And she was right. They did find a smith, or rather he found them.
Robin was fishing for sea trout. It was the first run of the year and they were rising everywhere, but difficult to catch. Much was with him as he always was, and Friar Tuck as well. It was a warm summer’s day and the storm flies were low over the water. Tuck was squatting down at the river’s edge busy gutting a sea trout for their lunch, when someone called out to them across the river.
“A fine fish.” The voice was as big as the man. “I shall have that for my lunch, I think.”
“I don’t think you will,” replied Friar Tuck.
“Tell you what, friar,” said the russet-bearded giant, walking towards the bridge. “You meet me on this bridge. And if I topple you into the river, then I can have your fish. How’s that?”
Friar Tuck snorted with laughter. “By God’s good grace, I’ll do the toppling, my friend, not you.” And he drew his sword.
“One arrow past his nose would send him packing,” said Robin, reaching for his bow.
“Waste of a good arrow. Just look a him,” Tuck scoffed. “He’s a beggar of a fellow, dressed in nothing but rags. He doesn’t look as if he’s eaten in a week. And he’s carrying nothing but a staff. Don’t you worry, Robin, I’ll soon fix him.”
Robin and Much looked on as the two men met on the bridge in the middle of the river. “You strike first, friar,” said the stranger. And Friar Tuck swung up his great sword and struck. Again and again he struck, but the staff was always there blocking the blow. He whirled his sword high above his head, thinking to cut the staff in two. The next moment his sword was sent flying into the water and he found himself defenceless. The stranger smiled, and then thrust the end of his staff deep into Tuck’s belly. Bent double, all the wind driven out of him, Tuck staggered towards the edge of the bridge and the stranger’s boot helped topple him over the side and into the river.
With a roar like a bear, Much charged on to the bridge. “To get our fish,” he cried, “you’ll have to pass me first.”
“But you have no weapon,” said the stranger.
“I need none,” replied Much, and he lunged forward to grab the staff. The man stepped nimbly sideways as Much came at him, and simply prodded him into the river. At once Robin was on the bridge, an arrow strung to his bow and aimed at the man’s heart.
“Move just one step and I shall kill you.”
The stranger sighed and shook his head sadly. “Is there no one in good King Richard’s land who will give a poor fellow a meal?” he said. “Everywhere I go I tell them I fought alongside the king in the Holy Land, and what do they do but curse me and drive me out? Richard is dead, they say, and Prince John as good as king in his place. It’s not true, I tell them. Richard is not dead. He is held prisoner in Austria, and why? Because his brother John will not pay the ransom for his release. They don’t believe me. They think I’m mad and they beat me black and blue. I have had enough. So shoot on, fine fellow. Your arrow holds no fear for me.”
Robin lowered his bow. “You’ve given my friends a good soaking,” he laughed, “but anyone who is a friend of King Richard is our friend too. Come across and we’ll eat the fish together.”
As the fish cooked slowly over the fire, the stranger could scarcely take his eyes from it. When it was ready, he ate it head to tail, stripping every morsel of pink flesh from the bone. The others looked on, mouths watering. “I hope it chokes you,” said Friar Tuck, still smarting from his ducking in the river. The stranger reached over and picked up Tuck’s sword.
“A fine weapon,” he said, running his thumb along the blade, “but blunt.”
“What do you know of weapons?” said Friar Tuck, snatching back his sword.
“I told you. I was a soldier with the king in the Holy Land, but more than that, I was the king’s armourer. With these hands I made the King of England’s sword, the sword that cut great swathes through the Saracen hordes. Oh my king, my king.” And he began to weep, burying his head in his hands.
Robin and Much and Tuck looked at each other and smiled. “Friend,” Robin began, “did you say you were an armourer? A smith?” The man nodded behind his hands.
Tuck crossed himself and closed his eyes. “Now God be thanked,” he breathed. “Didn’t I tell you, Robin? Didn’t I now? It’s God’s good grace has brought him here.”
Robin pulled the man’s hand gently from his face. ‘Friend, come live with us in Sherwood, make our swords for us, sharpen our spears; and then we can deal Prince John, the usurper, and the Sheriff of Nottingham such a blow as they’ll never forget. Do it for the king.”
