“And do you know what Blondel did?” Friar Tuck took up the story. “He did what any loyal Englishman would have done, anyone who did not know our Prince John as we do. He came back to London and told Prince John where the king was being held. And what did our valiant prince do? Did he send men to besiege the castle and rescue his brother? Did he send the ransom money? No. None of these. Tell them what he said, Blondel.”
Blondel spoke through his tears. “He said that Richard could rot there, for all he cared.” The crowd murmured with indignation.
“And then,” Tuck went on expansively. “And then the miracle happened. By God’s good grace, Blondel came to Canterbury, to the holy shrine, to pray for his master; and I was there at vespers, praying too. I heard beside me a man crying, this man. We got to talking outside the shrine. We ate together, and I confess it, we drank together too, and he told me his story. It was God’s good grace that brought us together, and it’ll be God’s good grace that will take us over the seas to Austria to pay the ransom and bring our king out of his captivity. He will have his master home, and we shall have our king back on his throne, and justice at last in this land.” He turned to Robin and patted his great belly. “Well, and isn’t it food time now, by God’s good grace?”
Just then Little John came into the encampment laden with swords. He saw Blondel, dropped the swords with a clatter and ran to him and swept him up in a great bear hug. What a feast they had that night around the fire. Blondel taught the Outlaws ‘The Candlelight Song’, and they sang it again and again until everyone knew it by heart. As the Outlaws sang, Robin planned. With Will Scarlett and his father and Marion and Little John and Much and Tuck, he devised how they might bring Richard safely back to Sherwood. All knew that there was no time to lose. The king could die in his dungeon. Prince John could pay the ransom before them and have him murdered – he was capable even of fratricide, they had no doubt of that. They had to move fast.
The smelting of the gold began that night. It was to take all the next day for Little John to turn the gold chains and plates and cups and ewers and crosses into golden horseshoes. After all, as Little John said himself, you couldn’t be too careful with all these nasty folk about, thieving everything they could lay their filthy hands on. Nothing was safe these days; but horseshoes were safer than almost anything. No one ever stole horseshoes. And so that the golden horseshoes would not wear away, each horse would be doubly shod. A shoe of solid gold and an iron one beneath to protect it. Will Scarlett worked night and day at his cutting and stitching, until Robin and Much and Little John looked their parts, and that was no easy task. All three had to look like noblemen, like emissaries from the court of Prince John. They were to be accompanied by their holy friar who insisted on a new habit of the best Irish cloth, and by Blondel of course, who would travel as their servant, and would therefore need no new clothes.
“I shall call myself Robin, Earl of … Locksley. Yes, Locksley sounds good,” said Robin, dressed up in his finery for the first time, and parading like a peacock in front of Marion and little Martin that last evening.
Marion smiled at him a little ruefully. “Just don’t ever forget who you really are,” she said. “And come back safe to Sherwood, for me and for Martin.”
And so, the next morning, they rode away, their horses’ hooves glinting gold in the sunlight, but they were not glinting for long. By the time they reached the London road, the horses were covered in mud to their fetlocks, and the gold hidden from the world. Behind them they left the band of Outlaws in the care of Marion, Will and Robin’s father, every one of them already longing for the day they would return to Sherwood with their king.
They put up at an inn by the river at Southwark in London, a dingy, stinking place full of rats and filth that they were all glad to leave. The sea-crossing was wretched too, and particularly for Robin. Heaving over the ship’s side, he longed for the trees of Sherwood, and for ground that did not move under him. It was made all the worse for him because Little John would keep clapping him on the back and telling him to cheer up. Robin had never before felt like strangling him. The roads through France were no better than in England. The early autumn rains had turned them into quagmires. Every river they came to was swollen and bank-high. Fording was usually quite impossible, and there were often long detours to the nearest bridge. Then they would lose their way. Tuck’s much vaunted perfect sense of direction was proved fallible on too many occasions.
