepped to the edge of the platform and spoke
in a loud clear voice, and thus he said:
That each man should shoot
seven arrows at the target that belonged to his band, and, of
the fourscore yeomen of each band, the three that shot the best
should be chosen. These three should shoot three arrows apiece,
and the one that shot the best should again be chosen. Then each
of these should again shoot three arrows apiece, and the one
that shot the best should have the first prize, the one that
shot the next best should have the second, and the one that shot
the next best should have the third prize. Each of the others
should have fourscore silver pennies for his shooting. The first
prize was to be twoscore and ten golden pounds, a silver bugle
horn inlaid with gold, and a quiver with ten white arrows tipped
with gold and feathered with the white swan's-wing therein. The
second prize was to be fivescore of the fattest bucks that run
on Dallen Lea, to be shot when the yeoman that won them chose.
The third prize was to be two tuns of good Rhenish wine.
So Sir Hugh spoke, and when he
had done all the archers waved their bows aloft and shouted.
Then each band turned and marched in order back to its place.
And now the shooting began, the
captains first taking stand and speeding their shafts and then
making room for the men who shot, each in turn, after them. Two
hundred and eighty score shafts were shot in all, and so deftly
were they sped that when the shooting was done each target
looked like the back of a hedgehog when the farm dog snuffs at
it. A long time was taken in this shooting, and when it was over
the judges came forward, looked carefully at the targets, and
proclaimed in a loud voice which three had shot the best from
the separate bands. Then a great hubbub of voices arose, each
man among the crowd that looked on calling for his favorite
archer. Then ten fresh targets were brought forward, and every
sound was hushed as the archers took their places once more.
This time the shooting was more
speedily done, for only nine shafts were shot by each band. Not
an arrow missed the targets, but in that of Gilbert of the White
Hand five arrows were in the small white spot that marked the
center; of these five three were sped by Gilbert. Then the
judges came forward again, and looking at the targets, called
aloud the names of the archer chosen as the best bowman of each
band. Of these Gilbert of the White Hand led, for six of the ten
arrows he had shot had lodged in the center; but stout Tepus and
young Clifton trod close upon his heels; yet the others stood a
fair chance for the second or third place.
And now, amid the roaring of
the crowd, those ten stout fellows that were left went back to
their tents to rest for a while and change their bowstrings, for
nought must fail at this next round, and no hand must tremble or
eye grow dim because of weariness.
Then while the deep buzz and
hum of talking sounded all around like the noise of the wind in
the leafy forest, Queen Eleanor turned to the King, and quoth
she, "Thinkest thou that these yeomen so chosen are the very
best archers in all merry England?"
"Yea, truly," said the King,
smiling, for he was well pleased with the sport that he had
seen; "and I tell thee, that not only are they the best archers
in all merry England, but in all the wide world beside."
"But what wouldst thou say,"
quoth Queen Eleanor, "if I were to find three archers to match
the best three yeomen of all thy guard?"
"I would say thou hast done
what I could not do," said the King, laughing, "for I tell thee
there lives not in all the world three archers to match Tepus
and Gilbert and Clifton of Buckinghamshire."
"Now," said the Queen, "I know
of three yeomen, and in truth I have seen them not long since,
that I would not fear to match against any three that thou canst
choose from among all thy fortyscore archers; and, moreover, I
will match them here this very day. But I will only match them
with thy archers providing that thou wilt grant a free pardon to
all that may come in my behalf."
At this, the King laughed loud
and long. "Truly," said he, "thou art taking up with strange
matters for a queen. If thou wilt bring those three fellows that
thou speakest of, I will promise faithfully to give them free
pardon for forty days, to come or to go wheresoever they please,
nor will I harm a hair of their heads in all that time.
Moreover, if these that thou bringest shoot better than my
yeomen, man for man, they shall have the prizes for themselves
according to their shooting. But as thou hast so taken up of a
sudden with sports of this kind, hast thou a mind for a wager?"
"Why, in sooth," said Queen
Eleanor, laughing, "I know nought of such matters, but if thou
hast a mind to do somewhat in that way, I will strive to
pleasure thee. What wilt thou wager upon thy men?"
Then the merry King laughed
again, for he dearly loved goodly jest; so he said, amidst his
laughter, "I will wager thee ten tuns of Rhenish wine, ten tuns
of the stoutest ale, and tenscore bows of tempered Spanish yew,
with quivers and arrows to match."
All that stood around smiled at
this, for it seemed a merry wager for a king to give to a queen;
but Queen Eleanor bowed her head quietly. "I will take thy
wager," said she, "for I know right well where to place those
things that thou hast spoken of. Now, who will be on my side in
this matter?" And she looked around upon them that stood about;
but no one spake or cared to wager upon the Queen's side against
such archers as Tepus and Gilbert and Clifton. Then the Queen
spoke again, "Now, who will back me in this wager? Wilt thou, my
Lord Bishop of Hereford?"
"Nay," quoth the Bishop
hastily, "it ill befits one of my cloth to deal in such matters.
Moreover, there are no such archers as His Majesty's in all the
world; therefore I would but lose my money.
"Methinks the thought of thy
gold weigheth more heavily with thee than the wrong to thy
cloth," said the Queen, smiling, and at this a ripple of
laughter went around, for everyone knew how fond the Bishop was
of his money. Then the Queen turned to a knight who stood near,
whose name was Sir Robert Lee. "Wilt thou back me in this
manner?" said she. "Thou art surely rich enough to risk so much
for the sake of a lady."
"To pleasure my Queen I will do
it," said Sir Robert Lee, "but for the sake of no other in all
the world would I wager a groat, for no man can stand against
Tepus and Gilbert and Clifton."
Then turning to the King, Queen
Eleanor said, "I want no such aid as Sir Robert giveth me; but
against thy wine and beer and stout bows of yew I wager this
girdle all set with jewels from around my waist; and surely that
is worth more than thine."
"Now, I take thy wager," quoth
the King. "Send for thy archers straightway. But here come forth
the others; let them shoot, and then I will match those that win
against all the world."
"So be it," said the Queen.
Thereupon, beckoning to young Richard Partington, she whispered
something in his ear, and straightway the Page bowed and left
the place, crossing the meadow to the other side of the range,
where he was presently lost in the crowd. At this, all that
stood around whispered to one another, wondering what it all
meant, and what three men the Queen was about to set against
those famous archers of the King's guard.
And now the ten archers of the
King's guard took their stand again, and all the great crowd was
hushed to the stillness of death. Slowly and carefully each man
shot his shafts, and so deep was the silence that you could hear
every arrow rap against the target as it struck it. Then, when
the last shaft had sped, a great roar went up; and the shooting,
I wot, was well worthy of the sound. Once again Gilbert had
lodged three arrows in the white; Tepus came second with two in
the white and one in the black ring next to it; but stout
Clifton had gone down and Hubert of Suffolk had taken the third
place, for, while both those two good yeomen had lodged two in
the white, Clifton had lost one shot upon the fourth ring, and
Hubert came in with one in the third.
All the archers around
Gilbert's booth shouted for joy till their throats were hoarse,
tossing their caps aloft, and shaking hands with one another.
In the midst of all the noise
and hubbub five men came walking across the lawn toward the
King's pavilion. The first was Richard Partington, and was known
to most folk there, but the others were strange to everybody.
Beside young Partington walked a yeoman clad in blue, and behind
came three others, two in Lincoln green and one in scarlet. This
last yeoman carried three stout bows of yew tree, two fancifully
inlaid with silver and one with gold. While these five men came
walking across the meadow, a messenger came running from the
King's booth and summoned Gilbert and Tepus and Hubert to go
with him. And now the shouting quickly ceased, for all saw that
something unwonted was toward, so the folk stood up in their
places and leaned forward to see what was the ado.
When Partington and the others
came before the spot where the King and Queen sat, the four
yeomen bent their knees and doffed their caps unto her. King
Henry leaned far forward and stared at them closely, but the
Bishop of Hereford, when he saw their faces, started as though
stung by a wasp. He opened his mouth as though about to speak,
but, looking up, he saw the Queen gazing at him with a smile
upon her lips, so he said nothing, but bit his nether lip, while
his face was as red as a cherry.
Then the Queen leaned forward
and spake in a clear voice. "Locksley," said she, "I have made a
wager with the King that thou and two of thy men can outshoot
any three that he can send against you. Wilt thou do thy best
for my sake?"
"Yea," quoth Robin Hood, to
whom she spake, "I will do my best for thy sake, and, if I fail,
I make my vow never to finger bowstring more."
Now, although Little John had
been somewhat abashed in the Queen's bower, he felt himself the
sturdy fellow he was when the soles of his feet pressed green
grass again; so he said boldly, "Now, blessings on thy sweet
face, say I. An there lived a man that would not do his best for
thee--I will say nought, only I would like to have the cracking
of his knave's pate!
"Peace, Little John!" said
Robin Hood hastily, in a low voice; but good Queen Eleanor
laughed aloud, and a ripple of merriment sounded all over the
booth.
The Bishop of Hereford did not
laugh, neither did the King, but he turned to the Queen, and
quoth he, "Who are these men that thou hast brought before us?"
Then up spoke the Bishop
hastily, for he could hold his peace no longer: "Your Majesty,"
quoth he, "yon fellow in blue is a certain outlawed thief of the
mid-country, named Robin Hood; yon tall, strapping villain goeth
by the name of Little John; the other fellow in green is a
certain backsliding gentleman, known as Will Scarlet; the man in
red is a rogue of a northern minstrel, named Allan a Dale."
At this speech the King's brows
drew together blackly, and he turned to the Queen. "Is this
true?" said he sternly.
"Yea," said the Queen, smiling,
"the Bishop hath told the truth; and truly he should know them
well, for he and two of his friars spent three days in merry
sport with Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest. I did little think
that the good Bishop would so betray his friends. But bear in
mind that thou hast pledged thy promise for the safety of these
good yeomen for forty days."
"I will keep my promise," said
the King, in a deep voice that showed the anger in his heart,
"but when these forty days are gone let this outlaw look to
himself, for mayhap things will not go so smoothly with him as
he would like." Then he turned to his archers, who stood near
the Sherwood yeomen, listening and wondering at all that passed.
Quoth he, "Gilbert, and thou, Tepus, and thou, Hubert, I have
pledged myself that ye shall shoot against these three fellows.
If ye outshoot the knaves I will fill your caps with silver
pennies; if ye fail ye shall lose your prizes that ye have won
so fairly, and they go to them that shoot against you, man to
man. Do your best, lads, and if ye win this bout ye shall be
glad of it to the last days of your life. Go, now, and get you
gone to the butts."
Then the three archers of the
King turned and went back to their booths, and Robin and his men
went to their places at the mark from which they were to shoot.
Then they strung their bows and made themselves ready, looking
over their quivers of arrows, and picking out the roundest and
the best feathered.
But when the King's archers
went to their tents, they told their friends all that had
passed, and how that these four men were the famous Robin Hood
and three of his band, to wit, Little John, Will Scarlet, and
Allan a Dale. The news of this buzzed around among the archers
in the booths, for there was not a man there that had not heard
of these great mid-country yeomen. From the archers the news was
taken up by the crowd that looked on at the shooting, so that at
last everybody stood up, craning their necks to catch sight of
the famous outlaws.
Six fresh targets were now set
up, one for each man that was to shoot; whereupon Gilbert and
Tepus and Hubert came straightway forth from the booths. Then
Robin Hood and Gilbert of the White Hand tossed a farthing aloft
to see who should lead in the shooting, and the lot fell to
Gilbert's side; thereupon he called upon Hubert of Suffolk to
lead.
Hubert took his place, planted
his foot firmly, and fitted a fair, smooth arrow; then,
breathing upon his fingertips, he drew the string slowly and
carefully. The arrow sped true, and lodged in the white; again
he shot, and again he hit the clout; a third shaft he sped, but
this time failed of the center, and but struck the black, yet
not more than a finger's-breadth from the white. At this a shout
went up, for it was the best shooting that Hubert had yet done
that day.
Merry Robin laughed, and quoth
he, "Thou wilt have an ill time bettering that round, Will, for
it is thy turn next. Brace thy thews, lad, and bring not shame
upon Sherwood."
Then Will Scarlet took his
place; but, because of overcaution, he spoiled his target with
the very first arrow that he sped, for he hit the next ring to
the black, the second from the center. At this Robin bit his
lips. "Lad, lad," quoth he, "hold not the string so long! Have I
not often told thee what Gaffer Swanthold sayeth, that
`overcaution spilleth the milk'?" To this Will Scarlet took
heed, so the next arrow he shot lodged fairly in the center
ring; again he shot, and again he smote the center; but, for all
that, stout Hubert had outshot him, and showed the better
target. Then all those that looked on clapped their hands for
joy because that Hubert had overcome the stranger.
Quoth the King grimly, to the
Queen, "If thy archers shoot no better than that, thou art like
to lose thy wager, lady." But Queen Eleanor smiled, for she
looked for better things from Robin Hood and Little John.
And now Tepus took his place to
shoot. He, also, took overheed to what he was about, and so he
fell into Will Scarlet's error. The first arrow he struck into
the center ring, but the second missed its mark, and smote the
black; the last arrow was tipped with luck, for it smote the
very center of the clout, upon the black spot that marked it.
Quoth Robin Hood, "That is the sweetest shot that hath been sped
this day; but, nevertheless, friend Tepus, thy cake is burned,
methinks. Little John, it is thy turn next."
So Little John took his place
as bidden, and shot his three arrows quickly. He never lowered
his bow arm in all the shooting, but fitted each shaft with his
longbow raised; yet all three of his arrows smote the center
within easy distance of the black. At this no sound of shouting
was heard, for, although it was the best shooting that had been
done that day, the folk of London Town did not like to see the
stout Tepus overcome by a fellow from the countryside, even were
he as famous as Little John.
And now stout Gilbert of the
White Hand took his place and shot with the greatest care; and
again, for the third time in one day, he struck all three shafts
into the clout.
"Well done, Gilbert!" quoth
Robin Hood, smiting him upon the shoulder. "I make my vow, thou
art one of the best archers that ever mine eyes beheld. Thou
shouldst be a free and merry ranger like us, lad, for thou art
better fitted for the greenwood than for the cobblestones and
gray walls of London Town." So saying, he took his place, and
drew a fair, round arrow from his quiver, which he turned over
and over ere he fitted it to his bowstring.
Then the King muttered in his
beard, "Now, blessed Saint Hubert, if thou wilt but jog that
rogue's elbow so as to make him smite even the second ring, I
will give eightscore waxen candles three fingers'-breadth in
thickness to thy chapel nigh Matching." But it may be Saint
Hubert's ears were stuffed with tow, for he seemed not to hear
the King's prayer this day.
Having gotten three shafts to
his liking, merry Robin looked carefully to his bowstring ere he
shot. "Yea," quoth he to Gilbert, who stood nigh him to watch
his shooting, "thou shouldst pay us a visit at merry Sherwood."
Here he drew the bowstring to his ear. "In London"--here he
loosed his shaft--"thou canst find nought to shoot at but rooks
and daws; there one can tickle the ribs of the noblest stags in
England." So he shot even while he talked, yet the shaft lodged
not more than half an inch from the very center.
"By my soul!" cried Gilbert.
"Art thou the devil in blue, to shoot in that wise?"
"Nay," quoth Robin, laughing,
"not quite so ill as that, I trust." And he took up another
shaft and fitted it to the string. Again he shot, and again he
smote his arrow close beside the center; a third time he loosed
his bowstring and dropped his arrow just betwixt the other two
and into the very center, so that the feathers of all three were
ruffled together, seeming from a distance to be one thick shaft.
And now a low murmur ran all
among that great crowd, for never before had London seen such
shooting as this; and never again would it see it after Robin
Hood's day had gone. All saw that the King's archers were fairly
beaten, and stout Gilbert clapped his palm to Robin's, owning
that he could never hope to draw such a bowstring as Robin Hood
or Little John. But the King, full of wrath, would not have it
so, though he knew in his mind that his men could not stand
against those fellows. "Nay!" cried he, clenching his hands upon
the arms of his seat, "Gilbert is not yet beaten! Did he not
strike the clout thrice? Although I have lost my wager, he hath
not yet lost the first prize. They shall shoot again, and still
again, till either he or that knave Robin Hood cometh off the
best. Go thou, Sir Hugh, and bid them shoot another round, and
another, until one or the other is overcome." Then Sir Hugh,
seeing how wroth the King was, said never a word, but went
straightway to do his bidding; so he came to where Robin Hood
and the other stood, and told them what the King had said.
"With all my heart," quoth
merry Robin, "I will shoot from this time till tomorrow day if
it can pleasure my most gracious lord and King. Take thy place,
Gilbert lad, and shoot."
