The Chronicles of Robin Hood (6 page)

The abbot’s steward had been in disgrace with his master since Robin’s escape, and there were few things he desired so much in this world as he desired to revenge himself on the man who had caused him to be disgraced.

‘So it is a time for wiping out old scores, is it?’ muttered Robin, and took deliberate aim; but before his shaft found its mark the wave of hounds had hurled itself against the men-at-arms. The men fought grimly with sword and dagger against the terrible and unexpected enemy, and ever and anon Robin’s shafts hummed into their midst. Yet they were no cowards, and slowly they were fighting
their way towards the two who stood at bay upon the little knoll.

Three of the men-at-arms lay still upon the turf, but Guy of Gisborne was not among them. Robin’s arrow had missed his heart, and he still pressed on, with the shaft sticking in his left shoulder.

The attackers were now only a few yards away, and several of Friar Tuck’s ban-dogs had fought their last fight. Then Robin tossed down his now useless bow and drew his sword. Seeing that the dreaded arrows were no longer to be feared, the men-at-arms set up a shout and came on at increased speed.

But in that instant their shout was answered by another, and down from the woods at Robin’s right hand came running a score of brown-clad figures, nocking their arrows to their bowstrings as they ran; and at their head was a gigantic man who seemed, to the startled eyes of the men-at-arms, to be as tall as a tree. The abbot’s henchmen looked from this new menace to the two men who awaited their coming upon the knoll. They wavered, and looked back at the advancing outlaws.

Then they ran. Guy of Gisborne was the last to turn: ashen faced, and with blood trickling crimson from the wound in his shoulder, he cast one glance, dark with hatred, at Robin, then he too turned and ran, swaying a little in his tracks.

The hounds raced, baying and slavering, at their heels, and the men of the Greenwood swept yelling after them. In a few moments the forest had swallowed hunters and hunted alike.

Alone on the knoll, Robin and Friar Tuck looked at each other, breathing quickly, while the noise of the
pursuit grew fainter and died away. Then Robin stooped for his bow and, with the huge friar beside him, made his way down to the level ground. Three dead men lay on the trampled turf. Friar Tuck passed them without a glance, and halting beside the outstretched body of a dead hound, bent to stroke the shaggy head; and Robin was surprised to see how gentle his big hand had become.

‘Good hunting, old Gelert,’ he said softly; ‘and you too, Beaufort and Cavell. Good hunting among the stars. You were faithful friends.’ Then he straightened up and turned to Robin. ‘You are a costly man to befriend, Master Outlaw.’

Robin stood looking down at the dead hounds. Suddenly he remembered Trusty, and his heart was sore.

‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I also have grieved for a slain hound in my time’; and impulsively he held out his hand, which Friar Tuck caught and wrung in token of friendship.

There came a rustle among the trees, and the friar, after listening an instant, whistled again. He was answered by a sharp, excited bark. Next moment seven hounds came loping out from the undergrowth. They ran to their master and thrust their great savage heads against him. He called them by name, greeting and praising them while he rubbed one after another behind the ears and fondled their thrusting muzzles.

‘So-ho! Luath! So-ho! Levin! That was brave work, Bran and Orthros. Sweff, sweff, little brothers!’

He was still making much of them, and Robin was standing by, watching with a half smile, when once again the outlaws issued from the forest. Little John came striding to his leader, breathless and laughing.

‘We have seen the abbot’s pack well on the way to York, Master. They will scarce stop running this side of the city gates, I’ll warrant me,’ he said; ‘and they have left their horses behind them.’

‘That is brave news,’ said Robin; ‘for we have need of horses!’ He looked round his band proudly, and then turned to the huge monk. ‘Friar Tuck, I have heard of you, that you are a just and kindly man, and to-day I have found you a brave one. Now it is in my mind that we need a chaplain, my lads and I. Will you come to us, then, and say the daily mass, and the high mass on holy days?’

‘I will come,’ replied Friar Tuck. ‘I will come gladly, for I have heard of you also, for a good friend to the poor and oppressed, and an enemy to the overfed prelates and brutal lords, who are my enemies too.’

