Then presently they met three merry minstrels, all clad in red, who stared amain to see a Gray Friar with such short robes walking in the middle of the road, and two brothers, with heads bowed with shame, riding upon richly-caparisoned cobs on the foot-paths. When they had come near to the minstrels, Little John waved his staff like an usher clearing the way. “Make way!” he cried, in a loud voice, “Make way! make way! for here we go; we three!” Then how the minstrels stared, and how they laughed! But the fat Friar shook as with an ague, and the lean Friar bowed his head over his horse’s neck.
Little John and the two friars meet three strolling minstrels.
Then next they met a stout burgher and his wife and their two fair daughters, all dressed in their Sunday best, riding from their cousin’s house in the country back to Tuxford again. These Little John saluted gravely. Quoth he, “Good den, good folk. Here we go, we three.” At this the women stared, for women do not take a joke so quickly as men; but the merry old burgher laughed till his fat side shook and his cheeks grew red and water stood in his eyes.
Little John and the two friars meet a stout burgher and his wife and his two fair daughters.
Then the third they met were two noble knights in rich array, with hawk on wrist, and likewise two fair ladies clad in silks and velvets, all a-riding on noble steeds. These all made room, staring, as Little John and the two friars came along the road. To them Little John bowed humbly. “Give you greeting, lords and ladies,” said he. “But here we go, we three.”
Little John and the two friars meet two noble knights and two fair ladies.
Then all laughed, and one of the fair ladies cried out, “What three meanest thou, merry friend?”
Little John looked over his shoulder, for they had now passed each other, and he called back, “Big Jack, lean Jack, and fat Jack-pudding.”
At this the fat Friar gave a groan and seemed as if he were like to fall from his saddle for shame; the other brother said nothing, but he looked before him with a grim and stony look.
Just ahead of them the road took a sudden turn around a high hedge, and some twoscore paces beyond the bend another road crossed the one they were riding upon. When they had come to the cross-road and were well away from those they had left, then lean Friar drew rein suddenly. “Look ye, fellow,” quoth he, in a voice quivering with rage, “we have had enough of thy vile company, and care no longer to be made sport of. Go thy way, and let us go ours in peace.”
“La there, now!” quoth Little John. “Methought we were such a merry company, and here thou dost blaze up like fat in the pan. But truly, I ha’ had enow of you to-day, though I can ill spare your company. I know ye will miss me, but gin ye want me again, whisper to Goodman Wind, and he will bring news thereof to me. But ye see I am a poor man and ye are rich. I pray you give me a penny or two to buy me bread and cheese at the next inn.”
Little John beggeth a penny of the two friars ere he leaveth them.
“We have no money, fellow,” said the lean Friar, harshly. “Come, Brother Thomas, let us forward.”
But Little John caught the horses by the bridle-reins, one in either hand. “Ha’ ye in truth no money about you whatsoever?” said he. “Now, I pray you, brothers, for charity’s sake, give me somewhat to buy a crust of bread, e’en though it be only a penny.”
“I tell thee, fellow, we have no money,” thundered the fat little Friar with the great voice.
“Ha’ ye, in holy truth, no money?” asked Little John.
“Not a farthing,” said the lean Friar, sourly.
“Not a groat,” said the fat Friar, loudly.
“Nay,” quoth Little John, “this must not be. Far be it from me to see such holy men as ye are depart from me with no money. Get both of you down straightway from off your horses, and we will kneel here in the middle of the cross-roads and pray the blessed Saint Dunstan to send us some money to carry us on our journey.”
“What sayest thou, thou limb of evil!” cried the lean Friar, fairly gnashing his teeth with rage. “Dost thou bid me, the high cellarer of Fountain Abbey, to get down from my horse and kneel in the dirty road to pray to some beggarly Saxon saint?”
“Now,” quoth Little John, “I ha’ a great part of a mind to crack thy head for thee for speaking thus of the good Saint Dunstan! But get down straightway, for my patience will not last much longer, and I may forget that ye are both in holy orders.” So saying, he twirled his stout staff till it whistled again.
