The Outlaws of Sherwood

by Robin McKinley

  “I don’t think she’ll appreciate the flowers you hung over the door,” said Much to Marian.

  “Poor little girl,” said Marian.

  “Or the luxury of privacy,” said Little John.

  “Luxury?” said Much. “On your wedding night, maybe. But I wouldn’t want to make a habit of it. Too many draughts. Temporary living has a lot of cracks in it.”

  “Bartlemey and Rafe can take the stallion and the—and Lily to where they may be released. Tomorrow,” said Robin. “Who knows? Perhaps his stallion’s recapture will make the baron somewhat less thirsty for our blood.”

  “You’re dreaming,” said Little John. “He was, as I understand it, rude enough when you parted him from his bride; he did not yet know that he was parted from much of his substance as well. That glad surprise awaits him yet, unless Will does not know how to tie knots.”

  “Or unless you do not,” retorted Will. “I guess you overlooked a kitchen maid who ran round with a paring knife as soon as she saw the back of you, and there has been a rescue at the chapel this very eve.”

  “The maidservants were all in fits,” Little John acknowledged. “They were the hardest to tie up, ’tis true, for they feared the wrong things; I shut two or three in wardrobes and threw the keys in the pond. But I think Alan’s lady has given us a good portion, if you reckon what we brought away with us.”

  “I doubt she’ll look at it that way,” said Marian.

  “She will if Alan tells her to,” said Robin.

  By the time a week had passed, the tale of Roger of St Clair’s humiliation had spread far and wide, and the outlaws had brought a good bit of it back to tell at Robin’s fireside.

  “I hear we’re all seven feet tall,” said Much, “instead of only the one of us. And as this was told by one of the guards at the chapel, I find myself wondering what he might have made of Little John.”

  “I hear Little John threw wardrobes full of maidservants into the lake—alone, and with his bare hands, you understand—and miraculously none was drowned,” said Marian. “It is fortunate that I am so well disciplined to keep my face ladylike, that is to say, blank, for such a terrible story should, of course, make a lady blanch. John, however—our steward at Blackhill—laughed when he heard, and said he could use that man on our holding, did he want to cease to be an outlaw.”

  “Have you maids that want a wetting?” said Much.

  “I do not think that was what our steward had in his mind, but as you ask, I can think of—”

  “Robin,” said Bartlemey, who materialized out of the leaves and branches just beyond the fire-niche. “There’s a young lad making his way here.…” He ended as if he didn’t mean to end, but could not decide how to go on.

  “And?” said Robin.

  “Well—he looks angry and exhausted, and I think his clothes were good once, but they don’t fit him very well and I do not think they belonged to him when he put them on. And he plunges through the forest like a blind thing and yet he looks like he will come on here; our usual ruses he ignores as if he did not notice. We could spring a snare on him, of course. And yet—I do not think we need fear him, but I have no cause to say so, except his face bears the anger of hard usage and not of arrogance.”

  “Um,” said Robin. “Then I shall go ask him what he wants, if you will show me the way.”

  “I would come too,” said Little John. “He might want knocking in a stream to cool his anger.”

  “I will come too,” said Much, “to fish him out again, and to reassure him that not all of us have this queer craving for hurling folk in water.”

  Bartlemey guided them swiftly back the Way he had come; and then Col dropped down beside them from one of their watching trees. “He is stopped, a little way from here, near Rosebrook,” he said. Much chuckled. “He looks done in,” added Col.

  “Then we will offer him food as well as conversation,” said Robin.

  “Polite conversation,” said Much.

  The stranger was on his feet and looking in their direction much sooner—thought Robin—than he should be. This boy might be a dangerous enemy; but then perhaps he would be a good friend.

  “Good morrow,” said Robin, trying not to eye the boy’s white knuckles clenched around his bow. The boy was slight and the bow was not; even among Robin’s folk, who, along with being seven feet tall, all drew bows made of hundred-year-old oak trees torn up by the roots, this bow was a massive thing, little smaller than Will’s or Little John’s. Robin wondered if he had come by the bow the same way he had come by his clothing, which, as Bartlemey had said, had clearly been made for a larger man. But the tendons that stood out on the backs of his hands looked strong, and the hands did not look like a young boy’s hands, despite the slenderness of the wrists.