So Gilbert took his place once
more, but this time he failed, for, a sudden little wind
arising, his shaft missed the center ring, but by not more than
the breadth of a barley straw.
"Thy eggs are cracked,
Gilbert," quoth Robin, laughing; and straightway he loosed a
shaft, and once more smote the white circle of the center.
Then the King arose from his
place, and not a word said he, but he looked around with a
baleful look, and it would have been an ill day for anyone that
he saw with a joyous or a merry look upon his face. Then he and
his Queen and all the court left the place, but the King's heart
was brimming full of wrath.
After the King had gone, all
the yeomen of the archer guard came crowding around Robin, and
Little John, and Will, and Allan, to snatch a look at these
famous fellows from the mid-country; and with them came many
that had been onlookers at the sport, for the same purpose. Thus
it happened presently that the yeomen, to whom Gilbert stood
talking, were all surrounded by a crowd of people that formed a
ring about them.
After a while the three judges
that had the giving away of the prizes came forward, and the
chief of them all spake to Robin and said, "According to
agreement, the first prize belongeth rightly to thee; so here I
give thee the silver bugle, here the quiver of ten golden
arrows, and here a purse of twoscore and ten golden pounds." And
as he spake he handed those things to Robin, and then turned to
Little John. "To thee," he said, "belongeth the second prize, to
wit, fivescore of the finest harts that run on Dallen Lea. Thou
mayest shoot them whensoever thou dost list." Last of all he
turned to stout Hubert. "Thou," said he, "hast held thine own
against the yeomen with whom thou didst shoot, and so thou hast
kept the prize duly thine, to wit, two tuns of good Rhenish
wine. These shall be delivered to thee whensoever thou dost
list." Then he called upon the other seven of the King's archers
who had last shot, and gave each fourscore silver pennies.
Then up spake Robin, and quoth
he, "This silver bugle I keep in honor of this shooting match;
but thou, Gilbert, art the best archer of all the King's guard,
and to thee I freely give this purse of gold. Take it, man, and
would it were ten times as much, for thou art a right yeoman,
good and true. Furthermore, to each of the ten that last shot I
give one of these golden shafts apiece. Keep them always by you,
so that ye may tell your grandchildren, an ye are ever blessed
with them, that ye are the very stoutest yeomen in all the wide
world."
At this all shouted aloud, for
it pleased them to hear Robin speak so of them.
Then up spake Little John.
"Good friend Tepus," said he, "I want not those harts of Dallen
Lea that yon stout judge spoke of but now, for in truth we have
enow and more than enow in our own country. Twoscore and ten I
give to thee for thine own shooting, and five I give to each
band for their pleasure.
At this another great shout
went up, and many tossed their caps aloft, and swore among
themselves that no better fellows ever walked the sod than Robin
Hood and his stout yeomen.
While they so shouted with loud
voices, a tall burly yeoman of the King's guard came forward and
plucked Robin by the sleeve. "Good master," quoth he, "I have
somewhat to tell thee in thine ear; a silly thing, God wot, for
one stout yeoman to tell another; but a young peacock of a page,
one Richard Partington, was seeking thee without avail in the
crowd, and, not being able to find thee, told me that he bore a
message to thee from a certain lady that thou wottest of. This
message he bade me tell thee privily, word for word, and thus it
was. Let me see--I trust I have forgot it not--yea, thus it was:
`The lion growls. Beware thy head.' "
"Is it so?" quoth Robin,
starting; for he knew right well that it was the Queen sent the
message, and that she spake of the King's wrath. "Now, I thank
thee, good fellow, for thou hast done me greater service than
thou knowest of this day." Then he called his three yeomen
together and told them privately that they had best be jogging,
as it was like to be ill for them so nigh merry London Town. So,
without tarrying longer, they made their way through the crowd
until they had come out from the press. Then, without stopping,
they left London Town and started away northward.

Robin Hood
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XIX. The Chase of Robin Hood
So Robin Hood and the others left the archery range at Finsbury
Fields, and, tarrying not, set forth straightway upon their
homeward journey. It was well for them that they did so, for
they had not gone more than three or four miles upon their way
when six of the yeomen of the King's guard came bustling among
the crowd that still lingered, seeking for Robin and his men, to
seize upon them and make them prisoners. Truly, it was an
ill-done thing in the King to break his promise, but it all came
about through the Bishop of Hereford's doing, for thus it
happened:
After the King left the archery
ground, he went straightway to his cabinet, and with him went
the Bishop of Hereford and Sir Robert Lee; but the King said
never a word to these two, but sat gnawing his nether lip, for
his heart was galled within him by what had happened. At last
the Bishop of Hereford spoke, in a low, sorrowful voice: "It is
a sad thing, Your Majesty, that this knavish outlaw should be
let to escape in this wise; for, let him but get back to
Sherwood Forest safe and sound, and he may snap his fingers at
king and king's men."
At these words the King raised
his eyes and looked grimly upon the Bishop. "Sayst thou so?"
quoth he. "Now, I will show thee, in good time, how much thou
dost err, for, when the forty days are past and gone, I will
seize upon this thieving outlaw, if I have to tear down all of
Sherwood to find him. Thinkest thou that the laws of the King of
England are to be so evaded by one poor knave without friends or
money?"
Then the Bishop spoke again, in
his soft, smooth voice:
"Forgive my boldness, Your
Majesty, and believe that I have nought but the good of England
and Your Majesty's desirings at heart; but what would it boot
though my gracious lord did root up every tree of Sherwood? Are
there not other places for Robin Hood's hiding? Cannock Chase is
not far from Sherwood, and the great Forest of Arden is not far
from Cannock Chase. Beside these are many other woodlands in
Nottingham and Derby, Lincoln and York, amid any of which Your
Majesty might as well think to seize upon Robin Hood as to lay
finger upon a rat among the dust and broken things of a garret.
Nay, my gracious lord, if he doth once plant foot in the
woodland, he is lost to the law forever."
At these words the King tapped
his fingertips upon the table beside him with vexation. "What
wouldst thou have me do, Bishop?" quoth he. "Didst thou not hear
me pledge my word to the Queen? Thy talk is as barren as the
wind from the bellows upon dead coals."
"Far be it from me," said the
cunning Bishop, "to point the way to one so clear-sighted as
Your Majesty; but, were I the King of England, I should look
upon the matter in this wise: I have promised my Queen, let us
say, that for forty days the cunningest rogue in all England
shall have freedom to come and go; but, lo! I find this outlaw
in my grasp; shall I, then, foolishly cling to a promise so
hastily given? Suppose that I had promised to do Her Majesty's
bidding, whereupon she bade me to slay myself; should I, then,
shut mine eyes and run blindly upon my sword? Thus would I argue
within myself. Moreover, I would say unto myself, a woman
knoweth nought of the great things appertaining to state
government; and, likewise, I know a woman is ever prone to take
up a fancy, even as she would pluck a daisy from the roadside,
and then throw it away when the savor is gone; therefore, though
she hath taken a fancy to this outlaw, it will soon wane away
and be forgotten. As for me, I have the greatest villain in all
England in my grasp; shall I, then, open my hand and let him
slip betwixt my fingers? Thus, Your Majesty, would I say to
myself, were I the King of England." So the Bishop talked, and
the King lent his ear to his evil counsel, until, after a while,
he turned to Sir Robert Lee and bade him send six of the yeomen
of the guard to take Robin Hood and his three men prisoners.
Now Sir Robert Lee was a gentle
and noble knight, and he felt grieved to the heart to see the
King so break his promise; nevertheless, he said nothing, for he
saw how bitterly the King was set against Robin Hood; but he did
not send the yeomen of the guard at once, but went first to the
Queen, and told her all that had passed, and bade her send word
to Robin of his danger. This he did not for the well-being of
Robin Hood, but because he would save his lord's honor if he
could. Thus it came about that when, after a while, the yeomen
of the guard went to the archery field, they found not Robin and
the others, and so got no cakes at that fair.
The afternoon was already
well-nigh gone when Robin Hood, Little John, Will, and Allan set
forth upon their homeward way, trudging along merrily through
the yellow slanting light, which speedily changed to rosy red as
the sun sank low in the heavens. The shadows grew long, and
finally merged into the grayness of the mellow twilight. The
dusty highway lay all white betwixt the dark hedgerows, and
along it walked four fellows like four shadows, the pat of their
feet sounding loud, and their voices, as they talked, ringing
clear upon the silence of the air. The great round moon was
floating breathlessly up in the eastern sky when they saw before
them the twinkling lights of Barnet Town, some ten or twelve
miles from London. Down they walked through the stony streets
and past the cosy houses with overhanging gables, before the
doors of which sat the burghers and craftsmen in the mellow
moonlight, with their families about them, and so came at last,
on the other side of the hamlet, to a little inn, all shaded
with roses and woodbines. Before this inn Robin Hood stopped,
for the spot pleased him well. Quoth he, "Here will we take up
our inn and rest for the night, for we are well away from London
Town and our King's wrath. Moreover, if I mistake not, we will
find sweet faring within. What say ye, lads?"
"In sooth, good master," quoth
Little John, "thy bidding and my doing ever fit together like
cakes and ale. Let us in, I say also."
Then up spake Will Scarlet: "I
am ever ready to do what thou sayest, uncle, yet I could wish
that we were farther upon our way ere we rest for the night.
Nevertheless, if thou thinkest best, let us in for the night,
say I also."
So in they went and called for
the best that the place afforded. Then a right good feast was
set before them, with two stout bottles of old sack to wash it
down withal. These things were served by as plump and buxom a
lass as you could find in all the land, so that Little John, who
always had an eye for a fair lass, even when meat and drink were
by, stuck his arms akimbo and fixed his eyes upon her, winking
sweetly whenever he saw her looking toward him. Then you should
have seen how the lass twittered with laughter, and how she
looked at Little John out of the corners of her eyes, a dimple
coming in either cheek; for the fellow had always a taking way
with the womenfolk.
So the feast passed merrily,
and never had that inn seen such lusty feeders as these four
stout fellows; but at last they were done their eating, though
it seemed as though they never would have ended, and sat
loitering over the sack. As they so sat, the landlord came in of
a sudden, and said that there was one at the door, a certain
young esquire, Richard Partington, of the Queen's household, who
wished to see the lad in blue, and speak with him, without loss
of time. So Robin arose quickly, and, bidding the landlord not
to follow him, left the others gazing at one another, and
wondering what was about to happen.
When Robin came out of the inn,
he found young Richard Partington sitting upon his horse in the
white moonlight, awaiting his coming.
"What news bearest thou, Sir
Page?" said Robin. "I trust that it is not of an ill nature."
"Why," said young Partington,
"for the matter of that, it is ill enow. The King hath been
bitterly stirred up against thee by that vile Bishop of
Hereford. He sent to arrest thee at the archery butts at
Finsbury Fields, but not finding thee there, he hath gathered
together his armed men, fiftyscore and more, and is sending them
in haste along this very road to Sherwood, either to take thee
on the way or to prevent thy getting back to the woodlands
again. He hath given the Bishop of Hereford command over all
these men, and thou knowest what thou hast to expect of the
Bishop of Hereford-- short shrift and a long rope. Two bands of
horsemen are already upon the road, not far behind me, so thou
hadst best get thee gone from this place straightway, for, if
thou tarriest longer, thou art like to sleep this night in a
cold dungeon. This word the Queen hath bidden me bring to thee."
"Now, Richard Partington,"
quoth Robin, "this is the second time that thou hast saved my
life, and if the proper time ever cometh I will show thee that
Robin Hood never forgets these things. As for that Bishop of
Hereford, if I ever catch him nigh to Sherwood again, things
will be like to go ill with him. Thou mayst tell the good Queen
that I will leave this place without delay, and will let the
landlord think that we are going to Saint Albans; but when we
are upon the highroad again, I will go one way through the
country and will send my men the other, so that if one falleth
into the King's hands the others may haply escape. We will go by
devious ways, and so, I hope, will reach Sherwood in safety. And
now, Sir Page, I wish thee farewell."
"Farewell, thou bold yeoman,"
said young Partington, "and mayst thou reach thy hiding in
safety." So each shook the other's hand, and the lad, turning
his horse's head, rode back toward London, while Robin entered
the inn once more.
There he found his yeomen
sitting in silence, waiting his coming; likewise the landlord
was there, for he was curious to know what Master Partington had
to do with the fellow in blue. "Up, my merry men!" quoth Robin,
"this is no place for us, for those are after us with whom we
will stand but an ill chance an we fall into their hands. So we
will go forward once more, nor will we stop this night till we
reach Saint Albans." Hereupon, taking out his purse, he paid the
landlord his score, and so they left the inn.
When they had come to the
highroad without the town, Robin stopped and told them all that
had passed between young Partington and himself, and how that
the King's men were after them with hot heels. Then he told them
that here they should part company; they three going to the
eastward and he to the westward, and so, skirting the main
highroads, would come by devious paths to Sherwood. "So, be ye
wily," said Robin Hood, "and keep well away from the northward
roads till ye have gotten well to the eastward. And thou, Will
Scarlet, take the lead of the others, for thou hast a cunning
turn to thy wits." Then Robin kissed the three upon the cheeks,
and they kissed him, and so they parted company.
Not long after this, a score or
more of the King's men came clattering up to the door of the inn
at Barnet Town. Here they leaped from their horses and quickly
surrounded the place, the leader of the band and four others
entering the room where the yeomen had been. But they found that
their birds had flown again, and that the King had been balked a
second time.
"Methought that they were
naughty fellows," said the host, when he heard whom the
men-at-arms sought. "But I heard that blue-clad knave say that
they would go straight forward to Saint Albans; so, an ye hurry
forward, ye may, perchance, catch them on the highroad betwixt
here and there." For this news the leader of the band thanked
mine host right heartily, and, calling his men together, mounted
and set forth again, galloping forward to Saint Albans upon a
wild goose chase.
After Little John and Will
Scarlet and Allan a Dale had left the highway near garnet, they
traveled toward the eastward, without stopping, as long as their
legs could carry them, until they came to Chelmsford, in Essex.
Thence they turned northward, and came through Cambridge and
Lincolnshire, to the good town of Gainsborough. Then, striking
to the westward and the south, they came at last to the northern
borders of Sherwood Forest, without in all that time having met
so much as a single band of the King's men. Eight days they
journeyed thus ere they reached the woodlands in safety, but
when they got to the greenwood glade, they found that Robin had
not yet returned.
For Robin was not as lucky in
getting back as his men had been, as you shall presently hear.
After having left the great
northern road, he turned his face to the westward, and so came
past Aylesbury, to fair Woodstock, in Oxfordshire. Thence he
turned his footsteps northward, traveling for a great distance
by way of Warwick Town, till he came to Dudley, in
Staffordshire. Seven days it took him to journey thus far, and
then he thought he had gotten far enough to the north, so,
turning toward the eastward, shunning the main roads, and
choosing byways and grassy lanes, he went, by way of Litchfield
and Ashby de la Zouch, toward Sherwood, until he came to a place
called Stanton. And now Robin's heart began to laugh aloud, for
he thought that his danger had gone by, and that his nostrils
would soon snuff the spicy air of the woodlands once again. But
there is many a slip betwixt the cup and the lip, and this Robin
was to find. For thus it was:
When the King's men found
themselves foiled at Saint Albans, and that Robin and his men
were not to be found high nor low, they knew not what to do.
Presently another band of horsemen came, and another, until all
the moonlit streets were full of armed men. Betwixt midnight and
dawn another band came to the town, and with them came the
Bishop of Hereford. When he heard that Robin Hood had once more
slipped out of the trap, he stayed not a minute, but, gathering
his bands together, he pushed forward to the northward with
speed, leaving orders for all the troops that came to Saint
Albans to follow after him without tarrying. On the evening of
the fourth day he reached Nottingham Town, and there straightway
divided his men into bands of six or seven, and sent them all
through the countryside, blocking every highway and byway to the
eastward and the southward and the westward of Sherwood. The
Sheriff of Nottingham called forth all his men likewise, and
joined with the Bishop, for he saw that this was the best chance
that had ever befallen of paying back his score in full to Robin
Hood. Will Scarlet and Little John and Allan a Dale had just
missed the King's men to the eastward, for the very next day
after they had passed the line and entered Sherwood the roads
through which they had traveled were blocked, so that, had they
tarried in their journeying, they would surely have fallen into
the Bishop's hands.
