by Howard Pyle
Stout Willium meeteth his match, and the stranger throweth him.
But now no shout went up for the stranger, but an angry murmur was heard among the crowd, so easily had he won the match. Then one of the judges, who was a kinsman to William of the Scar, rose with trembling lip and baleful look. Quoth he, “If thou hast slain that man it will go ill with thee, let me tell thee, fellow.”
But the stranger answered boldly, “He took his chance with me as I took mine with him. No law can touch me to harm me, even if I slew him, so that it was fairly done in the wrestling ring.”
“That we shall see,” said the judge, scowling upon the youth, whilst once more an angry murmur ran around the crowd; for, as I have said, the men of Denby were proud of stout William of the Scar.
Then up spoke Sir Richard, gently. “Nay,” said he, “the youth is right; if the other dieth, he dieth in the wrestling ring, where he took his chance, and was cast fairly enow.”
But in the mean time three men had come forward and lifted stout William from the ground, and found that he was not dead, though badly shaken by his heavy fall. Then the chief judge rose and said, “Young man, the prize is duly thine. Here is the red gold ring, and here the gloves, and yonder stands the pipe of wine to do with whatsoever thou dost list.”
At this the youth, who had donned his clothes and taken up his staff again, bowed, without a word, then, taking the gloves and the ring, and thrusting the one into his girdle and slipping the other upon his thumb, he turned and, leaping lightly over the ropes again, made his way through the crowd, and was gone.
“Now, I wonder who yon youth may be,” said the judge, turning to Sir Richard; “he seemeth like a stout Saxon from his red cheeks and fair hair. This William of ours is a stout man, too, and never have I seen him cast in the ring before, albeit he hath not yet striven with such great wrestlers as Thomas of Cornwall, Diccon of York, and young David of Doncaster. Hath he not a firm foot in the ring, thinkest thou, Sir Richard?”
“Ay, truly; and yet this youth threw him fairly, and with wondrous ease. I much wonder who he can be.” Thus said Sir Richard in a thoughtful voice.
For a time the Knight stood talking to those about him, but at last he arose and made ready to depart, so he called his men about him, and tightening the girths of his saddle, he mounted his horse once more.
Meanwhile the young stranger made his way through the crowd, but, as he passed, he heard all around him such words muttered as, “Look at the cockeril!” “Behold how he plumeth himself!” “I dare swear he cast good William unfairly!” “Yea, truly, saw ye not bird-lime upon his hands?” “It would be well to cut his cock’s comb!” To all this the stranger paid no heed, but strode proudly about as though he heard it not. So he walked slowly across the green to where the booth stood wherein was dancing, and standing at the door he looked in on the sport. As he stood thus a stone struck his arm of a sudden with a sharp jar, and, turning, he saw that an angry crowd of men had followed him from the wrestling ring. Then, when they saw him turn so, a great hooting and yelling arose from all, so that the folk came running out from the dancing booth to see what was to do. At last a tall, broad-shouldered, burly blacksmith strode forward from the crowd swinging a mighty blackthorn club in his hand.
The men of Denby follow the stranger, reviling him.
The smith of Denby falls upon the stranger, but getteth more than he bargained for.
“Wouldst thou come here to our fair town of Denby, thou Jack in the Box, to overcome a good honest lad with vile, juggling tricks?” growled he in a deep voice like the bellow of an angry bull. “Take that, then!” And of a sudden he struck a blow at the youth that might have felled an ox. But the other turned the blow deftly aside, and gave back another so terrible that the Denby man went down with a groan, as though he had been smitten by lightning. When they saw their leader fall the crowd gave another angry shout; but the stranger placed his back against the tent near which he stood, swinging his terrible staff, and so fell had been the blow that he struck the stout smith, that none dared to come within the measure of his cudgel, so the press crowded back, like a pack of dogs from a bear at bay. But now some coward hand from behind threw a sharp jagged stone that smote the stranger on the crown, so that he staggered back, and the red blood gushed from the cut and ran down his face and over his jerkin. Then, seeing him dazed with this vile blow, the crowd rushed upon him, so that they overbore him and he fell beneath their feet.