The stranger smiled through his tears. “So,” he said, “so the spirit of England still lives. I’ll stay, and I’ll make you all the daggers and swords and shields and spears you need to clear the vermin from King Richard’s land.”
“What shall we call you?” Robin asked.
“My name is John Little, but my king always called me Little John because I was twice his size. Call me that, for it will always remind me of him when you do.”
Through that autumn and winter Little John’s forge was never out. By Christmas, every man, woman and child had their own weapon, each one perfectly weighted and deadly sharp. The children loved to watch him at work on his anvil, to see the sparks fly and the gush of steam rising as he plunged the glowing iron into the bucket. It was the warmest place to be too, and they would stay and listen long into the night as Little John told them of the Holy Land and of the wars he had fought alongside good King Richard.
Christmas that year was like no other. All through the feasting, they knew their time of testing was coming, that for many of them, this might be their last Christmas. The Outlaw band had swelled now to over two hundred, all of them strong in body and spirit, all of them ready to fight the good fight. Mass was the longest they had ever known, partly because much time was given over to Friar Tuck’s exhortations, and partly because he had insisted that it was high time for all couples to be married, and their children blessed in the sight of God. Last of all to be joined together were Robin and Marion. As they knelt for the blessing, Tuck prayed over them. “God’s good grace brought you together, and brought us all to this place. May you and your children, and all of us, live a long and a godly life.” The amens echoed loud through the cave; and afterwards, the Christmas feasting went on long into the night, though Robin and Marion stole away well before the end of it.
“Will our baby have white hair like me, or black hair like yours?” Marion whispered, as they lay together in each other’s arms.
“It does not matter,” said Robin. “So long as he grows up a free man, nothing else matters.”
“Well, I want him to have white hair so that when he grows old no one will ever know it. And anyway, he may be a girl!” But Robin did not hear. He was asleep already.
The baby was born as the first leaves of autumn fell, a boy baby. And Marion’s wish came true. The boy had white hair. He was baptised Martin, after his grandfather.
All this while Sir Guy of Gisbourne had not been idle. He was gathering evidence, evidence to prove that Robin Hood was still alive. He was convinced of it, so convinced that he would never have dared to venture into Sherwood himself. Word from his spies had left no doubt in his mind. Robin Hood was gathering about him in Sherwood a small army of malcontents and rebels. True, no one had actually seen Robin Hood in person for three years or more now, and in all that time no one had robbed travellers on the road through Sherwood. But the stories about Robin and his Outlaws had spread like the plague, into every backstreet, into every tavern. Sir Guy had heard it with his own ears. One man, about to die at the end of a rope, declared with absolute conviction: “Robin will avenge us!” And then died, defiant with faith, his eyes burning with it till they closed in death. They were eyes that haunted Sir Guy of Gisbourne.
“Robin the Good”, they called him. “Saint Robin, Sheriff of Sherwood”. To some he was a friendly sprite, a Jack o’ the Green,
a part of the living forest; to others he was dead indeed, but like Jesus Christ before him he would come back to save them. There was even a rumour that Robin Hood was the true son of the imprisoned King Richard and so heir to the English throne. What Sir Guy of Gisbourne knew for certain was frightening enough. Robin Hood lived. He was a bowman without equal in the land. He could split a willow wand at five hundred paces. He could do it every time, wind or rain. And the Outlaws in Sherwood would follow him anywhere. Worst of all, and most dangerous of all, the people loved him.
Time and again Sir Guy of Gisbourne tried to persuade the sheriff that Robin Hood was still alive. Every stag’s head his men found he threw down at the sheriff’s feet.
“I tell you, my Lord Sheriff,” he insisted yet again, “he lives. He has followers, maybe hundreds of them by now, and he has weapons. He will come against us with his Outlaws, and when he does, none of us will be safe in our beds.”
But the sheriff had had enough. “What in Hell’s name is the matter with you, Guy?” he stormed. “We’ve seen neither hide nor hair of the man in years. All you have is stories, tavern tittle-tattle and a few stags’ heads. Anyone can kill a stag.”