But of all this Robin knew not
a whit; so he whistled merrily as he trudged along the road
beyond Stanton, with his heart as free from care as the yolk of
an egg is from cobwebs. At last he came to where a little stream
spread across the road in a shallow sheet, tinkling and
sparkling as it fretted over its bed of golden gravel. Here
Robin stopped, being athirst, and, kneeling down, he made a cup
of the palms of his hands, and began to drink. On either side of
the road, for a long distance, stood tangled thickets of bushes
and young trees, and it pleased Robin's heart to hear the little
birds singing therein, for it made him think of Sherwood, and it
seemed as though it had been a lifetime since he had breathed
the air of the woodlands. But of a sudden, as he thus stooped,
drinking, something hissed past his ear, and struck with a
splash into the gravel and water beside him. Quick as a wink
Robin sprang to his feet, and, at one bound, crossed the stream
and the roadside, and plunged headlong into the thicket, without
looking around, for he knew right well that that which had
hissed so venomously beside his ear was a gray goose shaft, and
that to tarry so much as a moment meant death. Even as he leaped
into the thicket six more arrows rattled among the branches
after him, one of which pierced his doublet, and would have
struck deeply into his side but for the tough coat of steel that
he wore. Then up the road came riding some of the King's men at
headlong speed. They leaped from their horses and plunged
straightway into the thicket after Robin. But Robin knew the
ground better than they did, so crawling here, stooping there,
and, anon, running across some little open, he soon left them
far behind, coming out, at last, upon another road about eight
hundred paces distant from the one he had left. Here he stood
for a moment, listening to the distant shouts of the seven men
as they beat up and down in the thickets like hounds that had
lost the scent of the quarry. Then, buckling his belt more
tightly around his waist, he ran fleetly down the road toward
the eastward and Sherwood.
But Robin had not gone more
than three furlongs in that direction when he came suddenly to
the brow of a hill, and saw beneath him another band of the
King's men seated in the shade along the roadside in the valley
beneath. Then he paused not a moment, but, seeing that they had
not caught sight of him, he turned and ran back whence he had
come, knowing that it was better to run the chance of escaping
those fellows that were yet in the thickets than to rush into
the arms of those in the valley. So back he ran with all speed,
and had gotten safely past the thickets, when the seven men came
forth into the open road. They raised a great shout when they
saw him, such as the hunter gives when the deer breaks cover,
but Robin was then a quarter of a mile and more away from them,
coursing over the ground like a greyhound. He never slackened
his pace, but ran along, mile after mile, till he had come nigh
to Mackworth, over beyond the Derwent River, nigh to Derby Town.
Here, seeing that he was out of present danger, he slackened in
his running, and at last sat him down beneath a hedge where the
grass was the longest and the shade the coolest, there to rest
and catch his wind. "By my soul, Robin," quoth he to himself,
"that was the narrowest miss that e'er thou hadst in all thy
life. I do say most solemnly that the feather of that wicked
shaft tickled mine ear as it whizzed past. This same running
hath given me a most craving appetite for victuals and drink.
Now I pray Saint Dunstan that he send me speedily some meat and
beer."
It seemed as though Saint
Dunstan was like to answer his prayer, for along the road came
plodding a certain cobbler, one Quince, of Derby, who had been
to take a pair of shoes to a farmer nigh Kirk Langly, and was
now coming back home again, with a fair boiled capon in his
pouch and a stout pottle of beer by his side, which same the
farmer had given him for joy of such a stout pair of shoon. Good
Quince was an honest fellow, but his wits were somewhat of the
heavy sort, like unbaked dough, so that the only thing that was
in his mind was, "Three shillings sixpence ha'penny for thy
shoon, good Quince--three shillings sixpence ha'penny for thy
shoon," and this traveled round and round inside of his head,
without another thought getting into his noddle, as a pea rolls
round and round inside an empty quart pot.
"Halloa, good friend," quoth
Robin, from beneath the hedge, when the other had gotten nigh
enough, "whither away so merrily this bright day?"
Hearing himself so called upon,
the Cobbler stopped, and, seeing a well-clad stranger in blue,
he spoke to him in seemly wise. "Give ye good den, fair sir, and
I would say that I come from Kirk Langly, where I ha' sold my
shoon and got three shillings sixpence ha'penny for them in as
sweet money as ever thou sawest, and honestly earned too, I
would ha' thee know. But an I may be so bold, thou pretty
fellow, what dost thou there beneath the hedge?"
"Marry," quoth merry Robin, "I
sit beneath the hedge here to drop salt on the tails of golden
birds; but in sooth thou art the first chick of any worth I ha'
seen this blessed day."
At these words the Cobbler's
eyes opened big and wide, and his mouth grew round with wonder,
like a knothole in a board fence. "slack-a-day," quoth he, "look
ye, now! I ha' never seen those same golden birds. And dost thou
in sooth find them in these hedges, good fellow? Prythee, tell
me, are there many of them? I would fain find them mine own
self."
"Ay, truly," quoth Robin, "they
are as thick here as fresh herring in Cannock Chase."
"Look ye, now!" said the
Cobbler, all drowned in wonder. "And dost thou in sooth catch
them by dropping salt on their pretty tails?"
"Yea," quoth Robin, "but this
salt is of an odd kind, let me tell thee, for it can only be
gotten by boiling down a quart of moonbeams in a wooden platter,
and then one hath but a pinch. But tell me, now, thou witty man,
what hast thou gotten there in that pouch by thy side and in
that pottle?"
At these words the Cobbler
looked down at those things of which merry Robin spoke, for the
thoughts of the golden bird had driven them from his mind, and
it took him some time to scrape the memory of them back again.
"Why," said he at last, "in the one is good March beer, and in
the other is a fat capon. Truly, Quince the Cobbler will ha' a
fine feast this day an I mistake not."
"But tell me, good Quince,"
said Robin, "hast thou a mind to sell those things to me? For
the hearing of them sounds sweet in mine ears. I will give thee
these gay clothes of blue that I have upon my body and ten
shillings to boot for thy clothes and thy leather apron and thy
beer and thy capon. What sayst thou, bully boy?"
"Nay, thou dost jest with me,"
said the Cobbler, "for my clothes are coarse and patched, and
thine are of fine stuff and very pretty."
"Never a jest do I speak,"
quoth Robin. "Come, strip thy jacket off and I will show thee,
for I tell thee I like thy clothes well. Moreover, I will be
kind to thee, for I will feast straightway upon the good things
thou hast with thee, and thou shalt be bidden to the eating." At
these words he began slipping off his doublet, and the Cobbler,
seeing him so in earnest, began pulling off his clothes also,
for Robin Hood's garb tickled his eye. So each put on the other
fellow's clothes, and Robin gave the honest Cobbler ten bright
new shillings. Quoth merry Robin, "I ha' been a many things in
my life before, but never have I been an honest cobbler. Come,
friend, let us fall to and eat, for something within me cackles
aloud for that good fat capon." So both sat down and began to
feast right lustily, so that when they were done the bones of
the capon were picked as bare as charity.
Then Robin stretched his legs
out with a sweet feeling of comfort within him. Quoth he, "By
the turn of thy voice, good Quince, I know that thou hast a fair
song or two running loose in thy head like colts in a meadow. I
prythee, turn one of them out for me."
"A song or two I ha'," quoth
the Cobbler, "poor things, poor things, but such as they are
thou art welcome to one of them." So, moistening his throat with
a swallow of beer, he sang:
"Of all the joys, the best I
love,
Sing hey my frisking Nan, O,
And that which most my soul doth move,
It is the clinking can, O.
"All other bliss I'd throw
away,
Sing hey my frisking Nan, O,
But this--"
The stout Cobbler got no further in his song, for of a sudden
six horsemen burst upon them where they sat, and seized roughly
upon the honest craftsman, hauling him to his feet, and nearly
plucking the clothes from him as they did so. "Ha!" roared the
leader of the band in a great big voice of joy, "have we then
caught thee at last, thou blue-clad knave? Now, blessed be the
name of Saint Hubert, for we are fourscore pounds richer this
minute than we were before, for the good Bishop of Hereford hath
promised that much to the band that shall bring thee to him.
Oho! thou cunning rascal! thou wouldst look so innocent,
forsooth! We know thee, thou old fox. But off thou goest with us
to have thy brush clipped forthwith." At these words the poor
Cobbler gazed all around him with his great blue eyes as round
as those of a dead fish, while his mouth gaped as though he had
swallowed all his words and so lost his speech.
Robin also gaped and stared in
a wondering way, just as the Cobbler would have done in his
place. "Alack-a-daisy, me," quoth he. "I know not whether I be
sitting here or in No-man's-land! What meaneth all this stir i'
th' pot, dear good gentlemen? Surely this is a sweet, honest
fellow."
" `Honest fellow,' sayst thou,
clown?" quoth one of the men "Why, I tell thee that this is that
same rogue that men call Robin Hood."
At this speech the Cobbler
stared and gaped more than ever, for there was such a threshing
of thoughts going on within his poor head that his wits were all
befogged with the dust and chaff thereof. Moreover, as he looked
at Robin Hood, and saw the yeoman look so like what he knew
himself to be, he began to doubt and to think that mayhap he was
the great outlaw in real sooth. Said he in a slow, wondering
voice, "Am I in very truth that fellow?-- Now I had thought--but
nay, Quince, thou art mistook--yet--am I?--Nay, I must indeed be
Robin Hood! Yet, truly, I had never thought to pass from an
honest craftsman to such a great yeoman."
"Alas!" quoth Robin Hood, "look
ye there, now! See how your ill-treatment hath curdled the wits
of this poor lad and turned them all sour! I, myself, am Quince,
the Cobbler of Derby Town."
"Is it so?" said Quince. "Then,
indeed, I am somebody else, and can be none other than Robin
Hood. Take me, fellows; but let me tell you that ye ha' laid
hand upon the stoutest yeoman that ever trod the woodlands."
"Thou wilt play madman, wilt
thou?" said the leader of the band. "Here, Giles, fetch a cord
and bind this knave's hands behind him. I warrant we will bring
his wits back to him again when we get him safe before our good
Bishop at Tutbury Town." Thereupon they tied the Cobbler's hands
behind him, and led him off with a rope, as the farmer leads off
the calf he hath brought from the fair. Robin stood looking
after them, and when they were gone he laughed till the tears
rolled down his cheeks; for he knew that no harm would befall
the honest fellow, and he pictured to himself the Bishop's face
when good Quince was brought before him as Robin Hood. Then,
turning his steps once more to the eastward, he stepped out
right foot foremost toward Nottinghamshire and Sherwood Forest.
But Robin Hood had gone through
more than he wotted of. His journey from London had been hard
and long, and in a se'ennight he had traveled sevenscore and
more of miles. He thought now to travel on without stopping
until he had come to Sherwood, but ere he had gone a half a
score of miles he felt his strength giving way beneath him like
a river bank which the waters have undermined. He sat him down
and rested, but he knew within himself that he could go no
farther that day, for his feet felt like lumps of lead, so heavy
were they with weariness. Once more he arose and went forward,
but after traveling a couple of miles he was fain to give the
matter up, so, coming to an inn just then, he entered and
calling the landlord, bade him show him to a room, although the
sun was only then just sinking in the western sky. There were
but three bedrooms in the place, and to the meanest of these the
landlord showed Robin Hood, but little Robin cared for the looks
of the place, for he could have slept that night upon a bed of
broken stones. So, stripping off his clothes without more ado,
he rolled into the bed and was asleep almost ere his head
touched the pillow.
Not long after Robin had so
gone to his rest a great cloud peeped blackly over the hills to
the westward. Higher and higher it arose until it piled up into
the night like a mountain of darkness. All around beneath it
came ever and anon a dull red flash, and presently a short grim
mutter of the coming thunder was heard. Then up rode four stout
burghers of Nottingham Town, for this was the only inn within
five miles' distance, and they did not care to be caught in such
a thunderstorm as this that was coming upon them. Leaving their
nags to the stableman, they entered the best room of the inn,
where fresh green rushes lay all spread upon the floor, and
there called for the goodliest fare that the place afforded.
After having eaten heartily they bade the landlord show them to
their rooms, for they were aweary, having ridden all the way
from Dronfield that day. So off they went, grumbling at having
to sleep two in a bed, but their troubles on this score, as well
as all others, were soon lost in the quietness of sleep.
And now came the first gust of
wind, rushing past the place, clapping and banging the doors and
shutters, smelling of the coming rain, and all wrapped in a
cloud of dust and leaves. As though the wind had brought a guest
along with it, the door opened of a sudden and in came a friar
of Emmet Priory, and one in high degree, as was shown by the
softness and sleekness of his robes and the richness of his
rosary. He called to the landlord, and bade him first have his
mule well fed and bedded in the stable, and then to bring him
the very best there was in the house. So presently a savory stew
of tripe and onions, with sweet little fat dumplings, was set
before him, likewise a good stout pottle of Malmsey, and
straightway the holy friar fell to with great courage and
heartiness, so that in a short time nought was left but a little
pool of gravy in the center of the platter, not large enow to
keep the life in a starving mouse.
In the meantime the storm
broke. Another gust of wind went rushing by, and with it fell a
few heavy drops of rain, which presently came rattling down in
showers, beating against the casements like a hundred little
hands. Bright flashes of lightning lit up every raindrop, and
with them came cracks of thunder that went away rumbling and
bumping as though Saint Swithin were busy rolling great casks of
water across rough ground overhead. The womenfolks screamed, and
the merry wags in the taproom put their arms around their waists
to soothe them into quietness.
At last the holy friar bade the
landlord show him to his room; but when he heard that he was to
bed with a cobbler, he was as ill contented a fellow as you
could find in all England, nevertheless there was nothing for
it, and he must sleep there or nowhere; so, taking up his
candle, he went off, grumbling like the now distant thunder.
When he came to the room where he was to sleep he held the light
over Robin and looked at him from top to toe; then he felt
better pleased, for, instead, of a rough, dirty-bearded fellow,
he beheld as fresh and clean a lad as one could find in a week
of Sundays; so, slipping off his clothes, he also huddled into
the bed, where Robin, grunting and grumbling in his sleep, made
room for him. Robin was more sound asleep, I wot, than he had
been for many a day, else he would never have rested so quietly
with one of the friar's sort so close beside him. As for the
friar, had he known who Robin Hood was, you may well believe he
would almost as soon have slept with an adder as with the man he
had for a bedfellow.
So the night passed comfortably
enough, but at the first dawn of day Robin opened his eyes and
turned his head upon the pillow. Then how he gaped and how he
stared, for there beside him lay one all shaven and shorn, so
that he knew that it must be a fellow in holy orders. He pinched
himself sharply, but, finding he was awake, sat up in bed, while
the other slumbered as peacefully as though he were safe and
sound at home in Emmet Priory. "Now," quoth Robin to himself, "I
wonder how this thing hath dropped into my bed during the
night." So saying, he arose softly, so as not to waken the
other, and looking about the room he espied the friar's clothes
lying upon a bench near the wall. First he looked at the
clothes, with his head on one side, and then he looked at the
friar and slowly winked one eye. Quoth he, "Good Brother
What-e'er-thy-name-may-be, as thou hast borrowed my bed so
freely I'll e'en borrow thy clothes in return." So saying, he
straightway donned the holy man's garb, but kindly left the
cobbler's clothes in the place of it. Then he went forth into
the freshness of the morning, and the stableman that was up and
about the stables opened his eyes as though he saw a green mouse
before him, for such men as the friars of Emmet were not wont to
be early risers; but the man bottled his thoughts, and only
asked Robin whether he wanted his mule brought from the stable.
"Yea, my son," quoth
Robin--albeit he knew nought of the mule--"and bring it forth
quickly, I prythee, for I am late and must be jogging." So
presently the stableman brought forth the mule, and Robin
mounted it and went on his way rejoicing.
As for the holy friar, when he
arose he was in as pretty a stew as any man in all the world,
for his rich, soft robes were gone, likewise his purse with ten
golden pounds in it, and nought was left but patched clothes and
a leathern apron. He raged and swore like any layman, but as his
swearing mended nothing and the landlord could not aid him, and
as, moreover, he was forced to be at Emmet Priory that very
morning upon matters of business, he was fain either to don the
cobbler's clothes or travel the road in nakedness. So he put on
the clothes, and, still raging and swearing vengeance against
all the cobblers in Derbyshire, he set forth upon his way afoot;
but his ills had not yet done with him, for he had not gone far
ere he fell into the hands of the King's men, who marched him
off, willy-nilly, to Tutbury Town and the Bishop of Hereford. In
vain he swore he was a holy man, and showed his shaven crown;
off he must go, for nothing would do but that he was Robin Hood.
Meanwhile merry Robin rode
along contentedly, passing safely by two bands of the King's
men, until his heart began to dance within him because of the
nearness of Sherwood; so he traveled ever on to the eastward,
till, of a sudden, he met a noble knight in a shady lane. Then
Robin checked his mule quickly and leaped from off its back.
