‘It seems to me, Master Sheriff, that these men of yours have little skill with the bow,’ said he at last.
‘Perhaps you could do better?’ grunted the sheriff, peevishly.
Robin nodded. ‘I could—easily.’
Sheriff Murdoch stared at him scornfully for a moment, and then, turning to a yeoman standing near, bade him bring two or three bows for the potter to choose from. When the bows were brought Robin tested them, and at once laid two of them aside; the third he tested again, shaking his head gloomily.
‘Indeed, you’re but a poor weapon,’ sighed he. ‘But since there is no better to be had, I must do the best that I can with you.’
A little, merry-faced man brought him a quiver, from which he chose the best arrow. Then he stepped out into the open, ignoring the good-natured jeers of the onlookers, and bending the borrowed bow, nocked his arrow to the string, and loosed well above the target to allow for the bow being a much less powerful one than he was wont to use. The shaft soared away like a giant bee in the sunshine, and everybody heard the clear ‘thwack’ as it struck the straw target scarcely a hand-breadth from the central peg. A ragged cheer went up from the onlookers, and Robin strolled down to the target, and plucking out his arrow, turned about to shoot back. There was no jeering this time, and a moment later a yell broke from yeomen and men-at-arms alike, as the arrow thudded into the second target. It had split the peg in three!
There was no more shooting after that, for no one could hope to equal the potter’s marksmanship; and so he was adjudged the winner, and hustled along to where the sheriff’s wife waited to give him the prize. Doffing his hat, with its jaunty pheasant’s feather, he bowed low to her as she put the little jingling bag into his hand, and she smiled and said: ‘Never did I see a potter the like of you!’
‘Humph!’ said the sheriff gruffly, as though it hurt him to give praise. ‘How did you learn to shoot like that, my man?’
‘Why, my father was a forester, and I have handled a bow since I was scarce as tall as a clothyard shaft is long,’ replied Robin. ‘And indeed I have shot with Robin Hood himself, before now, respectable potter though I am.’
When the sheriff heard this his eyes glistened in his fat, ruddy face, for he had long wished to have the hanging of the famous outlaw; and he said: ‘Robin Hood, that rascally wolfshead? And do you know where Robin Hood is now?’
‘Aye,’ answered Robin. ‘He is in Clumber Forest, not a dozen miles from here, and but ten of his band with him, for the rest have gone north to their summer quarters.’
Sheriff Murdoch began to fairly tremble with eagerness, and putting a hand on Robin’s shoulder, he said: ‘Good Master Potter, will you lead me to the lair of this wolfshead?’
Robin pretended to consider deeply. At last he said: ‘I do not like to betray a man who I have shot with, and yet—I seem to have heard of a reward on his head?’
‘One hundred golden nobles,’ said Murdoch; and added unwillingly: ‘If you help me to take him, you shall have twenty for your trouble.’
‘Twenty-five,’ said Robin briefly, in the manner of a tradesman closing a bargain.
Murdoch swallowed, and grew purple in the face. ‘Twenty-five,’ he agreed at last; so the matter was settled.
Robin slept in the sheriff’s house that night; and next morning took a courteous farewell of Mistress Murdoch, and, fetching the pony and cart from the inn where he had left them, drove blithely away. With him went the sheriff riding a black horse, and twenty of the men-at-arms trudging in the dust behind.
Out through the north gate they went, and took the Doncaster road; but soon after the road ran into the forest Robin got down from his cart, and leaving it and the pony in charge of one of the men-at-arms, struck off down a bridle-path, followed by the rest. Soon he left the path also and took to the forest, leading the sheriff’s horse by the bridle.
They went on and on, through tangled thickets, down long glades, across boggy clearings, by narrow deer-paths so faint that none but the trained eye of a forester could follow them, deeper and deeper into the heart of the forest. Sometimes a jay screamed harshly overhead; once a red shadow slunk away into the undergrowth at their approach, and a little farther on a late-hunting owl swept across their path, making the sheriff’s horse snort and whinny with terror.
By now they had come to the oldest part of the forest. Here the trees were hoary with age and crowded in upon each other, grey with lichen and twisted into uncanny shapes, seeming, in the half-light, to stretch out clutching hands; and the little band of men-at-arms began to mutter together and glance uneasily over their shoulders into the crowding shadows behind them. None of them had ever been as deep as this into the forest, and they liked it not at all.