Now it might have gone ill with the youth, even to the losing of his young life, had not Sir Richard come to this fair; for of a sudden shouts were heard, and steel flashed in the air, and blows were given with the flat of swords, whilst through the midst of the crowd Sir Richard of the Lea came spurring on his white horse. Then the crowd, seeing the steel-clad knight and the armed men, melted away like snow on the warm hearth, leaving the young man all bloody and dusty upon the ground.
The crowd overcome the young stranger.
Finding himself free, the youth arose, and, wiping the blood from his face, looked up. Quoth he, “Sir Richard of the Lea, mayhap thou hast saved my life this day.”
“Who art thou that knowest Sir Richard of the Lea so well?” quoth the Knight. “Methinks I have seen thy face before, young man.”
Sir Richard of the Lea cometh to the rescue of the stranger and findeth an old friend.
“Yea, thou hast,” said the youth, “for men call me David of Doncaster.”
“Ha!” said Sir Richard; “I wonder that I knew thee not, David; but thy beard hath grown longer, and thou thyself art more set in manhood since this day twelvemonth. Come hither into the tent, David, and wash the blood from thy face. And thou, Ralph, bring him straightway a clean jerkin. Now I am sorry for thee, yet I am right glad that I have had a chance to pay a part of my debt of kindness to thy good master, Robin Hood, for it might have gone ill with thee had I not come, young man.”
So saying, the Knight led David into the tent, and there the youth washed the blood from his face and put on the clean jerkin.
In the mean time a whisper had gone around from those that stood nearest that this was none other than the great David of Doncaster, the best wrestler in all the midcountry, who only last spring had cast stout Adam o’ Lincoln in the ring at Selby, in Yorkshire, and now held the midcountry champion belt. Thus it happened that when young David came forth from the tent along with Sir Richard, the blood all washed from his face, and his soiled jerkin changed for a clean one, no sounds of anger were heard, but all pressed forward to see the young man, feeling proud that one of the great wrestlers of England should have entered the ring at Denby fair. For thus fickle is a mass of men.
Then Sir Richard called aloud, “Friends, this is David of Doncaster; so think it no shame that your Denby man was cast by such a wrestler. He beareth you no ill-will for what hath passed, but let it be a warning to you how ye treat strangers henceforth. Had ye slain him it would have been an ill day for you, for Robin Hood would have harried your town as the kestrel harries the dove-cote. I have bought the pipe of wine from him, and now I give it freely to you to drink as ye list. But never hereafterwards fall upon a man for being a stout yeoman.”
At this all shouted amain; but in truth they thought more of the wine than of the Knight’s words. Then Sir Richard, with David beside him and his men-at-arms around, turned about and left the fair.
But in after days, when the men that saw that wrestling bout were bent with age, they would shake their heads when they heard of any stalwart game, and say, “Ay, ay; but thou shouldst have seen the great David of Doncaster cast stout William with the Scar at Denby fair.”
Robin Hood stood in the merry greenwood with Little John and most of his stout yeomen around him, awaiting Sir Richard’s coming. At last a glint of steel was seen through the brown forest leaves, and forth from the covert into the open rode Sir Richard at the head of his men. He came straight forward to Robin Hood, and leaping from off his horse clasped the yeoman in his arms.
Sir Richard cometh to keep his tryst.
“Why, how now,” said Robin, after a time, holding Sir Richard off and looking at him from top to toe; methinks thou art a gayer bird than when I saw thee last.”
“Yes, thanks to thee, Robin,” said the Knight, laying his hand upon the yeoman’s shoulder. “But for thee I would have been wandering in misery in a far country by this time. But I have kept my word, Robin, and have brought back the money that thou didst lend me, and which I have doubled four times over again, and so become rich once more. Along with this money I have brought a little gift to thee and thy brave men from my dear lady and myself.” Then, turning to his men, he called aloud, “Bring forth the packhorses.”