Every morning and evening Little John checked the horses’ golden shoes, all twenty of them, to be sure none had worked themselves loose. Being of softer metal, they flattened out more than iron shoes, but they were tailor-made to each hoof, and with a few new nails from time to time, they lasted well enough. Weary and saddlesore, it was a journey of four long weeks before they reached Austria and the Danube. When at long last Blondel saw the castle rising from the valley floor in the bend of the river, their sense of elation and relief banished at once all thoughts of exhaustion. “That’s the place,” cried Blondel. “I have dreamt of it night and day.”
At Robin’s suggestion, Blondel set off at once, alone, to find out if the king was still there. They watched him ride slowly around the castle, again and again, before he came galloping back to them. He was breathless with excitement. “He’s there, the king is there. I sang. He sang. He’s there. I told him we had brought the ransom, that we were taking him home.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” said Robin, setting his heels to his horse’s side. And the five of them rode down into the valley, splashed through a stream at a canter and thundered over the drawbridge into the castle courtyard.
Armed men rushed at them from every side. “We are from the court of Prince John of England,” Robin cried, brushing aside the spear pointed at his chest. “We have come to pay King Richard’s ransom, but we will pay it only when we see the king brought out alive and well.”
“We will see your money first, Englishman,” said a voice from the top of the steps. The soldiers backed away instantly. “I would not trust an Englishman as far as I could spit.” And the man threw his cloak about him as he came down the steps towards them.
“And who are you to insult us so?” Robin asked.
“The Duke of Austria,” the man replied. “And you?”
“He is Robin of Locksley,” said Friar Tuck, dismounting slowly, “and I am his friar, and my bottom is sore.”
“And where is the ransom? You have no baggage.”
“These fine horses,” replied Robin, “are all the ransom you will get. They are worth at least a hundred thousand pounds, your price for our king, I believe.”
“An English joke.” The duke’s hand was on his sword now. “A bad English joke.” At this, Friar Tuck stopped rubbing his bottom; and suddenly, before anyone could stop him, his sword was in his hand and he lunged towards the duke, lifting his chin with its point.
“No joke,” he snarled. “I’m not laughing, am I? Now, by God’s good grace, you will do as I say, or I shall separate your dukely head from your dukely body.” The Duke of Austria waved back his men. “Tell your soldiers to lay down their weapons,” said Friar Tuck. And Little John and Much made quite sure that every one of them did.
“Now,” said Robin. “Bring me Richard the Lionheart, and you shall have these horses which are full payment for the ransom, as I have promised. You will see when you examine the horses that I do not break promises. In return, I shall want fresh horses, and your word on the Holy Bible that we shall be able to leave this castle and this country unhindered.” The duke made the oath on Friar Tuck’s Bible, and gave the order for the king to be brought up. He had little choice for Friar Tuck’s sword was never far from his throat. So they waited there for the king, as the first snows of winter began to fall.
The man who stumbled, blinking, into the courtyard some minutes later, looked more like a beggar than a king. Emaciated almost beyond recognition, he walked slowly, unsteadily, towards them over the cobbles. Little
John ran to his side to support him. The king looked up at him. “Little John,” he smiled. And then Blondel was there too, on his knee before his beloved king. “Dear friend,” said the king, “how can I ever thank you?”
“Thank Robin Hood and his Outlaws, Sire,” said Blondel. “It is they who have done this. I just pointed the way.”
And so in that cold courtyard, Tuck still guarding the duke, and with snowflakes falling all about them, Richard the Lionheart met Robin Hood. “Sire,” said Robin. “Weak though I know you are, we must leave at once. Fresh horses are being brought. We leave these behind in payment of your ransom.”
“Five horses for a king?” said the king. “Hardly a king’s ransom, is it?”
Robin bent to lift one of their hooves. “Each one of their shoes is of solid gold, gold raised in Sherwood to bring you home. Can you believe it, Sire, but this goat of an Austrian duke thought we were trying to cheat him.” Fresh horses were being led into the courtyard now, saddled and ready. Little John and Blondel helped the king up into his saddle.