At this speech both friars grew as pale as dough. Down slipped the fat Brother from off his horse on one side, and down slipped the lean Brother on the other.
“Now, brothers, down on your knees and pray,” said Little John; there-upon, putting his heavy hands upon the shoulder of each, he forced them to their knees, he kneeling also. Then Little John began to beseech Saint Dunstan for money, which he did in a great loud voice. After he had so besought the Saint for a time, he bade the friars feel in their pouches and see if the Saint had sent them anything; so each put his hand slowly in the pouch that hung beside him, but brought nothing thence.
Little John and the two friars pray to Saint Dunstan for money.
“Ha!” quoth Little John, “have your prayers so little virtue? Then let us at it again.”
Then straightway he began calling on Saint Dunstan again, somewhat in this wise: “O gracious Saint Dunstan! send some money straightway to these poor folk, lest the fat one waste away and grow as lean as the lean one, and the lean one waste away to nothing at all, ere they get to Lincoln Town; but send them only ten shillings apiece, lest they grow puffed up with pride. Any more than that that thou sendest, send to me.”
“Now,” quoth he, rising, “let us see what each man hath.” Then he thrust his hand into his pouch, and drew thence four golden angels. “What have ye, brothers?” said he.
Then once again each friar slowly thrust his hand into his pouch, and once again brought it out with nothing in it.
“Have ye nothing?” quoth Little John. “Nay, I warrant there is somewhat that hath crept into the seams of your pouches, and so ye ha’ missed it. Let me look.”
So he went first to the lean Friar, and, thrusting his hand into the pouch, he drew forth a leathern bag, and counted therefrom one hundred and ten pounds of golden money. “I thought,” quoth Little John, “that thou hadst missed, in some odd corner of thy pouch, the money that the blessed Saint had sent thee. And now let me see whether thou hast not some, also, brother.” Thereupon he thrust his hand into the pouch of the fat Friar, and drew thence a bag like the other and counted out from it threescore and ten pounds. “Look, ye now,” quoth he, “I knew the good Saint had sent thee some pittance that thou, also, hadst missed.”
Saint Dunstan answereth Little John’s prayer with great bountifulness.
Then, giving them one pound between them, he slipped the rest of the money into his own pouch, saying, “Ye pledged me your holy word that ye had no money. Being holy men, I trust that ye would not belie your word so pledged, therefore I know the good Saint Dunstan hath sent this in answer to my prayers. But as I only prayed for ten shillings to be sent to each of you, all over and above that belongeth by rights to me, and so I take it. I give you good den, brothers, and may ye have a pleasant journey henceforth.” So saying, he turned and left them, striding away. The friars looked at one another with a woeful look, and slowly and sadly they mounted their horses again and rode away with never a word.
But Little John turned his footsteps back again to Sherwood Forest, and merrily he whistled as he strode along.
And now we will see what befell Robin Hood in his venture as beggar.
Little John taketh leave of the two friars of Fountain Abbey.
II.
Robin Hood turns Beggar.
AFTER jolly Robin had left Little John at the forking of the roads, he walked merrily onward in the mellow sunshine that shone about him.
Ever and anon he would skip and leap or sing a snatch of song, for pure jo
yousness of the day; for, because of the sweetness of the springtide, his heart was as lusty within him as that of a colt newly turned out to grass. Sometimes he would walk a long distance, gazing aloft at the great white swelling clouds that moved slowly across the deep blue sky; anon he would stop and drink in the fullness of life of all things, for the hedgerows were budding tenderly and the grass of the meadows was waxing long and green; again he would stand still and listen to the pretty song of the little birds in the thickets or hearken to the clear crow of the cock daring the sky to rain, whereat he would laugh, for it took but little to tickle Robin’s heart into merriment. So he trudged manfully along, ever willing to stop for this reason or for that, and ever ready to chat with such merry lasses as he met now and then. So the morning slipped along, but yet he met no beggar with whom he could change clothes. Quoth he, “If I do not change my luck in haste, I am like to have an empty day of it, for it is well nigh half gone already, and, although I have had a merry walk through the countryside, I know nought of a beggar’s life.”
