The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood

by Howard Pyle

  “What is thy name, good fellow?” said Robin at last to the Miller, who stood gaping and as though he were in a maze.

  “Alas, sir, I am Midge, the Miller’s son,” said he in a frightened voice.

  “I make my vow,” quoth merry Robin, smiting him upon the shoulder, “thou art the mightiest Midge that e’er mine eyes beheld. Now wilt thou leave thy dusty mill and come and join my band? By my faith, thou art too stout a man to spend thy days betwixt the hopper and the till.”

  Midge, the Miller’s son, joineth the band.

  “Then truly, if thou dost forgive me for the blows I struck, not knowing who thou wast, I will join with thee right merrily,” said the Miller.

  “Then have I gained this day,” quoth Robin, “the three stoutest yeomen in all Nottinghamshire. We will get us away to the greenwood tree, and there hold a merry feast in honor of our new friends, and mayhap a cup or two of good sack and canary may mellow the soreness of my poor joints and bones, though I warrant it will be many a day before I am again the man I was.” So saying, he turned and led the way, the rest following, and so they entered the forest once more and were lost to sight.

  They go back again to Sherwood forest.

  So that night all was ablaze with crackling fires in the woodlands, for though Robin and those others spoken of, only excepting Midge, the Miller’s son, had many a sore bump and bruise here and there on their bodies, they were still not so sore in the joints that they could not enjoy a jolly feast given all in welcome to the new members of the band. Thus with songs and jesting and laughter that echoed through the deeper and more silent nooks of the forest, the night passed quickly along, as such merry times are wont to do, until at last each man sought his couch and silence fell on all things and all things seemed to sleep.

  Thus came about three merry adventures in one day, the one stepping upon the heels of another.

  But Little John’s tongue was ever one that was not easy of guidance, so that, inch by inch, the whole story of his fight with the Tanner and Robin’s fight with Will Scarlet leaked out. And so I have told it that you may laugh at the merry tale along with me.

  Now happenings so come upon us in this world that the serious things of this world become so mixed up with the merry things that our life is all of a jumble of black and white, as it were, like the boards of checkered black and white upon which country folk play draughts at the inn beside the blazing fire of a winter’s night.

  So things fell out with Robin Hood, for this day of merry sport, through which we have just trudged and buffeted with him and certain other mad wags, was speedily followed by one in which, though merriment was a-doing, more weighty matters were undertaken. So listen to what follows.

  PART FOURTH.

  In which it is told how Allan a Dale was brought to Robin Hood, who promised to help him in trouble. Also how Robin sought the curtal Friar of Fountain Abbey with that aim in view. Likewise it is recounted how Robin Hood brought two true lovers together that would else have been made unhappy all their lives.

  I.

  Robin Hood and Allan a Dale.

  IT has just been told how three unlucky adventures fell upon Robin Hood and Little John all in one day, bringing them sore ribs and aching bones. So next we will tell how they made up for those ill happenings by a good action that came about not without some small pain to Robin.

  Two days had passed by, and somewhat of the soreness had passed away from Robin Hood’s joints, yet still, when he moved of a sudden and without thinking, pain here and there would, as it were, jog him, crying, “Thou hast had a drubbing, good fellow.”

  The day was bright and jocund, and the morning dew still lay upon the grass. Under the greenwood tree sat Robin Hood; on one side was Will Scarlet, lying at full length upon his back, gazing up into the clear sky, with hands clasped behind his head; upon the other side sat Little John, fashioning a cudgel out of a stout crab-tree limb; elsewhere upon the grass sat or lay many others of the band.

  Will Scathelock, who was as full of tales and legends as an egg is of meat, was telling of the adventures that befell brave Sir Carodoc of the Shrunken Arm, of King Arthur’s time, and of his love to his one true maid, and of what they dared and suffered for each other’s sake. That noble story you yourself may read some time, for it has been written and sung in more than one ancient tale and ballad, both in courtly and in homely phrase. To this all listened without a word, and when it was done many drew deep breaths, being carried away by the tale of knightly daring and noble sacrifice.

  Will Scathelock telleth the goodly story of Sir Caradoc of the Shrunken Arm.