  “Are ye Saxon or Norman?” said the boy fiercely, and half raised his bow; his other hand made a convulsive little gesture toward the quiver on his back, though he must have known that Robin and the two men with him could have disarmed him before he pulled an arrow free. Perhaps this occurred to him too, for he took a step backward and paused on the verge of the stream, looking rather like a cornered deer as he threw up his chin and eyed them sidelong. And yet, thought Robin, he had already decided not to nock an arrow before he saw us, for he had time then. Do we look so dangerous? Aye, I guess we do. As dangerous as he looks desperate.

  The boy’s baggy hat, which fit no better than the rest of his clothing, fell over one eyebrow, and the boy shoved it up; whereupon one of the bunched-up sleeves unrolled, and the hand disappeared to its finger-ends.

  “We must be Saxon,” said Much cheerfully; “Saxons have not cloth to spare for clothing that hangs too large upon us.”

  “I am no Norman,” said the boy, and the free hand made another cut-off jerk toward his quiver. “And were you any good Saxon, you would make no such jest.”

  “Then I am not a good Saxon, but a bad one,” said Much, not in the least put out.

  “Enough, Much,” said Robin; and the boy’s eyes flickered to Robin’s face at the sound of the name.

  “Much is perhaps a name I seek,” he said.

  “I do not recall wishing to be sought by any starveling boys in stolen Norman clothes,” said Much, and Little John spoke for the first time:

  “I begin to think it is you, Much, who needs hurling into the water for cooling off. I thought we were to make polite conversation?”

  The boy’s face had reddened, and he shouted: “It is no thievery to take from the Normans!” But he heard Little John’s last words and paused, looking puzzled.

  “That was the plan,” said Much, “ere I—”

  “One more word and we shall not merely throw you in, but hold you under,” said Robin; but he noticed that the boy’s knuckles were not so white, and his other hand hung quietly at his side. He looked at each of the three of them in turn, and something almost like a smile touched the corners of his mouth. “I would offer my help, good sirs, to hold that one under,” he said. “I think he talks too much.”

  “I yield!” said Much, and threw up his hands. “Besides, I am hungry. If I take back my rude words about your choice of costume, will you eat with us?” He leaned his unstrung bow against a tree, and unslung his satchel. Robin saw that as the boy’s hands relaxed, they trembled a little. “I have nothing to offer in exchange,” he said gruffly.

  “But I am in your debt for not throwing me into that water, which is too cold for bathing even this time of year,” said Much. “The others are in your debt for your offer of assistance, because I can tell you I would not go quietly, and I am stubborn for my size.” As he spoke he was laying out bread and dried venison. Little John dropped down on his knees beside him and produced a large stoppered bottle.

  The boy looked cautiously at Robin, who leaned his own bow beside Little John’s cudgel, and sat down at his elbow. “You could tell us your name,” suggested Robin.

  The boy looked ill at ease all over again, and took a fresh grip on his
bow, and scowled. “And if I do not?” The recalcitrant sleeve unrolled again, and the boy looked down at it sadly.

  “If you do not, I suppose we must loan you a knife to cut your sleeves to size,” said Robin. “It might put you in a better humour—or dispose you to like us.”

  “Sit down,” said Much. “I cannot talk comfortably with you looming over me.”

  “Don’t tempt him,” said Little John.

  “Little John, you do not understand the art of conversation,” said Much.

  “I understand the art of silence,” said Little John.

  Robin saw the boy’s eyes flicker again, at Little John’s name. He pulled the dagger from his boot-top and tossed it, hilt-first, toward the boy’s feet. The boy stooped to pick it up, paused, and sat down the rest of the way, a little distance from the other three. He picked at a seam with the knife-point and with a small grimace grabbed the edge as soon as it was free, and yanked. It ripped out with a gratifying noise.