"Now, well met, Sir Richard of the Lea," cried he, "for rather
than any other man in England would I see thy good face this
day!" Then he told Sir Richard all the happenings that had
befallen him, and that now at last he felt himself safe, being
so nigh to Sherwood again. But when Robin had done, Sir Richard
shook his head sadly. "Thou art in greater danger now, Robin,
than thou hast yet been," said he, "for before thee lie bands of
the Sheriff's men blocking every road and letting none pass
through the lines without examining them closely. I myself know
this, having passed them but now. Before thee lie the Sheriffs
men and behind thee the King's men, and thou canst not hope to
pass either way, for by this time they will know of thy disguise
and will be in waiting to seize upon thee. My castle and
everything within it are thine, but nought could be gained
there, for I could not hope to hold it against such a force as
is now in Nottingham of the King's and the Sheriffs men." Having
so spoken, Sir Richard bent his head in thought, and Robin felt
his heart sink within him like that of the fox that hears the
hounds at his heels and finds his den blocked with earth so that
there is no hiding for him. But presently Sir Richard spoke
again, saying, "One thing thou canst do, Robin, and one only. Go
back to London and throw thyself upon the mercy of our good
Queen Eleanor. Come with me straightway to my castle. Doff these
clothes and put on such as my retainers wear. Then I will hie me
to London Town with a troop of men behind me, and thou shalt
mingle with them, and thus will I bring thee to where thou mayst
see and speak with the Queen. Thy only hope is to get to
Sherwood, for there none can reach thee, and thou wilt never get
to Sherwood but in this way."
So Robin went with Sir Richard
of the Lea, and did as he said, for he saw the wisdom of that
which the knight advised, and that this was his only chance of
safety.
Queen Eleanor walked in her
royal garden, amid the roses that bloomed sweetly, and with her
walked six of her ladies-in-waiting, chattering blithely
together. Of a sudden a man leaped up to the top of the wall
from the other side, and then, hanging for a moment, dropped
lightly upon the grass within. All the ladies-in-waiting
shrieked at the suddenness of his coming, but the man ran to the
Queen and kneeled at her feet, and she saw that it was Robin
Hood.
"Why, how now, Robin!" cried
she, "dost thou dare to come into the very jaws of the raging
lion? Alas, poor fellow! Thou art lost indeed if the King finds
thee here. Dost thou not know that he is seeking thee through
all the land?"
"Yea," quoth Robin, "I do know
right well that the King seeks me, and therefore I have come;
for, surely, no ill can befall me when he hath pledged his royal
word to Your Majesty for my safety. Moreover, I know Your
Majesty's kindness and gentleness of heart, and so I lay my life
freely in your gracious hands."
"I take thy meaning, Robin
Hood," said the Queen, "and that thou dost convey reproach to
me, as well thou mayst, for I know that I have not done by thee
as I ought to have done. I know right well that thou must have
been hard pressed by peril to leap so boldly into one danger to
escape another. Once more I promise thee mine aid, and will do
all I can to send thee back in safety to Sherwood Forest. Bide
thou here till I return." So saying, she left Robin in the
garden of roses, and was gone a long time.
When she came back Sir Robert
Lee was with her, and the Queen's cheeks were hot and the
Queen's eyes were bright, as though she had been talking with
high words. Then Sir Robert came straight forward to where Robin
Hood stood, and he spoke to the yeoman in a cold, stern voice.
Quoth he, "Our gracious Sovereign the King hath mitigated his
wrath toward thee, fellow, and hath once more promised that thou
shalt depart in peace and safety. Not only hath he promised
this, but in three days he will send one of his pages to go with
thee and see that none arrest thy journey back again. Thou mayst
thank thy patron saint that thou hast such a good friend in our
noble Queen, for, but for her persuasion and arguments, thou
hadst been a dead man, I can tell thee. Let this peril that thou
hast passed through teach thee two lessons. First, be more
honest. Second, be not so bold in thy comings and goings. A man
that walketh in the darkness as thou dost may escape for a time,
but in the end he will surely fall into the pit. Thou hast put
thy head in the angry lion's mouth, and yet thou hast escaped by
a miracle. Try it not again." So saying, he turned and left
Robin and was gone.
For three days Robin abided in
London in the Queen's household, and at the end of that time the
King's head Page, Edward Cunningham, came, and taking Robin with
him, departed northward upon his way to Sherwood. Now and then
they passed bands of the King's men coming back again to London,
but none of those bands stopped them, and so, at last, they
reached the sweet, leafy woodlands.

Robin Hood
|
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XX. Robin Hood and Guy of
Gisbourne
A long time passed after the great shooting match, and during
that time Robin followed one part of the advice of Sir Robert
Lee, to wit, that of being less bold in his comings and his
goings; for though mayhap he may not have been more honest (as
most folks regard honesty), he took good care not to travel so
far from Sherwood that he could not reach it both easily and
quickly.
Great changes had fallen in
this time; for King Henry had died and King Richard had come to
the crown that fitted him so well through many hard trials, and
through adventures as stirring as any that ever befell Robin
Hood. But though great changes came, they did not reach to
Sherwood's shades, for there Robin Hood and his men dwelled as
merrily as they had ever done, with hunting and feasting and
singing and blithe woodland sports; for it was little the
outside striving of the world troubled them.
The dawning of a summer's day
was fresh and bright, and the birds sang sweetly in a great
tumult of sound. So loud was their singing that it awakened
Robin Hood where he lay sleeping, so that he stirred, and
turned, and arose. Up rose Little John also, and all the merry
men; then, after they had broken their fast, they set forth
hither and thither upon the doings of the day.
Robin Hood and Little John
walked down a forest path where all around the leaves danced and
twinkled as the breeze trembled through them and the sunlight
came flickering down. Quoth Robin Hood, "I make my vow, Little
John, my blood tickles my veins as it flows through them this
gay morn. What sayst thou to our seeking adventures, each one
upon his own account?"
"With all my heart," said
Little John. "We have had more than one pleasant doing in that
way, good master. Here are two paths; take thou the one to the
right hand, and I will take the one to the left, and then let us
each walk straight ahead till he tumble into some merry doing or
other."
"I like thy plan," quoth Robin,
"therefore we will part here. But look thee, Little John, keep
thyself out of mischief, for I would not have ill befall thee
for all the world."
"Marry, come up," quoth Little
John, "how thou talkest! Methinks thou art wont to get thyself
into tighter coils than I am like to do."
At this Robin Hood laughed.
"Why, in sooth, Little John," said he, "thou hast a blundering
hard-headed way that seemeth to bring thee right side uppermost
in all thy troubles; but let us see who cometh out best this
day." So saying, he clapped his palm to Little John's and each
departed upon his way, the trees quickly shutting the one from
the other's sight.
Robin Hood strolled onward till
he came to where a broad woodland road stretched before him.
Overhead the branches of the trees laced together in flickering
foliage, all golden where it grew thin to the sunlight; beneath
his feet the ground was soft and moist from the sheltering
shade. Here in this pleasant spot the sharpest adventure that
ever befell Robin Hood came upon him; for, as he walked down the
woodland path thinking of nought but the songs of the birds, he
came of a sudden to where a man was seated upon the mossy roots
beneath the shade of a broad-spreading oak tree. Robin Hood saw
that the stranger had not caught sight of him, so he stopped and
stood quite still, looking at the other a long time before he
came forward. And the stranger, I wot, was well worth looking
at, for never had Robin seen a figure like that sitting beneath
the tree. From his head to his feet he was clad in a horse's
hide, dressed with the hair upon it. Upon his head was a cowl
that hid his face from sight, and which was made of the horse's
skin, the ears whereof stuck up like those of a rabbit. His body
was clad in a jacket made of the hide, and his legs were covered
with the hairy skin likewise. By his side was a heavy broadsword
and a sharp, double-edged dagger. A quiver of smooth round
arrows hung across his shoulders, and his stout bow of yew
leaned against the tree beside him.
"Halloa, friend," cried Robin,
coming forward at last, "who art thou that sittest there? And
what is that that thou hast upon thy body? I make my vow I ha'
never seen such a sight in all my life before. Had I done an
evil thing, or did my conscience trouble me, I would be afraid
of thee, thinking that thou wast someone from down below
bringing a message bidding me come straightway to King
Nicholas."
To this speech the other
answered not a word, but he pushed the cowl back from his head
and showed a knit brow, a hooked nose, and a pair of fierce,
restless black eyes, which altogether made Robin think of a hawk
as he looked on his face. But beside this there was something
about the lines on the stranger's face, and his thin cruel
mouth, and the hard glare of his eyes, that made one's flesh
creep to look upon.
"Who art thou, rascal?" said he
at last, in a loud, harsh voice.
"Tut, tut," quoth merry Robin,
"speak not so sourly, brother. Hast thou fed upon vinegar and
nettles this morning that thy speech is so stinging?"
"An thou likest not my words,"
said the other fiercely, "thou hadst best be jogging, for I tell
thee plainly, my deeds match them."
"Nay, but I do like thy words,
thou sweet, pretty thing," quoth Robin, squatting down upon the
grass in front of the other. "Moreover, I tell thee thy speech
is witty and gamesome as any I ever heard in all my life."
The other said not a word, but
he glared upon Robin with a wicked and baleful look, such as a
fierce dog bestows upon a man ere it springs at his throat.
Robin returned the gaze with one of wide-eyed innocence, not a
shadow of a smile twinkling in his eyes or twitching at the
corners of his mouth. So they sat staring at one another for a
long time, until the stranger broke the silence suddenly. "What
is thy name, fellow?" said he.
"Now," quoth Robin, "I am right
glad to hear thee speak, for I began to fear the sight of me had
stricken thee dumb. As for my name, it may be this or it may be
that; but methinks it is more meet for thee to tell me thine,
seeing that thou art the greater stranger in these parts.
Prythee, tell me, sweet chuck, why wearest thou that dainty garb
upon thy pretty body?" At these words the other broke into a
short, harsh roar of laughter. "By the bones of the Daemon
Odin," said he, "thou art the boldest-spoken man that ever I
have seen in all my life. I know not why I do not smite thee
down where thou sittest, for only two days ago I skewered a man
over back of Nottingham Town for saying not half so much to me
as thou hast done. I wear this garb, thou fool, to keep my body
warm; likewise it is near as good as a coat of steel against a
common sword-thrust. As for my name, I care not who knoweth it.
It is Guy of Gisbourne, and thou mayst have heard it before. I
come from the woodlands over in Herefordshire, upon the lands of
the Bishop of that ilk. I am an outlaw, and get my living by
hook and by crook in a manner it boots not now to tell of. Not
long since the Bishop sent for me, and said that if I would do a
certain thing that the Sheriff of Nottingham would ask of me, he
would get me a free pardon, and give me tenscore pounds to boot.
So straightway I came to Nottingham Town and found my sweet
Sheriff; and what thinkest thou he wanted of me? Why, forsooth,
to come here to Sherwood to hunt up one Robin Hood, also an
outlaw, and to take him alive or dead. It seemeth that they have
no one here to face that bold fellow, and so sent all the way to
Herefordshire, and to me, for thou knowest the old saying, `Set
a thief to catch a thief.' As for the slaying of this fellow, it
galleth me not a whit, for I would shed the blood of my own
brother for the half of two hundred pounds."
To all this Robin listened, and
as he listened his gorge rose. Well he knew of this Guy of
Gisbourne, and of all the bloody and murderous deeds that he had
done in Herefordshire, for his doings were famous throughout all
the land. Yet, although he loathed the very presence of the man,
he held his peace, for he had an end to serve. "Truly," quoth
he, "I have heard of thy gentle doings. Methinks there is no one
in all the world that Robin Hood would rather meet than thee."
At this Guy of Gisbourne gave
another harsh laugh. "Why," quoth he, "it is a merry thing to
think of one stout outlaw like Robin Hood meeting another stout
outlaw like Guy of Gisbourne. Only in this case it will be an
ill happening for Robin Hood, for the day he meets Guy of
Gisbourne he shall die."
"But thou gentle, merry
spirit," quoth Robin, "dost thou not think that mayhap this same
Robin Hood may be the better man of the two? I know him right
well, and many think that he is one of the stoutest men
hereabouts."
"He may be the stoutest of men
hereabouts," quoth Guy of Gisbourne, "yet, I tell thee, fellow,
this sty of yours is not the wide world. I lay my life upon it I
am the better man of the two. He an outlaw, forsooth! Why, I
hear that he hath never let blood in all his life, saving when
he first came to the forest. Some call him a great archer;
marry, I would not be afraid to stand against him all the days
of the year with a bow in my hand."
"Why, truly, some folk do call
him a great archer," said Robin Hood, "but we of Nottinghamshire
are famous hands with the longbow. Even I, though but a simple
hand at the craft, would not fear to try a bout with thee."
At these words Guy of Gisbourne
looked upon Robin with wondering eyes, and then gave another
roar of laughter till the woods rang. "Now," quoth he, "thou art
a bold fellow to talk to me in this way. I like thy spirit in so
speaking up to me, for few men have dared to do so. Put up a
garland, lad, and I will try a bout with thee."
"Tut, tut," quoth Robin, "only
babes shoot at garlands hereabouts. I will put up a good
Nottingham mark for thee." So saying, he arose, and going to a
hazel thicket not far off, he cut a wand about twice the
thickness of a man's thumb. From this he peeled the bark, and,
sharpening the point, stuck it up in the ground in front of a
great oak tree. Thence he measured off fourscore paces, which
brought him beside the tree where the other sat. "There," quoth
he, "is the kind of mark that Nottingham yeomen shoot at. Now
let me see thee split that wand if thou art an archer."
Then Guy of Gisbourne arose.
"Now out upon it!" cried he. "The Devil himself could not hit
such a mark as that."
"Mayhap he could and mayhap he
could not," quoth merry Robin, "but that we shall never know
till thou hast shot thereat."
At these words Guy of Gisbourne
looked upon Robin with knit brows, but, as the yeoman still
looked innocent of any ill meaning, he bottled his words and
strung his bow in silence. Twice he shot, but neither time did
he hit the wand, missing it the first time by a span and the
second time by a good palm's-breadth. Robin laughed and laughed.
"I see now," quoth he, "that the Devil himself could not hit
that mark. Good fellow, if thou art no better with the
broadsword than thou art with the bow and arrow, thou wilt never
overcome Robin Hood."
At these words Guy of Gisbourne
glared savagely upon Robin. Quoth he, "Thou hast a merry tongue,
thou villain; but take care that thou makest not too free with
it, or I may cut it out from thy throat for thee."
Robin Hood strung his bow and
took his place with never a word, albeit his heartstrings
quivered with anger and loathing. Twice he shot, the first time
hitting within an inch of the wand, the second time splitting it
fairly in the middle. Then, without giving the other a chance
for speech, he flung his bow upon the ground. "There, thou
bloody villain!" cried he fiercely, "let that show thee how
little thou knowest of manly sports. And now look thy last upon
the daylight, for the good earth hath been befouled long enough
by thee, thou vile beast! This day, Our Lady willing, thou
diest--I am Robin Hood." So saying, he flashed forth his bright
sword in the sunlight.
For a time Guy of Gisbourne
stared upon Robin as though bereft of wits; but his wonder
quickly passed to a wild rage. "Art thou indeed Robin Hood?"
cried he. "Now I am glad to meet thee, thou poor wretch! Shrive
thyself, for thou wilt have no time for shriving when I am done
with thee." So saying, he also drew his sword.
And now came the fiercest fight
that ever Sherwood saw; for each man knew that either he or the
other must die, and that no mercy was to be had in this battle.
Up and down they fought, till all the sweet green grass was
crushed and ground beneath the trampling of their heels. More
than once the point of Robin Hood's sword felt the softness of
flesh, and presently the ground began to be sprinkled with
bright red drops, albeit not one of them came from Robin's
veins. At last Guy of Gisbourne made a fierce and deadly thrust
at Robin Hood, from which he leaped back lightly, but in so
leaping he caught his heel in a root and fell heavily upon his
back. "Now, Holy Mary aid me!" muttered he, as the other leaped
at him, with a grin of rage upon his face. Fiercely Guy of
Gisbourne stabbed at the other with his great sword, but Robin
caught the blade in his naked hand, and, though it cut his palm,
he turned the point away so that it plunged deep into the ground
close beside him; then, ere a blow could be struck again, he
leaped to his feet, with his good sword in his hand. And now
despair fell upon Guy of Gisbourne's heart in a black cloud, and
he looked around him wildly, like a wounded hawk. Seeing that
his strength was going from him, Robin leaped forward, and,
quick as a flash, struck a back-handed blow beneath the sword
arm. Down fell the sword from Guy of Gisbourne's grasp, and back
he staggered at the stroke, and, ere he could regain himself,
Robin's sword passed through and through his body. Round he spun
upon his heel, and, flinging his hands aloft with a shrill, wild
cry, fell prone upon his face upon the green sod.
