The Outlaws of Sherwood

by Robin McKinley

  “Have you noticed that Robin hasn’t complained about the stink of the arrow-glue and Harald’s stretched hides for over a week?” said Much. “Because he can’t smell ’em. Maybe the foresters all have head-colds too and won’t wonder why someone has set up a tannery in the middle of Sherwood.”

  Perhaps it was the end of his head-cold, or the relative peace of the winter just passed, which made Robin sharp when Much brought a stranger to Greentree one day in early April. The man was the first stranger Robin had seen—or rather, been seen by—in several months.

  In any company that did not include Little John this man would have been large; and he towered over Much. But where Little John had come to them dressed as a man dresses who has had an empty purse and no home for some time, this man dressed as a prince might, in smooth red-dyed leather unmarked by age and little by use. There was even a touch of lace at his wrists and throat, which caught Robin’s attention more than the size of the bow over the man’s shoulder, which under other circumstances could have pleased him.

  Robin said harshly, “Why came you to Sherwood? This is no place for the likes of you.” To Much he said, “And why did you bring him here? It would have been better to have led him to Growling Falls—where it matters less who finds us.”

  Much said, “I led him nowhere. He arrived.”

  Robin, appalled, was silent. When he looked back to the stranger, the man smiled, a surprisingly sweet and wistful smile. But his first words were badly chosen: “I come willing to pay for my pleasure,” he said.

  Robin’s brows snapped together, and a few of those standing near moved to leave a little space around their leader and the yellow-haired stranger. But Much held up a fat and jingly purse; perhaps he shook it a little too forcefully to be in keeping with his casual expression; and he was careful that Robin’s eyes should be upon him when he raised his shoulders and eyebrows as if to say he did not understand it either but was willing to give the benefit of the doubt.

  “I heard,” the stranger said, “of a band of folk deep in Sherwood, who, having become outlaws because they were not permitted to earn an honest living, have been sending those poorer than themselves along their ways with coin in their pockets. And—” the stranger looked bashful but optimistic—“and I thought that this was an outlawry I would wish to ally myself with. And I thought I might begin by replacing a little of the coin spent in so honourable an undertaking.”

  The guilelessness of the stranger’s confidence was not lost on Robin; the worst of having been brought up in easy comfort was the notions it gave you about the fairness of life and the supremacy of virtue. It had crossed his mind once or twice, listening to Much in full cry, that too much high-mindedness could tantalize some careless scion of a great family into thinking outlawry romantic; but Much had no more use for the aristocracy than Robin did himself. Much’s mother had been a lady’s maid before she married the miller, and the tales she had told of the life of the gentry were similar to the ones that Robin’s mother had told—and that Marian could tell but rarely did because she did not like being reminded of them. Robin had hoped that they would be safe from scions in Sherwood because the more whimsical of Much’s philosophical raptures would fail to reach so high for lack of a messenger.

  “You are but playing with words,” said Robin. “Speak plainly.”

  The stranger let his breath out with a grunt, and his voice was no longer light and charming. “Speak plainly, say you. I am the younger son of a father who has chosen to accept any ignominy the Normans wish to inflict on our family—and my older brother takes after him in all ways. We have lost much of our own substance in currying favour; let a Norman admire a thing and my father will press it upon him as a gift. So it has happened that a Norman lord has admired my sister. He is nearing fifty, and my sister is seventeen; he has buried two wives already, but he is soon to have a third.” The man stopped speaking and stared at the ground, and Robin felt his first belief in him, for his expression was now one he recognised; made up of anger and desperation, Robin had seen it on the face of everyone in Greentree. The man looked up and said, sternly, as if he would command belief, “I am a Saxon, sir.”

  “How did you find us?” Robin asked, more gently; but still first in his mind was the safety of his people. Second he thought that this man was too confident to make a good outlaw; and third he permitted himself some sympathy for a young man who had found his easy life less easy than he wished. And fourth he wondered if the young man’s sister was anything like Marian.

  “You are …” said the stranger, and hesitated. Robin was pleased at the hesitation, of the awareness that he was among strangers. “It is not a simple thing to hide so many as you are, even in a forest the size of Sherwood,” he said at last.