“Tuck,” said Robin. “Let the duke have his poxy head. On to your horse, we’ll be away.” And he strode over to the Duke of Austria, who was clutching his throat, his face pale with fear. “All you have to do, my Lord Duke, is to take the shoes off all our horses, and you will find your ransom paid in full. We have our king. You have your gold. Everyone is happy. You will not mind if I take your cloak for my king?”
“So you are Robin Hood,” said the duke, taking off his cloak and handing it to Robin. “I have heard of you, and know you to be a loyal and an honourable man. Your king does not deserve you, as you will one day find out.” These words echoed in Robin’s head time and again as they rode home. He was not to forget them.
Every day they travelled, every meal they ate, every night they slept, the king grew in strength. At night he would sit by the fire and tell them of his crusades to the Holy Land, of the battles he had won, the castles he had besieged, of his enemy, Saladin, of whom he spoke with more respect and even affection than his allies. They heard of the treachery of the Duke of Austria, and how the other crusading kings and princes quarrelled endlessly amongst themselves. He would not rest, he said, until Jerusalem was in Christian hands again. Then Blondel would sing, and he would sing, and they would all sing. The king had scarcely been in England over the last ten years and as they rode he quizzed them endlessly on the state of his kingdom. They told him of the injustices wreaked on the people by Prince John and his sheriffs up and down the land, of the Sheriff of Nottingham in particular, and Sir Guy of Gisbourne, how they drove the people from their homes, of the starvation and deep poverty, of the torture and mutilation all done in the king’s name. And when alone with the king, Blondel spoke of all the good that Robin and his band of Outlaws had done.
The king listened to them all, but even while he was listening he seemed restless, looking past them or through them even as they spoke. He would deal with the Sheriff of Nottingham on his return, and Sir Guy of Gisbourne too, that much he did promise them. Such terrible deeds could not and would not go unpunished; but his brother was his brother, and though he acknowledged he was weak, he would hear no more against him.
The crossing was calm this time, to Robin’s great relief, but he stayed out on deck all the same – he felt better that way. On the last morning at sea, he found the king suddenly beside him. “As soon as I can, Robin,” he said, “I will come to Sherwood. I owe you that and much more besides. I shall see to it that your Outlaws are free again. Their virtue and their courage will have its reward, have no fear. And the Sheriff of Nottingham and Sir Guy of Gisbourne will have their just deserts, I promise you.” He gazed out towards the white cliffs of Dover, and sighed deeply. “I was not born a king, Robin. Had he lived, my older brother would have been king in my place. I did not want the crown. I am a soldier, never happier than in a fight, and no cause is more dear to me than the capture of Jerusalem. How else does a soldier find his way to heaven, unless he fights for God? I was not made for a comfortable court, for the niceties of diplomacy, nor the machinations of ambitious ministers and counsellors.”
“But your people,” said Robin. “They need you at home.”
The king shook his head. “No, they need people like you, Robin. You should have been a king, not me.” And he walked away.
It was the dawn of Christmas Day when they arrived at last in London, and rode through the silent streets up to the Tower. The guard at the gate stood staring open-mouthed. “I am no ghost, man. I am your king. Have the gate opened and send for my brother. He’ll be in bed. He always was a late riser.”
Sitting on his throne with Blondel at his feet, Richard the Lionheart waited for his brother in silence. On one side of him stood Robin and Much, on the other Little John and Friar tuck. They heard doors opening and closing upstairs, urgent whisperings, running feet, and then the solitary figure of Prince John on the staircase, wrapping himself in a sable-trimmed gown.
“Come on down, John,” said the king. “I shall not eat you. And neither will Robin Hood, though he has cause enough, I believe. I am home again, brother John, the ransom paid. What, are you not glad to see me? I have come home to wish you a happy Christmas. Don’t worry, I will not stay for long this time, for I have business in Sherwood Forest, urgent business that cannot wait. Don’t stand there gaping. Come and embrace your brother, John; or should I call you Judas?”