Then Robin Hood wiped his sword
and thrust it back into the scabbard, and, coming to where Guy
of Gisbourne lay, he stood over him with folded arms, talking to
himself the while. "This is the first man I have slain since I
shot the Kings forester in the hot days of my youth. I ofttimes
think bitterly, even yet, of that first life I took, but of this
I am as glad as though I had slain a wild boar that laid waste a
fair country. Since the Sheriff of Nottingham hath sent such a
one as this against me, I will put on the fellow's garb and go
forth to see whether I may not find his worship, and perchance
pay him back some of the debt I owe him upon this score."
So saying, Robin Hood stripped
the hairy garments from off the dead man, and put them on
himself, all bloody as they were. Then, strapping the other's
sword and dagger around his body and carrying his own in his
hand, together with the two bows of yew, he drew the cowl of
horse's hide over his face, so that none could tell who he was,
and set forth from the forest, turning his steps toward the
eastward and Nottingham Town. As he strode along the country
roads, men, women, and children hid away from him, for the
terror of Guy of Gisbourne's name and of his doings had spread
far and near.
And now let us see what befell
Little John while these things were happening.
Little John walked on his way
through the forest paths until he had come to the outskirts of
the woodlands, where, here and there, fields of barley, corn, or
green meadow lands lay smiling in the sun. So he came to the
highroad and to where a little thatched cottage stood back of a
cluster of twisted crab trees, with flowers in front of it. Here
he stopped of a sudden, for he thought that he heard the sound
of someone in sorrow. He listened, and found that it came from
the cottage; so, turning his footsteps thither, he pushed open
the wicket and entered the place. There he saw a gray-haired
dame sitting beside a cold hearthstone, rocking herself to and
fro and weeping bitterly.
Now Little John had a tender
heart for the sorrows of other folk, so, coming to the old woman
and patting her kindly upon the shoulder, he spoke comforting
words to her, bidding her cheer up and tell him her troubles,
for that mayhap he might do something to ease them. At all this
the good dame shook her head; but all the same his kind words
did soothe her somewhat, so after a while she told him all that
bore upon her mind. That that morning she had three as fair,
tall sons beside her as one could find in all Nottinghamshire,
but that they were now taken from her, and were like to be
hanged straightway; that, want having come upon them, her eldest
boy had gone out, the night before, into the forest, and had
slain a hind in the moonlight; that the King's rangers had
followed the blood upon the grass until they had come to her
cottage, and had there found the deer's meat in the cupboard;
that, as neither of the younger sons would betray their brother,
the foresters had taken all three away, in spite of the oldest
saying that he alone had slain the deer; that, as they went, she
had heard the rangers talking among themselves, saying that the
Sheriff had sworn that he would put a check upon the great
slaughter of deer that had been going on of late by hanging the
very first rogue caught thereat upon the nearest tree, and that
they would take the three youths to the King's Head Inn, near
Nottingham Town, where the Sheriff was abiding that day, there
to await the return of a certain fellow he had sent into
Sherwood to seek for Robin Hood.
To all this Little John
listened, shaking his head sadly now and then. "Alas," quoth he,
when the good dame had finished her speech, "this is indeed an
ill case. But who is this that goeth into Sherwood after Robin
Hood, and why doth he go to seek him? But no matter for that
now; only that I would that Robin Hood were here to advise us.
Nevertheless, no time may be lost in sending for him at this
hour, if we would save the lives of thy three sons. Tell me,
hast thou any clothes hereabouts that I may put on in place of
these of Lincoln green? Marry, if our stout Sheriff catcheth me
without disguise, I am like to be run up more quickly than thy
sons, let me tell thee, dame."
Then the old woman told him
that she had in the house some of the clothes of her good
husband, who had died only two years before. These she brought
to Little John, who, doffing his garb of Lincoln green, put them
on in its stead. Then, making a wig and false beard of uncarded
wool, he covered his own brown hair and beard, and, putting on a
great, tall hat that had belonged to the old peasant, he took
his staff in one hand and his bow in the other, and set forth
with all speed to where the Sheriff had taken up his inn.
A mile or more from Nottingham
Town, and not far from the southern borders of Sherwood Forest,
stood the cosy inn bearing the sign of the King's Head. Here was
a great bustle and stir on this bright morning, for the Sheriff
and a score of his men had come to stop there and await Guy of
Gisbourne's return from the forest. Great hiss and fuss of
cooking was going on in the kitchen, and great rapping and
tapping of wine kegs and beer barrels was going on in the
cellar. The Sheriff sat within, feasting merrily of the best the
place afforded, and the Sheriff's men sat upon the bench before
the door, quaffing ale, or lay beneath the shade of the
broad-spreading oak trees, talking and jesting and laughing. All
around stood the horses of the band, with a great noise of
stamping feet and a great switching of tails. To this inn came
the King's rangers, driving the widow's three sons before them.
The hands of the three youths were tied tightly behind their
backs, and a cord from neck to neck fastened them all together.
So they were marched to the room where the Sheriff sat at meat,
and stood trembling before him as he scowled sternly upon them.
"So," quoth he, in a great,
loud, angry voice, "ye have been poaching upon the King's deer,
have you? Now I will make short work of you this day, for I will
hang up all three of you as a farmer would hang up three crows
to scare others of the kind from the field. Our fair county of
Nottingham hath been too long a breeding place for such naughty
knaves as ye are. I have put up with these things for many
years, but now I will stamp them out once for all, and with you
I will begin."
Then one of the poor fellows
opened his mouth to speak, but the Sheriff roared at him in a
loud voice to be silent, and bade the rangers to take them away
till he had done his eating and could attend to the matters
concerning them. So the three poor youths were marched outside,
where they stood with bowed heads and despairing hearts, till
after a while the Sheriff came forth. Then he called his men
about him, and quoth he, "These three villains shall be hanged
straightway, but not here, lest they breed ill luck to this
goodly inn. We will take them over yonder to that belt of
woodlands, for I would fain hang them upon the very trees of
Sherwood itself, to show those vile outlaws therein what they
may expect of me if I ever have the good luck to lay hands upon
them." So saying, he mounted his horse, as did his men-at-arms
likewise, and all together they set forth for the belt of
woodlands he had spoken of, the poor youths walking in their
midst guarded by the rangers. So they came at last to the spot,
and here nooses were fastened around the necks of the three, and
the ends of the cords flung over the branch of a great oak tree
that stood there. Then the three youths fell upon their knees
and loudly besought mercy of the Sheriff; but the Sheriff of
Nottingham laughed scornfully. "Now," quoth he, "I would that I
had a priest here to shrive you; but, as none is nigh, you must
e'en travel your road with all your sins packed upon your backs,
and trust to Saint Peter to let you in through the gates of
Paradise like three peddlers into the town."
In the meantime, while all this
had been going forward, an old man had drawn near and stood
leaning on his staff, looking on. His hair and beard were all
curly and white, and across his back was a bow of yew that
looked much too strong for him to draw. As the Sheriff looked
around ere he ordered his men to string the three youths up to
the oak tree, his eyes fell upon this strange old man. Then his
worship beckoned to him, saying, "Come hither, father, I have a
few words to say to thee." So Little John, for it was none other
than he, came forward, and the Sheriff looked upon him, thinking
that there was something strangely familiar in the face before
him. "How, now," said he, "methinks I have seen thee before.
What may thy name be, father?"
"Please Your Worship," said
Little John, in a cracked voice like that of an old man, "my
name is Giles Hobble, at Your Worship's service."
"Giles Hobble, Giles Hobble,"
muttered the Sheriff to himself, turning over the names that he
had in his mind to try to find one to fit to this. "I remember
not thy name," said he at last, "but it matters not. Hast thou a
mind to earn sixpence this bright morn?"
"Ay, marry," quoth Little John,
"for money is not so plenty with me that I should cast sixpence
away an I could earn it by an honest turn. What is it Your
Worship would have me do?"
"Why, this," said the Sheriff.
"Here are three men that need hanging as badly as any e'er I
saw. If thou wilt string them up I will pay thee twopence apiece
for them. I like not that my men-at-arms should turn hangmen.
Wilt thou try thy hand?"
"In sooth," said Little John,
still in the old man's voice, "I ha' never done such a thing
before; but an a sixpence is to be earned so easily I might as
well ha' it as anybody. But, Your Worship, are these naughty
fellows shrived?"
"Nay," said the Sheriff,
laughing, "never a whit; but thou mayst turn thy hand to that
also if thou art so minded. But hasten, I prythee, for I would
get back to mine inn betimes."
So Little John came to where
the three youths stood trembling, and, putting his face to the
first fellow's cheek as though he were listening to him, he
whispered softly into his ear, "Stand still, brother, when thou
feelest thy bonds cut, but when thou seest me throw my woolen
wig and beard from my head and face, cast the noose from thy
neck and run for the woodlands." Then he slyly cut the cord that
bound the youth's hands; who, upon his part, stood still as
though he were yet bound. Then he went to the second fellow, and
spoke to him in the same way, and also cut his bonds. This he
did to the third likewise, but all so slyly that the Sheriff,
who sat upon his horse laughing, wotted not what was being done,
nor his men either.
Then Little John turned to the
Sheriff. "Please Your Worship," said he, "will you give me leave
to string my bow? For I would fain help these fellows along the
way, when they are swinging, with an arrow beneath the ribs."
"With all my heart," said the
Sheriff, "only, as I said before, make thou haste in thy
doings."
Little John put the tip of his
bow to his instep, and strung the weapon so deftly that all
wondered to see an old man so strong. Next he drew a good smooth
arrow from his quiver and fitted it to the string; then, looking
all around to see that the way was clear behind him, he suddenly
cast away the wool from his head and face, shouting in a mighty
voice, "Run!" Quick as a flash the three youths flung the nooses
from their necks and sped across the open to the woodlands as
the arrow speeds from the bow. Little John also flew toward the
covert like a greyhound, while the Sheriff and his men gazed
after him all bewildered with the sudden doing. But ere the
yeoman had gone far the Sheriff roused himself. "After him!" he
roared in a mighty voice; for he knew now who it was with whom
he had been talking, and wondered that he had not known him
before.
Little John heard the Sheriff's
words, and seeing that he could not hope to reach the woodlands
before they would be upon him, he stopped and turned suddenly,
holding his bow as though he were about to shoot. "Stand back!"
cried he fiercely. "The first man that cometh a foot forward, or
toucheth finger to bowstring, dieth!"
At these words the Sheriff's
men stood as still as stocks, for they knew right well that
Little John would be as good as his word, and that to disobey
him meant death. In vain the Sheriff roared at them, calling
them cowards, and urging them forward in a body; they would not
budge an inch, but stood and watched Little John as he moved
slowly away toward the forest, keeping his gaze fixed upon them.
But when the Sheriff saw his enemy thus slipping betwixt his
fingers he grew mad with his rage, so that his head swam and he
knew not what he did. Then of a sudden he turned his horse's
head, and plunging his spurs into its sides he gave a great
shout, and, rising in his stirrups, came down upon Little John
like the wind. Then Little John raised his deadly bow and drew
the gray goose feather to his cheek. But alas for him! For, ere
he could loose the shaft, the good bow that had served him so
long, split in his hands, and the arrow fell harmless at his
feet. Seeing what had happened, the Sheriff's men raised a
shout, and, following their master, came rushing down upon
Little John. But the Sheriff was ahead of the others, and so
caught up with the yeoman before he reached the shelter of the
woodlands, then leaning forward he struck a mighty blow. Little
John ducked and the Sheriff's sword turned in his hand, but the
flat of the blade struck the other upon the head and smote him
down, stunned and senseless.
"Now, I am right glad," said
the Sheriff, when the men came up and found that Little John was
not dead, "that I have not slain this man in my haste! I would
rather lose five hundred pounds than have him die thus instead
of hanging, as such a vile thief should do. Go, get some water
from yonder fountain, William, and pour it over his head."
The man did as he was bidden,
and presently Little John opened his eyes and looked around him,
all dazed and bewildered with the stun of the blow. Then they
tied his hands behind him, and lifting him up set him upon the
back of one of the horses, with his face to its tail and his
feet strapped beneath its belly. So they took him back to the
King's Head Inn, laughing and rejoicing as they went along. But
in the meantime the widow's three sons had gotten safely away,
and were hidden in the woodlands.
Once more the Sheriff of
Nottingham sat within the King's Head Inn. His heart rejoiced
within him, for he had at last done that which he had sought to
do for years, taken Little John prisoner. Quoth he to himself,
"This time tomorrow the rogue shall hang upon the gallows tree
in front of the great gate of Nottingham Town, and thus shall I
make my long score with him even." So saying, he took a deep
draught of Canary. But it seemed as if the Sheriff had swallowed
a thought with his wine, for he shook his head and put the cup
down hastily. "Now," he muttered to himself, "I would not for a
thousand pounds have this fellow slip through my fingers; yet,
should his master escape that foul Guy of Gisbourne, there is no
knowing what he may do, for he is the cunningest knave in all
the world--this same Robin Hood. Belike I had better not wait
until tomorrow to hang the fellow." So saying, he pushed his
chair back hastily, and going forth from the inn called his men
together. Quoth he, "I will wait no longer for the hanging of
this rogue, but it shall be done forthwith, and that from the
very tree whence he saved those three young villains by stepping
betwixt them and the law. So get ye ready straightway."
Then once more they sat Little
John upon the horse, with his face to the tail, and so, one
leading the horse whereon he sat and the others riding around
him, they went forward to that tree from the branches of which
they had thought to hang the poachers. On they went, rattling
and jingling along the road till they came to the tree. Here one
of the men spake to the Sheriff of a sudden. "Your Worship,"
cried he, "is not yon fellow coming along toward us that same
Guy of Gisbourne whom thou didst send into the forest to seek
Robin Hood?" At these words the Sheriff shaded his eyes and
looked eagerly. "Why, certes," quoth he, "yon fellow is the
same. Now, Heaven send that he hath slain the master thief, as
we will presently slay the man!"
When Little John heard this
speech he looked up, and straightway his heart crumbled away
within him, for not only were the man's garments all covered
with blood, but he wore Robin Hood's bugle horn and carried his
bow and broadsword.
"How now!" cried the Sheriff,
when Robin Hood, in Guy of Gisbourne's clothes, had come nigh to
them. "What luck hath befallen thee in the forest? Why, man, thy
clothes are all over blood!"
"An thou likest not my
clothes," said Robin in a harsh voice like that of Guy of
Gisbourne, "thou mayst shut thine eyes. Marry, the blood upon me
is that of the vilest outlaw that ever trod the woodlands, and
one whom I have slain this day, albeit not without wound to
myself."
Then out spake Little John, for
the first time since he had fallen into the Sheriff's hands. "O
thou vile, bloody wretch! I know thee, Guy of Gisbourne, for who
is there that hath not heard of thee and cursed thee for thy
vile deeds of blood and rapine? Is it by such a hand as thine
that the gentlest heart that ever beat is stilled in death?
Truly, thou art a fit tool for this coward Sheriff of
Nottingham. Now I die joyfully, nor do I care how I die, for
life is nought to me!" So spake Little John, the salt tears
rolling down his brown cheeks.
But the Sheriff of Nottingham
clapped his hands for joy. "Now, Guy of Gisbourne," cried he,
"if what thou tellest me is true, it will be the best day's
doings for thee that ever thou hast done in all thy life."
"What I have told thee is
sooth, and I lie not," said Robin, still in Guy of Gisbourne's
voice. "Look, is not this Robin Hood's sword, and is not this
his good bow of yew, and is not this his bugle horn? Thinkest
thou he would have given them to Guy of Gisbourne of his own
free will?"
Then the Sheriff laughed aloud
for joy. "This is a good day!" cried he. "The great outlaw dead
and his right-hand man in my hands! Ask what thou wilt of me,
Guy of Gisbourne, and it is thine!"
"Then this I ask of thee," said
Robin. "As I have slain the master I would now kill the man.
Give this fellow's life into my hands, Sir Sheriff."
"Now thou art a fool!" cried
the Sheriff. "Thou mightst have had money enough for a knight's
ransom if thou hadst asked for it. I like ill to let this fellow
pass from my hands, but as I have promised, thou shalt have
him."
"I thank thee right heartily
for thy gift," cried Robin. "Take the rogue down from the horse,
men, and lean him against yonder tree, while I show you how we
stick a porker whence I come!"
At these words some of the
Sheriff's men shook their heads; for, though they cared not a
whit whether Little John were hanged or not, they hated to see
him butchered in cold blood. But the Sheriff called to them in a
loud voice, ordering them to take the yeoman down from the horse
and lean him against the tree, as the other bade.