Then, after a while, he began to grow hungry, whereupon his mind turned from thoughts of springtime and flowers and birds and dwelt upon boiled capons, Malmsey, white bread, and the like, with great tenderness. Quoth he to himself, “I would I had Willie Wynkin’s wishing coat; I know right well what I should wish for, and this it should be.” Here he marked upon the fingers of his left hand with the forefinger of his right hand those things which he wished for. “Firstly, I would have a sweet brown pie of tender larks; mark ye, not dry cooked, but with a good sop of gravy to moisten it withal. Next, I would have a pretty pullet, fairly boiled, with tender pigeons’ eggs, cunningly sliced, garnishing the platter around. With these I would have a long, slim loaf of wheaten bread that hath been baked upon the hearth; it should be warm from the fire, with glossy brown crust, the color of the hair of mine own maid, Marian, and this same crust should be as crisp and brittle as the thin white ice that lies across the furrows in the early winter’s morning. These will do for the more solid things; but with these I must have three pottles, fat and round, one full of Malmsey, one of Canary, and one brimming full of mine own dear lusty sack.” Thus spoke Robin to himself, his mouth growing moist at the corners with the thoughts of the good things he had raised in his own mind.
So, talking to himself, he came to where the dusty road turned sharply around the hedge, all tender with the green of the coming leaf, and there he saw before him a stout fellow sitting upon a stile, swinging his legs in idleness. All about this lusty rogue dangled divers pouches and bags of different sizes and kinds, a dozen or more, with great, wide, gaping mouths, like a brood of hungry daws. His coat was gathered in at his waist, and was patched with as many colors as there are stripes upon a Maypole in the springtide. On his head he wore a great tall leathern cap, and across his knees rested a stout quarterstaff of blackthorn, full as long and heavy as Robin’s. As jolly a beggar was he as ever trod the lanes and byways of Nottinghamshire, for his eyes were as gray as slate, and snapped and twinkled and danced with merriment, and his black hair curled close all over his head in little rings of kinkyness.
Robin Hood cometh upon a stout beggar sitting upon a stile.
“Halloa, good fellow,” quoth Robin, when he had come nigh to the other, “what art thou doing here this merry day, when the flowers are peeping and the buds are swelling?”
Then the other winked one eye, and straightway trolled forth in a merry voice:—
“I sit upon the stile,
And I sing a little while
As I wait for my own true dear, 0,
For the sun is shining bright,
And the leaves are dancing light,
And the little fowl sings she is near, O.
“And so it is with me, bully boy, saving that my doxy cometh not.”
“Now that is a right sweet song,” quoth Robin, “and, were I in the right mind to listen to thee, I could bear well to hear more; but I have two things of seriousness to ask of thee; so listen, I prythee.”
At this the jolly Beggar cocked his head on one side, like a rogue of a magpie. Quoth he, “I am an ill jug to pour heavy things into, good friend, and, if I mistake not, thou hast few serious words to spare at any time.”
“Nay,” quoth jolly Robin, “what I would say first is the most serious of all thoughts to me, to wit, ‘where shall I get somewhat to eat and drink?’ ”
“Sayst thou so?” quoth the Beggar. “Marry, I make no such serious thoughts upon the matter. I eat when I can get it, and munch my crust when I can get no crumb; likewise, when there is no ale to be had I wash the dust from out my throat with a trickle of cold water. I was sitting here, as thou camest upon me, bethinking myself whether I should break my fast or no. I do love to let my hunger grow mightily keen ere I eat, for then a dry crust is as good to me as a venison pasty with suet and raisins is to stout King Harry. I have a sharp hunger upon me now, but methinks in a short while it will ripen to a right mellow appetite.”
“Now, in good sooth,” quoth merry Robin, laughing, “thou hast a quaint tongue betwixt thy teeth. But hast thou truly nought but a dry crust about thee? Methinks thy bags and pouches are fat and lusty for such thin fare.”
“Why, mayhap there is some other cold fare therein,” said the Beggar, slyly.
“And hast thou nought to drink but cold water?” said Robin.
