by Howard Pyle
Robin Hood escapes present danger.
“By my soul, Robin,” quoth he to himself, “that was the narrowest miss that e’er thou hadst in all thy life. I do say most solemnly that the feather of that wicked shaft tickled mine ear as it whizzed past. This same running hath given me a most craving appetite for victuals and drink. Now I pray Saint Dunstan that he send me speedily some meat and beer.”
It seemed as though Saint Dunstan was like to answer his prayer, for along the road came plodding a certain cobbler, one Quince, of Derby, who had been to take a pair of shoes to a farmer nigh Kirk Langly, and was now coming back home again, with a fair boiled capon in his pouch and a stout pottle of beer by his side, which same the farmer had given him for joy of such a stout pair of shoon. Good Quince was an honest fellow, but his wits were somewhat of the heavy sort, like unbaked dough, so that the only thing that was in his mind was, “Three shillings sixpence ha‘penny for thy shoon, good Quince,—three shillings sixpence he’penny for thy shoon,” and this travelled round and round inside of his head, without another thought getting into his noddle, as a pea rolls round and round inside an empty quart pot.
“Halloa, good friend,” quoth Robin, from beneath the hedge, when the other had gotten nigh enough, “whither away so merrily this bright day?”
Robin Hood calleth upon Quince, the cobbler of Derby, to tarry.
Hearing himself so called upon, the Cobbler stopped, and, seeing a well-clad stranger in blue, he spoke to him in seemly wise. “Give ye good den, fair sir, and I would say that I come from Kirk Langly, where I ha’ sold my shoon and got three shillings sixpence ha’penny for them in as sweet money as ever thou sawest, and honestly earned too, I would ha’ thee know. But, an I may be so bold, thou pretty fellow, what dost thou there beneath the hedge?”
“Marry,” quoth merry Robin, “I sit beneath the hedge here to drop salt on the tails of golden birds; but in sooth thou art the first chick of any worth I ha’ seen this blessed day.”
Robin telleth Quince a strange thing.
At these words the Cobbler’s eyes opened big and wide, and his mouth grew round with wonder, like a knot-hole in a board fence. “Alack-a-day,” quoth he, “look ye, now! I ha’ never seen those same golden birds. And dost thou in sooth find them in these hedges, good fellow? Prythee, tell me, are there many of them? I would fain find them mine ownself.”
“Ay, truly,” quoth Robin, “they are as thick here as fresh herring in Cannock Chase.”
“Look ye, now!” said the Cobbler, all drowned in wonder. “And dost thou in sooth catch them by dropping salt on their pretty tails?”
“Yea,” quoth Robin, “but this salt is of an odd kind, let me tell thee, for it can only be gotten by boiling down a quart of moonbeams in a wooden platter, and then one hath but a pinch. But tell me, now, thou witty man, what hast thou gotten there in that pouch by thy side and in that pottle?”
At these words the Cobbler looked down at those things of which merry Robin spoke, for the thoughts of the golden bird had driven them from his mind, and it took him some time to scrape the memory of them back again. “Why,” said he at last, “in the one is good March beer, and in the other is a fat capon. Truly, Quince the Cobbler will ha’ a fine feast this day as I mistake not.”
“But tell me, good Quince,” said Robin, “hast thou a mind to sell those things to me? for the hearing of them sounds sweet in mine ears. I will give thee these gay clothes of blue that I have upon my body and ten shillings to boot for thy clothes and thy leather apron and thy beer and thy capon. What sayst thou, bully boy?”
“Nay, thou dost jest with me,” said the Cobber, “for my clothes are coarse and patched, and thine are of fine stuff and very pretty.”
Robin Hood and Quince, the Cobbler of Derby, change clothes.
“Never a jest do I speak,” quoth Robin. “Come, strip thy jacket off and I will show thee, for I tell thee I like thy clothes well. Moreover, I will be kind to thee, for I will feast straightway upon the good things thou hast with thee, and thou shalt be bidden to the eating.” At these words he began slipping off his doublet, and the Cobbler, seeing him so in earnest, began peeling off his clothes also, for Robin Hood’s garb tickled his eye. So each put on the other fellow’s clothes, and Robin gave the honest Cobbler ten bright new shillings. Quoth merry Robin, ”I ha’ been a many things in my life before, but never have I been an honest cobbler. Come, friend, let us fall to and eat, for something within me cackles aloud for that good fat capon.” So both sat down and began to feast right lustily, so that when they were done the bones of the capon were picked as bare as charity.