  “You tell me nothing I do not already know,” said Robin with a little impatience.

  “By the sheriff’s long nose,” burst out Much. “Is that all you can say? Robin, we can use this man—two-thirds of our company still can’t be trusted out of sight of the camp to not get lost. And he may have found us easily tracked, but has anyone else showed up on our door-step like this?”

  “Thank you, Much,” said Robin calmly, “for telling this unknown gentleman truths I would rather we had kept to ourselves. Besides, not more than half of us get lost that easily any more. We could use you,” he went on, turning back to the yellow-haired man. “What I need to decide is whether we should. And I would have a clearer answer from you as to how you found us. The suit you wear is not commonly seen on those who possess such woodscraft as you claim.”

  “Meaning—?” the stranger said in dismay. “Meaning that I was brought here like a lamb on a string and left bleating outside your lair while the hunters wait in ambush?” He looked down at himself. “I—I did not think of that. I thought I was being practical. Leather is tough and long-wearing. I like red. I—er—the colour is not practical, is it?”

  “Not very,” said Robin dryly. “One could run a pole across your shoulders and stake you out at any corner of a tourney ground with the other banners. But I acknowledge that a spy probably would choose better than to wear a signal-flag on his back when he went among rogues. You were about to tell us how it is you make so light of finding your way through a league of bramble-bushes as trackless as we can keep them.”

  The young man stood silent a moment, recalling his wits. “I—I have friends, who have heard things, and I have eyes.” He paused, and Robin made a sharp gesture with his hand as preface to a sharp word, but the young man threw up his own hand. “No, wait. I’m not—trying to play with you. I’ve always been able to find my way. It was a joke when I was younger, that I could find lost arrows. Our old huntsman hated me because the first time my father brought me out, I found the deer we’d wounded after the huntsman had missed the way. I’m at home among the trees.” The smile, tentative now, reappeared. “Even if I don’t dress like it.

  “I cannot tell you my friends’ names,” he added slowly, “if that is your next question; the reasons you yourselves would honour, did you know them.”

  “Had you considered that you might be seeking merely another gang of cutthroats, who honoured no laws whatsoever?” Robin put in, all the more quickly for the ringing of Much’s words in his ears. They could use this young man who could find lost arrows. But many men had Normans thrust into their families against their will; and running off to Sherwood was of no particular service to his sister. This young man would wake up, a week hence, missing his feather-bed, and he would be gone—and the number and the plan of Greentree with him.

  “Yes, of course I have thought; I have thought long, for my sister was betrothed at Christmas.” He looked around at them, and something glittered in his eyes. “I do not wish to boast, but I am stubborn, and skilled in ways of use to you. It did not need your companion’s impetuous words to tell me that. I would not have come had I not something to offer besides the contents of a purse. If you have doubts of me, take me out and let me show you I can
do what I say I can. If you still have doubts …” He paused, a little at a loss. “Well, chain me to a tree at night and post guard.”

  “Post guard,” said Robin thoughtfully. “We might have enough people to begin to do so.” The yellow-haired man’s shoulders slumped. “No—I did not mean on you, although I will accept your offer of a demonstration.

  “I know of no other haven as satisfactory as this to set camp,” he continued; “I would rather we not try to shift, if I can shut my conscience—or my fears—up enough to hear myself think. I, too, am stubborn. But I wish I were sure this was a feature entirely missing from the sheriff’s men and their fellows the king’s foresters.”

  “They will not find you here for some time at least. Those who are not stupid and might tell them where to look mostly do not love the sheriff,” said the yellow-haired man.

  “But it is not something we can count on, as you betray by the words at least and mostly,” replied Robin.

  “’Tis true enough that the sheriff’s men do not come so deep in this forest they claim to rule—and so do not know the knolls and clearings that might harbour a camp such as ours,” said Much, subdued but hopeful.

  “And the foresters dislike tearing their fine tunics on the brambles we have hereabouts,” said Robin. “So I think we will compromise. It has long been in my mind that we should set regular guard—at some little distance from the camp, that those who guard might have time and opportunity both to warn and to mislead.”