  “It doth make a man better,” quoth Robin Hood, “to hear of those noble men that lived so long ago. When one doth list to such tales, his soul doth say, ‘Put by thy poor little likings and seek to do likewise.’ Truly, one may not do as nobly one’s self, but in the striving one is better. I mind me our good Gaffer Swanthold was wont to say, ‘He who jumps for the moon and gets it not leaps higher than he who stoops for a penny in the mud.’ ”

  “Truly,” quoth Will Stutely, “it is a fine thought, but nevertheless, good master, the one gets a penny and the other gets nought, and, without the penny, one is like to go with an empty stomach. These same stories are well to listen to but ill to follow, say I.”

  Robin Hood sendeth Will Stutely and six yeomen out to seek a guest.

  “By the faith of my heart,” quoth merry Robin, “thou dost ever trip up a lofty thought that gazes in the sky, and dost bring its nose in the dust. Nevertheless, thou hast a shrewd wit in thy head, good Stutely; and now that thou bringest me to things of the world, I do bethink me that we have had no one to dine with us for this long time. Our money groweth low in the purse, for no one hath come to pay a reckoning for many a day. Now busk thee, good Stutely, and choose thee six men, and get thee gone to Fosse Way or thereabouts, and see that thou bringest some one to eat with us this evening. Meantime we will prepare a grand feast to do whosoever may come the great honor. And stay, good Stutely. I would have thee take Will Scarlet with thee, for it is meet that he should become acquaint with the ways of the forest.”

  “Now do I thank thee, good master,” quoth Stutely, springing to his feet, “that thou hast chosen me for this adventure. Truly, my limbs do grow slack through abiding idly here. As for two of my six, I will choose Midge the Miller, and Arthur a Bland, for, as well thou knowest, good master, they are stout fists at the quarterstaff. Is it not so, Little John?”

  At this all laughed but Little John, and Robin, who twisted up his face. “I can speak for Midge,” said he, “and likewise for my cousin Scarlet. This very blessed morn I looked at my ribs and found them as many colors as a beggar’s cloak.”

  So, having chosen four more stout fellows, Will Stutley and his band set forth to Fosse Way, to find whether they might not come across some rich guest to feast that day in Sherwood with Robin and his band.

  For all the livelong day they abided near this highway. Each man had brought with him a good store of cold meat and a bottle of stout March beer to stay his stomach till the home-coming. So when high noontide had come they sat them down upon the soft grass, beneath a green and wide-spreading hawthorn bush, and held a hearty and jovial feast. After this, one kept watch while the others napped, for it was a still and sultry day.

  The seven yeomen lodge by the roadside.

  Thus they passed the time pleasantly enow, but no guest such as they desired showed his face in all the time that they lay hidden there. Many passed along the dusty road in the glare of the sun: now it was a bevy of chattering damsels merrily tripping along; now it was a plodding tinker; now a merry shepherd lad; now a sturdy farmer; all gazing ahead along the road, unconscious of the seven stout fellows that lay hidden so near them. Such were the travellers along the way; but fat abbot, rich esquire, or money-laden usurer came there none.

  At last the sun began to sink low in the heavens; the light grew red and the shadows long. The air grew full of silence, t
he birds twittered sleepily, and from afar came, faint and clear, the musical song of the milkmaid calling the kine home to the milking.

  Then Stutely arose from where he was lying. “A plague of such ill luck!” quoth he. “Here have we abided all day, and no bird worth the shooting, so to speak, hath come within reach of our bolt. Had I gone forth on an innocent errand, I had met a dozen stout priests or a score of pursy money-lenders. But it is ever thus: the dun deer are never so scarce as when one has a gray goose feather nipped betwixt the fingers. Come, lads, let us pack up and home again, say I.” Accordingly, the others arose, and, coming forth from out the thicket, they all turned their toes back again to Sherwood.

  They return again to Sherwood with empty hands.

  After they had gone some distance, Will Stutely, who headed the party, suddenly stopped. “Hist!” quoth he, for his ears were as sharp as those of a five-year-old fox. “Hark, lads! Methinks I hear a sound.” At this all stopped and listened with bated breath, albeit for a time they could hear nothing, their ears being duller than Stutely’s. At length they heard a faint and melancholy sound, like some one in lamentation.

  Will Stutely heareth the sound of some one in sorrow.

  “Ha!” quoth Will Scarlet, “this must be looked into. There is some one in distress nigh to us here.”

