by Kate Danley
"You slept indoors, John."
"You slept indoors?" asked Will, enviously. He leaned forward and closed his eyes. "Tell me about it. Every detail. Go slowly."
"Oh comfort!" Little John sighed as he remembered. "Imagine it, Will! Heat and warmth and all the food a man might want to eat. I find myself having a hard time readjusting to the life we have here."
"All the more reason to extend our hospitality!" urged Robin. "And tonight."
"Tonight, Robin?" asked Will, his voice whining like a petulant child. "You just got back. No guests."
Robin looked at the goldcrest and the goldcrest gave a trilling chirp. "Tonight. There is a guest whom we must greet tonight."
Little John squinted at this feathered friend. "You're always consulting with the birds right about the time you get us into trouble." He picked up his quarterstaff and pointed it at the branches. "But if the forest has lied to you and we wait by the road for a quarry that does not come, I get our guests' share of the supper."
"Fair enough," said Robin.
"And I get yours, Robin," said Will.
"And you shall have mine," he promised. He paused to peer up at the entwined branches once more. The trees creaked and groaned. "But I do not believe either of you will have double helpings tonight."
Little John looked at Will Scarlocke. "We are going to regret this, aren't we?"
With resolution, Will slapped his knee and rose to his feet. He pointed his finger at Robin and then the goldcrest. "I'm going with John. NOT because I believe that twittering featherhead flitting about is saying anything other than a bunch of noise. I'm only going because I've had more of this camp than I can stand. You're on dinner duty." As the friends made their way into the brush, a wind swept through. Will cursed it and called back. "And make sure dinner is something extra special! I'll not have us embarrassed in front of our guest because you're a lousy cook!"
Robin smiled and picked up his bow.
Many hours later, beneath the shroud of night, Little John and Will returned. Robin rose to greet their guest. It was a monk dressed in a worn and coarse habit, but he rode on a fine steed. There was an air to his posture which did not match his humble attire.
"Welcome!" said Robin, as his men helped the monk off his high horse. "We are so pleased to welcome you to our feast."
A long table was filled with gifts from the forest – berries and roots and mushrooms, as well as the main centerpiece of roasted fowl. The monk ripped off his blindfold and sat down. He shot daggers with his glare, but Robin remained cheerful.
"We hope that your journey has not been difficult," Robin continued as he carved the bird.
The monk appraised at the pheasant and sniffed, as if displeased by the quality. In the flickering shadows of the firelight, Robin caught John's slight jerk of his head towards the man.
Robin leaned forward and peered into the shadows of the monk's deep hood. "And where are you from, Brother?" asked Robin.
"St. Mary's Abbey. In York," the clergyman replied. He crossed himself, making a quick, silent prayer, and then picked at the hot, juicy fowl like he had been offered rat or squirrel.
"St. Mary's Abbey!" Robin reiterated, picking up a piece of meat with his knife and eating off the tip. "That is quite a journey."
"We are a poor order," said the monk, with sadness and apology. "I cannot remember the last time I had pheasant! So often it is porridge and water. You are quite... kind... to share your feast with me." He wiped his fingers distastefully on his sleeve. "It may be too rich for my stomach."
"Feast?" laughed Robin, catching Little John's eye.
"It is a meal fit for the king of the forest, is it not?" asked the monk, casting a sharp accusation shrewdly at Robin.
But Robin smelled the trap. It was one thing to poach the king's game, quite another for the hunter to claim they were a king. Robin dismissed the monk's words. "We are but poor yeoman, loyal servants of good King Henry." Robin lifted his cup. "Long may he reign!"
The other men mumbled, "To King Henry" and raised their own in response.
"Still," said the monk, examining the wine and then putting it down on the table, "a supper like this must have cost you a king's ransom."
Robin leaned forward, confirming the monk's words. "Indeed, it is a ransom that you eat. Your ransom."
The monk picked a wad of meat from the bone. He swallowed the bird slowly.
"Tell me good Brother, how much money do you carry?"