While they were doing this
Robin Hood strung both his bow and that of Guy of Gisbourne,
albeit none of them took notice of his doing so. Then, when
Little John stood against the tree, he drew Guy of Gisbourne's
sharp, double-edged dagger. "Fall back! fall back!" cried he.
"Would ye crowd so on my pleasure, ye unmannerly knaves? Back, I
say! Farther yet!" So they crowded back, as he ordered, many of
them turning their faces away, that they might not see what was
about to happen.
"Come!" cried Little John.
"Here is my breast. It is meet that the same hand that slew my
dear master should butcher me also! I know thee, Guy of
Gisbourne!"
"Peace, Little John!" said
Robin in a low voice. "Twice thou hast said thou knowest me, and
yet thou knowest me not at all. Couldst thou not tell me beneath
this wild beast's hide? Yonder, just in front of thee, lie my
bow and arrows, likewise my broadsword. Take them when I cut thy
bonds. Now! Get them quickly!" So saying, he cut the bonds, and
Little John, quick as a wink, leaped forward and caught up the
bow and arrows and the broadsword. At the same time Robin Hood
threw back the cowl of horse's hide from his face and bent Guy
of Gisbourne's bow, with a keen, barbed arrow fitted to the
string. "Stand back!" cried he sternly. "The first man that
toucheth finger to bowstring dieth! I have slain thy man,
Sheriff; take heed that it is not thy turn next." Then, seeing
that Little John had armed himself, he clapped his bugle horn to
his lips and blew three blasts both loud and shrill.
Now when the Sheriff of
Nottingham saw whose face it was beneath Guy of Gisbourne's
hood, and when he heard those bugle notes ring in his ear, he
felt as if his hour had come. "Robin Hood!" roared he, and
without another word he wheeled his horse in the road and went
off in a cloud of dust. The Sheriff's men, seeing their master
thus fleeing for his life, thought that it was not their
business to tarry longer, so, clapping spurs to their horses,
they also dashed away after him. But though the Sheriff of
Nottingham went fast, he could not outstrip a clothyard arrow.
Little John twanged his bowstring with a shout, and when the
Sheriff dashed in through the gates of Nottingham Town at full
speed, a gray goose shaft stuck out behind him like a moulting
sparrow with one feather in its tail. For a month afterward the
poor Sheriff could sit upon nought but the softest cushions that
could be gotten for him.
Thus the Sheriff and a score of
men ran away from Robin Hood and Little John; so that when Will
Stutely and a dozen or more of stout yeomen burst from out the
covert, they saw nought of their master's enemies, for the
Sheriff and his men were scurrying away in the distance, hidden
within a cloud of dust like a little thunderstorm.
Then they all went back into
the forest once more, where they found the widow's three sons,
who ran to Little John and kissed his hands. But it would not do
for them to roam the forest at large any more; so they promised
that, after they had gone and told their mother of their escape,
they would come that night to the greenwood tree, and
thenceforth become men of the band.

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XXI. King Richard Comes to
Sherwood Forest
Not more than two months had passed and gone since these
stirring adventures befell Robin Hood and Little John, when all
Nottinghamshire was a mighty stir and tumult, for King Richard
of the Lion's Heart was making a royal progress through merry
England, and everyone expected him to come to Nottingham Town in
his journeying. Messengers went riding back and forth between
the Sheriff and the King, until at last the time was fixed upon
when His Majesty was to stop in Nottingham, as the guest of his
worship.
And now came more bustle than
ever; a great running hither and thither, a rapping of hammers
and a babble of voices sounded everywhere through the place, for
the folk were building great arches across the streets, beneath
which the King was to pass, and were draping these arches with
silken banners and streamers of many colors. Great hubbub was
going on in the Guild Hall of the town, also, for here a grand
banquet was to be given to the King and the nobles of his train,
and the best master carpenters were busy building a throne where
the King and the Sheriff were to sit at the head of the table,
side by side.
It seemed to many of the good
folk of the place as if the day that should bring the King into
the town would never come; but all the same it did come in its
own season, and bright shone the sun down into the stony
streets, which were all alive with a restless sea of people. On
either side of the way great crowds of town and country folk
stood packed as close together as dried herring in a box, so
that the Sheriffs men, halberds in hands, could hardly press
them back to leave space for the King's riding.
"Take care whom thou pushest
against!" cried a great, burly friar to one of these men.
"Wouldst thou dig thine elbows into me, sirrah? By'r Lady of the
Fountain, an thou dost not treat me with more deference I will
crack thy knave's pate for thee, even though thou be one of the
mighty Sheriff's men."
At this a great shout of
laughter arose from a number of tall yeomen in Lincoln green
that were scattered through the crowd thereabouts; but one that
seemed of more authority than the others nudged the holy man
with his elbow. "Peace, Tuck," said he, "didst thou not promise
me, ere thou camest here, that thou wouldst put a check upon thy
tongue?"
"Ay, marry," grumbled the
other, "but 'a did not think to have a hard-footed knave trample
all over my poor toes as though they were no more than so many
acorns in the forest."
But of a sudden all this
bickering ceased, for a clear sound of many bugle horns came
winding down the street. Then all the people craned their necks
and gazed in the direction whence the sound came, and the
crowding and the pushing and the swaying grew greater than ever.
And now a gallant array of men came gleaming into sight, and the
cheering of the people ran down the crowd as the fire runs in
dry grass.
Eight and twenty heralds in
velvet and cloth of gold came riding forward. Over their heads
fluttered a cloud of snow-white feathers, and each herald bore
in his hand a long silver trumpet, which he blew musically. From
each trumpet hung a heavy banner of velvet and cloth of gold,
with the royal arms of England emblazoned thereon. After these
came riding fivescore noble knights, two by two, all fully
armed, saving that their heads were uncovered. In their hands
they bore tall lances, from the tops of which fluttered pennons
of many colors and devices. By the side of each knight walked a
page clad in rich clothes of silk and velvet, and each page bore
in his hands his master's helmet, from which waved long,
floating plumes of feathers. Never had Nottingham seen a fairer
sight than those fivescore noble knights, from whose armor the
sun blazed in dazzling light as they came riding on their great
war horses, with clashing of arms and jingling of chains. Behind
the knights came the barons and the nobles of the mid-country,
in robes of silk and cloth of gold, with golden chains about
their necks and jewels at their girdles. Behind these again came
a great array of men-at-arms, with spears and halberds in their
hands, and, in the midst of these, two riders side by side. One
of the horsemen was the Sheriff of Nottingham in his robes of
office. The other, who was a head taller than the Sheriff, was
clad in a rich but simple garb, with a broad, heavy chain about
his neck. His hair and beard were like threads of gold, and his
eyes were as blue as the summer sky. As he rode along he bowed
to the right hand and the left, and a mighty roar of voices
followed him as he passed; for this was King Richard.
Then, above all the tumult and
the shouting a great voice was heard roaring, "Heaven, its
saints bless thee, our gracious King Richard! and likewise Our
Lady of the Fountain, bless thee!" Then King Richard, looking
toward the spot whence the sound came, saw a tall, burly,
strapping priest standing in front of all the crowd with his
legs wide apart as he backed against those behind.
"By my soul, Sheriff," said the
King, laughing, "ye have the tallest priests in Nottinghamshire
that e'er I saw in all my life. If Heaven never answered prayers
because of deafness, methinks I would nevertheless have
blessings bestowed upon me, for that man yonder would make the
great stone image of Saint Peter rub its ears and hearken unto
him. I would that I had an army of such as he."
To this the Sheriff answered
never a word, but all the blood left his cheeks, and he caught
at the pommel of his saddle to keep himself from falling; for he
also saw the fellow that so shouted, and knew him to be Friar
Tuck; and, moreover, behind Friar Tuck he saw the faces of Robin
Hood and Little John and Will Scarlet and Will Stutely and Allan
a Dale and others of the band.
"How now," said the King
hastily, "art thou ill, Sheriff, that thou growest so white?"
"Nay, Your Majesty," said the
Sheriff, "it was nought but a sudden pain that will soon pass
by." Thus he spake, for he was ashamed that the King should know
that Robin Hood feared him so little that he thus dared to come
within the very gates of Nottingham Town.
Thus rode the King into
Nottingham Town on that bright afternoon in the early fall
season; and none rejoiced more than Robin Hood and his merry men
to see him come so royally unto his own.
Eventide had come; the great
feast in the Guild Hall at Nottingham Town was done, and the
wine passed freely. A thousand waxen lights gleamed along the
board, at which sat lord and noble and knight and squire in
goodly array. At the head of the table, upon a throne all hung
with cloth of gold, sat King Richard with the Sheriff of
Nottingham beside him.
Quoth the King to the Sheriff,
laughing as he spoke, "I have heard much spoken concerning the
doings of certain fellows hereabouts, one Robin Hood and his
band, who are outlaws and abide in Sherwood Forest. Canst thou
not tell me somewhat of them, Sir Sheriff? For I hear that thou
hast had dealings with them more than once."
At these words the Sheriff of
Nottingham looked down gloomily, and the Bishop of Hereford, who
was present, gnawed his nether lip. Quoth the Sheriff, "I can
tell Your Majesty but little concerning the doings of those
naughty fellows, saving that they are the boldest lawbreakers in
all the land."
Then up spake young Sir Henry
of the Lea, a great favorite with the King, under whom he had
fought in Palestine. "May it please Your Majesty," said he,
"when I was away in Palestine I heard ofttimes from my father,
and in most cases I heard of this very fellow, Robin Hood. If
Your Majesty would like I will tell you a certain adventure of
this outlaw."
Then the King laughingly bade
him tell his tale, whereupon he told how Robin Hood had aided
Sir Richard of the Lea with money that he had borrowed from the
Bishop of Hereford. Again and again the King and those present
roared with laughter, while the poor Bishop waxed cherry red in
the face with vexation, for the matter was a sore thing with
him. When Sir Henry of the Lea was done, others of those
present, seeing how the King enjoyed this merry tale, told other
tales concerning Robin and his merry men.
"By the hilt of my sword," said
stout King Richard, "this is as bold and merry a knave as ever I
heard tell of. Marry, I must take this matter in hand and do
what thou couldst not do, Sheriff, to wit, clear the forest of
him and his band."
That night the King sat in the
place that was set apart for his lodging while in Nottingham
Town. With him were young Sir Henry of the Lea and two other
knights and three barons of Nottinghamshire; but the King's mind
still dwelled upon Robin Hood. "Now," quoth he, "I would freely
give a hundred pounds to meet this roguish fellow, Robin Hood,
and to see somewhat of his doings in Sherwood Forest."
Then up spake Sir Hubert of
gingham, laughing: "If Your Majesty hath such a desire upon you
it is not so hard to satisfy. If Your Majesty is willing to lose
one hundred pounds, I will engage to cause you not only to meet
this fellow, but to feast with him in Sherwood."
"Marry, Sir Hubert," quoth the
King, "this pleaseth me well. But how wilt thou cause me to meet
Robin Hood?"
"Why, thus," said Sir Hubert,
"let Your Majesty and us here present put on the robes of seven
of the Order of Black Friars, and let Your Majesty hang a purse
of one hundred pounds beneath your gown; then let us undertake
to ride from here to Mansfield Town tomorrow, and, without I am
much mistaken, we will both meet with Robin Hood and dine with
him before the day be passed."
"I like thy plan, Sir Hubert,"
quoth the King merrily, "and tomorrow we will try it and see
whether there be virtue in it."
So it happened that when early
the next morning the Sheriff came to where his liege lord was
abiding, to pay his duty to him, the King told him what they had
talked of the night before, and what merry adventure they were
set upon undertaking that morning. But when the Sheriff heard
this he smote his forehead with his fist. "Alas!" said he, "what
evil counsel is this that hath been given thee! O my gracious
lord and King, you know not what you do! This villain that you
thus go to seek hath no reverence either for king or king's
laws."
"But did I not hear aright when
I was told that this Robin Hood hath shed no blood since he was
outlawed, saving only that of that vile Guy of Gisbourne, for
whose death all honest men should thank him?"
"Yea, Your Majesty," said the
Sheriff, "you have heard aright. Nevertheless--"
"Then," quoth the King,
breaking in on the Sheriffs speech, "what have I to fear in
meeting him, having done him no harm? Truly, there is no danger
in this. But mayhap thou wilt go with us, Sir Sheriff."
"Nay," quoth the Sheriff
hastily, "Heaven forbid!"
But now seven habits such as
Black Friars wear were brought, and the King and those about him
having clad themselves therein, and His Majesty having hung a
purse with a hundred golden pounds in it beneath his robes, they
all went forth and mounted the mules that had been brought to
the door for them. Then the King bade the Sheriff be silent as
to their doings, and so they set forth upon their way. Onward
they traveled, laughing and jesting, until they passed through
the open country; between bare harvest fields whence the harvest
had been gathered home; through scattered glades that began to
thicken as they went farther along, till they came within the
heavy shade of the forest itself. They traveled in the forest
for several miles without meeting anyone such as they sought,
until they had come to that part of the road that lay nearest to
Newstead Abbey.
"By the holy Saint Martin,"
quoth the King, "I would that I had a better head for
remembering things of great need. Here have we come away and
brought never so much as a drop of anything to drink with us.
Now I would give half a hundred pounds for somewhat to quench my
thirst withal."
No sooner had the King so
spoken, than out from the covert at the roadside stepped a tall
fellow with yellow beard and hair and a pair of merry blue eyes.
"Truly, holy brother," said he, laying his hand upon the King's
bridle rein, "it were an unchristian thing to not give fitting
answer to so fair a bargain. We keep an inn hereabouts, and for
fifty pounds we will not only give thee a good draught of wine,
but will give thee as noble a feast as ever thou didst tickle
thy gullet withal." So saying, he put his fingers to his lips
and blew a shrill whistle. Then straightway the bushes and
branches on either side of the road swayed and crackled, and
threescore broad-shouldered yeomen in Lincoln green burst out of
the covert.
"How now, fellow," quoth the
King, "who art thou, thou naughty rogue? Hast thou no regard for
such holy men as we are?"
"Not a whit," quoth merry Robin
Hood, for the fellow was he, "for in sooth all the holiness
belonging to rich friars, such as ye are, one could drop into a
thimble and the goodwife would never feel it with the tip of her
finger. As for my name, it is Robin Hood, and thou mayst have
heard it before."
"Now out upon thee!" quoth King
Richard. "Thou art a bold and naughty fellow and a lawless one
withal, as I have often heard tell. Now, prythee, let me, and
these brethren of mine, travel forward in peace and quietness."
"It may not be," said Robin,
"for it would look but ill of us to let such holy men travel
onward with empty stomachs. But I doubt not that thou hast a fat
purse to pay thy score at our inn since thou offerest freely so
much for a poor draught of wine. Show me thy purse, reverend
brother, or I may perchance have to strip thy robes from thee to
search for it myself."
"Nay, use no force," said the
King sternly. "Here is my purse, but lay not thy lawless hands
upon our person."
"Hut, tut," quoth merry Robin,
"what proud words are these? Art thou the King of England, to
talk so to me? Here, Will, take this purse and see what there is
within."
Will Scarlet took the purse and
counted out the money. Then Robin bade him keep fifty pounds for
themselves, and put fifty back into the purse. This he handed to
the King. "Here, brother," quoth he, "take this half of thy
money, and thank Saint Martin, on whom thou didst call before,
that thou hast fallen into the hands of such gentle rogues that
they will not strip thee bare, as they might do. But wilt thou
not put back thy cowl? For I would fain see thy face."
"Nay," said the King, drawing
back, "I may not put back my cowl, for we seven have vowed that
we will not show our faces for four and twenty hours." ,
"Then keep them covered in
peace," said Robin, "and far be it from me to make you break
your vows."
So he called seven of his
yeomen and bade them each one take a mule by the bridle; then,
turning their faces toward the depths of the woodlands, they
journeyed onward until they came to the open glade and the
greenwood tree.
Little John, with threescore
yeomen at his heels, had also gone forth that morning to wait
along the roads and bring a rich guest to Sherwood glade, if
such might be his luck, for many with fat purses must travel the
roads at this time, when such great doings were going on in
Nottinghamshire, but though Little John and so many others were
gone, Friar Tuck and twoscore or more stout yeomen were seated
or lying around beneath the great tree, and when Robin and the
others came they leaped to their feet to meet him.
"By my soul," quoth merry King
Richard, when he had gotten down from his mule and stood looking
about him, "thou hast in very truth a fine lot of young men
about thee, Robin. Methinks King Richard himself would be glad
of such a bodyguard."
"These are not all of my
fellows," said Robin proudly, "for threescore more of them are
away on business with my good right-hand man, Little John. But,
as for King Richard, I tell thee, brother, there is not a man of
us all but would pour out our blood like water for him. Ye
churchmen cannot rightly understand our King; but we yeomen love
him right loyally for the sake of his brave doings which are so
like our own."