Robin Hood and Quince feast together.
Then Robin stretched his legs out with a sweet feel- ing of comfort within him. Quoth he, “By the turn of thy voice, good Quince, I know that thou hast a fair song or two running loose in thy head like colts in a meadow. I prythee, turn one of them out for me.”
Quince singeth a merry song.
“A song or two I ha’,” quoth the Cobbler; “poor things; poor things; but such as they are thou art welcome to one of them.” So, moistening his throat with a swallow of beer, he began to sing thus:—
“Of all the joys, the best I love, Sing hey my frisking Nan, O, And that which most my soul doth move, It is the clinking can, O.
“All other bliss I’d throw away, Sing hey my frisking Nan, O, But this—”
The King’s men seize upon Quince the Cobbler.
The stout Cobbler got no further in his song, for of a sudden six horsemen burst upon them where they sat, and seized roughly upon the honest craftsman, hauling him to his feet, and nearly plucking the clothes from him as they did so. “Ha!” roared the leader of the band in a great big voice of joy, “have we then caught thee at last, thou blue-clad knave? Now, blessed be the name of Saint Hubert, for the good Bishop of Hereford hath promised that much to the band that shall bring thee to him. Oho! thou cunning rascal! thou wouldst look so innocent, forsooth! We know thee, thou old fox. But off thou goest with us to have thy brush clipped forthwith.” At these words the poor Cobbler gazed all around him with his great blue eyes as round as those of a dead fish, while his mouth gaped as though he had swallowed all his words and so lost his speech.
Robin also gaped and stared in a wondering way, just as the Cobbler would have done in his place. “Alack-a-daisy, me,” quoth he. “I know not whether I be sitting here or in no-man’s land! What meaneth all this stir i’ th’ pot, dear good gentlemen? Surely this is a sweet, honest fellow.”
“ ‘Honest fellow,’ sayst thou, clown?” quoth one of the men. “Why, I tell thee that this is that same rogue that men call Robin Hood.”
At this speech the Cobbler stared and gaped more than ever, for there was such a threshing of thoughts going on within his poor head that his wits were all befogged with the dust and chaff thereof. Moreover, as he looked at Robin Hood, and saw the yeoman look so like what he knew himself to be, he began to doubt and to think that mayhap he was the great outlaw in real sooth. Said he in a slow, wondering voice, “Am I in very truth that fellow?—Now I had thought—but nay, Quince, thou art mistook—yet—am I?—Nay, I must indeed be Robin Hood! Yet, truly, I had never thought to pass from an honest craftsman to such a great yeoman.”
“Alas!” quoth Robin Hood, “look ye there, now! See how your ill-treatment hath curdled the wits of this poor lad and turned them all sour! I, myself, am Quince, the Cobbler of Derby Town.”
“Is it so?” said Quince. “Then, indeed, I am somebody else, and can be none other than Robin Hood. Take me, fellows; but let me tell you that ye ha’ laid hand upon the stoutest yeoman that ever trod the woodlands.”
The King’s men take Quince away with them to the Bishop of Hereford at Tutbury Town.
“Thou wilt play madman, wilt thou?” said the leader of the band. “Here, Giles, fetch a cord and bind this knave’s hands behind him. I warrant we will bring his wits back to him again when we get him safe before our good Bishop at T
utbury Town.” Thereupon they tied the Cobbler’s hands behind him, and led him off with a rope, as the farmer leads off the calf he hath brought from the fair. Robin stood looking after them, and when they were gone he laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks; for he knew that no harm would befall the honest fellow, and he pictured to himself the Bishop’s face when good Quince was brought before him as Robin Hood. Then, turning his steps once more to the eastward, he stepped out right foot foremost toward Nottinghamshire and Sherwood Forest.
Robin Hood being aweary putteth up at an inn for the night.