  “I—” said the stranger and paused. Robin wondered how much consideration he had given, in the months since his sister’s betrothal, to the possibility of a lack of warmth in his reception when he found his band of honourable outlaws and suggested he throw in his lot with them. “I might be able to lessen the risk in another fashion. I have some knowledge of the—construction of fortresses—”

  “Book-learning,” said Little John, in the tone of voice of a short-tempered man blocked from crossing a narrow bridge by the discourtesy of a fellow traveller. “Your father bought you a dusty old man to tell you how the Greeks did it, didn’t he?”

  The stranger looked thoughtfully at the one man present even taller than he was. “It began with my tutor, yes; I can tell you how the Macedonians did it and the Romans did it, as you say, as well. But—”

  “There’s no harm in book-learning,” Much interrupted, having recovered his spirits, and addressing Little John’s belt-buckle, “if you know what to do with it.”

  “Throw it out,” said the stranger pleasantly, and he smiled again, as if he had found his footing after being too hard-pressed for his skill. He turned his smile full on Little John, and Robin thought, perhaps he has learnt to use his charm so forcefully because his life has not been so easy as I would make it.

  There was a little stir at the edge of the circle of folk watching the scene; and Robin saw the top of a head he recognised as Marian, who stepped around Much, who made way for her—and then stopped in her tracks. “Will? Will of Norwell? What are you doing here?” But the tone of her voice was trusting, and no more than surprised, and Robin saw that everyone at once relaxed.

  “Of Norwell no more,” said Will.

  Several things flashed over Marian’s face, and at last she said, “Will Scarlet, then, for your old nickname has always suited you best since you discovered dyed cloth.” And she walked forward and held out her hands, and Will Scarlet grasped them. Robin felt a twinge of jealousy, not that Marian should have so handsome a friend whom she was glad to meet, but at the gracefulness of their hands clasping. Greentree, relentlessly tidy as its leader required it to be kept, and he himself, Robin Hood, were infinitely the more shabby for one brief touch of hands.

  “My father is an old friend of Will’s father,” Marian said, turning back to Robin. “I have known Will almost as long as I have known you.” The explanation made Robin’s heart beat the more hollowly, for Will, who was so old a friend, was someone he had never met before, though he had heard the name, now that she had named him: no stranger to her, but a part of her proper life. She had leaves in her hair from her passage through the forest, and a brown streak, where she had rubbed against rotten bark, down one sleeve; the sleeve had a darn in it. He thought, as he always did, she should not be here. Will said, “You see, perhaps, sir, why I would not speak to you of my friends. When Marian stopped talking of you I could not, in courtesy, pry at her—or your—secrets. I heard that the sheriff sought you, and I heard why; but Marian was not unhappy about you, even as she turned away any attempt to question her about you. By that I felt I knew what I needed to know about your—band of cutthroats. Then it was only the finding.”

  Marian said, “I heard some—little discussion as I approached. If my word will help, I give it for Will of Norwell’s good character, Will Scarlet as I have known him.”

  “Welcome, then,” said Robin, and Will said, “I thank you.” The little crowd about them began to disperse; to Rafe, Much, Little John, Will, and Marian, who lingered, he said, “Now we can begin to plot how best to set our new system of guards. We shall have a network over the length and breadth of England, at this rate, between what we have begun to do about finding new places for the displaced—and keeping them and ourselves safe in the meantimes.”

  “It is an army we become,” said Rafe with satisfaction.

  “Good for us,” said Much.

  “Maybe,” said Robin. “Of a sort.”

  The sentry system took a little while to design and set in motion; and a few people fell asleep, and out of their trees, in the process. Col sprained a wrist this way. “Your punishment shall be merely that I do not let you off your present schedule,” said Robin. “Fear of spraining your other wrist should keep you awake.”

  “Do we have to be in the trees?” said Much. “Wouldn’t behind one do?”

