The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood

by Howard Pyle

  The good Friar said not a word for a while, but he looked at Robin with a grim look. “Now,” said he at last, “I did think that thy wits were of the heavy sort and knew not that thou wert so cunning. Truly, thou hast me upon the hip. Give me my sword, and I promise not to draw it against thee save in self-defense; also I promise to do thy bidding and take thee upon my back and carry thee.”

  So jolly Robin gave him his sword again, which the Friar buckled to his side, and this time looked to it that it was more secure in its fastenings; then tucking up his robes once more, he took Robin Hood upon his back and without a word stepped into the water, and so waded on in silence while Robin sat laughing upon his back. At last he reached the middle of the ford where the water was deepest. Here he stopped for a moment, and then, with a sudden lift of his hand and heave of his shoulders, fairly shot Robin over his head as though he were a sack of grain.

  Down went Robin into the water with a mighty splash. “There,” quoth the holy man, calmly turning back again to the shore, “let that cool thy hot spirit, if it may.”

  The Friar tumbles Robin Hood into the water.

  Meantime, after much splashing, Robin had gotten to his feet and stood gazing about him all bewildered, the water running from him in pretty little rills. At last he shot the water out of his ears and spat some out of his mouth, and, gathering his scattered wits together, saw the stout Friar standing on the bank and laughing. Then, I wot, was Robin Hood a mad man. “Stay, thou villain!” roared he, “I am after thee straight, and if I do not carve thy brawn for thee this day, may I never lift finger again!” So saying, he dashed, splashing, to the bank.

  “Thou needst not hasten thyself unduly,” quoth the stout Friar. “Fear not; I will abide here, and if thou dost not cry ‘Alack-a-day’ ere long time is gone, may I never more peep through the brake at a fallow deer.”

  And now Robin, having reached the bank, began, without more ado, to roll up his sleeves about his wrists. The Friar, also, tucked his robes more about him, showing a great, stout arm on which the muscles stood out like humps of an aged tree. Then Robin saw what he had not wotted of before, that the Friar had also a coat of chain mail beneath his gown.

  “Look, to thyself,” cried Robin, drawing his good sword.

  “Ay, marry,” quoth the Friar, who held his already in his hand. So, without more ado, they came together, and thereupon began a fierce and mighty battle. Right and left, and up and down, and back and forth they fought. The swords flashed in the sun and then met with a clash that sounded far and near. I wot this was no playful bout at quarterstaff, but a grim and serious fight of real earnest. Thus they strove for an hour or more, pausing every now and then to rest, at which times each looked at the other with wonder, and thought that never had he seen so stout a fellow; then once again they would go at it more fiercely than ever. Yet in all this time neither had harmed the other nor caused his blood to flow. At last merry Robin cried, “Hold thy hand, good friend!” whereupon both lowered their swords.

  Robin Hood fights the Friar with broadsword.

  “Now I crave a boon ere we begin again,” quoth Robin, wiping the sweat from his brow; for they had striven so long that he began to think that it would be an ill-done thing either to be smitten himself or to smite so stout and brave a fellow.

  “What wouldst thou have of me?” asked the Friar.

  “Only this,” quoth Robin; “that thou wilt let me blow thrice upon my bugle horn.”

  The Friar bent his brows and looked shrewdly at Robin Hood. “Now I do verily think that thou hast some cunning trick in this,” quoth he. “Ne’ertheless, I fear thee not, and will let thee have thy wish, providing thou wilt also let me blow thrice upon this little whistle.”

  The Friar giveth Robin Hood leave to blow upon his bugle horn.

  “With all my heart,” quoth Robin; “so, here goes for one.” So saying, he raised his silver horn to his lips, and blew thrice upon it, clear and high.

  Meantime, the Friar stood watching keenly for what might come to pass, holding in his fingers the while a pretty silver whistle, such as knights use for calling their hawks back to their wrists, which whistle always hung at his girdle along with his rosary.

  Scarcely had the echo of the last note of Robin’s bugle come winding back from across the river, when four tall men in Lincoln green came running around the bend of the road, each with a bow in his hand and an arrow ready nocked upon the string.