Little John came to him, with huge hand outstretched; Much, Scarlet, and Will-the-Bowman followed, and the rest of the band crowded round, while the gigantic monk turned from one to another of his new friends, returning their ready handclasps, his placid face alight with pleasure in their fellowship—for despite his solitary ways he was a man who loved his fellow men.

So it was that when the outlaw band marched into camp that night Friar Tuck strode in their midst, with his habit kilted up to his knees, his buckler at his back, and the seven great hounds padding along beside him.

LIKE MOST PEOPLE
who live close to the earth, Robin and his band were used to eating only twice in the day—in the morning before the day’s work began, and again in the evening, after it was done. But to-day was midsummer, the feast of St. John the Baptist, when all the country folk held high festival and Robin decreed a holiday for his men. So, at the far end of the Stane Ley, the cooks were tending a midday meal which was already beginning to send out a savoury smell of broiled venison and new bread and river trout. And dotted about the open turf, passing the time as best pleased them, the outlaws waited for their dinner.

It was very hot in the glade, though the shadows lay
black and cool beneath the trees that rimmed it round, and the friar’s dogs lay sprawled out among the outlaws, sleeping, or snapping at the midges that hovered up and down in the sunshine.

‘Dinner smells good!’ said Little John, lounging against the silver trunk of a beech tree. He thrust out a foot and poked idly with his toe at Will Scarlet, who lay on his stomach, half in shade and half in sunshine, rubbing Orthros behind the ears; and Scarlet raised his head and sniffed loudly.

Much, sitting cross-legged beside him (for the three were seldom apart), looked up from the piece of harness he was mending. ‘Blessings upon St. John,’ said he, ‘I am hungry already.’

Little John laughed; and a companionable silence fell between them, until Robin came across the glade from the stables and joined them. He stood for a few moments, looking out from the shade of the tree, across the sunlit turf. Then he gave a small chuckle.

‘Did ever you see revellers taking their pleasures so peacefully?’ said he. ‘Hob mends his tattered hose, Diccon whistles between his teeth, Red Hugh and Barnaby would seem to be setting the world to rights, judging by their solemn faces; Will Stukely whittles a stick. The rest of you sleep in the sunshine—you do not even snap at flies, like the good friar’s hounds!’ He considered a while, then dropped his hand from Little John’s shoulder: ‘I have it! We need a guest, to wake us up!’

‘Where shall we find our guest, Master?’ asked Little John.

‘Go up through the willow plantation, to Irming Street, the three of you,’ Robin said quickly. ‘Many come and
go along that road, and assuredly our guest will fall into your hands before long. When you have him, bring him to me—be he knight, monk, or yeoman—and we will make merry in his honour, and at his expense, if his coffers are well lined!’

So the three took up their bows and slipped away into the forest; and behind them the glade settled back into its noontide peace.

They went swiftly eastward, by deer-paths that were as well known to them as the lines on their own palms, until they came at last up through the willows to the ancient paved way that ran north through the forest, straight as an arrow to the gates of York. Just here, three roads ran into the Irming Street, and the high ground gave them a wide view over the country-side. They looked north-west into the great hollow of Barnesdale, and saw the roads empty of life. North they looked, and east towards the sea, with no better result; but when they looked far to the south, along the road that led from Doncaster, they beheld a mounted figure, small with distance as an ant, coming slowly towards them.

‘There rides our guest,’ said Little John. ‘Much, your eyes be like a hawk’s; what kind of man is he? Knight or churchman?’

Much shaded his eyes from the sun with his hand, gazing away and away down the long white ribbon of the road; then he shook his head. ‘He is too far off as yet; but I think—I catch the glint of mail in the sunshine.’

‘Ah well,’ said Will Scarlet, with a laugh; ‘he will be up with us soon enough, and whatever his kind, he is our diner.’

They settled themselves in the dry ditch below the willows to wait. Before long they heard the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves approaching, and, looking southward between the trees, they beheld a knight on a tall white horse riding towards them. He rode with his chin sunk on his breast and dejection in every line of his drooping figure. One stirrup swung free, slapping against his mailed foot, and the bridle hung loosely from his lax hand. It seemed that he rode with no eye for the June-tide forest, nor ear for the distant cuckoo; and so sunk was he in his own unhappiness that he never saw the three figures beside the road until Little John had stepped forward and caught his bridle. Then he roused himself with a start and his hand flew towards his sword hilt.

