by Howard Pyle
The messenger was a chatty soul and loved a bit of gossip dearly; beside the pot of ale warmed his heart; so that, settling himself in an easy corner of the inn bench, while the host leaned upon the doorway and the hostess stood with her hands beneath her apron, he unfolded his budget of news with great comfort. He told all from the very first: how Robin Hood had slain the forester, and how he had hidden in the greenwood to escape the law; how that he lived therein, all against the law, God wot, slaying his Majesty’s deer and levying toll on fat abbot, knight, and esquire, so that none dared travel even on the broad Watling Street or the Fosse Way for fear of him; how that the Sheriff, Heaven save his worship, who paid him, the messenger, sixpence every Saturday night, of good broad money stamped with the King’s head, beside ale at Michaelmas and a fat goose at Christmas-tide, had a mind to serve the king’s warrant upon this same rogue, though little would he mind either warrant of king or sheriff, for he was far from being a law-abiding man. Then he told how none could be found in all Nottingham Town to serve this warrant, for fear of cracked pates and broken bones, and how that he, the messenger, was now upon his way to Lincoln Town to find of what mettle the Lincoln men might be, and whether there were any there that dared serve this same warrant; wherefore was he now sitting among the prettiest lads he had ever known, and the ale was the best ale he had tasted in all his life.
To this discourse they listened with open mouths and eyes, for it was a fair piece of gossip to them. Then when the messenger had done the jolly Tinker broke silence.
“Now come I, forsooth, from good Banbury Town,” said he, “and no one nigh Nottingham—nor Sherwood either, an that be the mark—can hold cudgel with my grip. Why, lads, did I not meet that mad wag, Simon of Ely, even at the famous Fair at Hertford Town, and beat him in the ring at that place before Sir Robert of Leslie and his lady? This same Robin Hood, of whom, I wot, I never heard before, is a right merry blade, but gin he be strong, am not I stronger? And gin he be sly, am not I slyer? Now by the bright eyes of Nan o’ the Mill, and by mine own name, and that’s Wat o’ the Crabstaff, and by mine own mother’s son, and that’s myself, will I, even I, Wat o’ the Crabstaff, meet this same sturdy rogue, and gin he mind not the seal of our glorious sovereign, King Harry, and the warrant of the good Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, I will so bruise, beat, and bemaul his pate, that he shall never move finger or toe again! Hear ye that, bully boys? Come, let us have another bout.”
“Now art thou the man for my farthing,” cried the messenger. “And back thou goest with me to Nottingham Town.”
“Nay,” quoth the Tinker, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “Go I with no man gin it be not with mine own free will.”
“Nay, nay,” said the messenger, “no man is there in Nottinghamshire could make thee go against thy will, thou brave fellow.”
“Ay, that be I brave,” said the Tinker.
“Ay, marry,” said the messenger, “thou art a brave lad; but our good Sheriff hath offered fourscore angels of bright gold to whosoever shall serve the warrant upon Robin Hood; though little good will it do.”
“Then I will go with thee, lad. Do but wait till I get my bag, and hammer, and my cudgel. Ay, let me but meet this same Robin Hood, and let me see whether he will not mind the King’s warrant.” So, after having paid their score, the messenger, with the Tinker striding beside his nag, started back to Nottingham again.
The Tinker goeth with the messenger to serve the warrant upon Robin Hood.
One bright morning soon after this time, Robin Hood started off to Nottingham Town to find what was a-doing there, walking merrily along the roadside where the grass was sweet with daisies, his eyes wandering and his thoughts also. His bugle-horn hung at his hip and his bow and arrows at his back, while in his hand he bore a good stout oaken staff, which he twirled with his fingers as he strolled along.
As thus he walked down a shady lane he saw a tinker coming, trolling a merry song as he drew nigh. On his back hung his bag and his hammer, and in his hand he carried a right stout crabstaff full six feet long, and thus sang he:—
“In peascod time, when hound to horn Gives ear till buck be killed, And little Ladsy with pipes of corn Sit keeping beasts afield”—
“Halloa, good friend!” cried Robin.
“I went to gather strawberries”—
“Halloa!” cried Robin again.
