The Outlaws of Sherwood

by Robin McKinley

  She seemed to drift down from the saddle, as if she weighed no more than the flower she seemed; as if she hid a flexible stem beneath her long skirts instead of ordinary human legs with particular joints capable only of particular movements. She barely touched the outstretched hand, and her stirrup never trembled. The man who had held her horse led it away; as it flicked its tail, one of the braided flowers detached itself and fell to the ground. The lady stooped—a pause; this gesture had not been a part of the day’s pattern—and picked it up; and then stood, idly turning it in her fingers, as if surprised it was only a flower.

  The guardsmen stood back to their places, and the bride’s waiting-women came forward, and flung a scarf over the bride’s head and shoulders. She looked up, momentarily, into the trees, as if she was looking for the succour she hoped for; but Much, who lay close enough to see (Alan was stowed several trees back, for safety), thought she looked dazed, and her eyes glanced where they would, without her thought to direct them.

  The baron turned, still without touching his bride, and strode into the chapel; a faint twinkle, as of lit candles, gleamed at the leaf-shadowed windows. The flower-lady followed, her waiting-women close behind, as if they anticipated propping her up when she drooped; and several of the guardsmen followed. The others remained in their ranks on either side of the chapel door; a little way off, the horses stood and stamped. There were three other Norman-looking men who might have been friends or debt-bearers of St Clair who also entered the chapel, though with no great enthusiasm in their step; and these were followed by a little nervous man the watchers guessed was the bride’s father.

  “It will perhaps be not so uneven a match,” said Robin in Will’s ear; “they are not conspicuously armed, for all that there are unpleasantly many of them.”

  All in range were looking to Robin now, and he nodded. Those who saw him turned and nodded to others watching them, and the signal so went round the circle of outlaws.

  Who dropped out of their trees, and sprang up from their underbrush, and fell—almost silently—upon the guardsmen. Rafe and Jocelin so neatly seized the man holding the horses that the horses were not disturbed, and only one or two even put their ears forward in curiosity.

  All did not go quite so smoothly at the chapel door. One of the guardsmen managed half a shout before he was felled by a stave-end briskly applied to the back of his head; and there was some unavoidable stir caused by the violent collision of struggling human bodies. Even so, by the time those in the chapel had realised that something was amiss, Robin’s folk were the victors; and Much and Will were occupied in tying the hands of the two baron’s men still conscious—who were gargling angrily through the cloth gags that had been shoved none too gently halfway down their throats. More desultorily Gilbert and Simon and Sibyl were knotting together the wrists and ankles of the unconscious men, in a long untidy row. The guardsmen inside with the baron burst out the door, to be adroitly tripped up by some casually but firmly held staves just above the level of the threshold. The first went down like a poleaxed ox, and the others were too hard on his heels to do otherwise. As they yelled and thrashed at each other, the outlaws jumped on them.

  St Clair himself came last, and he had taken the time to draw his sword; and he stood in the doorway with the women behind him, and none could, for the moment, get at him. The outlaws dragged the bound guards out of the way; and the tip of the baron’s sword waved gently back and forth, in rhythm with his seeking gaze; nor did either tremble. The sword was a dress-sword, such as a man might wear to his wedding; but it was good steel for all that, and the wrist that held it was brawny.

  Robin stepped forward to face the baron, planted his staff on the ground and leaned upon it, as if it were no more than a walking stick. St Clair could not come at him without having been felled several times by Robin’s folk on the way; there were several staves eagerly raised just for that purpose. But the baron did not acknowledge the opponents ranged against him; only his arm moved, till the glittering tip of the sword paused, drawn to Robin as to a lodestone. The gesture was smooth, graceful, and easy; as if the two of them were about to square off alone in a friendly match long anticipated. But St Clair’s eyes were not friendly.

  “There is some purpose behind this outrage?” said Roger of St Clair, and his voice was as steady as his eye and hand.

  Robin thought of Little John, and wondered if the baron might himself be thinking of what could be going forward at his home, while he was so delayed.

