THE YEARS WENT by and Robin Hood and his men still ruled the forests of Sherwood and Barnesdale. There were some new faces round the camp fire in the evenings now, and certain of the old familiar faces were gone, for the life of a wolfshead was at all times an uncertain thing, and in their ceaseless fight against tyranny the brotherhood sometimes suffered losses.
There was another sheriff of Nottingham—a leaner, younger man than Sheriff Murdoch had been, but every wit as much a creature of the barons; and against him and his kind Robin still waged warfare on behalf of the weak and defenceless. Many were the ventures undertaken by Robin of Barnesdale and his outlaw band; many the wrongs righted or avenged in those years; and the names of Robin Hood himself, of Little John and Scarlet and the other leaders had become household words, to be whispered at the ale-house door on summer evenings, and round the cottage hearth on winter nights when the bitter darkness seemed to press in against the warmth and shelter of the fire-shine.
So the grey winters passed, and the green summers; and there came a certain Christmas night. A bitter cold night it was, and the light covering of snow lay smooth in Dunwold glade (save where it was marked by the footprints of the outlaws and their dogs), sparkling faintly in the starlight. Hard frost had bound up the little stream with scalloped borders of ice, and in the deep blueness of the night sky the stars hung low, pulsing with frosty brilliance. On every side the forest stretched out darkly, frozen in its winter sleep, silent save when a hunting owl cried in the starry darkness. But in the main cave of Dunwold Scar, shut off from the winter night by a deerskin apron across the narrow entrance, was light and warmth and laughter—for was it not Christmas night?
On the raised stone hearth in the middle of the cave the cooking fire blazed high, giving out a fierce heat which all but roasted the assembled outlaws, as well as the great joints of venison which sizzled on spits around it. Firelight flickered redly through the cave, mingling with the glow of candles from the kissing-branch which Marian had hung from the rocky roof just within the cave.
As she sat tending sundry pies among the hot ashes, Marian sometimes glanced up at the kissing-branch, for it had cost her much time and trouble to make, on Christmas Eve, and she was proud of it. Little John had made her five hoops of green willow and bound them together into a globe, and Robin had brought her mistletoe from a certain oak tree in Clumber Forest; but she herself had bound the sprigs of rosemary closely round the willow hoops, and hung the little, red, long-biding apples in their midst and the mistletoe below, and set the candles in place among the evergreens. Now it hung there, glowing and sparkling in the light of its own crocus-flamed candles. And it was beautiful.
Many of the outlaws were gathered close around the fire, scorching themselves at the cheerful blaze and from time to time turning the sizzling joints on the spits, watched by the great ban-dogs who lay, nose on paws, among them. Others were moving hither and thither, making last-minute preparations for their Christmas feast. Fine linen had been brought from the store cave and spread upon the rough boards which served the outlaws for a table, and upon its snowy whiteness was set out a vast array of foodstuffs. The last withered apples of the year (carefully stored in bran to be eaten at Christmas time) were piled high in coarse wooden trenchers, rubbing shoulders with wheaten bread on a great dish of solid silver. Brown ale foamed in leather jacks, and there were all manner of pies and pasties in bowls and platters of cherry-wood and earthenware, pewter and horn, and gleaming silver.
The week before Christmas was always a busy one for the three womenfolk, baking and brewing for close on a hundred hungry men; but every year, when Christmas night came round, and they saw the brightness in the faces of the outlaws gathering to the feast, they knew their labours had been well worth while.
Only one of the brotherhood was not present in the great cave that night, and that was Will Stukely, Will-the-Bowman, who had gone to visit an old friend in Papplewick and was not yet back, though he had been expected for an hour or more.
Preparations for the feast went on apace, and Will Scarlet had taken the first great joint from the fire. He was shouting to Watkin to bring him a dish for it, when the deerskin apron over the cave entrance was pulled aside, and in the opening appeared the powerful figure of Will-the-Bowman, supporting a young man, hardly more than a boy, who sagged heavily against him with an arm across his shoulders.
Will Stukely came in slowly, letting the deerskins fall behind him and shutting out the bitter night; and as he and his companion came into the glow of the firelight, it could be seen that the boy was grey and shuddering with cold and exhaustion, and that his right foot was swathed in bloody rags.