"I have twenty pennies," the monk replied, his voice full of apology as he wiped his lips with his sleeve. He moved to stand up. "Alms for the poor, which we collected at our abbey. It is certainly not enough to pay for a meal such as this, and I should be leaving if this meal means you will take the charity I carry for widows or orphans."
Robin remembered the wealth he saw in Saint Mary's Abby in York. Much more than twenty pennies should have been on their way to aid the needy. But instead, Robin waved him down. "Nay! Stay! Enjoy our hospitality." He motioned to Little John. "Make sure the twenty pennies are in his bag. Would be terrible if they fell out on the trail. We shall be happy to replace any that became lost."
The monk began sweating furiously as Little John made his way to the man's saddlebags. "I am sure they are all there."
"Some may have fallen out of your bag and into your things," remarked Robin. He looked at Will. "Perhaps you should check his person, too."
Will rose with an eager smile.
"Now, there is no need to doubt the honesty of a man of God, such as myself," the monk pressed, batting at Will's hands.
"A man of God, indeed." Little John pulled out a heavy, clanking bag of silver. "It looks to be easily eight hundred pounds."
"Now, that's for the poor—" the monk began to explain.
"Ah!" said Little John, pulling out a miter hat decorated with gold thread and jewels. "It appears we deal not with a monk who has taken vows of poverty, but an abbot who travels the Great North Road in disguise."
"We do so enjoy discovering dishonest men," stated Will with a wolfish smile.
"You see," said Robin, rising, "I was at Saint Mary's, and we knelt before you as you took an arrow worth four hundred pounds from a poor knight, Abbot William Roundel. You seemed quite disappointed when Sir Richard paid you back rather than allowing you to claim his land, his home, and his family's future as your own."
"It is what he owed us!" Abbot William fired back. "I took only that which was rightfully ours."
"No charity in you at all," remarked Robin, his voice dripping with contempt. "Your duty is to help those who are downtrodden. He came to you as a knight dressed in rags, with hollows in his cheeks. He was a man who served our kingdom faithfully, and you made him kneel before you. You showed him no mercy or charity." Robin leaned against a tree. "And so, dear abbot, I am afraid we can show you no mercy. You said you had only twenty pennies, and so twenty pennies you shall have. The eight hundred pounds that found its way into your bag, by your own admission, is not yours. And so I claim it."
"Now," said Abbot William, trying to defuse the situation, "I know I did not tell you about those funds, but that is eight hundred pounds you take from God. And the destitute! I was carrying it for the needy! The theft shall be a grim stain on your immortal soul—"
Robin stopped the man right there. He strode over, picked up the bag, and shook the clanking, heavy silver at the abbot. "The poor would not have seen a penny. You know it and we know it. Fill your coffers with the empty prayers of the rich trying to buy their way into heaven. Not from the poor you pretend to help. Unlike you, we shall make sure they receive it." He turned to Little John. "I grow weary. The stench of hypocrisy has made this meal rank. We should go to bed so our guest can go home."
"A splendid idea," replied Little John. He motioned to Abbot William to leave the table and mount his horse.
The abbot spitefully grabbed his plate and moved to take the meat with him on the road.
Little John chuckled. "Don't w
orry, Father. We don't steal the food out of starving men's mouths." He took the plate and poured the whole meal in the saddlebag, covering the abbot's things in stewed vegetables and grease. He topped it off with the cup of red wine.
Abbot William fumed, but did not say anything. Instead, he furiously started to mount his horse. But as he tried to fling his foot into the stirrup, a flash of red peeked out from under his black habit.
Robin stopped Little John from hustling the man away quite yet. "Wait! Little John, my tunic is soiled."
"Indeed?" asked Little John, puzzled.
"Shall we see if this man knows his verse? If a man says he wants your shirt, what does that passage say that you ought to do?" Robin asked his two friends pointedly.
Abbot William's face twisted with outrage, but he did not say a word.
"Latin was never my strong suit, but I believe it said you should give him your coat," stated Will.
"Well, the abbot does not have a coat, but I'll take his habit," said Robin.