But Robin Hood had gone through more than he wotted off. His journey from London had been hard and long, and in a se’ennight he had travelled sevenscore and more of miles. He thought now to travel on without stop- ping until he had come to Sherwood, but ere he had gone a half a score of miles he felt his strength giving way beneath him like a river bank which the waters have undermined. He sat him down and rested, but he knew within himself that he could go no farther that day, for his feet felt like lumps of lead, so heavy were they with weariness. Once more he arose and went forward, but after travelling a couple of miles he was fain to give the matter up, so, coming to an inn just then, he entered, and calling the landlord bade him show him to a room, although the sun was only then just sinking in the western sky. There were but three bedrooms in the place, and to the meanest of these the landlord showed Robin Hood, but little Robin cared for the looks of the place, for he could have slept that night upon a bed of broken stones. So, stripping off his clothes without more ado, he rolled into the bed and was asleep almost ere his head touched the pillow.
Not long after Robin had so gone to his rest a great cloud peeped blackly over the hills to the westward. Higher and higher it arose until it piled up into the night like a mountain of darkness. All around beneath it
Four burghers of Nottingham Town come to the inn also.
came ever and anon a dull red flash, and presently a short grim mutter of the coming thunder was heard. Then up rode four stout burghers of Nottingham Town, for this was the only inn within five miles’ distance, and they did not care to be caught in such a thunder-storm as this that was coming upon them. Leaving their nags to the stableman, they entered the best room of the inn, where fresh green rushes lay all spread upon the floor, and there called for the goodliest fare that the place afforded. After having eaten heartily they bade the landlord show them to their rooms, for they were aweary, having ridden all the way from Dronfield that day. So off they went, grumbling at having to sleep two in a bed, but their troubles on this score, as well as all others, were soon lost in the quietness of sleep.
The storm bringeth a friar of Emmet to the inn likewise.
And now came the first gust of wind, rushing past the place, clapping and banging the doors and shutters, smelling of the coming rain, and all wrapped in a cloud of dust and leaves. As though the wind had brought a guest along with it, the door opened of a sudden and in came a friar of Emmet Priory, and one in high degree, as was shown by the softness and sleekness of his robes and the richness of his rosary. He called to the landlord, and bade him first have his mule well fed and bedded in the stable, and then to bring him the very best there was in the house. So presently a savory stew of tripe and onions, with sweet little fat dumplings, was set before him, likewise a good stout pottle of Malmsey, and straightway the holy friar fell to with great courage and heartiness, so that in a short time nought was left but a little pool of gravy in the centre of the platter, not large enow to keep the life in a starving mouse.
In the mean time the storm broke. Another gust of wind went rushing by, and with it fell a few heavy drops of rain, which presently came rattling down in showers, beating against the casements like a hundred little hands. Bright flashes of lightning lit up every raindrop, and with them came cracks of thunder that went away rumbling and bumping as though Saint Swithin were busy rolling great casks of water across rough ground overhead. The women-folks screamed, and the merry wags in the tap room put their arms around their waists to soothe them into quietness.
The holy friar likes not to sleep with merry Robin, whom he thinketh is a cobbler.
At last the holy friar bade the landlord show him to his room; but when he heard that he was to bed with a cobbler, he was as ill contented a fellow as you could find in all England, nevertheless, there was nothing for it, and he must sleep there or nowhere ; so, taking up his candle, he went off, grumbling like the now distant thunder.
When he came to the room where he was to sleep he held the light over Robin and looked at him from top to toe; then he felt better pleased, for, instead of a rough, dirty-bearded fellow, he beheld as fresh and clean a lad as one could find in a week of Sundays; so, slipping off his clothes, he also huddled into the bed, where Robin, grunting and grumbling in his sleep, made room for him. Robin was more sound asleep, I wot, than he had been for many a day, else he would never have rested so quietly with one of the friar’s sort so close beside him. As for the friar, had he known whom Robin Hood was, you may well believe he would almost as soon have slept with an adder as with the man he had for a bedfellow.
Robin Hood is amazed at his bedfellow.