Instantly, room was made for them beside the fire, and as the stranger sank down with a sigh of relief, holding out icy hands to the blaze, Robin came quickly to him, stepping over men’s legs and hounds’ bodies.
‘What have you done to your foot, lad?’ he asked.
The stranger raised a thin, gipsy-dark face to his, and replied: ‘Got caught in a trap, Master.’
‘Aye,’ said Will. ‘Some fool set a wolf-trap out in the open ride, and the boy here walked into it. Lucky I came upon him.’
Robin was already beginning very gently to unfasten the ragged neckerchief from round the wounded foot.
‘It was very lucky you came upon him,’ he agreed. ‘The forest is no place to be out in all night in this weather—especially in a wolf-trap, which is an ill thing at any time!’
He lifted the last bloodstained fold of the bandage and laid bare an ugly, jagged wound where the iron teeth of the trap had bitten deep into the boy’s ankle and instep.
A gasp came from Much-the-Miller’s-Son, who had risen to look over Robin’s shoulder.
Preparations for supper had quite stopped, and everybody was watching. Then Marian came through the crowd, carrying clean linen and a bowl of water, which she set down at Robin’s side. ‘Poor lad!’ she said softly, and the young man looked up at her with a quick, grateful smile.
Robin began to bathe his guest’s wounded foot, talking quietly as he did so. ‘I cannot help hurting you a little, for it is an ugly wound, and wolf-traps are seldom over-clean.’
‘I shall not mind a little pain, Master,’ said the stranger, ‘if you can only make me able to travel.’
‘You’ll not travel on that foot for several days,’ said Robin bluntly.
‘But I must! Indeed and indeed I must be in Nottingham Town by noon to-morrow!’
Robin heard the desperate note in the young man’s voice, and looked up from his surgery, asking kindly: ‘Why so?’
‘Because of Hugh, my brother. I must return to him.’
Robin Hood moved a little, so as to get a better light on his task. ‘What is your name?’ he asked.
‘Jonathan—Black Jonathan men do call me, because I be dark o’ face, and also a blacksmith by trade.’
‘Then, Black Jonathan, do you tell me the whole tale from the beginning, and why you must return by noon to-morrow to this brother of yours.’
The boy Jonathan winced as Robin’s searching though skilful hands hurt his wounded foot; then he said: ‘So be it, Master. My brother Hugh and I were left alone in the world when our father was hanged two years ago for shooting the king’s deer—for our mother died long since, God rest her soul. And so each of us be all the other has, and we be dear to each other accordingly. Well, ye see, Master—I be courting a maid over to Papplewick Village, and ’tisn’t often as I can take a day off from my trade, save at Christmas and Easter, so I set out this morning to visit the lass. I promised Hugh as I’d be back before dark, to make merry with him, and I sent him in to Mistress Peascod over the way, to spend the day—she be always glad to have the little lad. He’ll not begin to worry for me overmuch before the gates are shut for the night, and when once they be safe shut he’ll not be able to get out until morning; but he’ll worry sorely; and to-morrow, if I do not come early, he will set out in search of me—and he is but eleven year
s old and not learned in the ways of the forest. So ye see, Master, I must get back somehow, before harm comes to him.’
‘I’ll take word to the little chap to-morrow early,’ Will Stukely said quickly to Robin.
‘Will you? Good man!’ Robin turned back to Jonathan the Blacksmith, who sat looking swiftly from one to the other. ‘Listen, Jonathan,’ said he, ‘you’ll not be able to travel on that foot for some days. Bide quiet here with us, and Will Stukely will take word from you to your brother to-morrow morning, and see that he comes to no harm.’
Jonathan hesitated, glancing from Will to Robin and back again. ‘I’d be grateful,’ he said. ‘Hugh’s over-venturesome for a youngster; but I be main sorry to put you to so much trouble.’
‘Nay, there’s no trouble,’ said Will-the-Bowman gruffly, beginning to pull gently at the ears of one of the great hounds.
Robin finished his surgery and sat back on his heels. ‘That should make your foot more comfortable,’ said he. ‘And now for our Christmas feast. Black Jonathan, you have been sent to us to be our guest, and it is good to shelter a guest on Christmas night, in memory of that night when Our Lord and His Mother found shelter in a stable, between an ox and an ass. So you shall sit in the place of honour at our feast.’