“But, my Lord Sheriff…”
“No buts.” The sheriff banged the table and leapt to his feet in a terrible rage. “I’ve listened enough to your buts. Have you once been into the forest to look for him? No, of course you haven’t. You’re gutless, gutless. I am surrounded by cowards and imbeciles. I’ll show you! I’ll show you! To prove to you once and for all that I am right, that Robin Hood is dead and dead as a doornail, I shall go myself into Sherwood, and what’s more I shall go alone. And after I return, if anyone, anyone, even speaks the name of Robin Hood again in my hearing, I’ll have his tongue out. Do you hear me?” And snatching up his sword and helmet, he strode out of the hall, leapt on his horse and galloped away over the drawbridge. In the market square his escort made to mount up and come after him, but he waved them back. “I do not need you, nor anyone,” he thundered. “I ride through Sherwood alone. I am not frightened of a ghost, not Robin Hood’s, not anyone’s.” So they let him go. But his last words had been heard by everyone in the market square, including a charcoal burner whose family had been put out of their house by the sheriff and were only kept alive through the cold months of winter by Robin and his Outlaws. He knew what had to be done and was more than happy to do it.
The sun was high and hot by the time the sheriff reached the shade of Sherwood. Glad though he was to be in the cool again, the sheriff had no intention of staying in Sherwood any longer than he had to. Never in his life had he ventured alone into Sherwood, even before the days of Robin Hood. For Robin Hood was not the only danger lurking in Sherwood; deep in the forest there were wolves too. And then, his temper cooled at last, a sudden terrible thought came to him. Maybe, just maybe, he had been wrong. Maybe Robin Hood was still alive after all, still there in Sherwood. He reined in his horse at once and looked anxiously about him. This was far enough. He would hide himself away in amongst the trees for an hour or two, and then ride back in triumph to Nottingham. Neither Sir Guy of Gisbourne, nor anyone, would ever know the difference. He led his horse into a thicket, tied it up and sat down to sleep off his lunch. He had had two bottles of wine, so sleep came easily enough.
When he woke he found himself surrounded by peering, grinning faces, a dozen or more. Some were dwarfs, and there were cagots and hunchbacks too, but not dressed in rags as he remembered them. Each one wore the same Lincoln green and each one carried a sword, a bow and a quiver of arrows. The sheriff knew at once they were the Outlaws and shrank back in horror.
“We won’t kill you,” said one of them, smiling from ear to ear. “We’ve been sent to ask you for supper. Will Scarlett killed a stag, a beauty, a real beauty. We kept it for a special occasion. You’re the special occasion.” They helped him to his feet.
“I think I’d better be getting back,” said the sheriff, backing away; but they held him fast.
“After supper perhaps,” said the same Outlaw, looking up into his face. “We wouldn’t want to disappoint our master, now would we? We’re cooking it specially for you.”
The sheriff had no choice but to brave it out. “Very well then, but who is your master?” he asked, dreading the answer for he knew it already.
“You’ll no soon enough,” replied the Outlaw with a laugh. “He’s been longing to meet you. We all have, haven’t we, lads?” And the sheriff looked at the faces of his laughing captors and hoped that death would at least be quick. They blindfolded him and led him away, none too gently, into the forest.
Robin and the Outlaws were gathered in eager anticipation around the fire. They could scarcely believe their good fortune when the charcoal burner had brought news that the Sheriff of Nottingham would be riding alone into Sherwood to prove once and for all that Robin Hood was dead. Friar Tuck pronounced at length how God was delivering their enemy into their hands, and while they were waiting everyone sat about devising ever more gruesome ways of killing the sheriff, of “butchering the butcher”. Every new bloodthirsty suggestion was greeted with another resounding cheer. But after a while Robin went away and sat silent, alone under his tree. As much as anyone else around the fire, he too had reason enough to hate the Sheriff of Nottingham; yet even so, he could not bring himself to gloat at the prospect of the man’s death. He just wanted it done and over with. He still had not made up his mind how it should be done, when a great hush fell around the fire and he saw the sheriff being led towards him.
“Take off his blindfold,” said Robin. “Let me look at him.”
It was a face fat with good living. The little piggy eyes that looked back at him were darting with terror.
“You are Robin Hood?” the sheriff breathed.