“By woods and groves full fair”—
“Halloa! art thou deaf, man? Good friend, say I!”
“And who art thou dost so boldly check a fair song?” quoth the Tinker, stopping in his singing. “Halloa, thine own self, whether thou be good friend or no. But let me tell thee, thou stout fellow, gin thou be a good friend it were well for us both; but gin thou be no good friend it were ill for thee.”
“Then let us be good friends,” quoth jolly Robin, “for ill would it be to the ill, and ill like I thine oaken staff full well to make it but well, so good friends let us be.”
“Ay, marry, then let us be,” said the Tinker. “But, good youth, thy tongue runneth so nimbly that my poor and heavy wits can but ill follow it, so talk more plainly, I pray, for I am a plain man, forsooth.”
“And whence comest thou, my lusty blade?” quoth Robin.
“I come from Banbury,” answered the Tinker.
“Alas!” quoth Robin, “I hear there is sad news this merry morn.”
“Ha! Is it indeed so?” cried the Tinker, eagerly. “Prythee tell it speedily, for I am a tinker by trade, as thou seest, and as I am in my trade I am greedy for news, even as a priest is greedy for farthings.”
“Well, then,” quoth Robin, “list thou and I will tell, but bear thyself up bravely, for the news is sad, I wot. Thus it is: I hear that two tinkers are in the stocks for drinking ale and beer!”
“Now a murrain seize thee and thy news, thou scurvy dog,” quoth the Tinker, “for thou speakest but ill of good men. But sad news it is indeed, gin there be two stout fellows in the stocks.”
“Nay,” said Robin, “thou hast missed the mark and dost but weep for the wrong sow. The sadness of the news lieth in that there be but two in the stocks, for the others do roam the country at large.”
“Now by the pewter platter of Saint Dunstan,” cried the Tinker, “I have a good part of a mind to baste thy hide for thine ill jest. But gin men be put in the stocks for drinking ale and beer, I trow thou wouldst not lose thy part.”
Loud laughed Robin and cried: “Now well taken, Tinker, well taken! Why, thy wits are like beer, and do froth up most when they grow sour! But right art thou, man, for I love ale and beer right well. Therefore come straightway with me hard by to the sign of the Blue Boar, and if thou drinkest as thou appearest,—and I wot thou wilt not belie thy looks,—I will drench thy throat with as good homebrewed as ever was tapped in all broad Nottinghamshire.”
“Now by my faith,” said the Tinker, “thou art a right good fellow in spite of thy scurvy jests. I love thee, my sweet chuck, and gin I go not with thee to that same Blue Boar thou mayst call me a heathen Jew.”
“Tell me thy news, good friend, I Prythee,” quoth Robin as they trudged along together, “for tinkers, I ween, are all as full of news as an egg of meat.”
The Tinker goeth with Robin Hood to the sign of the Blue Boar.
“Now I love thee as my brother, my bully blade,” said the Tinker, “else I would not tell thee my news; for sly am I, man, and I have in hand a grave undertaking that doth call for all my wits, for I come to seek a bold outlaw that men, hereabouts, call Robin Hood. Within my pouch I have a warrant, all fairly written out on parchment, forsooth, with a great red seal for to make it lawful. Could I but meet this same Robin Hood I would serve it upon his dainty body, and if he minded it not I would beat him till every one of his ribs would cry Amen. But thou livest hereabouts, mayhap thou knowest Robin Hood thyself, good fellow.”
“Ay, marry, that do I somewhat,” quoth Robin, “and I have seen him this very morn. But, Tinker, men say that he is but a
sad, sly thief. Thou hadst better watch thy warrant, man, or else he may steal it out of thy very pouch.”
“Let him but try!” cried the Tinker. “Sly may he be, but sly am I, too. I would I had him here now, man to man!” And he made his heavy cudgel to spin again. “But what manner of man is he, lad?”
“Much like myself,” said Robin, laughing, “and in height and build and age nigh the same; and he hath blue eyes, too, like mine.”
“Nay,” quoth the Tinker, “thou art but a green youth. I thought him to be a great bearded man, Nottingham men feared him so.”
“Truly, he is not so old nor so stout as thou art,” said Robin. “But men do call him a right deft hand at quarterstaff.”