So presently, the outlaws were settled around the spread cloths, and Black Jonathan sat between Robin and Marian in the place where the high table would have been had they been gathered in the hall of a castle instead of an outlaw stronghold. The great joints of venison smoked on their chargers, and in the midst of it all, wreathed round with bays and rosemary, and set on a charger of silver-gilt that had once belonged to His Grace the Bishop of Hereford, was the boar’s head.
The outlaws feasted royally, they and their Christmas guest; and as for Black Jonathan himself, he did his best to forget his worry for the small brother at home and the throbbing pain in his foot, and played his part in the general merry-making.
Later, when the last vestiges of the feast had been hastily cleared away, all the outlaws gathered close to the fire, enjoying the warmth and light and shelter all the more by reason of the bitter cold which they knew lay beyond the deerskin apron over the doorway. Outside in the starry darkness wolves howled in the distance, and the outlaws hunched their shoulders and glanced behind them into the shadows, and drew closer in to the fire.
Alice had put fresh candles into the places of the burned-out ones on the kissing-branch; and a pile of old, lichened beech branches stood ready to keep the fire blazing.
Then Alan A’Dale struck up an old, old Christmas song; and the next moment a hundred voices joined in, ‘Blow, Northern Wind, send thou me my Sweeting.’ For a while they sang loudly and merrily, passing from one snatch of a song or carol to another. But there came a moment when they fell quiet, and Marian’s sweet, high voice soared up alone, like a lark into the sunlight. ‘The Seven Joys of Mary,’ sang Marian, and then a soft lullaby, ‘Lullay my Liking.’ And the brotherhood of outlawed men listened to her singing, many of them thinking of homes and loved ones whom they had left behind; but the sadness that came upon them with the singing of that old Christmas lullaby was a gentle sadness, and almost at once they were merry again.
Long before daylight next morning Will-the-Bowman set out for Nottingham. The snow was crisp underfoot, and not deep enough to clog his steps, and when presently the sun came up and he could see his way to travel more swiftly, he strode blithely southward through a world in which the shadows of the trees were blue as wild hyacinths across snow that sparkled in the thin winter sunlight. The criss-cross tracks of birds, and the heavier trails left by fox, wild-cat, and rabbit showed everywhere on the whiteness, and once he came upon the deeply-printed tracks of the wolf-pack that the outlaws often heard howling in the long winter nights.
He travelled swiftly, striking through the forest to join the Nottingham road, and strode along the deeply rutted way twirling his quarterstaff and whistling as he went, like any country fellow looking forward to a pleasant day in the town. The sun was not yet high when he reached the gates of Nottingham and strode through, whistling still. The lounging men-at-arms at the gate-house gave him only a casual glance as he went by, for though he was not disguised there was nothing in his russet-brown tunic and warm hood to set him apart from any other countryman who passed through the gates that day.
The snow that lay white and crisp on the road outside was churned up into a brown slush in the narrow streets, by the passing and repassing of horses and carts and men; but along every ledge, roof, and window-sill it lay as white and pure as when it had first fallen, and the grimacing gargoyles on the tower of St. Mary’s Church seemed to be wearing hoods of white fur. Will-the-Bowman made his way through the town, returning the kindly greetings of the folk he met, until he came to a certain narrow street behind the corn market, to which Black Jonathan had directed him.
At the farther end of the street was a little dark-browed smithy, wedged between a tavern and a fletcher’s shop. Will went down the street, pausing to glance at the quiver of fine clothyard shafts and the three slender peacock-flighted arrows which were so temptingly displayed just inside the fletcher’s shop; and coming to the open door of the smithy, he looked inside. The place was empty, but seeing another door in the farther wall, which also stood open, he went across to it, and found himself looking through into a little living- and sleeping-room beyond. It was a very bare, small room, furnished only with a rough bed and table, two joint-stools, an earthenware water-jar, and a rudely carved chest, on which stood a coloured plaster figure of a saint, with a little floating wick burning in a shell full of oil before it.
A small boy was standing with his back to the door, busily belting on a long hunting-knife; and set out in readiness on the table beside him was a hunk of brown bread and cheese, and a small holly-scarlet hood. The boy was so full of his task that he never heard Will Stukely until the outlaw spoke to him.