Sheriff Murdoch did not like it either, and at last he spoke uneasily: ‘This is a strange, uncanny place that you have brought us to, Master Potter!’
‘Would you expect a wolfshead to have his lair on the high-road for any chance corner to find?’ asked Robin grumpily; and they went on again in silence.
The forest began to open out again, becoming greener and more friendly, so that the sheriff and his men breathed more freely and glanced less often behind them.
At last they came to the head of a long glade, and here Robin halted them. He seemed to be listening for something, and when the harsh honking of a carrion-crow sounded three times from a nearby thicket, the men-at-arms could not have known that it was made by Little John and that it meant: ‘Who goes there?’ Nor could they know, when the potter gave an odd, shrill whistle in reply, that it meant: ‘It is I, Robin.’ But they did think he was behaving very oddly, and suspicion began to dawn on them that they had walked into a trap.
Robin turned to face them, laughing, and taking his horn from under his cloak wound a gay call, ‘Tan-tan-tar-tran-tan,’ and under the horrified eyes of the sheriff and his followers, seemed to melt into the forest. In terror they turned to fly, but it was too late; before they had stumbled twenty paces, before the sheriff had even managed to turn his terrified horse, they were surrounded by tall, green-clad men who suddenly appeared between the trees, and closed in on them.
Robin’s voice sang out cheerfully from somewhere ahead of them. ‘Take their weapons away, lads, but don’t hurt them overmuch.’
The twenty men-at-arms stood no chance against four-score forest-rangers. In a few moments they had been disarmed and taken prisoner. Then Robin turned to the sheriff, who had been pulled from his horse and now stood fuming between Will Scarlet and grim old Watkin, with his arms twisted behind his back.
‘You’ll not see your hundred gold nobles this time, Master Sheriff!’ said Robin. ‘And indeed you may think yourself lucky if you go home with your head still fixed to your fat shoulders!’
The sheriff was purple with rage, but to do him justice, he was no coward.
‘You—you tricked me!’ he spluttered.
‘Yes,’ Robin nodded, ‘I tricked you very prettily. Now I shall have you stripped of those fine clothes of yours, and any money you have in your wallet, and perhaps the memory of your loss may make you more cautious another time!’
The sheriff looked at his men-at-arms, as though hoping they would rescue him; but they were as helpless as he, each man in the grip of two burly forest-rangers. And seeing no help for it, Sheriff Murdoch stood still while Little John took from him his wallet and the gold chain from his neck and the gold ring from his finger, then stripped him of his rich black furred gown and velvet cap. When it was done he stood miserably in nothing but his shirt and hose.
Robin cast one scornful, laughing glance at him, and turned to Little John, saying: ‘Take away the horse, John; it is too fine a steed for such a sorry rider; and bring in its place the white palfrey we took last week.’
When Little John came back with the palfrey, Robin himself aided the raging and shirt-clad sheriff to mount. ‘Ah! rage away, Master Sheriff,’ said he. ‘Maybe it will keep you warm on your homeward ride! Give the palf
rey to your lady wife, with all thanks for her hospitality, from Robin Hood.’ Then, turning to his tall lieutenant: ‘Take them up to the Nottingham road by the shortest way, John, and two score of the lads with you, to make sure they do not miss their way and wander back.’
‘You shall pay for this!’ shouted the sheriff. ‘I will have you hanged, drawn, and quartered! I will appeal to the king! I will—’
Little John caught his bridle and turned the palfrey’s head towards the forest-glooms; and so, still spluttering, swearing, and vowing vengeance, the sheriff was hustled off on his homeward way.
When he and his men-at-arms, together with the outlaw escort, had all disappeared among the trees, Robin sent Much, Peterkin, and George-a-Green to reclaim the pony and cart; then, followed by the rest, he walked down the long glade, parted a mass of hazel and dogwood at the farther end, and came out into the open ride below Dunwold Scar.
Marian was standing beside the cooking fire, with the large iron stew-spoon still in her hand. ‘Robin!’ she called. ‘What has happened? We heard your horn, and the lads ran; but I could not leave the stew. Why did you sound your horn? And what was the meaning of the shouting and laughter I heard afterwards?’