But now Friar Tuck came
bustling up. "Gi' ye good den, brothers," said he. "I am right
glad to welcome some of my cloth in this naughty place. Truly,
methinks these rogues of outlaws would stand but an ill chance
were it not for the prayers of Holy Tuck, who laboreth so hard
for their well-being." Here he winked one eye slyly and stuck
his tongue into his cheek.
"Who art thou, mad priest?"
said the King in a serious voice, albeit he smiled beneath his
cowl.
At this Friar Tuck looked all
around with a slow gaze. "Look you now," quoth he, "never let me
hear you say again that I am no patient man. Here is a knave of
a friar calleth me a mad priest, and yet I smite him not. My
name is Friar Tuck, fellow--the holy Friar Tuck."
"There, Tuck," said Robin,
"thou hast said enow. Prythee, cease thy talk and bring some
wine. These reverend men are athirst, and sin' they have paid so
richly for their score they must e'en have the best."
Friar Tuck bridled at being so
checked in his speech, nevertheless he went straightway to do
Robin's bidding; so presently a great crock was brought, and
wine was poured out for all the guests and for Robin Hood. Then
Robin held his cup aloft. "Stay!" cried he. "Tarry in your
drinking till I give you a pledge. Here is to good King Richard
of great renown, and may all enemies to him be confounded."
Then all drank the King's
health, even the King himself. "Methinks, good fellow," said he,
"thou hast drunk to thine own confusion."
"Never a whit," quoth merry
Robin, "for I tell thee that we of Sherwood are more loyal to
our lord the King than those of thine order. We would give up
our lives for his benefiting, while ye are content to lie snug
in your abbeys and priories let reign who will."
At this the King laughed. Quoth
he, "Perhaps King Richard's welfare is more to me than thou
wottest of, fellow. But enough of that matter. We have paid well
for our fare, so canst thou not show us some merry
entertainment? I have oft heard that ye are wondrous archers;
wilt thou not show us somewhat of your skill?"
"With all my heart," said
Robin, "we are always pleased to show our guests all the sport
that is to be seen. As Gaffer Swanthold sayeth, ` 'Tis a hard
heart that will not give a caged starling of the best'; and
caged starlings ye are with us. Ho, lads! Set up a garland at
the end of the glade."
Then, as the yeomen ran to do
their master's bidding, Tuck turned to one of the mock friars.
"Hearest thou our master?" quoth he, with a sly wink. "Whenever
he cometh across some poor piece of wit he straightway layeth it
on the shoulders of this Gaffer Swanthold--whoever he may be--
so that the poor goodman goeth traveling about with all the odds
and ends and tags and rags of our master's brain packed on his
back." Thus spake Friar Tuck, but in a low voice so that Robin
could not hear him, for he felt somewhat nettled at Robin's
cutting his talk so short.
In the meantime the mark at
which they were to shoot was set up at sixscore paces distance.
It was a garland of leaves and flowers two spans in width, which
same was hung upon a stake in front of a broad tree trunk.
"There," quoth Robin, "yon is a fair mark, lads. Each of you
shoot three arrows thereat; and if any fellow misseth by so much
as one arrow, he shall have a buffet of Will Scarlet's fist."
"Hearken to him!" quoth Friar
Tuck. "Why, master, thou dost bestow buffets from thy strapping
nephew as though they were love taps from some bouncing lass. I
warrant thou art safe to hit the garland thyself, or thou
wouldst not be so free of his cuffing."
First David of Doncaster shot,
and lodged all three of his arrows within the garland. "Well
done, David!" cried Robin, "thou hast saved thine ears from a
warming this day." Next Midge, the Miller, shot, and he, also,
lodged his arrows in the garland. Then followed Wat, the Tinker,
but alas for him! For one of his shafts missed the mark by the
breadth of two fingers.
"Come hither, fellow," said
Will Scarlet, in his soft, gentle voice, "I owe thee somewhat
that I would pay forthwith." Then Wat, the Tinker, came forward
and stood in front of Will Scarlet, screwing up his face and
shutting his eyes tightly, as though he already felt his ears
ringing with the buffet. Will Scarlet rolled up his sleeve, and,
standing on tiptoe to give the greater swing to his arm, he
struck with might and main. "WHOOF!" came his palm against the
Tinker's head, and down went stout Wat to the grass, heels over
head, as the wooden image at the fair goes down when the
skillful player throws a cudgel at it. Then, as the Tinker sat
up upon the grass, rubbing his ear and winking and blinking at
the bright stars that danced before his eyes, the yeomen roared
with mirth till the forest rang. As for King Richard, he laughed
till the tears ran down his cheeks. Thus the band shot, each in
turn, some getting off scot free, and some winning a buffet that
always sent them to the grass. And now, last of all, Robin took
his place, and all was hushed as he shot. The first shaft he
shot split a piece from the stake on which the garland was hung;
the second lodged within an inch of the other. "By my halidom,"
said King Richard to himself, "I would give a thousand pounds
for this fellow to be one of my guard!" And now, for the third
time Robin shot; but, alas for him! The arrow was ill-feathered,
and, wavering to one side, it smote an inch outside the garland.
At this a great roar went up,
those of the yeomen who sat upon the grass rolling over and over
and shouting with laughter, for never before had they seen their
master so miss his mark; but Robin flung his bow upon the ground
with vexation. "Now, out upon it!" cried he. "That shaft had an
ill feather to it, for I felt it as it left my fingers. Give me
a clean arrow, and I will engage to split the wand with it."
At these words the yeomen
laughed louder than ever. "Nay, good uncle," said Will Scarlet
in his soft, sweet voice, "thou hast had thy fair chance and
hast missed thine aim out and out. I swear the arrow was as good
as any that hath been loosed this day. Come hither; I owe thee
somewhat, and would fain pay it."
"Go, good master," roared Friar
Tuck, "and may my blessing go with thee. Thou hast bestowed
these love taps of Will Scarlet's with great freedom. It were
pity an thou gottest not thine own share."
"It may not be," said merry
Robin. "I am king here, and no subject may raise hand against
the king. But even our great King Richard may yield to the holy
Pope without shame, and even take a tap from him by way of
penance; therefore I will yield myself to this holy friar, who
seemeth to be one in authority, and will take my punishment from
him." Thus saying, he turned to the King, "I prythee, brother,
wilt thou take my punishing into thy holy hands?"
"With all my heart," quoth
merry King Richard, rising from where he was sitting. "I owe
thee somewhat for having lifted a heavy weight of fifty pounds
from my purse. So make room for him on the green, lads."
"An thou makest me tumble,"
quoth Robin, "I will freely give thee back thy fifty pounds; but
I tell thee, brother, if thou makest me not feel grass all along
my back, I will take every farthing thou hast for thy boastful
speech."
"So be it," said the King, "I
am willing to venture it." Thereupon he rolled up his sleeve and
showed an arm that made the yeomen stare. But Robin, with his
feet wide apart, stood firmly planted, waiting the other,
smiling. Then the King swung back his arm, and, balancing
himself a moment, he delivered a buffet at Robin that fell like
a thunderbolt. Down went Robin headlong upon the grass, for the
stroke would have felled a stone wall. Then how the yeomen
shouted with laughter till their sides ached, for never had they
seen such a buffet given in all their lives. As for Robin, he
presently sat up and looked all around him, as though he had
dropped from a cloud and had lit in a place he had never seen
before. After a while, still gazing about him at his laughing
yeomen, he put his fingertips softly to his ear and felt all
around it tenderly. "Will Scarlet," said he, "count this fellow
out his fifty pounds; I want nothing more either of his money or
of him. A murrain seize him and his buffeting! I would that I
had taken my dues from thee, for I verily believe he hath
deafened mine ear from ever hearing again."
Then, while gusts of laughter
still broke from the band, Will Scarlet counted out the fifty
pounds, and the King dropped it back into his purse again. "I
give thee thanks, fellow," said he, "and if ever thou shouldst
wish for another box of the ear to match the one thou hast, come
to me and I will fit thee with it for nought."
So spake the merry King; but,
even as he ended, there came suddenly the sound of many voices,
and out from the covert burst Little John and threescore men,
with Sir Richard of the Lea in the midst. Across the glade they
came running, and, as they came, Sir Richard shouted to Robin:
"Make haste, dear friend, gather thy band together and come with
me! King Richard left Nottingham Town this very morning, and
cometh to seek thee in the woodlands. I know not how he cometh,
for it was but a rumor of this that reached me; nevertheless, I
know that it is the truth. Therefore hasten with all thy men,
and come to Castle Lea, for there thou mayst lie hidden till thy
present danger passeth. Who are these strangers that thou hast
with thee?"
"Why," quoth merry Robin,
rising from the grass, "these are certain gentle guests that
came with us from the highroad over by Newstead Abbey. I know
not their names, but I have become right well acquaint with this
lusty rogue's palm this morning. Marry, the pleasure of this
acquaintance hath dost me a deaf ear and fifty pounds to boot!"
Sir Richard looked keenly at
the tall friar, who, drawing himself up to his full height,
looked fixedly back at the knight. Then of a sudden Sir
Richard's cheeks grew pale, for he knew who it was that he
looked upon. Quickly he leaped from off his horse's back and
flung himself upon his knees before the other. At this, the
King, seeing that Sir Richard knew him, threw back his cowl, and
all the yeomen saw his face and knew him also, for there was not
one of them but had been in the crowd in the good town of
Nottingham, and had seen him riding side by side with the
Sheriff. Down they fell upon their knees, nor could they say a
word. Then the King looked all around right grimly, and, last of
all, his glance came back and rested again upon Sir Richard of
the Lea.
"How is this, Sir Richard?"
said he sternly. "How darest thou step between me and these
fellows? And how darest thou offer thy knightly Castle of the
Lea for a refuge to them? Wilt thou make it a hiding place for
the most renowned outlaws in England?"
Then Sir Richard of the Lea
raised his eyes to the King's face. "Far be it from me," said
he, "to do aught that could bring Your Majesty's anger upon me.
Yet, sooner would I face Your Majesty's wrath than suffer aught
of harm that I could stay to fall upon Robin Hood and his band;
for to them I owe life, honor, everything. Should I, then,
desert him in his hour of need?"
Ere the knight had done
speaking, one of the mock friars that stood near the King came
forward and knelt beside Sir Richard, and throwing back his cowl
showed the face of young Sir Henry of the Lea. Then Sir Henry
grasped his father's hand and said, "Here kneels one who hath
served thee well, King Richard, and, as thou knowest, hath
stepped between thee and death in Palestine; yet do I abide by
my dear father, and here I say also, that I would freely give
shelter to this noble outlaw, Robin Hood, even though it brought
thy wrath upon me, for my father's honor and my father's welfare
are as dear to me as mine own."
King Richard looked from one to
the other of the kneeling knights, and at last the frown faded
from his brow and a smile twitched at the corners of his lips.
"Marry, Sir Richard," quoth the King, "thou art a bold-spoken
knight, and thy freedom of speech weigheth not heavily against
thee with me. This young son of thine taketh after his sire both
in boldness of speech and of deed, for, as he sayeth, he stepped
one time betwixt me and death; wherefore I would pardon thee for
his sake even if thou hadst done more than thou hast. Rise all
of you, for ye shall suffer no harm through me this day, for it
were pity that a merry time should end in a manner as to mar its
joyousness."
Then all arose and the King
beckoned Robin Hood to come to him. "How now," quoth he, "is
thine ear still too deaf to hear me speak?"
"Mine ears would be deafened in
death ere they would cease to hear Your Majesty's voice," said
Robin. "As for the blow that Your Majesty struck me, I would say
that though my sins are haply many, methinks they have been paid
up in full thereby."
"Thinkest thou so?" said the
King with somewhat of sternness in his voice. "Now I tell thee
that but for three things, to wit, my mercifulness, my love for
a stout woodsman, and the loyalty thou hast avowed for me, thine
ears, mayhap, might have been more tightly closed than ever a
buffet from me could have shut them. Talk not lightly of thy
sins, good Robin. But come, look up. Thy danger is past, for
hereby I give thee and all thy band free pardon. But, in sooth,
I cannot let you roam the forest as ye have done in the past;
therefore I will take thee at thy word, when thou didst say thou
wouldst give thy service to me, and thou shalt go back to London
with me. We will take that bold knave Little John also, and
likewise thy cousin, Will Scarlet, and thy minstrel, Allan a
Dale. As for the rest of thy band, we will take their names and
have them duly recorded as royal rangers; for methinks it were
wiser to have them changed to law-abiding caretakers of our deer
in Sherwood than to leave them to run at large as outlawed
slayers thereof. But now get a feast ready; I would see how ye
live in the woodlands."
So Robin bade his men make
ready a grand feast. Straightway great fires were kindled and
burned brightly, at which savory things roasted sweetly. While
this was going forward, the King bade Robin call Allan a Dale,
for he would hear him sing. So word was passed for Allan, and
presently he came, bringing his harp.
"Marry," said King Richard, "if
thy singing match thy looks it is fair enough. Prythee, strike
up a ditty and let us have a taste of thy skill."
Then Allan touched his harp
lightly, and all words were hushed while he sang thus:
" `Oh, where has thou been, my
daughter?
Oh, where hast thou been this day
Daughter, my daughter?'
`Oh, I have been to the river's side,
Where the waters lie all gray and wide,
And the gray sky broods o'er the leaden tide,
And the shrill wind sighs a straining.'
" `What sawest thou there, my
daughter?
What sawest thou there this day,
Daughter, my daughter?'
`Oh, I saw a boat come drifting nigh,
Where the quivering rushes hiss and sigh,
And the water soughs as it gurgles by,
And the shrill wind sighs a straining.'
" `What sailed in the boat, my
daughter?
What sailed in the boat this day,
Daughter, my daughter?'
`Oh, there was one all clad in white,
And about his face hung a pallid light,
And his eyes gleamed sharp like the stars at night,
And the shrill wind sighed a straining.'
" `And what said he, my
daughter?
What said he to thee this day,
Daughter, my daughter?'
`Oh, said he nought, but did he this:
Thrice on my lips did he press a kiss,
And my heartstrings shrunk with an awful bliss,
And the shrill wind sighed a straining,.'
" `Why growest thou so cold, my
daughter?
Why growest thou so cold and white,
Daughter, my daughter?'
Oh, never a word the daughter said,
But she sat all straight with a drooping head,
For her heart was stilled and her face was dead:
And the shrill wind sighed a straining."
All listened in silence; and when Allan a Dale had done King
Richard heaved a sigh. "By the breath of my body, Allan," quoth
he, "thou hast such a wondrous sweet voice that it strangely
moves my heart. But what doleful ditty is this for the lips of a
stout yeoman? I would rather hear thee sing a song of love and
battle than a sad thing like that. Moreover, I understand it
not; what meanest thou by the words?"
"I know not, Your Majesty,"
said Allan, shaking his head, "for ofttimes I sing that which I
do not clearly understand mine own self."
"Well, well," quoth the King,
"let it pass; only I tell thee this, Allan, thou shouldst turn
thy songs to such matters as I spoke of, to wit, love or war;
for in sooth thou hast a sweeter voice than Blondell, and
methought he was the best minstrel that ever I heard."
But now one came forward and
said that the feast was ready; so Robin Hood brought King
Richard and those with him to where it lay all spread out on
fair white linen cloths which lay upon the soft green grass.
Then King Richard sat him down and feasted and drank, and when
he was done he swore roundly that he had never sat at such a
lusty repast in all his life before.
That night he lay in Sherwood
Forest upon a bed of sweet green leaves, and early the next
morning he set forth from the woodlands for Nottingham Town,
Robin Hood and all of his band going with him. You may guess
what a stir there was in the good town when all these famous
outlaws came marching into the streets. As for the Sheriff, he
knew not what to say nor where to look when he saw Robin Hood in
such high favor with the King, while all his heart was filled
with gall because of the vexation that lay upon him.
The next day the King took
leave of Nottingham Town; so Robin Hood and Little John and Will
Scarlet and Allan a Dale shook hands with all the rest of the
band, kissing the cheeks of each man, and swearing that they
would often come to Sherwood and see them. Then each mounted his
horse and rode away in the train of the King.

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Epilogue
Thus end the Merry Adventures of Robin Hood; for, in spite of
his promise, it was many a year ere he saw Sherwood again.