  “In is better,” said Robin. “You’re out of more of harm’s ways when you’re up a tree. A cross-tempered stag can’t mistake you for another stag trying to steal his does; and foresters look down and behind things, rarely up. You’ll get used to it.”

  “Like I’ll get used to your abominable longbow, I suppose,” said Much; but he took his sentry duty obediently up a tree.

  Will also had an idea for a simple rope-trap for an unwary sheriff’s man, to guard some way that outlaws could not have two eyes on, and Much looked at him admiringly: “What a poacher you would have made. I must have you look at our rabbit snares.”

  “Let you stay with snaring rabbits,” said Robin. “A man-trap may cause more trouble than it’s worth; if we fail to catch one of our own—or some innocent—then we will merely cause undue interest in the trap’s whereabouts. Even to foresters’ minds will occur the slow thought that a trap is a signal that something important may be close at hand, and worth looking for.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Will became almost an ordinary member of the band as his aristocrat’s hands grew callused and his carefully trimmed hair grew shaggy. He no longer tied it back with a red ribbon, but with a leather thong; and he laid aside his lace-edged shirt for the rough cloth shirts the rest of Robin’s folk wore. Neither he nor Little John would ever be lost in a crowd, for they stood head and shoulders above most men; but there continued to be just the faintest air about Will, however dark and worn his clothing.

  “Vanity,” said Marian with a chuckle. “He used to tell us that clothes are a serious business,” she said privately to Robin. “The rest of us would be climbing trees and so on, and he always took his tunic and shirt off first—later, of course, he did it to impress us girls with his chest muscles, which are impressive, you know. But if you want to know the real, awful truth about Will, he used to wash his own shirts because the laundresses never got them white enough to suit him. He said that laundresses didn’t care about clothes; they were just paid for a job.”

  Her smile faded. “I’ve found out little enough about what goes forward at Norwell, though. There’s some mystery there, and I haven’t been able to
ferret it out; and I must be careful about asking too many questions.” She frowned, and Robin saw the cloud in her face that gathered there whenever she thought of her own father’s household.

  But then as the pale spring greens darkened into summer, till even the shadows of Sherwood were as green as leaves, Robin Hood’s aristocratic outlaw fell into a desolate mood. Robin’s first thought was that Will was reverting to type after all; despite Marian’s faith in him, he had begun to miss his soft bed and a plenty—and variety—of food on his table, as well as the table itself and a hall to put it in. Robin was cross for permitting himself to expect otherwise; and crosser still for feeling so disappointed. He put off speaking to Will for a day, a sennight, wondering if he should offer to let him go and get it over with, or whether he should force Will to come to him.

  But it was nothing to do with Greentree that had changed Will’s mood.

  Marian had discovered that Will’s sister had not married her Norman betrothed after all; on her wedding day her maids found her door locked from the inside, and she refused to open it. She had been stormed at and threatened—through the door—but there was no graceful way to come at her, as her room was at the top of a bay, and her windows overlooked the old trench from the manor house’s days as a fortress.

  “And, in the last bitter end of things,” said Marian, “she cannot be forced by physical means to say vows she will not say. She’d only moved to this new chamber the beginning of this year, and Will has realised that she must have planned rebellion from the first. I don’t know what all he’s thinking, but I can guess that he has thought of it that she did not come to him for help.… She said at the time to the family that she wanted to be a little apart from the household she was soon to leave, to consider her new life before she entered it. She put this over with a great show of maidenly modesty,” Marian said, with a grin of appreciation, despite the precariousness of her friend’s situation. “Her father bought it, and he’s an old so-and-so, but he was stupid with delight at catching a Norman. And Will, who should have had better sense, only saw this as the proof that Sess’s spirit had been broken by the prospect of marrying one of the enemy.” She paused. “I thought it was a little strange at the time myself, but I don’t see Sess as often as I was used, in our early tree-climbing days—she’s several years younger than Will and me—because her father has kept her mewed up increasingly as she was increasingly inclined to kick against his rule. It was at least possible that he had broken her at last. I thought he must have done, when I heard of the Norman suitor. Sess always had a great deal of character, but quite the wrong kind.”