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.
4
How Robin Hood befriended a Knight
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?’
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‘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.’
Robin nodded; then he demanded quickly: ‘What sum did the abbot advance you on your land?’
‘Four hundred pounds—though indeed the land was worth three times as much.’
‘And what will you do if you cannot redeem your land?’
The knight sighed, rather drearily. ‘I shall take my wife back to her own kinsfolk; they will support her, and I cannot. I shall leave England and go back to the Holy Land, and walk once more upon the hill of Calvary. I shall never return to my native country, for I could not bear to see a stranger holding the land of my inheritance.’
‘Have you no friends who could help you?’ asked Robin.
‘I thought I had friends in plenty—when I had no need of them,’ said the knight bitterly. ‘Now that this trouble has come upon me they do not know me.’
‘You have no friend at all? None who would act as surety for a loan?’
‘None, save God.’
‘Nay,’ said Robin, who thought this savoured too much of the Church. ‘I would not take even the holy saints as sureties for my good red gold!’
‘And I would not blame you. Yet I have no earthly sureties to offer, and in Heaven there is only Our Lady, who never deserted me until now.’
When Robin heard this he laughed suddenly and leapt to his feet. ‘That is a different matter,’ he cried. ‘I would take Our Lady’s bond for any sum. You could have no better surety.’ And turning to Little John, he bade him bring four hundred pounds from the treasury.
Little John, and Much, who was the treasurer of the band, went together to the secret place where the gold was kept and counted out the amount, taking care not to include any false or clipped coin. Then, acting on a kindly suggestion from Much, they took a rich surcoat and a gold-embroidered baldric from the store, and returned to where Robin and the knight were waiting.
The knight had been standing very still, staring away down the glade; but when he saw the gold and the surcoat, he turned to Robin, flinging out his hands to him, and his hands were shaking. ‘Why have you done this for me—a stranger?’ he asked.
‘You are no stranger,’ replied Robin. ‘You are Our Lady’s messenger.’
The knight drew a deep breath. ‘I shall not betray your trust,’ said he slowly. ‘When shall I repay you, and where? Name a day, and I will keep it.’
‘Come to me here beneath my trysting tree this day next year. That will give you time to gather the rents from your redeemed lands,’ Robin told him, and added with a smile: ‘It is not fitting for a knight to travel alone, so I will lend you a little page of my own to go with you.’ And he beckoned to Little John, who came forward amid a shout of laughter from his comrades.
Another horse was brought for the huge outlaw, both men swung into the saddle, and the knight, after bending down to wring Robin’s hand and thank him for his kindness, was already riding away when he checked his horse and looked back.
‘I have borrowed four hundred pounds from you and forgotten even to tell you my name. I am Sir Richard-at-Lea.’
‘You are Our Lady’s messenger, and that is enough for me,’ called back Robin. And so, with many shouted farewells ringing behind them, Little John and Sir Richard rode away.
Next morning the Lord Abbot of St. Mary’s Abbey sat before the high table in his Great Hall, with his guests and his senior brethren around him. There was roast beef before him, boiled ham and greasy pie, and all manner of rich wines; and he ate loudly and greedily, with an appetite that was even larger than usual, for he was in a high good humour. Presently he wiped greasy lips and spoke to the prior—a lean, pale-faced man who sat among the brethren farther down the table.
‘Twelve months ago we lent four hundred pounds to a needy knight, Brother Julian, and if he does not come to repay it by noon to-day he loses all his possessions, and we shall be the richer by a fat estate! Our Lady grant he is not able to keep his tryst!’
‘The good knight may be ill, or overseas,’ said the prior, indignantly, ‘and it would be a foul wrong to declare his lands forfeit!’
‘No, no!’ replied the abbot, and he laughed fatly. ‘This was the day agreed upon, and he does not come; therefore his lands are ours.’
But Brother Julian cried out: ‘You dare not take his lands until noon, for that also was agreed upon. Shame on you, to ruin a good knight who never harmed you. If I had the money I would pay it—gladly—on his behalf.’
Then the abbot flew into a passion and drummed with his fists on the table, while his brow grew black. ‘The devil fly away with you and your conscience!’ he shouted. ‘You are for ever crossing me. But I have the Lord Chief Justice here to declare my legal right.’ And he pointed to a stately, bleak-faced individual sitting among the guests at his table.
At that moment the tapestry hangings over the doorway were pulled aside and in came the cellarer, an elderly man, bloated of body, and red of nose from overmuch tasting of the sack and malmsey wine in his charge, who shambled, grinning, to his place at table, full of mealy-mouthed congratulations for the abbot. ‘For,’ said he, ‘the knight is surely sick or dead, and we shall have the spending of four hundred pounds a year!’
Hardly were the words out of his mouth than the rich hangings were once again drawn aside and in the opening appeared a scared-looking porter, who announced: ‘My Lord Abbot, Sir Richard-at-Lea is here, and craves a word with you.’ And he disappeared again before the wrath and disappointment of the prelate could vent itself on his head.
Sir Richard came humbly into the hall and made his salutation to the abbot and his guests—some of whom had once been his friends. The abbot greeted him coldly, and many of the guests did not return his salutation at all. Sir Richard looked round at them bitterly, and he thought to himself that he would test them, to see if there was even one among them who would remember that he had been his friend in the days of his prosperity.
‘My Lord Abbot,’ he said, ‘I have come to keep my appointment.’
The abbot nodded insolently. ‘Have you brought the money to pay your debt?’
‘No, I have not brought it.’
‘Pledge me in malmsey, Sir Justice!’ cried the abbot with a brutal laugh. ‘For the land is mine!’ Then, turning back to the knight: ‘Why have you come if you have not the gold with you?’
‘To beg you, of your mercy, to grant me a little longer time in which to repay my debt.’
‘Not a day! Not an hour!’ replied the abbot, gloatingly. ‘You have broken your pledge and your
land is forfeit!’
Then Sir Richard dropped on one knee and turned to the justice with pleading hands outflung. ‘Speak for me, Lord Justice.’
‘Nay,’ said the justice smoothly. ‘I hold to the law. I can give you no help.’
Sir Richard turned back to the abbot. ‘Gentle abbot, for the sake of Him who never refused mercy, give me my lands again, and I will be your humble servant until the debt is paid.’
The abbot refused, shortly. He was growing tired of this pestilent knight who was interfering with his meal. No one spoke for the man who knelt so humbly before them; those of them who had been his friends avoided his eye. ‘Unless I have my lands again you shall bitterly regret it,’ said Sir Richard, very quietly.
Then the abbot’s brow darkened once more with rage, his puffy face grew crimson, and he shouted thickly at Sir Richard: ‘Get out of my hall, you false knight!’
There was a moment’s silence; then Sir Richard rose to his feet and stood facing his persecutors with flashing eyes. ‘Liar!’ he cried. ‘I was never a false knight, and well you know it. I have been true to the vows of my knighthood. How have you kept the vows that you swore on the day you were made a monk? Answer me that, you bloated, grasping fiend!’
No one—save, perhaps, Robin Hood—had ever spoken to the abbot thus. He turned from red to purple, the veins swelled in his neck, and for a moment he seemed about to choke. Then he let out a bellow of rage and half rose in his carved chair, shouting insults at the knight, who watched him with a look of quiet contempt.
The startled guests and clergy sat as though turned to stone, staring aghast at raging abbot and scornful knight. The first to recover himself was the Lord Chief Justice, and as the abbot paused in his tirade for lack of breath, he turned to him and demanded: ‘What will you give me if I persuade this man to sign the deed of release? For without it you will never hold the land in peace.’