“That may be,” said the Tinker, right sturdily; “but I am more deft than he, for did I not overcome Simon of Ely in a fair bout in the ring at Hertford Town? But if thou knowest him, my jolly blade, wilt thou go with me and bring me to him? Fourscore bright angels hath the Sheriff promised me if I serve the warrant upon the knave’s body, and ten of them will I give to thee if thou showest me him.”
“Ay, that will I,” quoth Robin; “but show me thy warrant, man, until I see whether it be good or no.”
“That will I not do, even to mine own brother,” answered the Tinker. “No man shall see my warrant till I serve it upon yon fellow’s own body.”
Robin promiseth to show the Tinker that which he seeketh.
“So be it,” quoth Robin. “An thou show it not to me I know not to whom thou wilt show it. But here we are at the sign of the Blue Boar, so let us in and taste his brown October.”
No sweeter inn could be found in all Nottinghamshire than that of the Blue Boar. None had such lovely trees standing around, or was so covered with trailing clematis and sweet woodbine; none had such good beer and such humming ale; nor, in winter time, when the north wind howled and snow drifted around the hedges, was there to be found, elsewhere, such a roaring fire as blazed upon the hearth of the Blue Boar. At such times might be found a goodly company of yeomen or country folk seated around the blazing hearth, bandying merry jests, while roasted crabs2 bobbed in bowls of ale upon the hearthstone. Well known was the inn to Robin Hood and his band, for there had he and such merry companions as Little John or Will Stutely or young David of Doncaster often gathered when all the forest was filled with snow. As for mine host, he knew how to keep a still tongue in his head, and to swallow his words before they passed his teeth, for he knew very well which side of his bread was spread with butter, for Robin and his band were the best of customers, and paid their scores without having them chalked up behind the door. So now, when Robin Hood and the Tinker came thereto and called aloud for two great pots of ale, none would have known from look or speech that the host had ever set eyes upon the outlaw before.
“Bide thou here,” quoth Robin to the Tinker, “while I go and see that mine host draweth ale from the right butt, for he hath good October, I know, and that brewed by Withold of Tamworth.” So saying, he went within and whispered to the host to add a measure of Flemish strong waters to the good English ale; which the latter did and brought it to them.
Robin Hood bringeth the Tinker to the sign of the Blue Boar, and muddles him with ale.
“By Our Lady,” said the Tinker, after a long draught of the ale, “yon same Withold of Tamworth—a right good Saxon name, too, I would have thee know—breweth the most humming ale that e’er passed the lips of Wat o’ the Crabstaff.”
“Drink, man, drink,” cried Robin, only wetting his own lips meanwhile. “Ho, landlord! bring my friend another pot of the same. And now for a song, my jolly blade.”
“Ay, that will I give thee a song, my lovely fellow,” quoth the Tinker, “for I never tasted such ale in all my days before. By’r Lady, it doth make my head hum even now! Hey, Dame Hostess, come listen, an thou wouldst hear a song; and thou too, thou bonny lass, for never sing I so well as when bright eyes do look upon me the while.”
Then he sang an ancient ballad of the time of good King Arthur, called the Marriage of Sir Gawaine, which you may some time read, yourself, in stout English of early times; and as he sang, all listened to that noble tale of noble knight and his sacrifice to his king. But long before the Tinker came to the last verse his tongue began to trip and his head to spin, because of the strong waters mixed with the ale. First his tongue tripped, then it grew thick of sound; then his head wagged from side to side, until at last he fell asleep as though he never would waken again.
Then Robin Hood laughed aloud, and quickly took the warrant from out the Tinker’s pouch with his deft fingers. “Sly art thou, Thinker,” quoth he, “but not yet, I trow, art thou as sly as that same sly thief, Robin Hood.”
The Tinker falleth asleep, and Robin stealeth the warrant.
Then he called the host to him and said, “Here, good man, are ten broad shillings for the entertainment thou hast given us this day. See that thou takest good care of thy fair guest there, and when he wakes thou mayest again charge him ten shillings also, and if he hath it not, thou mayst take his bag and hammer, and even his coat, in payment. Thus do I punish those that come into the greenwood to deal dole to me. As for thine own self, never knew I landlord yet that would not charge twice as he could.”