  “There is,” said Robin; and then there was a rustle behind him, and St Clair’s eyes flicked away, over Robin’s shoulder; and first they widened, and then they narrowed, and St Clair’s face turned a shade redder, and Robin’s folk gripped their staves more fiercely.

  “Can you not guess what our purpose might be on your wedding day, Norman pig?” said a young voice, so thick with hatred that its natural beauty disappeared under the burden of it. “Can you not guess that the good Saxon earth might rise up under your pig’s feet and throw you down rather than let you marry an innocent Saxon maiden?”

  Robin, from the corner of his eye, saw the spasm cross Much’s face, and the jerk of his staff as if he felt Alan’s neck beneath it. On threat of being left behind in a sack hung from a tree, the boy had promised, upon the spotless virtue of his lady fair (his choice of oath), to stay well back while the outlaws dealt with the baron’s men. “Your hands know the shape of a lute, but not of a bow or staff so well; and on a matter so close to his heart any man might slip,” Robin had said, with a patience growing rapidly threadbare.

  Alan began to speak of honour, and—

  “Stop your noise,” said Little John; “cowardice is not spoken of. Do you want to risk—possibly the white neck of your lady—on your own fumbling? For I doubt not that you would fumble.”

  Alan, who would have died before he admitted that he was still afraid of Little John, was persuaded to agree to terms; but Robin, not for the first time, found himself wishing Alan-a-dale had found some other band of outlaws to ask for help.

  Robin had hoped to take all the Normans, neatly, at once, though he had guessed that St Clair’s was a cold mind, not easily clouded by anger or crisis; and Alan had stayed out of the fighting, sticking to the letter of his promise if no more. From where Robin stood he could just see the flower-lady, glowing faintly in the darkness of the chapel, behind the baron’s raised arm; he was sure Alan could see her too. It was hard to blame the boy too much; but it was equally hard not to.

  “Fine friends for a young worm,” said St Clair. “And you, the leader, I guess, of these other worms, why do you waste time with such a worm’s tale as that of my late bard? I thought he sang too little sweetly for listening long when his throat lay under my roof-tree.” The tone of St Clair’s voice was a more effective goad than a slap with the flat of his sword might have been; and now Alan’s was not the only flushed face among those that faced the Normans. “I had heard of the new bandits within Sherwood, but I did not think they would crawl so far.”

  Much started forward, and the baron turned to him in a flash; but Robin cried, “Much!” and he paused, wavering, and St Clair laughed: a laugh that was a killing offense by itself. “But I would rather begin, as I doubt not the beginning was, with the bard-worm’s tale. Shall I call my bride out-of-doors that she may see your blood flow?” The baron’s sword-tip moved from its aim at Robin’s vitals to a point a little to Robin’s left; and Alan, with a strangled noise, leaped forward.

  But Robin caught him as he went by, and was swung round violently with the wild running weight of him. “You fool,” he said to the panting boy. “Do you think to come at him with your bare hands? He would spit you on the point of his sword like the pig you call him—and you would deserve it for your foolishness.”

  “Harken the shepherd, little lamb,” drawled St Clair, but he had been paying too great attention to the scene before him, and now a wiry noose was dropped round his neck and twisted tight by the strong hands
of Will Scarlet. The baron made one wild backward lash with his sword, but Will yanked him round by the neck as he dodged the stroke.

  “Do not kill him,” said Robin, as the baron’s knees buckled. “Why not?” cried Alan, and wrenched himself from Robin’s grasp and ran to his fallen enemy, and snatched up St Clair’s sword. “He deserves to die.”

  “He may,” said Robin, “but his death is not your responsibility.” The boy stood staring down at the baron’s face, and Robin did not like his expression. “Drop it, now,” said Robin harshly. Alan looked up, and met Robin’s gaze, and blinked; his shoulders relaxed, and he let the sword fall.

  And the flower-lady slipped past Will, as he bent over the baron, and fled to her lover; and he put his arms around her, and she put her head on his shoulder and wept; but what they murmured then to each other the outlaws were careful not to hear.