“I am, and alive too, as you see.”
The sheriff dropped to his knees. “I will give you all I have, everything. Only in God’s holy name, spare my life.”
“Like you spared my father’s eyes?” said Robin.
“It was Guy of Gisbourne, it was his idea.”
Robin drew his sword and raised it high above his head. “You miserable worm,” he cried. “I hope you wriggle at both ends when I cut you in half.” But Marion held him by the arm.
“Do not do it, Robin,” she said. “It will not bring your father’s sight back, nor Much’s father, nor will it right the thousands of wrongs he has done us all. Punish him, yes; but do not kill him. I do not want our son to have an executioner for a father. Have mercy, Robin; show this wicked man how to have mercy.” Robin looked down at the pathetic figure prostrating himself at his feet and suddenly felt nothing but pity. “Please, Robin,” whispered Marion. “For me.”
Robin sheathed his sword and lifted the sheriff to his feet. “Tonight, sheriff,” he began, “you will sup with us off the king’s deer, King Richard’s deer. If it doesn’t choke you, and I pray it will, then you may leave with your wretched life, but everything else we will take.”
So the sheriff sat down with the Outlaws and was obliged to eat the king’s venison with them. As the ale flowed, the Outlaws became wilder and wilder in their boisterous celebrations, lampooning the sheriff to his face, and cursing him roundly, and Sir Guy of Gisbourne and Prince John and anyone else who came to mind. At Little John’s suggestion, they drank a defiant toast to the return of good King Richard, Richard the Lionheart; and death to the usurper Prince John. The sheriff had no alternative but to drink along with them. All the while Much looked on in silence, his eyes never leaving the sheriff’s face.
“Well,” said Robin, merry with ale now. “What do you think, sheriff? Will you become one of us? Will you live in the forest and sleep on the good earth as we do? As you see, we live well enough, and we shall live better too. From this day until the return of the king we shall rob all we can. We shall use all we need for the poor, and the rest we shall save for good King Richard’s ransom. We shall have our king back, sheriff. We will not rest till
we do. Stay with us, redeem yourself, and you can keep all you have. Go, and we shall take everything. Well?”
“Let me go, I beg you,” the sheriff pleaded, still fearful for his life. “Let me go and I shall leave you in peace to do what you like, rob who you like, I promise.”
“Your promises,” said Robin, “are like dead wood, brittle, too easily broken, and full of rot. I have given you your chance. Now go. But first take off your clothes, all of them, every stitch of them.”
So, to the rapturous delight of the Outlaws, the Sheriff of Nottingham was set up on his horse naked as the day he was born; and Robin and Much the miller’s son led him away into the darkness of the forest with the Outlaws’ laughter ringing in their ears. When they reached the road to Nottingham, Robin slapped the horse’s rump and sent the shivering sheriff galloping off home.
“You should have let me hang him, Robin. You promised me,” said Much quietly. Robin said nothing, for there was nothing he could say. He knew that Much was right, and he knew in his heart that Marion had been right as well.
“Let’s get home, Much,” said Robin. “Father’ll be telling Martin his night-time story. He tells them just like he always did, word for word. I like listening to them. It makes me feel like a child again.”
“We should have killed him,” said Much, but after that he never spoke of it again.
They heard it first from a merchant they robbed. No one really believed it. It seemed just too obvious. Then Tuck came back from one of his frequent pilgrimages with the evidence of it in his hand, a notice he had torn down from a church door. It read: “Who is the finest bowman in England? A contest will be held on May Day at Nottingham. A silver arrow and a hundred pounds to the champion.” The notices were everywhere, Tuck told them. Town criers shouted the challenge from every market square in the land. People talked of little else. The contest would be held beneath the city walls, and the Sheriff of Nottingham himself would give away the prize. It was a trap. All the Outlaws knew it. Robin knew it. The sheriff knew they would know it. What he counted on was Robin’s audacity. Ever since his humiliating ride naked through the streets of Nottingham, the sheriff and Sir Guy of Gisbourne had planned and plotted together how to dispose of Robin Hood. To go into Sherwood after him would be suicidal. Somehow they had to tempt him out into the open, him and his Outlaws, and then destroy them.