  The four yeomen come to their master’s aid.

  “Ha! is it thus, thou traitor knave!” cried the Friar. “Then, marry, look to thyself!” so saying, he straightway clapped the hawk’s whistle to his lips and blew a blast that was both loud and shrill. And now there came a crackling of the bushes that lined the other side of the road, and presently forth from the covert burst four great, shaggy hounds.

  The Friar bloweth upon his whistle, and so calleth four great hounds to aid him.

  “At ‘em, Sweet Lips! at ’em, Bell Throat! at ‘em, Beauty! at ’em, Fangs!” cried the Friar, pointing at Robin.

  And now it was well for that yeoman that a tree stood nigh him beside the road, else had he had an ill chance of it. Ere one could say “Gaffer Downthedale” the hounds were upon him, and he had only time to drop his sword and leap lightly into the tree, around which the hounds gathered, looking up at him as though he were a cat on the eaves. But the Friar quickly called off his dogs. “At ’em!” cried he, pointing down the road to where the yeomen were standing stock still with wonder of what they saw. As the hawk darts down upon its quarry, so sped the four dogs at the yeomen; but when the four men saw the hounds so coming, all with one accord, saving only Will Scarlet, drew each man his goose feather to his ear and let fly his shaft.

  And now the old ballad telleth of a wondrous thing that happened, for thus it says, that each dog so shot at leaped lightly aside, and as the arrow passed him whistling, caught it in his mouth and bit it in twain. Now it would have been an ill day for these four good fellows had not Will Scarlet stepped before the others and met the hounds as they came rushing. “Why, how now, Fangs!” cried he, sternly. “Down, Beauty! down, sirrah! What means this?”

  The yeomen shoot at the hounds, but the dogs catch the arrows in their mouths.

  At the sound of his voice each dog shrank back quickly, and then straightway came to him and licked his hands and fawned upon him, as is the wont of dogs that meet one they know. Then the four yeomen came forward, the hounds leaping around Will Scarlet joyously. “Why, how now!” cried the stout Friar, “what means this? Art thou wizard to turn those wolves into lambs? Ha!” cried he, when they had come still nearer, “can I trust mine eyes? What means it that I see young Master William Gamwell in such company?”

  The hounds know Will Scarlet.

  “Nay, Tuck,” said the young man, as the four came forward to where Robin was now clambering down from the tree in which he had been roosting, he having seen that all danger was over for the time; “nay, Tuck my name is no longer Will Gamwell, but Will Scarlet; and this is my good uncle, Robin Hood, with whom I am abiding just now.”

  “Truly, good master,” said the Friar, looking somewhat abashed and reaching out his great palm to Robin, “I ha’ oft heard thy name both sung and spoken of, but I never thought to meet thee in battle. I crave thy forgiveness, and do wonder not that I found so stout a man against me.”

  “Truly, most holy father,” said Little John, “I am more thankful than e’er I was in all my life before that our good friend Scarlet knew thee and thy dogs. I tell thee seriously that I felt my heart crumble away from me when I saw my shaft so miss its aim, and those great beasts of thine coming straight at me.”

  “Thou mayst indeed be thankful, friend,” said the Friar, gravely. “But, Master Will, how cometh it that thou dost now abide in Sherwood?”

  “Why, Tuck, dost thou not know of my ill happening with my father’s steward?” answered Scarlet.

  “Yea, truly, yet I knew not that thou wert in hidi
ng because of it. Marry, the times are all awry when a gentleman must lie hidden for so small a thing.”

  “But we are losing time,” quoth Robin, “and I have yet to find that same curtal Friar.”

  “Why, uncle, thou hast not far to go,” said Will Scarlet, pointing to the Friar, “for there he stands beside thee.”

  “How?” quoth Robin, “art thou the man that I have been at such pains to seek all day, and have got such a ducking for?”

  “Why, truly,” said the Friar, demurely, “some do call me the curtal Friar of the Fountain Dale; others again call me in jest the Abbot of Fountain Abbey; others still again call me simple Friar Tuck.”

