John promised to give the message faithfully, and so departed and reached Barnisdale without mishap.
Now, on the evening of the day on which the knights had set upon Sir Herbrand and Little John, the third knight, sorely faint and wounded, rode up to the gate of Wrangby Castle, which poor men called Evil Hold, and in a weak voice shouted to the gate-guard to lower the bridge across the moat. When this had been done he rode into the courtyard. Without dismounting he rode forward into the very hall where Sir Isenbart and his fellows were at their wine.
"'Tis Sir Bernard of the Brake!" said the knights, looking up amazed at the swaying figure on horseback which came up to the very verge of the high seat.
"Where are Sir Niger and Sir Peter?" thundered Sir Isenbart, his fear of the truth making him rage.
"Dead!" said the knight, and they could see the white face within the helm. "Give me wine _ I _ I am spent."
A goblet of wine was handed to him, while men unloosed his helm and took it from off his head. Then they could see how he had been sorely wounded, but his great strength had kept him up. He drank off the wine and held out the vessel for more.
"The knight slew Sir Peter," went on Bernard of the Brake, "and the knave I suppose slew Sir Niger, for I saw him fall to the ground."
All the knights looked gloomily at each other and said no word.
Just then a man-at-arms from the gate-guard came running into the hall. In his hand he bore an arrow which he laid on the table before Sir Isenbart.
"This, lord, hath just been shot through the bars of the portcullis, and narrowly missed my head. We could not see who shot it in."
Sir Isenbart glanced at the short black arrow and his face went dark with rage. Along its shafts were notches, seven in number, which were stained red.
"Quick!" shouted Sir Isenbart, "the wretch that shot it cannot have gone far. Out with you and search for him and bring him to me."
There was bustle and noise for a few moments as some score of men-at-arms seized their weapons, and knights donned their armor and rode out, thundering over the drawbridge. There was a cleared space of a great extent before the gate, so that it was a marvel that any one could have crept up unobserved by the men on watch at the slits over the drawbridge. The horsemen and footmen scoured the country for half a mile round, but not a sight or sound could they see of any lurking bowmen.
Darkness soon put an end to their search, and by ones and twos they returned to report their non-success. When the last had straggled across the drawbridge, the latter, with many creakings and shrieks as the rusty chains came over the beam, was hauled up for the night, and the portcullis ran down with a clang that shook the tower. Then, from beneath a little bush that overhung the outer edge of the ditch near the gate crept a small, lithe form. Slowly and with great care it drew itself out of the water, so that no splash could be heard by the men in the room of the gate-guard. It was Ket the Trow, who had been set by Robin Hood to keep watch on the Evil Hold. His bow and arrows he had kept dry by holding them in the bush above him.
He looked up at the black mass of the castle rising high and wide on the other side of the ditch. Light from cressets or torches shone out from the arrow slits here and there, and the~'gleam of a headpiece flashed up as a man-at-arms passed or repassed walking on his watch. For some time Ket gazed, an arrow notched to his taut string, hoping that some face would come to look out from some near aperture, at which he might get another shot. But time passed and no opportunity offered. He loosened his string and turned reluctantly away.
"Seven have gone," he muttered, "but many are left. As they slew, so shall they be slain _ without ruth, without pity."
He trotted slowly away, looking back now and then at the dark bulk with little points of light here and there. For a mile he thus half ran until he came to where the forest began. Then in the darkness he passed through the deep gloom between the great trees until he came to one which was a giant among giants. With the stealth of a wild animal he looked about him and listened for a long time; then with an almost incredible swiftness he climbed up the trunk by means of tiny projections of knot and bark here and there until he disappeared in the massy leaves overhead. Higher and higher he mounted into a world where there was nothing but dark masses of leaves which murmured in the night wind, which was purer and stronger the higher he mounted. At length he reached a place where three great limbs jutted from the trunk, and in their midst was a space heaped with sweet-smelling fern fronds. Ket turned and looked forth to the way by which he had come. He was over the tops of all the other trees below him, which swayed and whispered like softly moving waves as the wind stirred them. Looking forth from among the leaves of the giant oak from where he sat in his lair, Ket could see far away the dark mass of the Evil Hold rising against the black sky behind it. A few lights still gleamed here and there, but every moment these were becoming fewer.
Casting off his wet clothes Ket hung them securely on a limb to dry; then he wriggled deep into the great heap of fern, and having drawn food and drink from a hiding-place in the tree he munched and drank, his eyes never leaving the castle. When all the lights but those over the gate were darkened, he curled himself up in the scented fronds and fell to sleep instantly, and the murmur with which the wind strained through the leaves all about him was a lullaby that softly sang through the short summer night.
CHAPTER VII.
HOW ROBIN HOOD RESCUED WILL STUTELEY AND DID JUSTICE ON RICHARD ILLBEAST, THE BEGGAR-SPY
It was daybreak. A bitter wind blew down the forest ways, tearing the few remaining leaves from the wintry trees, and driving those upon the ground in great wreaths and eddies into nooks and corners. The dawn came with dull, low light over the forest and seemed never to penetrate some of the deeper places, where the thickets of holly grew closer, or the bearded gray moss on giant oaks grew long.