Abbot William clutched his robes to him. "You'll have me ride to Nottingham in my undergarments, sir!"
"No," said Robin. "I ask you to disrobe so we may look upon your hair shirt and see your honorable penance."
Little John lifted the robe off the struggling abbot, but beneath was not the coarse shirt that priests wore, the irritating fibers meant as a constant, silent prayer for forgiveness of sin. No, he was dressed in red silk.
Little John let out a low whistle. The abbot clutched his gown to himself.
"Disguised as a poor pastor," said Robin. "But wearing undergarments fit for a cardinal."
Abbot William lifted his chin. "It was a gift from Rome."
Robin, Will, and Little John looked at one another, sharing their disgust.
Will walked over to the abbot, fingering the whisper-soft material. "It is said it is harder for a rich man to get to heaven than a camel pass through the eye of a needle. I would so hate to prevent this man from getting to heaven."
"What are you suggesting?" said Abbot William, yanking his sleeve from Will and giving his hand a slap.
"I think we shall dress you in the honest gown you cloaked yourself in and take from you that which is a lie and unbefitting for a man of the cloth," Robin replied, leaning forward, focusing his steely eyes upon the false holy man. "The truth will set you free."
Will stepped forward with the rough habit the man had originally worn.
"You don't mean to make me ride to Nottingham in THAT!" Abbot William cried. "My legs will be chafed raw!"
"Then sit sidesaddle. Think of the horse's hide as the hair shirt you should have been wearing to please your God, or if you choose to walk, think of your steps as a pilgrim's journey to holy enlightenment."
The three men were upon the abbot, and stripped him of his finery, replacing it with the humble habit he should have been wearing for his order. Little John tied a blindfold on the man, heaved him like a sack of flour across the back of the mount, and led the horse into the woods.
"I shall have my revenge! Mark my words, you shall pay, Robin Hood! You shall not prey on a man of God!" shrieked Abbot William.
"Did you say that I should not pray for a man of God? Very well! I won't! Goodbye, Father!" said Robin. "May your God show you mercy."
Will took the scarlet red gown and held it up. "I might keep this for myself. It matches my sunburn."
"Are you Will Scarlett now?" asked Robin, laughing.
"Only to those who might ask to see my undergarments," said Will with a wink.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"He WHAT?" bellowed the Sheriff.
The sun was harsh as it broke through the narrow windows of Nottingham Castle. The Sheriff paced in his office.
"I don't even know how he knew I was on the road," hissed Abbot William Roundel. "It was late at night, I was dressed as a poor man of the cloth. There was no reason for them to have seized me!"
"And yet... they did."
The abbot narrowed his lids at the Sheriff's accusations. "Believe me, I'm as upset about this as you are. This was your idea. YOU convinced me to create and declare those relics were real. Do you know how hard I worked to sell four hundred pounds worth of teeth from the Virgin Mother and toe bones from the Christ? And I can't create more. We got lucky, but one of my monks is sure to notice if I start digging up bodies again! As if there would be a buyer even if I could! You can only sell so many skulls before parishes start wondering how many heads St. Albans had. So, not only did we lose Sir Richard's land and the profit it would have earned for us AND the money he paid us, all that we collected over the past year has been stolen!" Abbot William threw up his hands with frustration. "Keep your fury to yourself, Sheriff. When the archbishop gets wind of this, I'll find myself up to my ears in archiepiscopal surveys and oversight. I won't be able to sneeze without one of the archbishop's men reporting it back to him. We'll be lucky if the pope doesn't get involved! Believe me, I am more upset than you."
"No, Father, I don't think you are." The Sheriff shoved back his wooden chair and sat down. He rested his elbows on the arms and steepled his forefingers against his patchy, blond mustache as he tried to keep his composure. "I pay my soldiers one pound a year. And you have lost eight HUNDRED POUNDS to Robin Hood!" He slammed his fist down on the table so hard, the papers jumped and inkwells rattled.
The abbot was nonplussed. "He is the devil himself, Sheriff. There are dark spirits around him. I sat there, looking at him, praying every prayer I knew. His eyes glowed red in the firelight and I am sure I saw horns in the shadows."