After a year or two at court
Little John came back to Nottinghamshire, where he lived in an
orderly way, though within sight of Sherwood, and where he
achieved great fame as the champion of all England with the
quarterstaff. Will Scarlet after a time came back to his own
home, whence he had been driven by his unlucky killing of his
father's steward. The rest of the band did their duty as royal
rangers right well. But Robin Hood and Allan a Dale did not come
again to Sherwood so quickly, for thus it was:
Robin, through his great fame
as an archer, became a favorite with the King, so that he
speedily rose in rank to be the chief of all the yeomen. At last
the King, seeing how faithful and how loyal he was, created him
Earl of Huntingdon; so Robin followed the King to the wars, and
found his time so full that he had no chance to come back to
Sherwood for even so much as a day. As for Allan a Dale and his
wife, the fair Ellen, they followed Robin Hood and shared in all
his ups and downs of life.
And now, dear friend, you who
have journeyed with me in all these merry doings, I will not bid
you follow me further, but will drop your hand here with a "good
den," if you wish it; for that which cometh hereafter speaks of
the breaking up of things, and shows how joys and pleasures that
are dead and gone can never be set upon their feet to walk
again. I will not dwell upon the matter overlong, but will tell
as speedily as may be of how that stout fellow, Robin Hood, died
as he had lived, not at court as Earl of Huntingdon, but with
bow in hand, his heart in the greenwood, and he himself a right
yeoman.
King Richard died upon the
battlefield, in such a way as properly became a lion-hearted
king, as you yourself, no doubt, know; so, after a time, the
Earl of Huntingdon--or Robin Hood, as we still call him as of
old-- finding nothing for his doing abroad, came back to merry
England again. With him came Allan a Dale and his wife, the fair
Ellen, for these two had been chief of Robin's household ever
since he had left Sherwood Forest.
It was in the springtime when
they landed once more on the shores of England. The leaves were
green and the small birds sang blithely, just as they used to do
in fair Sherwood when Robin Hood roamed the woodland shades with
a free heart and a light heel. All the sweetness of the time and
the joyousness of everything brought back to Robin's mind his
forest life, so that a great longing came upon him to behold the
woodlands once more. So he went straightway to King John and
besought leave of him to visit Nottingham for a short season.
The King gave him leave to come and to go, but bade him not stay
longer than three days at Sherwood. So Robin Hood and Allan a
Dale set forth without delay to Nottinghamshire and Sherwood
Forest.
The first night they took up
their inn at Nottingham Town, yet they did not go to pay their
duty to the Sheriff, for his worship bore many a bitter grudge
against Robin Hood, which grudges had not been lessened by
Robin's rise in the world. The next day at an early hour they
mounted their horses and set forth for the woodlands. As they
passed along the road it seemed to Robin that he knew every
stick and stone that his eyes looked upon. Yonder was a path
that he had ofttimes trod of a mellow evening, with Little John
beside him; here was one, now nigh choked with brambles, along
which he and a little band had walked when they went forth to
seek a certain curtal friar.
Thus they rode slowly onward,
talking about these old, familiar things; old and yet new, for
they found more in them than they had ever thought of before.
Thus at last they came to the open glade, and the broad,
wide-spreading greenwood tree which was their home for so many
years. Neither of the two spoke when they stood beneath that
tree. Robin looked all about him at the well-known things, so
like what they used to be and yet so different; for, where once
was the bustle of many busy fellows was now the quietness of
solitude; and, as he looked, the woodlands, the greensward, and
the sky all blurred together in his sight through salt tears,
for such a great yearning came upon him as he looked on these
things (as well known to him as the fingers of his right hand)
that he could not keep back the water from his eyes.
That morning he had slung his
good old bugle horn over his shoulder, and now, with the
yearning, came a great longing to sound his bugle once more. He
raised it to his lips; he blew a blast. "Tirila, lirila," the
sweet, clear notes went winding down the forest paths, coming
back again from the more distant bosky shades in faint echoes of
sound, "Tirila, lirila, tirila, lirila," until it faded away and
was lost.
Now it chanced that on that
very morn Little John was walking through a spur of the forest
upon certain matters of business, and as he paced along, sunk in
meditation, the faint, clear notes of a distant bugle horn came
to his ear. As leaps the stag when it feels the arrow at its
heart, so leaped Little John when that distant sound met his
ear. All the blood in his body seemed to rush like a flame into
his cheeks as he bent his head and listened. Again came the
bugle note, thin and clear, and yet again it sounded. Then
Little John gave a great, wild cry of yearning, of joy, and yet
of grief, and, putting down his head, he dashed into the
thicket. Onward he plunged, crackling and rending, as the wild
boar rushes through the underbrush. Little recked he of thorns
and briers that scratched his flesh and tore his clothing, for
all he thought of was to get, by the shortest way, to the
greenwood glade whence he knew the sound of the bugle horn came.
Out he burst from the covert, at last, a shower of little broken
twigs falling about him, and, without pausing a moment, rushed
forward and flung himself at Robin's feet. Then he clasped his
arms around the master's knees, and all his body was shaken with
great sobs; neither could Robin nor Allan a Dale speak, but
stood looking down at Little John, the tears rolling down their
cheeks.
While they thus stood, seven
royal rangers rushed into the open glade and raised a great
shout of joy at the sight of Robin; and at their head was Will
Stutely. Then, after a while, came four more, panting with their
running, and two of these four were Will Scathelock and Midge,
the Miller; for all of these had heard the sound of Robin Hood's
horn. All these ran to Robin and kissed his hands and his
clothing, with great sound of weeping.
After a while Robin looked
around him with tear-dimmed eyes and said, in a husky voice,
"Now, I swear that never again will I leave these dear
woodlands. I have been away from them and from you too long. Now
do I lay by the name of Robert, Earl of Huntingdon, and take
upon me once again that nobler title, Robin Hood, the Yeoman."
At this a great shout went up, and all the yeomen shook one
another's hands for joy.
The news that Robin Hood had
come back again to dwell in Sherwood as of old spread like
wildfire all over the countryside, so that ere a se'ennight had
passed nearly all of his old yeomen had gathered about him
again. But when the news of all this reached the ears of King
John, he swore both loud and deep, and took a solemn vow that he
would not rest until he had Robin Hood in his power, dead or
alive. Now there was present at court a certain knight, Sir
William Dale, as gallant a soldier as ever donned harness. Sir
William Dale was well acquainted with Sherwood Forest, for he
was head keeper over that part of it that lay nigh to good
Mansfield Town; so to him the King turned, and bade him take an
army of men and go straightway to seek Robin Hood. Likewise the
King gave Sir William his signet ring to show to the Sheriff,
that he might raise all his armed men to aid the others in their
chase of Robin. So Sir William and the Sheriff set forth to do
the King's bidding and to search for Robin Hood; and for seven
days they hunted up and down, yet found him not.
Now, had Robin Hood been as
peaceful as of old, everything might have ended in smoke, as
other such ventures had always done before; but he had fought
for years under King Richard, and was changed from what he used
to be. It galled his pride to thus flee away before those sent
against him, as a chased fox flees from the hounds; so thus it
came about, at last, that Robin Hood and his yeomen met Sir
William and the Sheriff and their men in the forest, and a
bloody fight followed. The first man slain in that fight was the
Sheriff of Nottingham, for he fell from his horse with an arrow
in his brain ere half a score of shafts had been sped. Many a
better man than the Sheriff kissed the sod that day, but at
last, Sir William Dale being wounded and most of his men slain,
he withdrew, beaten, and left the forest. But scores of good
fellows were left behind him, stretched out all stiff beneath
the sweet green boughs.
But though Robin Hood had
beaten off his enemies in fair fight, all this lay heavily upon
his mind, so that he brooded over it until a fever seized upon
him. For three days it held him, and though he strove to fight
it off, he was forced to yield at last. Thus it came that, on
the morning of the fourth day, he called Little John to him, and
told him that he could not shake the fever from him, and that he
would go to his cousin, the prioress of the nunnery near
Kirklees, in Yorkshire, who was a skillful leech, and he would
have her open a vein in his arm and take a little blood from
him, for the bettering of his health. Then he bade Little John
make ready to go also, for he might perchance need aid in his
journeying. So Little John and he took their leave of the
others, and Robin Hood bade Will Stutely be the captain of the
band until they should come back. Thus they came by easy stages
and slow journeying until they reached the Nunnery of Kirklees.
Now Robin had done much to aid
this cousin of his; for it was through King Richard's love of
him that she had been made prioress of the place. But there is
nought in the world so easily forgot as gratitude; so, when the
Prioress of Kirklees had heard how her cousin, the Earl of
Huntingdon, had thrown away his earldom and gone back again to
Sherwood, she was vexed to the soul, and feared lest her
cousinship with him should bring the King's wrath upon her also.
Thus it happened that when Robin came to her and told her how he
wished her services as leech, she began plotting ill against him
in her mind, thinking that by doing evil to him she might find
favor with his enemies. Nevertheless, she kept this well to
herself and received Robin with seeming kindness. She led him up
the winding stone stair to a room which was just beneath the
eaves of a high, round tower; but she would not let Little John
come with him.
So the poor yeoman turned his
feet away from the door of the nunnery, and left his master in
the hands of the women. But, though he did not come in, neither
did he go far away; for he laid him down in a little glade near
by, where he could watch the place that Robin abided, like some
great, faithful dog turned away from the door where his master
has entered.
After the women had gotten
Robin Hood to the room beneath the eaves, the Prioress sent all
of the others away; then, taking a little cord, she tied it
tightly about Robin's arm, as though she were about to bleed
him. And so she did bleed him, but the vein she opened was not
one of those that lie close and blue beneath the skin; deeper
she cut than that, for she opened one of those veins through
which the bright red blood runs leaping from the heart. Of this
Robin knew not; for, though he saw the blood flow, it did not
come fast enough to make him think that there was anything ill
in it.
Having done this vile deed, the
Prioress turned and left her cousin, locking the door behind
her. All that livelong day the blood ran from Robin Hood's arm,
nor could he check it, though he strove in every way to do so.
Again and again he called for help, but no help came, for his
cousin had betrayed him, and Little John was too far away to
hear his voice. So he bled and bled until he felt his strength
slipping away from him. Then he arose, tottering, and bearing
himself up by the palms of his hands against the wall, he
reached his bugle horn at last. Thrice he sounded it, but weakly
and faintly, for his breath was fluttering through sickness and
loss of strength; nevertheless, Little John heard it where he
lay in the glade, and, with a heart all sick with dread, he came
running and leaping toward the nunnery. Loudly he knocked at the
door, and in a loud voice shouted for them to let him in, but
the door was of massive oak, strongly barred, and studded with
spikes, so they felt safe, and bade Little John begone.
Then Little John's heart was
mad with grief and fear for his master's life. Wildly he looked
about him, and his sight fell upon a heavy stone mortar, such as
three men could not lift nowadays. Little John took three steps
forward, and, bending his back, heaved the stone mortar up from
where it stood deeply rooted. Staggering under its weight, he
came forward and hurled it crashing against the door. In burst
the door, and away fled the frightened nuns, shrieking, at his
coming. Then Little John strode in, and never a word said he,
but up the winding stone steps he ran till he reached the room
wherein his master was. Here he found the door locked also, but,
putting his shoulder against it, he burst the locks as though
they were made of brittle ice.
There he saw his own dear
master leaning against the gray stone wall, his face all white
and drawn, and his head swaying to and fro with weakness. Then,
with a great, wild cry of love and grief and pity, Little John
leaped forward and caught Robin Hood in his arms. Up he lifted
him as a mother lifts her child, and carrying him to the bed,
laid him tenderly thereon.
And now the Prioress came in
hastily, for she was frightened at what she had done, and
dreaded the vengeance of Little John and the others of the band;
then she stanched the blood by cunning bandages, so that it
flowed no more. All the while Little John stood grimly by, and
after she had done he sternly bade her to begone, and she
obeyed, pale and trembling. Then, after she had departed, Little
John spake cheering words, laughing loudly, and saying that all
this was a child's fright, and that no stout yeoman would die at
the loss of a few drops of blood. "Why," quoth he, "give thee a
se'ennight and thou wilt be roaming the woodlands as boldly as
ever."
But Robin shook his head and
smiled faintly where he lay. "Mine own dear Little John,"
whispered he, "Heaven bless thy kind, rough heart. But, dear
friend, we will never roam the woodlands together again."
"Ay, but we will!" quoth Little
John loudly. "I say again, ay--out upon it-- who dares say that
any more harm shall come upon thee? Am I not by? Let me see who
dares touch"--Here he stopped of a sudden, for his words choked
him. At last he said, in a deep, husky voice, "Now, if aught of
harm befalls thee because of this day's doings, I swear by Saint
George that the red cock shall crow over the rooftree of this
house, for the hot flames shall lick every crack and cranny
thereof. As for these women"--here he ground his teeth-- "it
will be an ill day for them!"
But Robin Hood took Little
John's rough, brown fist in his white hands, and chid him softly
in his low, weak voice, asking him since what time Little John
had thought of doing harm to women, even in vengeance. Thus he
talked till, at last, the other promised, in a choking voice,
that no ill should fall upon the place, no matter what happened.
Then a silence fell, and Little John sat with Robin Hood's hand
in his, gazing out of the open window, ever and anon swallowing
a great lump that came in his throat. Meantime the sun dropped
slowly to the west, till all the sky was ablaze with a red
glory. Then Robin Hood, in a weak, faltering voice, bade Little
John raise him that he might look out once more upon the
woodlands; so the yeoman lifted him in his arms, as he bade, and
Robin Hood's head lay on his friend's shoulder. Long he gazed,
with a wide, lingering look, while the other sat with bowed
head, the hot tears rolling one after another from his eyes, and
dripping upon his bosom, for he felt that the time of parting
was near at hand. Then, presently, Robin Hood bade him string
his stout bow for him, and choose a smooth fair arrow from his
quiver. This Little John did, though without disturbing his
master or rising from where he sat. Robin Hood's fingers wrapped
lovingly around his good bow, and he smiled faintly when he felt
it in his grasp, then he nocked the arrow on that part of the
string that the tips of his fingers knew so well. "Little John,"
said he, "Little John, mine own dear friend, and him I love
better than all others in the world, mark, I prythee, where this
arrow lodges, and there let my grave be digged. Lay me with my
face toward the East, Little John, and see that my resting place
be kept green, and that my weary bones be not disturbed."
As he finished speaking, he
raised himself of a sudden and sat upright. His old strength
seemed to come back to him, and, drawing the bowstring to his
ear, he sped the arrow out of the open casement. As the shaft
flew, his hand sank slowly with the bow till it lay across his
knees, and his body likewise sank back again into Little John's
loving arms; but something had sped from that body, even as the
winged arrow sped from the bow.
For some minutes Little John
sat motionless, but presently he laid that which he held gently
down, then, folding the hands upon the breast and covering up
the face, he turned upon his heel and left the room without a
word or a sound.
Upon the steep stairway he met
the Prioress and some of the chief among the sisters. To them he
spoke in a deep, quivering voice, and said he, "An ye go within
a score of feet of yonder room, I will tear down your rookery
over your heads so that not one stone shall be left upon
another. Bear my words well in mind, for I mean them." So
saying, he turned and left them, and they presently saw him
running rapidly across the open, through the falling of the
dusk, until he was swallowed up by the forest.
The early gray of the coming
morn was just beginning to lighten the black sky toward the
eastward when Little John and six more of the band came rapidly
across the open toward the nunnery. They saw no one, for the
sisters were all hidden away from sight, having been frightened
by Little John's words. Up the stone stair they ran, and a great
sound of weeping was presently heard. After a while this ceased,
and then came the scuffling and shuffling of men's feet as they
carried a heavy weight down the steep and winding stairs. So
they went forth from the nunnery, and, as they passed through
the doors thereof, a great, loud sound of wailing arose from the
glade that lay all dark in the dawning, as though many men,
hidden in the shadows, had lifted up their voices in sorrow.
Thus died Robin Hood, at
Kirklees Nunnery, in fair Yorkshire, with mercy in his heart
toward those that had been his undoing; for thus he showed mercy
for the erring and pity for the weak through all the time of his
living
His yeomen were scattered
henceforth, but no great ill befell them thereafter, for a more
merciful sheriff and one who knew them not so well succeeding
the one that had gone, and they being separated here and there
throughout the countryside, they abided in peace and quietness,
so that many lived to hand down these tales to their children
and their children's children.
A certain one sayeth that upon
a stone at Kirklees is an old inscription. This I give in the
ancient English in which it was written, and thus it runs:
HEAR UNDERNEAD DIS LAITL STEAN
LAIS ROBERT EARL OF HUNTINGTUN NEA ARCIR VER AS HIE SAE GEUD AN
PIPL KAULD IM ROBIN HEUD SICK UTLAWS AS HI AN IS MEN VIL ENGLAND
NIDIR SI AGEN OBIIT 24 KAL. DEKEMBRIS 1247.
And now, dear friend, we also
must part, for our merry journeyings have ended, and here, at
the grave of Robin Hood, we turn, each going his own way.
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