  “I know not,” quoth Will Stutely, shaking his head doubtfully, “our master is ever rash about thrusting his finger into a boiling pot; but, for my part, I see no use in getting ourselves into mischievous coils. Yon is a man’s voice, if I mistake not, and a man should be always ready to get himself out from his own pothers.” Thus spoke Will Stutely, yet, in truth, only half meant what he said. Nevertheless, since he had escaped so narrowly from out the Sheriffs clutches he had grown somewhat over-cautious.

  Then out spake Will Scarlet boldly. “Now out upon thee, to talk in that manner, Stutely! Stay, if thou dost list. I go to see what may be the trouble of this poor creature.”

  “Nay,” quoth Stutely, “thou dost leap so quickly thou’lt tumble into the ditch. Who said I would not go? Come along, say I.” Thus saying, he led the way, the others following, till, after they had gone a short distance, they came to a little opening in the woodland, whence a brook, after gurgling out from under the tangle of overhanging bushes, spread out into a broad and glassy pebbled pool. By the side of this pool, and beneath the branches of a willow, lay a youth upon his face, weeping aloud, the sound of which had first caught the quick ears of Stutely. His golden locks were tangled, his clothes were all awry, and everything about him betokened sorrow and woe. Over his head, from the branches of the osier, hung a beautiful harp of polished wood inlaid with gold and silver in fantastic devices. Beside him lay a stout ashen bow and half a score of fair, smooth arrows.

  They find a youth weeping beside a fountain.

  “Halloa!” shouted Will Stutely, when they had come out from the forest into the little open spot. “Who art thou, fellow, that liest there killing all the green grass with salt water?”

  Hearing the voice, the stranger sprang to his feet, and, snatching up his bow and fitting a shaft, held himself in readiness for whatever ill might befall him.

  “Truly,” said one of the yeomen, when they had seen the young stranger’s face, “I do know that lad right well. He is a certain minstrel that I have seen hereabouts more than once. It was only a week ago I saw him skipping across the hill like a yearling doe. A fine sight he was then, with a flower at his ear and a cock’s plume stuck in his cap; but now, methinks, our cockerel is shorn of his gay feathers.”

  “Pah!” cried Will Stutely, coming up to the stranger, “wipe thine eyes, man! I do hate to see a tall, stout fellow so snivelling like a girl of fourteen over a dead tomtit. Put down thy bow, man! we mean thee no harm.”

  But Will Scarlet, seeing how the stranger, who had a young and boyish look, was stung by the words that Stutely had spoken, came to him and put his hand upon the youth’s shoulder. “Nay, thou art in trouble, poor boy!” said he, kindly. “Mind not what these fellows have said. They are rough, but they mean thee well. Mayhap they do not understand a lad like thee. Thou shalt come with us, and perchance we may find a certain one that can aid thee in thy perplexities, whatsoever they may be.”

  “Yea, truly, come along,” said Will Stutely, gruffly. “I meant thee no harm, and may mean thee some good. Take down thy singing tool from off this fair tree, and away with us.”

  The youth did as he was bidden, and, with bowed head and sorrowful step, accompanied the others, walking beside Will Scarlet.

  So they wended their way through the forest. The bright light faded from the sky and a glimmering gray fell over all things. From the deeper recesses of the forest the strange whispering sounds of night-time came to the ear; all else was silent, saving only for the rattling of their footsteps amid the crisp, dry leaves of the last winter. At last a ruddy glow shone before them here and there through the trees; a little farther and they came to the open glade, now bathed in the pale moonlight. In the centre of the open crackled a great fire, throwing a red glow on all around. At the fire were roasting juicy steaks of venison, pheasants, capons, and fresh fish from the river. All the air was filled with the sweet smell of good things cooking.

  The sorrowful minstrel goeth with them into the forest.

  The little band made its way across the glade, many yeomen turning with curious looks and gazing after them, but none speaking or questioning them. So, with Will Scarlet upon one side and Will Stutely upon the other, the stranger came to where Robin Hood sat on a seat of moss under the greenwood tree, with Little John standing beside him.

  “Good even, fair friend,” said Robin Hood, rising as the other drew near. “And hast thou come to feast with me this day?”