But Robin stopped them. “Nay, Sir Richard,” said he, “think it not bold of me to cross thy bidding, but we of Sherwood do no business till after we have eaten and drank”; whereupon, taking Sir Richard by the hand, he led him to the seat beneath the greenwood tree, whilst others of the chief men of the band came and seated themselves around. Then, quoth Robin, “How cometh it that I saw young David of Doncaster with thee and thy men, Sir Knight?”
Then straightway the Knight told all about his stay at Denby and of the happening at the fair, and how it was like to go hard with young David; so he told his tale, and quoth he, “It was this, good Robin, that kept me so late on the way, otherwise I would have been here an hour agone.”
Then, when he had done speaking, Robin stretched out his hand and grasped the Knight’s palm. Quoth he in a trembling voice, “I owe thee a debt I can never hope to repay, Sir Richard, for let me tell thee, I would rather lose my right hand than have such ill befall young David of Doncaster as seemed like to come upon him at Denby.”
So they talked until after a while one came forward to say that the feast was spread; whereupon all arose and went thereto. When at last it was done, the Knight called upon his men to bring the packhorses forward, which they did according to his bidding. Then one of the men brought the Knight a strong box, which he opened and took from it a bag and counted out five hundred pounds, the sum of the money he had gotten from Robin.
Robin Hood feasts Sir Richard in the forest.
“Sir Richard,” quoth Robin, “thou wilt pleasure us all if thou wilt keep that money as a gift from us of Sherwood. Is it not so, my lads?”
Then all shouted “Ay” with a mighty voice.
“I thank you all deeply,” said the Knight, earnestly, “but think it not ill of me if I cannot take it. Gladly have I borrowed it from you, but it may not be that I can take it as a gift.”
Then Robin Hood said no more, but gave the money to Little John to put away in the treasury, for he had shrewdness enough to know that nought breeds ill-will and heart-bitterness like gifts forced upon one that cannot choose but take them.
Then Sir Richard had the packs laid upon the ground and opened, whereupon a great shout went up that made the forest ring again, for lo, there were tenscore bows of finest Spanish yew, all burnished till they shone again, and each bow inlaid with fanciful figures in silver, yet not inlaid so as to mar their strength. Beside these were tenscore quivers of leather embroidered with golden thread, and in each quiver were a score of shafts with burnished heads that shone like silver; each shaft also was feathered with peacock’s plumes and innocked with silver.
Sir Richard of the Lea giveth Robin Hood and his band a noble present from himself and Lady Lea.
Sir Richard gave to each yeoman a bow and a quiver of arrows, but to Robin he gave a stout bow inlaid with the cunningest workmanship in gold, whilst each arrow in his quiver was innocked with gold.
Then all shouted again for joy of the fair gift, and all swore among themselves that they would die if need be for Sir Richard and his lady.
At last the time came when Sir Richard must go, whereupon Robin Hood called his band around him, and each man of the yeomen took a torch in his hand to light the way through the woodlands. So they came to the edge of Sherwood, and there the Knight kissed Robin upon the cheeks and left him and was gone.
Thus Robin Hood helped a noble knight out of his dire misfortunes, that else would have smothered the happiness from his life.
Now listen, and you shall next hear of certain merry adventures that befell Robin Hood and Little John, and how one turned beggar and the other barefoot friar; likewise what each gained thereby.
PART SIXTH.
In which it is told how that Robin Hood and Little John turned, the one a beggar and the other a strolling Friar, and went forth to seek adventures. Likewise it is told how Little John prayed to some purpose, and how Robin Hood drubbed four beggars and outwitted a corn engrosser.
I.
Little John turns Barefoot Friar.
COLD winter had passed and spring had come. No leafy thickness had yet clad the woodlands, but the budding leaves hung like a tender mist about the trees. In the open country the meadow lands lav a sheeny green, the cornfields a dark velvety color, for they were thick and soft with the growing blades. The plough-boy shouted in the sun, and in the purple new-turned furrows flocks of birds hunted for fat worms. All the broad moist earth smiled in the warm light, and each little green hill clapped its hands for joy.