Will of Stuteley, as he walked along a path, looked keenly this way and that into the gloomy tunnels on either side, for during the last three days he had seen a man, dressed as a palmer, lurking and glancing in a very unpalmer-like manner, just about this place, which the outlaws called Black Wood. Will was warmly dressed in a long brown capote, or cloak, which reached almost to his feet, with a hood which covered his head.
The first snows of the winter had already fallen, and most of Robin Hood's band had gone into their winter quarters. While frost and snow lay over the land, there was little traveling done in those days, and therefore a great part of the outlaws had gone to live with kinsmen or poor cottars in out-of-the-way places either in the forest or in villages not far distant. For a time they would dress as peasants, help in the little work that was done, and with this and what animals they trapped or caught, pay for their warmth and shelter until the spring came again.
Robin, with about a dozen of his principal men, lodged either in the secret caves which were to be found in many places through the wide forests, or, sometimes, one or other of the well-to-do forest yeomen, such as Piers the Lucky, Alan-a-Dale's foster brother, would invite Robin and his twelve to stay the winter in his hall. This year Sir Walter de Beauforest had invited him to pass the winter at a grange, or fortified barn, which lay in the forest not far from Sir Walter's manor-house at Cromwell, where Alan-a-Dale and his wife, the fair Alice, now lived in great happiness.
Robin had accepted Sir Waiter's invitation, but if the weather was open he never stayed long in one place, and now he was living in a secret bower which he and his men had made at Barrow Down, which lay a few miles east of Mansfield, in a desolate piece of country where were many standing stones, old earthworks and barrows, or graves of the ancient dead. It was in one of these latter that Robin and his men now lived, for they had scooped out the interior of it and made it snug and habitable.
Every morning Will Stuteley and others of the band, having broken their fast in the Barrow, would walk out over a certain distance round their place of hiding, to find whether there were any traces of their enemies having approached during the l
ast few hours. The ground was scanned for strange footmarks, the bushes and trees for broken twigs, and the outlaws were as keen-sighted as Indians, and as experienced in all the sights and sounds which should show them whether strangers had been in the neighborhood during the hours of the night.
Suddenly Will stopped in the path down which he walked and looked at the ground. Then, after a keen glance round among the hazels and young oaks which grew near, he knelt and examined a little hollow where in the springtime storm water would run. There was the distinct mark of a slender foot in the yielding earth. He looked further and found two others of the same marks. They were quite freshly made, for the edges were keenly shown. Indeed, he felt sure that the person who had passed that way could not be far off. But who was it? The marks were those of a young lad or even of a girl. Whoever it was, the person was poor, for he could see marks which showed that the sole of one shoe was broken badly.
Stealthily he crept along, picking up the trail here and there. He had proceeded thus some fifty yards, finding that the footsteps led deep among some brambles, when all at once he stopped and listened. He heard a low sobbing somewhere in among the thickest part of the bushes. Very carefully he stole in the direction of the sound, making no noise, until as he turned about a tall hazel-tree he saw the figure of a girl a little way before him. She was picking berries from the bramble before her, and placing them in an old worn straw poke or basket which she carried.
As she plucked the berries she wept. Will could see the tears falling down her cheeks, yet it was with restraint that she sobbed, as if she feared to be heard. He saw how her hands were torn and bleeding from the brambles, and that her feet, pushed into her shoes, were uncovered and were blue with the frost.
He made a movement. She turned at the noise, her eyes wide with terror, her face white. Crushing the basket to her breast, she came and threw herself at the feet of Will.
"Oh," she said in a weak, pitiable voice, "slay me now, and do not seek my father! Slay me, and look no further! He is nigh to death and cannot speak!"
Her tears were stayed now, her hands were clasped and raised in appeal, and in the childish face, so thin and wan, was a look that seemed to say that the child had known a terrible sorrow and now looked for nothing but death. She was a Jewess, as Will was quick to note.
The honest woodman smiled, as being the quickest way to cheer the girl. It went to the old outlaw's heart to see such sorrow in the child's eyes and voice.
"My little lass," he said in his kindly voice, "I mean thee no harm. Why should I harm thee, clemmed with the cold as thou art? And why art thou culling those berries? Thy poor starved body craves better food than that."
He took her hands and lifted her up, and the child looked at him bewildered and dazed, as if she did not realize that kind words had been spoken where she had looked for brutal speech and action. She peered into Will's face and her looks softened.
"You _ you are not _ you do not know the man _ the man Maibite!" she stammered.
"Malbˆte?" said Will, and frowned. He remembered what Robin had told them of this man, and had heard from wandering men of other crimes and cruelties which this robber and murderer had committed. "Poor lass," he said; "is that wretch thy enemy, too?"