So the night passed comfortably enough, but at the first dawn of day Robin opened his eyes and turned his head upon the pillow. Then how he gaped and how he stared, for there beside him lay one all shaven and shorn, so that he knew it must be a fellow in holy orders. He pinched himself sharply, but, finding he was awake, sat up in bed, whilst the other slumbered as peacefully as though he were safe and sound at home in Emmet Priory. “Now,” quoth Robin to himself, “I wonder how this thing hath dropped into my bed during the night.” So saying he arose softly, so as not to waken the other, and looking about the room he espied the Friar’s clothes lying upon a bench near the wall. First he looked at the clothes, with his head on one side, and then he looked at the Friar and slowly winked one eye. Quoth he, “Good brother, What-e‘er-thy-name-may-be, as thou hast borrowed my bed so freely I’ll e’en borrow thy clothes in return.” So saying, he straightway donned the holy man’s garb, but kindly left the cobbler’s clothes in the place of it. Then he went forth into the freshness of the morning, and the stableman that was up and about the stables opened his eyes as though he saw a green mouse before him, for such men as the friar of Emmet were not wont to be early risers; but the man bottled his thoughts, and only asked Robin whether he wanted his mule brought from the stable.
Robin Hood borroweth the clothes of him of Emmet.
“Yea, my son,” quoth Robin,—albeit he knew nought of the mute,—“and bring it forth quickly, I prythee, for I am late and must be jogging.” So presently the stableman brought forth the mule, and Robin mounted it and went on his way rejoicing.
The brother of Emmet dons the cobbler’s clothes and goeth his way.
As for the holy friar, when he arose he was in as pretty a stew as any man in all the world, for his rich, soft robes were gone, likewise his purse with ten golden pounds in it, and nought was left but patched clothes and a leathern apron. He raged and swore like any layman, but as his swearing mended nothing and the landlord could not aid him, and as, moreover, he was forced to be at Emmet Priory that very morning upon matters of business, he was fain either to don the cobbler’s clothes or travel the road in nakedness. So he put on the clothes, and, still raging and swearing vengeance against all the cobblers in Derbyshire, he set forth upon his way afoot; but his ills had not yet done with him, for he had not gone far ere he fell into the hands of the King’s men, who marched him off, willy nilly, to Tutbury Town and the Bishop of Hereford. In vain he swore he was a holy man, and showed his shaven crown; off he must go, for nothing would do but that he was none other than Robin Hood.
The brother of . Emmet falleth into the hands of the King’s men.
Robin Hood meeteth Sir Richard of the Lea and telleth him his adventures.
Meanwhile merry Robin rode along contentedly, passing safely by two bands
of the King’s men, until his heart began to dance within him because of the nearness of Sherwood; so he travelled ever on to the eastward, till, of a sudden, he met a noble knight in a shady lane. Then Robin checked his mule quickly, and leaped from off its back. “Now, well met, Sir Richard of the Lea,” cried he, “for rather than any other man in England would I see thy good face this day!” Then he told Sir Richard all the happenings that had befallen him, and that now at last he felt himself safe, being so nigh to Sherwood again. But when Robin had done, Sir Richard shook his head sadly. “Thou art in greater danger now, Robin, than thou hast yet been,” said he, “for before thee lie bands of the Sheriffs men blocking every road and letting none pass through the lines without examining them closely. I myself know this, having passed them but now. Before thee lie the Sheriffs men and behind thee the King’s men, and thou canst not hope to pass either way, for by this time they will know of thy disguise, and will be in waiting to seize upon thee. My castle and everything within it are thine, but nought could be gained there, for I could not hope to hold it against such a force as is now in Nottingham of the King’s and the Sheriffs men.” Having so spoken, Sir Richard bent his head in thought, and Robin felt his heart sink within him like that of the fox that hears the hounds at his heels, and finds his den blocked with earth so that there is no hiding for him. But presently Sir Richard spoke again, saying, “One thing thou camst do, Robin, and one only. Go back to London and throw thyself upon the mercy of our good Queen Eleanor. Come with me straightway to my castle. Doff these clothes and put on such as my retainers wear. Then I will hie me to London Town with a troop of men behind me, and thou shalt mingle with them, and thus will I bring thee to where thou mayest see and speak with the Queen. Thy only hope is to get to Sherwood, for there none can reach thee, and thou wilt never get to Sherwood but in this way.”