On a deer’s hide, stretched on the ground in the open in front of the greenwood tree, sat Robin Hood basking in the sun like an old dog fox. Leaning back with his hands clasped about his knees, he lazily watched Little John rolling a stout bowstring from long strands of hempen thread, wetting the palms of his hands ever and anon, and rolling the cord upon his thigh. Near by sat Allan a Dale fitting a new string to his harp.
Quoth Robin at last, “Methinks I would rather roam this forest in the gentle springtime than be king of all merry England. What palace in the broad world is as fair as this sweet woodland just now, and what king in all the world hath such appetite for plover’s eggs and lampreys as I for juicy venison and sparkling ale? Gaffer Swanthold speaks truly when he saith, ‘Better a crust with content than honey with a sour heart.’ ”
“Yea,” quoth Little John, as he rubbed his new-made bow-string with yellow beeswax, “the life we lead is the life for me. Thou speakest of the springtime, but methinks even the winter hath its own joys. Thou and I, good master, have had more than one merry day, this winter past, at the Blue Boar. Dost thou not remember that night thou and Will Stutely and Friar Tuck and I passed at that same hostelry with the two beggars and the strolling friar?”
“Yea,” quoth merry Robin, laughing; “that was the night that Will Stutely must needs snatch a kiss from the stout hostess, and got a canakin of ale emptied over his head for his pains.”
“Truly, it was the same,” said Little John, laughing also. “Methinks that was a goodly song that the strolling friar sang. Friar Tuck, thou hast a quick ear for a tune, dost thou not remember it?”
Friar Tuck singeth a merry song.
“I did have the catch of it one time,” said Tuck. “Let me see”; and he touched his forefinger to his forehead in thought, humming to himself, and stopping ever and anon to fit what he had got to what he searched for in his mind. At last he found it all, and clearing his throat, sang merrily:—
“In the blossoming hedge the robin cock sings,
For the sun it is merry and bright,
And he joyfully hops and he flutters his wings,
For his heart is all full of delight.
For the May bloometh fair,
And there’s little of care,
And plenty to eat in the Maytime rare.
When the flowers all die,
Then off he will fly,
To keep himself warm
In some jolly old barn
Where the snow and the wind neither chill him nor harm.
“And such is the life of the strolling friar,
With a plenty to eat and to drink:
For the goodwife will keep him a seat by the fire,
And the pretty girls smile at his wink.
Then he lustily trolls,<
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As he onward strolls,
As rollicking song for the saving of souls.
When the wind doth blow,
With the coming of snow,
There’s a place by the fire
For the fatherly friar,
And a crab in the bowl for his heart’s desire.”
Thus Friar Tuck sang in a rich and mellow voice, rolling his head from side to side in time with the music, and when he had done, all clapped their hands and shouted with laughter, for the song fitted him well.
“In very sooth,” quoth Little John, “it is a goodly song, and, were I not a yeoman of Sherwood Forest, I had rather be a strolling friar than aught else in the world.”
“Yea, it is a goodly song,” said Robin Hood; “but methought those two burly beggars told the merrier tales and led the merrier life. Dost thou not remember what that great black-bearded fellow told of his begging at the fair in York?”
“Yea,” said Little John, “but what told the friar of the Harvest-home in Kentshire? I hold that he led a merrier life than the other two.”
“Truly, for the honor of the cloth,” quoth Friar Tuck, “I hold with my good gossip, Little John.”
“Now,” quoth Robin, “I hold to mine own mind. But what sayst thou, Little John, to a merry adventure this fair day? Take thou a friar’s gown from our chest of strange garments, and don the same, and I will stop the first beggar I meet and change clothes with him. Then let us wander the country about, this sweet day, and see what befalls each of us.”
“That fitteth my mind,” quoth Little John, “so let us forth, say I.”
Thereupon Little John and Friar Tuck went to the storehouse of the band, and there chose for the yeoman the robe of a gray friar. Then they came forth again, and a mighty roar of laughter went up, for not only had the band never seen Little John in such guise before, but the robe was too short for him by a good palm’s breadth. But Little John’s hands were folded in his loose sleeves, and Little John’s eyes were cast upon the ground, and at his girdle hung a great, long string of beads.