  The men who had followed Will through the narrow side door—carelessly left unbolted—of the chapel ushered more folk outside. The waiting-women clung to each other and looked around with frightened eyes; the sight of Alan and their lady seemed to give them no comfort. The last guardsmen were dragged out by the heels, and roped to the ones already lying outside: “As daisy-chains go, I have seen more attractive specimens,” said Much. The other Norman gentry looked as though it was all in a day’s outing to be threatened by ruffians, and seemed only politely interested in their situation, and far less worried about the unconscious baron than the women were for their lady. The little nervous man looked as if he had been sentenced for execution upon the morrow, and kept up a listless, nerve-wracking keening till Will, saying, “Oh, shut up, man,” clouted him over the ear, and he crumpled and lay on the ground like a bit of dropped laundry.

  “Have you forgotten the function of a gag?” said Robin crossly. “He was hardly threatening your life.”

  “Only my temper,” said Will.

  “Then your temper is far too fragile,” said Robin.

  The flower-lady seemed not to notice her father’s fate, if indeed the little man was her father, and now turned a radiant if tear-stained face to the other women and declared that they saw before them her own true love who she had known would rescue her from the shame of her Norman wedding.

  “Faith is a wonderful thing,” murmured Much, giving a last self-satisfied yank on the prisoners’ bonds.

  “It is indeed,” said Friar Tuck, who had emerged from his hiding-place when the baron had been felled. “But I believe we might now, perhaps hastily—” He made little herding gestures at Alan and the lady. “And, young Alan,” he added, “if it is any comfort to you against the knowledge that your enemy still breathes, I should have refused to marry a man who killed another while he lay unconscious at his feet, however richly that man might deserve such a fate.”

  Alan-a-dale at these words wrenched his eyes away from the flower-lady’s face long enough to focus on the friar. He half-smiled, with an odd, old look, and said: “Just now, Friar Tuck, I have no enemies.”

  He turned back to the lady and took a deep breath. “Are you certain?”

  “A fine time to be asking that,” said Much, rather louder than necessary, and Will bit his lip to keep from laughing. But neither Alan nor the lady showed any consciousness of anyone but each other.

  “I am certain,” said the lady, in a thin, clear voice. “Certain am I that you are my own dear love.” He clasped her reaching hands to his breast and knelt before her; and several of the waiting-women, who seemed to have believed their lady’s declaration, sighed themselves, and clasped their own hands at their own breasts.

  And then the priest and his attendants were led out of the chapel, the priest squeaking about the outrage, his eyes as large as an owl’s, his hands fluttering like atrophied wings. There was a ripple of laughter around the ring of outlaws, in relief that the scene Alan and his lady were presenting to their unwilling audience was interrupted. “Come,” said Robin, firmly, and seized Alan by the shoulder. The boy unfolded himself to his feet reluctantly; and Robin and the friar, with the two lovers, went into the chapel.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Little John and his folk were already at Greentree by the time that Robin and his company, including the newlyweds, returned at dusk; the former were looking very pleased with themselves. The latter looked mostly tired. Robin felt bone-weary in a way that he rarely did; and yet the day had gone, over all, smoothly. But he found himself often and uneasily looking over his shoulder at Alan-a-dale, leading his lady, back again upon her white horse.

  Marian was at Greentree too, and she came to Robin and touched his cheek, and smiled into his eyes, which unreasonably made his anxiety over the unlikely burden his outlaws had taken on by listening to Alan’s story more sensible than the taking on itself was. Even Much’s sense of romance had little to do with young lovers too innocent to come in out of the rain; and Alan’s megrims had grated on Much as severely as on anyone.

  “I will leave Little John to tell you what a fine haul he has made,” said Marian; “I see that you too have been successful.”

  The flower-lady was flowing off her horse into her husband’s arms. “I guess we must claim success,” said Robin. “Those two are wed, and none of us is the worse for it except a few bruises.”

  Marian said gently, “The horses can be made useful. Except the white palfrey; she is much too conspicuous.”