The Sheriff could not help the chill that ran up his spine.
Seeing the Sheriff's reaction, Abbot William pressed. "He's unnatural. There was no way any natural man could have known I was on the road. He and those two demons he consorts with..."
The color drained from the Sheriff's face. "Demons?"
"You know as well as I do that Sherwood Forest is haunted. How else could a man like him survive this long if he wasn't in league with dark forces?"
Pale, the Sheriff motioned for the abbot to stop. Pushing aside any show of weakness or fear, he snapped, "Well, if he was an emissary of the Dark One, I would expect a man of God, like yourself, could have banished him. But you did not. Which leads me to conclude that either you are in collusion with him—"
"Sheriff! That you would even suggest such a—!"
"—or you are trying to cheat me out of my share."
Spittle flew from Abbot William's lips. "Do you honestly think I would steal eight hundred pounds from you and come here to confess the loss? If I stole eight hundred pounds, I would be on the next ship to Rome, claiming a seat as a cardinal, not sitting here disgraced in this hole!"
The Sheriff stood up calmly, and then grabbed the back of his chair and dashed it across the room. "That money was to be used to pay for my soldiers to protect the law-abiding nobility of Nottingham from the likes of Robin Hood! King Henry is too busy with his hunting and parties to fund my guards. We must have a show of force if we hope to root out the evil that grows in Sherwood Forest." He grabbed rolls of parchment and flung them at the wall. "How long until he becomes so emboldened, he begins robbing us as we sleep? As we lie abed, he'll come into our homes and take whatever he pleases! I'll not allow the devil in my house!" The Sheriff's breath heaved in his chest. The abbot looked at him as a parent waiting for a tantrum to end. The Sheriff collapsed against his desk and rubbed his forehead. "I am persecuted at every turn. I am just trying to uphold law and order. I am trying to protect the safety of our valued members of society, the ones who are actually contributing to the advancement of England. And these peasants decide to bite the hands that feed them. They are creating this problem! If they would abide by the law, all their misery would go away. Instead, they support this... outlaw. This demon. A savage with sins so grievous he has been banished from the King's rule. We must crush him." His voice began to rise again. "We must find that Robin Hood and make him an example.
GUARDS!"
Immediately, two armored men stepped into the room.
The Sheriff beat his fingers on his desk as he decided on a suitable punishment. "All taxes are doubled on the people of Nottingham. All fines tripled to bail their loved ones out of the county gaol. But anyone brave enough to step forward to report the whereabouts of Robin Hood shall be given one hundred pounds and 120-acres of land, more than enough to feed a knight and his family. Practically a kingdom for these animals." The Sheriff spat upon the ground, his mouth writhing in rebellion that he had to say the words. "And until someone steps forward with information, we will press them like a millstone until they tell us everything we want to know."
Abbot William Roundel smiled and crossed himself, as if the Sheriff had answered his prayers. "Amen."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Robin walked into the brewhouse and waited for Much to spot him. He nodded towards the cellar staircase. Much gave him a nod as he finished pouring a drink for a customer, and spoke a few words to the alewife about needing to step away.
Robin walked down into the sandstone tunnel. Lantern light flickered. There were the sounds of rowdy voices. A cockpit in the basement kept men busy with wagers, and Robin was placing his bet that they would be too focused on the fight to pay attention to him and Much.
He settled into the shadows of a nook and waited. The cool, but humid air smelled of fermenting ale. A few minutes later, Much appeared.
"Robin, what are you doing here?" he hissed, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. "I don't know what you did, but you angered the Sheriff something fierce. He's throwing everyone in jail who can't pay their taxes. And tripling the fines, sometimes quadrupling the fines for us to get them out. There's a price on your head, and it is so much, I have half a mind to turn you in myself."
This news was not what Robin was expecting. The silver coins to free the spinster's family suddenly felt like a heavy weight in his purse. He swallowed, awash with guilt. It seemed like every time he tried to fix something, it became twenty times worse.