  “Alas! I know not,” said the lad, looking around him with dazed eyes, for he was bewildered with all that he saw. “Truly, I know not whether I be in a dream,” said he to himself in a low voice.

  The sorrowful minstrel is brought before Robin Hood.

  “Nay, marry,” quoth jolly Robin, laughing; “thou art awake, as thou wilt presently find, for a fine feast is a-cooking for thee. Thou art our honored guest this day.”

  Still the young stranger looked about him, as though in a dream. Presently he turned to Robin. “Methinks,” said he, “I know now where I am and what hath befallen me. Art not thou the great Robin Hood?”

  “Thou hast hit the bull’s eye,” quoth Robin, clapping him upon the shoulder. “Men hereabouts do call me by that name. Sin’ thou knowest me, thou knowest also that he who feasteth with me must pay his reckoning. I trust thou hast a full purse with thee, fair stranger.”

  “Alas!” said the stranger, “I have no purse nor no money either, saving only the half of a sixpence, the other half of which mine own dear love doth carry in her bosom, hung about her neck by a strand of silken thread.”

  At this speech a great shout of laughter went up from those around, whereat the poor boy looked as he would die of shame; but Robin Hood turned sharply to Will Stutely. “Why, how now,” quoth he, “is this the guest that thou hast brought us to fill our purse? Methinks thou has brought but a lean cock to the market.”

  “Nay, good master,” answered Will Stutely, grinning, “he is no guest of mine; it was Will Scarlet that brought him thither. Nevertheless as thou mayst remember a certain talk this morning of duty and what not being better than a penny plucked from the dust, methinks here is a fine chance for practising charity.”

  Then up spoke Will Scarlet, and told how they had found the lad in sorrow, and how he had brought him to Robin, thinking that he might perchance aid him in his trouble. Then Robin Hood turned to the youth, and, placing his hand upon the other’s shoulder, held him off at arm’s length, scanning his face closely.

  “A young face,” quoth he in a low voice, half to himself, “a kind face, a good face. ‘Tis like a maiden’s for purity, and withal, the fairest that e’er mine eyes did see; but, if I may judge fair
ly by thy looks, grief cometh to young as well as to old.” At these words, spoken so kindly, the poor lad’s eyes brimmed up with tears. “Nay, nay,” said Robin, hastily, “cheer up, lad; I warrant thy case is not so bad that it cannot be mended. What may be thy name?”

  “Allan a Dale is my name, good master.”

  “Allan a Dale,” repeated Robin, musing. “Allan a Dale. It doth seem to me that the name is not altogether strange to mine ears. Yea, surely thou art the minstrel of whom we have been hearing lately, whose voice so charmeth all men. Dost thou not come from the Dale of Rotherstream, over beyond Stavely?”

  “Yea, truly,” answered Allan, “I do come thence.”

  “How old art thou, Allan?” said Robin.

  “I am but twenty years of age.”

  “Methinks thou art over young to be perplexed with trouble,” quoth Robin, kindly; then, turning to the others, he cried, “Come, lads, busk ye and get our feast ready; only thou, Will Scarlet, and thou, Little John, stay here with me.”

  Then, when the others had gone, each man about his business, Robin turned once more to the youth. “Now, lad,” said he, “tell us thy troubles, and speak freely. A flow of words doth ever ease the heart of sorrows; it is like opening the waste weir when the mill-dam is over full. Come, sit thou here beside me, and speak at thine ease.”

  Then straightway the youth told the three yeomen all that was in his heart; at first in broken words and phrases, then freely and with greater ease when he saw that all listened closely to what he said. So he told them how he had come from York to the sweet vale of Rother, travelling the country through as a minstrel, stopping now at castle, now at hall, and now at farmhouse; how he had spent one sweet evening in a certain broad, low farmhouse, where he sang before a stout franklin and a maiden as pure and lovely as the first snowdrop of spring; how he had played and sung to her, and how sweet Ellen o’ the Dale had listened to him and had loved him. Then, in a low, sweet voice, scarcely louder than a whipser, he told how he had watched for her and met her now and then when she went abroad, but was all too afraid in her sweet presence to speak to her, until at last, beside the banks of Rother, he had spoken of his love, and she had whispered that which had made his heartstrings quiver for joy. Then they broke a sixpence between them, and vowed to be true to one another forever.