  “Some housewife sewed a very careless seam there,” said Much, and the boy gave him so evil a look that Robin was surprised. He took a corner of the cloth in his teeth, and tore it across; and in a moment one bony white forearm had reappeared. He turned his attention to the other sleeve, eagerly, as if his hunger were suddenly of little importance; and yet Little John had recognised the grey circles under the boy’s eyes as Robin had noticed the tremor in his hands. He laid the second bit of rag beside the first with a happy sigh, and held his wrists out admiringly.

  “No things of beauty, your arms, boy,” said Much, “though they would look a bit better with a little flesh on them. Eat something before we finish it by accident.”

  Unfortunately the boy noticed the quizzical look Much was careless enough to let slide directly from the boy’s thin arms to the huge bow he had let lie on the ground near him. “I can pull it,” he said. “I will draw against any man here.” He shot to his feet, staggered, recovered himself, and stood glaring. “If you are Much, and you are Little John, then perhaps you,” and he flung the word as if he were a knight tossing a gauntlet at a rival, “perhaps you are he they name Robin Hood, king of Sherwood. I would draw bow against you and stop your rudeness.”

  Robin winced at the “king.”

  “Blast your wandering eye, Much,” he said. “Permit me to point out, youngling, that I have not offered any rudeness.”

  “Do you now mock me?” said the boy. “Are you not Robin Hood, who introduced the longbow to Sherwood, that all the Normans now go in fear of his reach?”

  “I am he they call Robin Hood,” replied Robin. “I am also calmly eating venison and would recommend you do likewise.”

  “I have come this far to seek Robin Hood, and to demonstrate my skill with my bow that he might accept me a member of his band,” said the boy; and he raised one arm and wiped his forehead on his newly shortened sleeve.

  Robin stopped chewing. “I was afraid you were about to say that.” He looked up thoughtfully, for the boy was still standing while the three of them were still sitting. He wondered if the boy suspected the presence of Bartlemey and Col hidden behind leaves above them at no great distance. “How old are you?”

  The boy stooped to pick up his bow. “If you will let me show you my skill, you will see my age is of small moment.”

  “Twelve,” suggested Robin.

  The boy’s jaw dropped open and his eyes shone briefly in disbelief, and then pure hatred. “I am eighteen,” he said; it was almost a howl. He marched to where Robin’s bow stood, and half-threw it at its master.

  “Now that, lad, is an insult, if you are in truth eighteen and like to be a man,” said Little John. The boy looked at him, wavering, for a moment, and then put his chin up. “A mark! Choose a mark!” He whirled around as if a suitable mark might be creeping up on him unawares.

  Robin stood up, but there were lines showing around his mouth, and his own temper was beginning to fray. If the boy is in fact any good with his stolen bow he will make me look silly, he thought; and I don’t particularly like looking silly, with a short or a long bow. The lines around his mouth deepened. Blast the overweening dignity of the young. And that of the king of Sherwood too, I suppose.

  “The mark is that ash with the little crook in it,” said Robin. “There, across the stream.” He bent his bow to slip the string into its groove, drew an arrow, fitted it, and let it go, almost before he finished speaking: partly because he was angry, and partly because if he was no great marksman still, he had shot too many arrows since he had become an outlaw not to do it smoothly. For now, whether or not his folk ate often depended on his speed. Marian almost never needed a second arrow to finish the kill; Robin could at least send the second into the creature’s heart before it knew it was struck.

  His arrow hit the ash, but rather more below the crook than he had meant. The boy was taking a few deep breaths—to steady his hands or his temper—and carefully drew and notched his arrow with all the formal grace of the castle yard. His arrow struck the ash tree at the exact center of the crook; and he drew another, concentrating, his feet planted perfectly, his back beautifully straight, and let it go; it struck a few fingers’ breadth from the first. The third struck between the first two, and the boy then dropped his arms and his stance and turned a shining, hopeful face to Robin.

  Robin’s dislike faded as he looked into the boy’s blue eyes, and a suspicion he had felt earlier stirred again, and then he suddenly and bewilderingly thought of Will Scarlet. Will had had the same glib balance of a man trained to shoot at straw bales, and yet he had become a highly valued member of the band in a very short time: as soon as he could remember to shoot first and check his posture second.… But if this boy was eighteen, Robin would eat all four arrows presently sticking in that ash.