  Robin Hood findeth the man he sought.

  “I like the last name best,” quoth Robin, “for it doth slip more glibly off the tongue. But why didst thou not tell me thou wert he I sought, instead of sending me searching for black moonbeams?”

  “Why, truly, thou didst not ask me, good master,” quoth stout Tuck; “but what didst thou desire of me?”

  “Nay,” quoth Robin, “the day growth late, and we cannot stand longer talking here. Come back with us to Sherwood, and I will unfold all to thee as we travel along.”

  So, without tarrying, longer, they all departed, with the stout dogs at their heels, and wended their way back to Sherwood again; but it was long past nightfall ere they reached the greenwood tree.

  The Friar goeth back with the yeomen to Sherwood Forest.

  Now listen, for next I will tell how Robin Hood compassed the happiness of two young lovers, aided by the merry Friar Tuck of Fountain Dale.

  III.

  Robin Hood compasseth the Marriage of Two True Lovers.

  AND now had come the morning when fair Ellen was to be married, and on which merry Robin had sworn that Allan a Dale should, as it were, eat out of the platter that had been filled for Sir Stephen of Trent. Up rose Robin Hood, blithe and gay, up rose his merry men one and all, and up rose last of all stout Friar Tuck, winking the smart of sleep from out his eyes. Then, whilst the air seemed to brim over with the song of many birds, all blended together and all joying in the misty morn, each man laved face and hands in the leaping brook, and so the day began.

  “Now,” quoth Robin, when they had broken their fast, and each man had eaten his fill, “it is time for us to set forth upon the undertaking that we have in hand for to-day. I will choose me one score of my good men to go with me, for I may need aid; and thou, Will Scarlet, wilt abide here and be the chief whiles I am gone.” Then searching through all the band, each man of whom crowded forward eager to be chosen, Robin called such as he wished by name, until he had a score of stout fellows, the very flower of his yeomanrie. Beside Little John and Will Stutely were nigh all those famous lads of whom I have already told you. Then, while those so chosen ran leaping, full of joy, to arm themselves with bow and shaft and broadsword, Robin Hood stepped aside into the covert, and there donned a gay coat such as might have been worn by some strolling minstrel, and slung a harp across his shoulder, the better to carry out that part.

  And now I warrant Robin Hood was a sight to make all men stare. His hose were of green, but his jerkin was of mixed red and yellow, all hung about with streamers and knots and tags and ribbons of red and yellow also. Upon his head he wore a tall hat of red leather, and thrust therein was a nodding peacock’s plume.

  Robin Hood putteth on the garb of a strolling minstrel.

  All the band stared and many laughed, for never had they seen their master in such a fantastic guise before. Little John walked all around him, seriously observing him narrowly, with his neck craned and his head on one side. As you may have seen the barnyard cock walk slowly round some unwonted thing, such as a sleeping cat or what not, pausing anon and anon, moving again with doubtful step, wondering the while and clucking to himself; so walked Little John around Robin with such words as, “La! Look ye there now! is it sooth? ’tis pretty, I wot!” At last he stopped in front of Robin. “By my soul,” said he, “this same is a dainty and pretty dress that thou hast upon thee, good master. Never hath sweeter bodily clothing been seen sin’ good Saint Wolfhad, the martyr, saw one sitting upon a rock painting his tail purple and green.”

  “Truly,” quoth Robin, holding up his arms and looking down at himself, “I do think it be somewhat of a gay, gaudy, grasshopper dress; but it is a pretty thing for all that, and doth not ill befit the turn of my looks albeit I wear it but for the nonce. But stay, Little John, here are two bags that I would have thee carry in thy pouch for the sake of safe-keeping. I can ill care for them myself beneath this motley.”

  Robin Hood bids Little John take charge of two bags of money.

  “Why, master,” quoth Little John, taking the bags and weighing them in his hand, “here is the chink of gold.”

  “Well, what an there be,” said Robin; “it is mine own coin, and the band is none the worse for what is there. Come, busk ye lads;” and he turned quickly away, “get ye ready straightway.” Then gathering the score together in a close rank, in the midst of which were Allan a Dale and Friar Tuck, he led them forth upon their way from the forest shades.