Meanwhile, the potter, who had been sitting on a log beside the fire, had got up and was demanding: ‘What of my pony? What of my cart? What of my pots?’
Robin did his best to answer both of them at once, and at last, opening the sheriff’s wallet, counted out five gold nobles. ‘Will this cover the cost of your pots?’ he asked, smiling.
The potter took the money without a word, looking very hard at Robin the while. ‘Folks call you a robber,’ said he at last; ‘but I think you are an honest man and a generous one, and so, after I have changed clothes with you, and before I take to the road, I should like to shake your hand again.’
‘And so you shall,’ said Robin. ‘But will you not stop and eat with us before you go?’
But the potter was already pulling off Robin’s green tunic, and shook his head. ‘No, no. I must be on my homeward way.’ So Robin doffed the loose brown smock, and after they had changed clothes once more, they struck hands and parted, the best of friends.
7
Robin Hood and Alan A’Dale
BROWN LEAVES WERE drifting down the autumn gale as Robin stood one morning beside the road that ran through the forest from Sheffield to Doncaster. He had been about to cross, when, in a lull of the wind, he heard the merry sound of someone whistling as he came along the road, and he waited to see who it might be. Round the bend came a young man, striding along blithely, and whistling as he went. From throat to heel he was clad in gayest scarlet, and his yellow hair whipped about his face, for he wore no cap.
For a few moments Robin watched him, with a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes; but as the young gallant drew level with him, he stepped out from the trees, arrow ready nocked to bowstring.
‘You seem to be in a blithe good humour, my brave young popinjay!’ said he. ‘Have you any gold in your wallet, young sir? If you have, I am sure you will gladly give it to me, so that my lads and I may drink your health.’
‘If there were any gold in my wallet,’ replied the young man, not seeming to notice the drawn bow, ‘I would be very glad to give it to you to drink my health, for I am to be married to-day; but the only gold I have is a wedding ring for my bride. Yet stay a moment; here are five shillings. I have no more. Take them and welcome.’ And he held out the coins in the palm of his hand.
Robin shook his head and lowered the bow. ‘I’ll not rob a bridegroom going to his wedding. Go your way, lad, and may you be happy, and your bride also.’ He stepped back into the brown forest shadows; and after gazing in surprise for a few moments at the place where he had disappeared, the young gallant went gaily on his way, whistling as before.
Robin halted among the trees, and turned to watch the scarlet-clad figure striding away into the distance; then, crossing the road, he also went on his way, thinking no more of the matter. But before that same time next day he was to see the young man again.
The outlaw leader was sitting in the opening of his cave in Dunwold Scar, with Marian beside him, he binding a fishing-rod, she combing her hair in the windy autumn sunshine. The morning meal was over and the cooks were cleaning up after it, while some of the men made ready for target-practice. One of the dogs lay close beside the cooking-fire gnawing at a bone.
Suddenly the hazel bushes at the far side of the glade were parted, and out into the open came Ket-the-Smith and Will Stukely, walking one on either side of a haggard and dishevelled young man who came striding across the glade to stand before Robin.
The outlaw leader did not recognize him for a moment, so different was he from the blithe young gallant of the day before. Gone was his scarlet tunic and hose, gone all his light-hearted gaiety. He was clad in a weatherworn leather jack and mail coif; on his curly yellow head was a light steel cap, and a long sword hung at his hip. He seemed a very grim young man, but somehow Robin liked him better thus than in his scarlet of yesterday.
Robin sat quietly looking up at him for a few moments, and the young man stood as quietly looking down at Robin. Ket-the-Smith was explaining: ‘Us found this lad on the Doncaster road, Master. He was asking for you.’
Robin nodded. ‘What of your wedding?’ asked he. ‘You have not the look of a new-made bridegroom!’
‘I am not a bridegroom,’ the young man said harshly. ‘When I reached the house of Sir Simon de Beauforest, who is my lady’s father, I found the gates barred against me; and to-day my Alice is to wed Sir Niger le Bigot, because he is powerful and her father fears him.’
‘Niger le Bigot,’ said Robin thoughtfully. ‘Surely he is very ancient to be a young maid’s bridegroom?’