All this while in Nottingham Castle, Sir Guy of Gisbourne and the Abbess of Kirkleigh had been searching for some sure way of destroying Robin Hood and the Outlaws, but neither plotting nor prayers had come up with anything. Many of their own spies had themselves deserted and joined the Outlaw band. Bribery proved fruitless too. They doubled the price on Robin’s head, but no one came forward. As for the sheriff, he sat glowering in his castle, terrified of every creaking door, and seeing devils and portents in every flitting bat or screech owl.
The three of them huddled close to the fire that Christmas night, the wind whining and moaning in the chimney. All of them were brooding darkly about the same thing, the same man. Yet another Christmas had come and gone, and Robin Hood still lived. In his fury and frustration, Sir Guy of Gisbourne kicked out at a sprig of holly and sent it flying into the red heat of the fire where it crackled, roared and then vanished in a shower of sparks up the chimney. Behind them, his eyes shining the darkness at the back of the room, stood a servant holding a ewer of wine, a trusted servant; but unknown to them, an Outlaw and a spy.
“Numbskulls,” said the abbess suddenly. “We have been numbskulls. May I burn in hellfire if I have not found the perfect way! We’ll smoke them out, brother. We’ll burn Sherwood round their ears, burn it to the ground so there’s nowhere left for them to hide.”
“But you can’t,” the sheriff protested. “It’s the king’s forest.”
“The king, dear brother, is hundreds of miles away in an Austrian dungeon, is he not? For God’s sake, he’s very probably dead and buried by now. And besides, brother, you speak for the king in Nottingham, so you are the king in Nottingham.”
“It could work,” said Sir Guy of Gisbourne, springing to his feet. “It could really work. We wait for a wind from the west. We have all our men, every one of them, ready and waiting on the east side of the forest. We light the fire and the rats will run straight into our trap. It’s so simple, so beautiful.”
All through the night of New Year’s Eve, the sheriff’s men lay in wait in their hundreds along the eastern edge of Sherwood, every quiver full, every sword and spear and axe sharpened for the kill. Hidden in the woods behind them, the horsemen waited and watched. Nothing had been left to chance. Not a single Outlaw was to be left alive. In the grey dark of dawn, with just a dozen men to help them, the sheriff and Sir Guy rode out of Nottingham, torches in hand. The wind was perfect, gusting from the west, and the forest was dry from weeks of frost. It would burn like a sprig of holly. They timed it to the minute, reaching the forest just as the d
awn was breaking.
“We have him now,” said the sheriff, riding forward with his blazing torch.
As he spoke, a shadow moved and stepped out from the trees. “Drop the torch, my Lord.” The shadow spoke, and became Robin Hood. “I have an arrow pointing at your heart, Lord Sheriff.” The sheriff did not hesitate for a moment, but threw down the torch at Robin’s feet. Then there were other shadows flitting through the trees, dozens of them, hundreds of them. All the sheriff’s men but one threw down their torches at once. With a scream of rage, Sir Guy of Gisbourne charged his horse towards the nearest tree. He threw himself flat along the neck of his horse, the torch thrust out ahead of him like a lance. Robin wheeled round as he passed and let loose his arrow. It took Sir Guy of Gisbourne through the neck and lifted him clean from the saddle. He was dead before he hit the ground.
When the body was still at last, the sheriff looked up. The man standing before him was not dressed like Robin and the others, in Lincoln green. His red cloak bore on it the crest of the three golden lions rampant, the arms of the king of England, of King Richard the Lionheart. He recognised the face now, and from that moment he knew he was going to die. He was hauled unceremoniously from his horse and thrown down before the king.
“Have mercy, Sire,” he begged, grasping the king’s feet.
“Once before you were shown mercy,” said the king. “Never again. These last few days I have lived with the Outlaws. I have heard each of their stories. I go to fight a Holy War, for God and country, and while I am gone, men like you play the petty tyrant. You thieve from the people, you pillage, you corrupt, and you do it in my name too. You were going to burn down my forest, and massacre these brave people so despised by you, so maltreated. The holy book says: ‘Ye reap what ye sow’. Within the hour you shall hang by the neck like the common criminal you are. Not a man, not a woman, not a child in this company, nor in this world I think, will mourn your death. Take him to the gibbet.”