  So they walked on for a long time till they had come out of Sherwood and to the vale of Rother stream. Here were different sights from what one saw in the forest; hedge-rows, broad fields of barley corn, pasture lands rolling upward till they met the sky and all dotted over with flocks of white sheep, hayfields whence came the odor of new-mown hay that lay in smooth swathes over which skimmed the swifts in rapid flight; such they saw, and different was it, I wot, from the tangled depths of the sweet woodlands, but full as fair. Thus Robin led his band, walking blithely with chest thrown out and head thrown back, snuffing the odors of the gentle breeze that came drifting from over the hayfields.

  Robin Hood and a score of his merry men, together with Friar Tuck and Allan a Dale, set forth for the vale of Rother.

  “Truly,” quoth he, “the dear world is as fair here as in the woodland shades. Who calls it a vale of tears? Methinks it is but the darkness in our minds that bringeth gloom to the world. For what sayeth that merry song thou singest, Little John? is it not thus?—

  “For when my love’s eyes do shine, do shine

  And when her lips smile so rare,

  The day it is jocund and fine, so fine,

  Though let it be wet or be fair,

  And when the stout ale is all flowing so fast,

  Our sorrows and troubles are things of the past.”

  “Nay,” said Friar Tuck piously, “ye do think of profane things and of naught else; yet, truly, there be better safe-guards against care and woe than ale drinking and bright eyes, to wit, fasting and meditation. Look upon me, have I the likeness of a sorrowful man?”

  At this a great shout of laughter went up from all around, for the night before the stout Friar had emptied twice as many canakins of ale as any one of all the merry men.

  “Truly,” quoth Robin, when he could speak for laughter, “I should say that thy sorrows were about equal to thy goodliness.”

  So they stepped along, talking, singing, jesting, and laughing, until they had come to a certain little church that belonged to the great estates owned by the rich Priory of Emmet. Here it was that fair Ellen was to be married on that morn, and here was the spot toward which the yeomen had pointed their toes. On the other side of the road from where the church stood with waving fields of barley around, ran a stone wall along the roadside. Over the wall from the highway was a fringe of young trees and bushes, and here and there the wall itself was covered by a mass of blossoming woodbine that filled all the warm air far and near with its sweet summer odor. Then straightway the yeomen leaped over the wall, alighting on the tall soft grass upon the other side, frightening a flock of sheep that lay there in the shade so that they scampered away in all directions. Here was a sweet cool shadow both from the wall and from the fair young trees and bushes, and here sat the yeomen down, and glad enough they were to rest after their long tramp of the m
orning.

  They come to the church where fair Ellen is to be married

  “Now,” quoth Robin, “I would have one of you watch and tell me when he sees any one coming to the church, and the one I choose shall be young David of Doncaster. So get thee upon the wall, David, and hide beneath the woodbine so as to keep watch.”

  Robin bids young David of Doncaster to watch for whoso may come.

  Accordingly young David did as he was bidden, the others stretching themselves at length upon the grass, some talking together and others sleeping. Then all was quiet save only for the low voices of those that talked together, and for Allan’s restless footsteps pacing up and down, for his soul was so full of disturbance that he could not stand still, and saving, also, for the mellow snoring of Friar Tuck, who enjoyed his sleep with a noise as of one sawing soft wood very slowly. Robin lay upon his back and gazed aloft into the leaves of the trees, his thought leagues away, and so a long time passed.

  Then up spoke Robin: “Now tell us, young David of Doncaster, what dost thou see?”

  Then David answered, “I see the white clouds floating and I feel the wind a-blowing and three black crows are flying over the wold; but naught else do I see, good master.”

  So silence fell again and another time passed, broken only as I have said, till Robin, growing impatient, spake again. “Now tell me, young David, what dost thou see by this?”

  And David answered, “I see the windmills swinging and three tall poplar trees swaying against the sky, and a flock of field-fares are flying over the hill; but naught else do I see, good master.”