‘And a black-hearted villain into the bargain!’ added the young man, savagely. Robin nodded. Niger le Bigot’s name and his evil reputation were well known to him. He had had one wife already, and she had killed herself rather than suffer his cruelties any longer; grim tales of serfs put to death and of a torture-chamber in his castle clung like murky cobwebs about his name, making it feared and hated throughout all Sherwood.
Glancing aside for a moment into Marian’s indignant face, he got up, and putting his hand on the other’s mail-clad shoulder said kindly: ‘And you thought I might help you?’
The young man nodded, and Robin went on: ‘Yet you know nothing of me, save that I nearly robbed you yesterday.’
‘I did not come to seek the man I met yesterday,’ replied the other. ‘I came to seek Robin Hood, my father’s friend, not knowing that they were one and the same.’
‘Your father’s friend?’ Robin looked at him more closely.
‘Yes, I am Alan A’Dale, son of Sir Richard-at-Lea.’
‘Are you indeed?’ cried Robin. ‘Then I will do all that I can for you, Alan, for the sake of your father. But tell me one thing: why have you not gone to him for help in this?’
‘My father knows nothing of what has happened, for I have lived in my own house over Newstead way, and farmed my own land this year and more. And I did not go to him, because he has suffered enough on my account already—as you know well, for it was you who saved him from the ruin that I had brought upon him.’ Alan broke off, and glanced round at the brown-clad men who had all dispersed to their different duties and pastimes; flushing crimson to the rim of his steel cap, he began to fidget with the buckle of his sword-belt. ‘I am a poor man,’ he said at last. ‘I can give you and your men nothing in payment; but if you will aid me to save my true love, I will be your faithful slave.’
‘Our Lady forbid,’ said Robin, ‘that I should take payment for aiding the son of my friend. But Le Bigot is a powerful man, as you say, and has powerful friends. The Normans will be hot against you after this, Bishop and Baron alike, and the Greenwood will be the best place for you. So you shall come to me, not as a slave, but as one of my band, and your Alice shall be a companion to my own Marian.’
/> Marian had long ceased to comb her hair, and was sitting with her comb in her lap, listening intently to all that passed between the two men. Now she spoke. ‘I shall be glad to have your lady at my side—for among all these men, I do long sometimes for another woman to talk to.’
‘Thank you for your kind words, Mistress Marian,’ said Alan, bowing his head. ‘She will have need of kindness—she is very young, not used to the ways of the Greenwood.’
Marian laughed softly, and began to comb her hair again. ‘Why, as to that, I am not yet a withered crone myself; and I too was not used to the Greenwood when I came to live in it; but I learned, and Alice will learn too.’
‘Beauforest holds Kirkby Manor, does he not?’ broke in Robin, glancing up at the sun, which was beginning to glint between the trees on the eastern border of the glade. ‘And Kirkby is five miles from here. At what time is your Alice to be wed?’
‘At noon,’ replied Alan.
‘Then there is no time to be lost. Wait for me here.’ And turning, Robin swung himself up the steep bank, and disappeared into the dark mouth of a cave half-hidden by a great hanging curtain of wild clematis.
Alan looked uncertainly down at Marian, fidgeting from foot to foot in his eagerness to be gone. She looked up, and patted the turf beside her. ‘He’ll not be long. Sit down here, friend Alan A’Dale, and tell me about your lady.’
The young man hesitated for a moment, and then did as she bade him. Marian parted her hair in two, and began to braid it. ‘Now,’ said she, ‘is she very beautiful? Is she dark or fair?’
So, almost against his will, Alan found himself talking, telling how fair Alice was, and how gentle, and how much he loved her. And Marian listened to him, and felt sorry for the poor, gentle little maid, who—if she was to be wed to the man of her choice, instead of to a cruel and wicked old tyrant—must learn to face the hardships of life in the Greenwood.
There was a sound behind and above them; the hanging curtain of wild clematis was thrust aside, and Robin Hood came leaping down into the glade. He was no longer a brown-clad forest-ranger, but the dark-skinned minstrel he had been on that day long ago when he had set out to rescue Marian. Standing beside Alan, who had sprung to his feet, he gave a curious, shrill whistle, at sound of which every head turned in his direction. Men dropped their tasks, lounging figures sprang erect, and from all parts of the glade the outlaws came running to stand before their leader.