  “Now may we have our meal in peace?” he said, as gently as he could, and his dislike disappeared entirely and he began instead to like the boy as he saw him struggling not to let his face fall in disappointment. “Shall I fetch the arrows?” he said, humbly.

  “An excellent idea,” said Robin, and watched as the boy waded uncomplainingly into the cold water.

  “Did you plan this when you chose that mark?” inquired Much.

  “No,” said Little John, softly, also watching the boy.

  “No,” agreed Robin ruefully; “I was, as usual, not thinking much at all.”

  “At least you hit the tree,” said Much encouragingly; the boy was out of earshot, and Robin laughed.

  “Speak a little louder,” he suggested.

  The rest of the meal was passed in a silence that might almost have been companionable. Robin approved of the way the boy looked over his arrows before replacing them in his quiver; nor did he make any more protests about sharing their meat, and ate everything that was given him, ravenously, and did not notice that the other three chewed what they put in their mouths a very long time to give him the largest share.

  At the end Little John put the stopper back in the empty bottle after he rinsed it in the stream; and they all rose. The boy was trying his best to look ordinary, familiar, unimportant, and unassuming, and Robin had finally to tap him on the shoulder because he could not catch his eye. The boy looked up, nervously.

  “If you wish to come with us”—the boy caught his breath—“you must give us a name. A name,” Robin repeated firmly.

  Light dawned. The boy looked thoughtful, opened his mouth once or twice, and finally said, “Cecil.” An evil little smile turned the corners of his mouth up. “Cecil is my name.”

  “Very well, Cecil. Try not to sound like a herd of crippled goats breaking down a fence, please? We attempt to move with discretion through the trees. The sheriff does like to send men after us now and again, you know.”

  The boy’s face clouded, but it seemed to Robin that the possibility of being pursued had reminded him of his own problems, and that it was not fear—or the overweening dignity of the young—that troubled him. Let him not be some mad lord’s only son, thought
Robin, suddenly daunted. Some day we will accept someone into our company whom Sherwood cannot hold.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Alan’s bride was receiving a cooking lesson. Her fine hair was roughly tied up, her eyes were red, and she was wearing a dress that did not fit her, but she was biting her lip in concentration, and Matilda, waving the ladle under her nose, did not look particularly cross, only earnest. Cecil looked at them and winced. “Are there—women—in your band?” he said.

  “As you see,” said Robin amiably, looking around; besides Matilda with her ladle and the lady Marjorie, Sibyl was unstringing her bow and frowning, and Eva was running her fingers along the curve of it and shaking her head. Neither Sibyl nor Eva, in leggings and tunic, was at first glance distinguishable from the men, and Cecil seemed rather caught by the scene over the cooking-fire. “Oh,” he said. He finally turned his eyes in another direction, passing without break over Sibyl and Eva, to where Jocelin and Gilbert were deftly whacking up a gutted deer into joints. Cecil’s pale face went paler, his eyes bulged, and he turned hastily away.

  “Robin,” said Harald. “A fat stag comes this way—” He paused, surprised, at a small, not quite suppressed moan from Cecil.

  “This is Cecil,” said Robin.

  Cecil bobbed his head without taking his eyes from the rowan which so absorbed his attention. Harald looked at him in puzzlement and then turned back to Robin. “A stag of the two-legged variety, and so fat, I would say, as to have trouble walking, and so he goes in a litter hung with silk.”

  Robin whistled gently through his teeth. “A prize, I do think. Who have we here that might go and help hunt such a stag?”

  The old lord in his silk-hung litter was not the least amused by the hiatus in his journey; he was not pleased to be divested of the gold chain around his neck or the rings off his fat fingers (Much had thoughtfully brought a slip of their rough soap to grease the fat knuckles), or the heavy roll of coin poorly concealed among the cushions he rode upon. But he seemed more annoyed at the prospect of any loss of comfort than of the loss of his property’s worth. His servants seemed at least as anxious about the temper of their master as about the tempers of their ambushers. “Not a merry meeting,” said Robin, when their guests had been permitted to continue their journey.