‘Are you Hugh—brother to Jonathan the Blacksmith?’
Then he whirled round, showing a dark-skinned face so like Jonathan’s that Will would have known them for brothers anywhere, and demanded fiercely: ‘Where is Jonathan? If you have hurt my brother Jonathan I’ll—I’ll kill you!’ And he came rushing at Will, with the hunting-knife in his hand. Stukely caught him and held him off, looking down into his furious face and not heeding his struggles.
‘Softly, softly, little master!’ said he. ‘Your brother Jonathan is safe among friends, and sent me to tell you so.’
Hugh stopped struggling, and stood quiet. ‘Where is he, then? Why has he not come home?’
‘Listen, Hugh,’ Will Stukely said. ‘Your brother caught his foot in a wolf-trap yesterday, as he was on his way home from Papplewick. I found him and sprung the trap, and took him back with me to certain good friends of mine in the forest; and there he will stay a few days, until his foot is healed.’
‘Take me to him!’ demanded the small boy.
Will Stukely shook his head, smiling. ‘No, you must wait here. It is too long a journey for your short legs; and ’twill be only a few days before your brother Jonathan can come back to you. Now unbelt that fearsome brand from your side and we can speak together in comfort.’ And when Hugh had obeyed him (though unwillingly) he went on: ‘Jonathan bade me tell you to take what money you need from the place where you know it is kept. And if you are lonely, you are to go to Mistress Peascod, and ask her to let you sleep with her bairns.’
Hugh stood four-square, with his legs far apart and his hands behind him, and looked determinedly up at Will-the-Bowman. ‘I be no bairn to fear the dark, and I will not sleep with bairns!’ said he. ‘I will stay here till my brother comes home.’
‘That is for you to decide for yourself,’ said Will. ‘And now, little master, I must be on my way. Is there anything else, before I go?’
‘No—except—you’re sure my brother Jonathan’s foot will heal?’ Hugh came a pace nearer, and said beseechingly: ‘He will not die, will he? Ta
ll man, you’ll not let him die?’
Will Stukely looked down very kindly at the small boy. ‘He’ll not die,’ said he. ‘Have no fear of that.’
When the wood-ranger found himself out in the street again, he glanced up at the sun, where it shone above the steep gables at the corn market end; and judged that it was nearly noon. He had broken his fast early that morning, and tramped a long way since, and now he was hungry. So he bent his steps in the direction of a certain inn named ‘Salutation’, which was well known to the outlaws, for the innkeeper was a good friend of theirs and had given them news of travellers, and aided them from time to time.
The ‘Salutation’ was in Chandler’s Street. A great bush of fir branches jutting out half-way across the street marked it for an inn; but an even better inn-sign was the savoury smell which floated forth from the open doorway and scented the whole street. Will Stukely sniffed the rich smell with pleasure as he stepped over the threshold and came face to face with the little fat innkeeper.
A huge fire blazed at one end of the single long room, and several people were gathered as close to it as they could get. Two or three dogs lay nose-on-paws among the thickly strewn rushes, and George the Potman sat cross-legged in one corner polishing a row of pewter pots. The smell of savoury mutton pies was warm and rich upon the air, and already the trestle table had been set up at the end of the room farthest from the fire, in readiness for the meal.
Will Stukely found himself a stool and sat down with his back against the wall and his quarterstaff propped beside him. In a little while he was joined by the innkeeper, who pulled up another stool beside him.
‘You’d best not be long about your dinner, friend,’ said the innkeeper under his breath.
‘Why? You are not usually so churlish!’ replied Will, laughingly.
‘Churlish I am not, and well you know it. But Nottingham be no safe place for such as you, in these days. The sheriff has some new bee in his bonnet: that the—Gentry of the Greenwood—have friends within the gates. Three times already this week have I had the ‘Salutation’ turned inside out by men-at-arms in the hope that I had an outlaw hidden up the chimney; and there’s not an innkeeper in Nottingham Town that isn’t driven half crazy by the same poking and prying! The sheriff’s men came yesterday, so they’ll not likely come again to-day; but ’tis best to be on the safe side, and the sooner you’re away out of here, the better it will be!’