Little John looked up into the pleasant, tired face of the knight, and shook his head. ‘Nay, Sir Knight, there be no need to draw your sword, for we three are honest rangers of the forest, sent by our master to bid you dine with him to-day.’

‘And who is your master?’ asked the knight, still with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

‘His name is Robin Hood—Robin of Barnesdale some folks call him—and he is lord of these parts.’

Then the knight’s weary face lit into a smile. ‘I had meant to press on into Selby before breaking my fast,’ he said, ‘but if your master is Robin Hood I shall be very glad to dine with him, for I have heard much of him and I have long desired to meet so gallant an outlaw.’ And he turned his horse from the track, in among the trees, in obedience to the wood-ranger’s hand on the bridle.

So they took to the forest: the three outlaws and the knight, Little John walking with his hand on the horse’s
bridle and the other two bringing up the rear; and as they went, the knight was very silent and his face was drawn and sad in the shadow of his mail coif.

When they reached the Stane Ley their appearance was greeted by a shout of welcome, for the outlaws were becoming very hungry and the cooks were at their wits’ end to keep the dinner from spoiling.

As the knight slid heavily from the saddle, Robin came with courteously doffed bonnet to bid him welcome, and led him across the turf to the cool shade of the trysting lime, where Friar Tuck waited to say the customary mass. Kneeling reverently in a wide half-circle about the gigantic monk, the outlaw brotherhood heard mass, and when it was over, all sat down to the feast which was now prepared.

Robin sat in his own place between the spreading roots of the lime tree—the place that had become both throne and council seat—with his guest beside him. The knight looked with wonder at the rich food, but Robin noticed that he ate very little, seeming to have no appetite, though he looked hungry enough, and though his armour was well cared for, his surcoat was woefully shabby.

So while Robin played the courteous host, he thought very deeply, and watched his guest, and thought again. At last, when the knight had given up all pretence of eating, and washed his fingers in the bowl which Little John held for him, he said: ‘Now, Sir Knight, I must trouble you for payment, for it is not right that a yeoman should pay for a knight’s meal.’

The knight looked up quickly and his thin cheek flushed crimson. ‘Alas!’ he exclaimed, spreading his hands; ‘I have but ten shillings in the world; but if that will cover
the cost of my meal, you are very welcome to it. It is in the coffer, yonder at my saddle-bow.’

Robin nodded to Little John, who went to the knight’s horse, which was tethered nearby, and taking the coffer from its place, tipped the contents into his palm. There were ten silver shillings, neither more nor less, and he counted them slowly in his hand, while the knight watched him with shame in his eyes.

‘Our guest spoke the truth,’ said Little John. ‘What shall I do with the money, Master?’

‘Put it back where it came from, lad,’ said Robin with a smile, and turning to his companion, he laid a hand on his bowed shoulder and said kindly: ‘I ask your pardon for seeming to doubt your word, Sir Knight. But I think you are sick at heart, for you have scarcely eaten and there is trouble in your eyes. Will you not tell me the cause of your distress, for it may be that I can help you?’

‘That you can help me, I doubt,’ said the knight quietly. ‘But if it interests you, I will tell you the cause of my distress. It is simply this: a few months ago I had four hundred pounds saved, and broad lands at Linden Lea, hard by Nottingham; and to-day I have nothing.’

‘And how did you come to lose all this?’

The knight looked away down the glade in silence for a few moments, and then began to speak. ‘I have a son. I left him to hold my estates while I followed the king to the Holy Land, and when I returned two years later, I found my son in prison. He had slain a man. Oh! it was done in fair fight; but the man was an old foe of mine, and his friends were many and powerful. I spent all the money I had to save my son from death. I mortgaged the land my forefathers had held since long before William
of Normandy set foot in England. What else could I do? I loved the lad. Now my land lies in pledge to the Abbot of St. Mary’s Abbey. To-morrow the mortgage falls due and I have no hope of redeeming it. I was on my way to York to throw myself upon his mercy when your men found me; and all the world knows that the Abbot of St. Mary’s Abbey has less mercy than the grey wolf of the wilderness.’