  “And the baron’s stallion,” said Robin. “We couldn’t travel far enough to make the risk worth selling him, for all the price he would bring.”

  “Sell him?” said Little John. “I know a few farmers who would give us a winter’s food for the covering of their mares.”

  “And what of the farmer whose ill luck led one of St Clair’s men past his field on the day St Clair’s stallion was settling his mares? No. We’ll take the stallion and the palfrey near the baron’s lands and release them. We can take the others to the horse fair in Nottingham. Rafe, I don’t want you seen abroad again so soon; that was a near thing for you less than a month ago. Have we any other horse-coper?”

  There was a silence, and Edward said, “I know one end of a horse from another—pretty much.”

  Marian laughed. “Sell them to me. I will make a very handsome story to my father’s friends of the young man who pretty much knew one end of a horse from another who sold them to me. Our man at Blackhill can sell them again. Our steward can use the money; there’s a certain outbuilding that needs repair. The rumour is that outlaws have been using it, if you can believe it. And our steward is fond of me, and will make no inconvenient protests.”

  “I will make the inconvenient protests,” said Robin. Marian had her mouth open to reply before he went any further, and there was the beginning of a general furtive movement from those of the outlaws nearest at hand to become less so. It was common knowledge among them that the Blackhill steward knew perfectly well who Marian’s friends were, and he and the woman who looked after the house agreed placidly when Marian’s father or other folk commented on the amount of time she spent at the country house. But it was a sore point with Robin, and any reference to Blackhill was likely to start a row. But there was a timely interruption.

  “What say you, that you would release my Lily?” said the clear, carrying voice of Alan’s new bride. She stepped into the circle of firelight, and very lovely she looked, her bright skirts shades of gold in the glinting light, and her pale hair tawny. The upward-flung shadows made her eyes huge and dark, and her cheekbones showed as clean and pure as the edge of a chalice. “Why must I lose my Lily? She is my only friend here, but my dear husband, for I come with no other, nor my portion either.”

  There was a dismayed silence. “We cannot have the keeping of beasts, as we live,” said Robin; “and I fear you must resign yourself to the way we live—for now, till we can make other arrangements for you and Alan, away from Sherwood.”

  The small chin came up. “I resign myself to nothing but what my husband tells me. Lily will be no trouble; I will c
omb her myself.”

  “Combing is the least of it,” said Robin. “We have neither fodder nor stabling for her. We live as you see us—we barely have shelter for ourselves. When it rains, we usually get wet.”

  Involuntarily she glanced at the sky, in which stars were beginning to appear, and then looked down again at Robin, who had not moved from his seat on a convenient log-end. She was frowning, and it occurred to him, tiredly, that she was accustomed to men standing when they addressed her, and calling her “my lady.”

  “As I see you?” she said, haltingly, and Robin felt a faint stab of remorse that he had misinterpreted her frown. “But this is—but a camp. A temporary thing. Alan said that Sherwood was now our home. You must have a—a house?” She drew her skirts closer around her; already the hems were draggled and dirty. Her eyes grew even larger as she looked at Robin. “You do not—live—here?”

  Robin stood up. His right hamstring was extremely sore where one of the guards had kicked him. “My lady—we are outlaws. If we had a house we would not long survive, for we would be soon taken from it. This camp is a temporary thing because we live temporary lives.”

  “Alan said—” she whispered. And silence fell. No one moved. Then she turned abruptly and went off into the shadows, toward the tiny turf hut that the outlaws (on Marian’s suggestion) had hastily cleared out, that Alan and his bride might have it this first night.

  The hut usually held what goods and tools as the outlaws possessed that were not in such constant use as to render a place to store them unnecessary. Everyone was zealously wishing for the weather to remain fair overnight, that the heap of miscellaneous objects now reposing at the edge of the glen would not demand to be suddenly transferred into the hut-cave some time during the small hours—which would then oblige half the company to sleep in the rain instead. Everyone else might sleep through the sound of rain beginning to fall, but Robin would not, so there was no hope there.