At this the host smiled slyly, as though saying to himself the rustic saw, “Teach a magpie to suck eggs.”
The Tinker slept until the afternoon drew to a close and the shadows grew long beside the woodland edge, then he awoke. First he looked up, then he looked down, then he looked east, then he looked west, for he was gathering his wits together, like barley-straws blown apart by the wind. First he thought of his merry companion, but he was gone. Then he thought of his stout crabstaff, and that he had within his hand. Then of his warrant, and of the fourscore angels he was to gain for serving it upon Robin Hood. He thrust his hand into his pouch, but not a scrap nor a farthing was there. Then he sprang to his feet in a rage.
The Tinker awaketh, and the landlord maketh him pay the score again, so that he loseth coat, bag, and hammer; whereupon he voweth vengeance against Robin.
“Ho, landlord!” cried he, “whither hath that knave gone that was with me but now?”
“What knave meaneth your worship?” quoth the landlord, calling the Tinker worship to soothe him, as a man would pour oil upon angry water; “I saw no knave with your worship, for I swear no man would dare call that man knave so nigh to Sherwood Forest. A right stout yeoman I saw with your worship, but I thought that your worship knew him, for few there be about here that pass him by and know him not.”
“Now, how should I, that ne’er have squealed in your sty, know all the swine therein? Who was he, then, as thou knowest him so well?”
“Why, yon same is a right stout fellow whom men hereabouts do call Robin Hood; which same”—
“Now, by’r Lady!” cried the Tinker hastily, and in a deep voice like an angry bull, “thou didst see me come into thine inn, I, a staunch, honest craftsman, and never told me who my company was, well knowing thine own self who he was. Now, I have a right round piece of mind to crack thy knave’s pate for thee!” Then he took up his cudgel and looked at the landlorad as though he would smite him where he stood.
“Nay,” cried the host, throwing up his elbow, for he feared the blow, “how knew I that thou knewest him not?”
“Well and truly thankful mayst thou be,” quoth the Tinker, “that I be a patient man, and so do spare thy bald crown, else wouldst thou ne’er cheat customer again. But as for this same knave, Robin Hood, I go straightway to seek him, and if I do not score his knave’s pate, cut my staff into fagots and call me woman.” So saying, he gathered himself together to depart.
“Nay,” quoth the landlord, standing in front of him and holding out his arms like a gooseherd driving his flock, for money made him bold, “thou goest not till thou hast paid me my score.”
“But did not he pay thee?”
“Not so much as one farthing; and ten good shillings’ wor
th of ale have ye drunk this day. Nay, I say, thou goest not away without paying me, else shall our good sheriff know of it.”
“But nought have I to pay thee with, good fellow,” quoth the Tinker.
“‘Good fellow’ not me,” said the landlord. “Good fellow am I not when it cometh to lose ten shillings! Pay me that thou owest me in broad money, or else leave thy coat and bag and hammer; yet, I wot they are not worth ten shillings, and I shall lose thereby. Nay, an thou stirrest, I have a great dog within and I will loose him upon thee. Maken, open thou the door and let forth Brian if this fellow stirs one step.”
“Nay,” quoth the Tinker,—for, by roaming the country, he had learned what dogs were,—“take thou what thou wilt have, and let me depart in peace, and may a murrain go with thee. But oh, landlord! an I catch yon scurvy varlet, I swear he shall pay full with usury for that he hath had!”
So saying, he strode away toward the forest, talking to himself, while the landlord and his worthy dame and Maken stood looking after him, and laughed when he had fairly gone.
“Robin and I have stripped yon ass of his pack main neatly,” quoth the landlord.
Now it happened about this time that Robin Hood was going through the forest to Fosse Way, to see what was to be seen there, for the moon was full and the night gave promise of being bright. In his hand he carried his stout oaken staff, and at his side hung his bugle horn. As thus he walked up a forest path, whistling, down another path came the Tinker, muttering to himself and shaking his head like an angry bull; and so, at a sudden bend, they met sharply face to face. Each stood still for a time, and then Robin spoke:—
The Tinker meeteth Robin Hood within the forest.