“Never so much as a drop,” quoth the Beggar. “Over beyond yon clump of trees is as sweet a little inn as ever thou hast lifted eyelid upon; but I go not thither, for they have a nasty way with me. Once, when the good Prior of Emmet was dining there, the landlady set a dear little tart of stewed crabs and barley-sugar upon the window-sill to cool, and, seeing it there, and fearing it might be lost, I took it with me till that I could find the owner thereof. Ever since then they have acted very ill toward me; yet truth bids me say that they have the best ale there that ever rolled over my tongue.”
At this Robin laughed aloud. “Marry,” quoth he, “they did ill toward thee for thy kindness. But tell me truly, what hast thou in thy pouches?”
“Why,” quoth the Beggar, peeping into the mouths of his bags, “I find here a goodly piece of pigeon pie, wrapped in a cabbage leaf to hold the gravy. Here I behold a dainty streaked piece of brawn, and here a fair lump of white bread. Here I find four oaten cakes and a cold knuckle of ham. Ha! in sooth ’tis strange; but here I behold six eggs that must have come by accident from some poultry yard hereabouts. They are raw, but roasted upon the coals, and spread with a piece of butter that I see”—
“Peace, good friend!” cried Robin, holding up his hand. “Thou makest my poor stomach quake with joy for what thou tellest me so sweetly. If thou wilt give me to eat, I will straightway hie me to that little inn thou didst tell of but now, and will bring a skin of ale for thy drinking and mine.”
Robin Hood offereth the Beggar somewhat to drink for a taste of the victuals the other hath.
“Friend, thou hast said enough,” said the Beggar, getting down from the stile; “I will feast thee with the best that I have and bless Saint Cedric for thy company. But, sweet chuck, I prythee bring three quarts of ale at least, one for thy drinking and two for mine, for my thirst is such that methinks I can drink ale as the sands of the River Dee drink salt water.”
So Robin straightway left the Beggar, who, upon his part, went to a budding lime bush back of the hedge, and there spread his feast upon the grass and roasted his eggs upon a little fagot fire, with a deftness gained by long labor in that line. After a while back came Robin bearing a goodly skin of ale upon his shoulder, which he laid upon the grass. Then, looking upon the feast spread upon the ground,—and a fair sight it was to look upon,—he slowly rubbed his hand over his stomach, for to his hungry eyes it seemed the fairest sight that he had beheld in all his life.
“Friend,” said the Beggar, “let me feel the weight of that skin.”
“Yea, truly,” quoth Robin, “help thyself, sweet chuck, and meantime let me s
ee whether thy pigeon pie is fresh or no.”
So the one seized upon the ale and the other upon the pigeon pie, and nothing was heard for a while but the munching of food and the gurgle of ale as it left the skin.
Robin Hood and the Beggar feast beneath the lime tree.
At last, after a long time had passed thus, Robin pushed the food from him and heaved a great sigh of deep content, for he felt as though he had been made all over anew.
“And now, good friend,” quoth he, leaning upon one elbow, “I would have at thee about that other matter of seriousness of which I spoke not long since.”
“How!” said the Beggar, reproachfully; “thou wouldst surely not talk of things appertaining to serious affairs upon such ale as this!”
“Nay,” quoth Robin, laughing. “I would not check thy thirst, sweet friend; drink whilst I talk to thee. Thus it is: I would have thee know that I have taken a liking to thy craft and would fain have a taste of a beggar’s life mine own self.”
Robin Hood liketh the Beggar’s life.
Said the Beggar: “I marvel not that thou hast taken a liking to my manner of life, good fellow, but ‘to like’ and ‘to do’ are two matters of different sorts. I tell thee, friend, one must serve a long apprenticeship ere one can learn to be even so much as a clapper-dudgeon, much less a crank or any Abrahamman. 5 I tell thee, lad, thou art too old to enter upon that which it may take thee years to catch the hang of.”
“Mayhap that may be so,” quoth Robin, “for I bring to mind that Gaffer Swanthold sayeth Jack Shoemaker maketh ill bread; Tom Baker maketh ill shoon. Nevertheless, I have a mind to taste a beggar’s life, and need but the clothing to be as good as any.”