"Yes, sir, of my poor father?' said the girl, and her voice trembled. "My father fled from the massacre of our people at York _ thou knowest of it?"
"Ay," said Will, and his brow became black and his eyes flashed in anger at the memory of the dreadful deed, when many innocent Jews had been baited by evil knights and the rabble, and having shut themselves up in the castle, had killed their wives and children and afterward themselves rather than fall into the hands of the "Christians." "What happened to thee and thy father?" asked Will.
"We hid in the castle until all the slaying was over," replied the girl, "and then a kindly man did get us forth and we fled secretly. My father wished to go to Nottingham, where there are some of our race who would aid us if they knew we were in need, but we have starved through these forests, and O sir, if you are a good man as you appear, save my father! He lies near here, and I fear _ I fear whether _ help may not be too late. But, oh, betray US not!"
"Take me to him, poor lass," said Will, and his kindly tone and look dissipated whatever suspicion still lingered in the heart of the poor little Jewess.
She led the way through the almost impenetrable bushes until they reached a chalky cliff, and here in a large cave, the opening of which was screened by hazel thickets, she showed him her father, an old and white-haired man, dressed in a poor gabardine torn by brambles and soiled by mire, lying on some bracken. The girl stood trembling as she looked from Will to her father and back again, as if, even now, she dreaded that she may have betrayed her dearest possession into the hands of a cruel enemy.
The old man awakened at their entry, opened his eyes, and in an instant the girl was on her knees beside him, her hands stroking his, and her eyes looking fondly into his face.
"Ah, little Ruth," said the old man, gazing fondly into her eyes, "I fear, dear, I cannot rise just yet. I am stiff, but it will pass soon, it will pass. And then we will go on. We shall reach the town in a few hours, and then my little Ruth will have food and fitting raiment. Your cheeks are pale and thin, dear, for you have hungered and suffered. But soon _ ah, but whom have we here? Who is this? O Ruth, Ruth, are we betrayed?"
In the gloom of the cave he had not at first noticed the outlaw, and the despair with which he uttered the last few words showed with what terror his mind was filled for his daughter's sake. Will felt that this was a brave old man who would not reveal the suffering he felt to his daughter, but though he was himself very sick, yet buoyed up her courage.
"Have no fear, master," said Will, bending down on one knee, so that his eyes looked into the old Jew's face. "If I can aid thee and thy daughter I will gladly do so."
"I thank thee, woodman," said the Jew, and his voice trembled; "it is not for myself I fear, but for this my little maid, my one ewe lamb. She hath suffered sights and woes such as no child should see or know, and if she were safe I would be content."
Tears fell down the poor old Jew's face. In his present state of starvation and weakness he felt that he had not long to live; but the greatest anguish was to think that if he died his little daughter would be left desolate and friendless.
"What ye both need," said Will, his homely mind grasping the situation at once, "is food and warmth. I can give ye a little food now, but for warmth I must ask the counsel of my master."
Saying which, Will drew forth from his food-pouch some slices of bread and venison, which he gave to the girl, bidding her eat sparingly. But the girl instantly began to cut up the bread and meat into tiny pieces, and with these she fed her father before she touched the food herself. Though both she and her father had had little food for two days, they ate now with great restraint and very slowly.
Afterward Will offered them his pilgrim's leather flask, and when they had drunk some of the good wine which it contained, it was a joy to see how their eyes brightened, and their cheeks began to redden.
"Little Ruth," said the old man, when they had returned the flask to Will, "help me to get upon my knees."
When this had been done, with the aid of the outlaw, the girl also knelt, and to Will's great discomfiture, the Jew began to pray very fervently, giving thanks to God for having brought to them him that had delivered them out of death and misery. He called down such blessings on the head of Will the Bowman that the worthy fellow, for all that the light in the cave was but meagre, did not know where to look. When they had finished, Ruth seized the outlaw's hand and kissed it again and again while the tears poured down her cheeks, but her heart was too full to say a word of all the gratitude she felt.
"Now," said Will gruffly, "enough of these thanks and tears. Ye must bide here while I go to take counsel of my master what is best to be done."
"Who is thy master, brave woodman?" asked the Jew. "He is Robin Hood," repl
ied Will.
"I have heard of him as a good man," said the old man. "Though an outlaw, he hath more pity and justice, as I hear tell, than many of those who are within the law. Do ye go to him, good outlaw," he went on, "with the greeting of Reuben of Stamford, and say that if he will aid me to get to my kinsmen of Nottingham, he shall have the gratitude of me and my people forever, and our aid wherever he shall desire it."
The old Jew spoke with dignity, as if used to giving commands, and Will answered:
"I will tell him; but if he aids thee 'twill be for no hope of thy gratitude or thy gold, but because it is always in his heart to help those in wretchedness."
"Bravely and proudly spoken, sir outlaw," said Reuben; "and if thy master is as kindly as thou art, I know he will not leave us to starve and perish miserably."
Will thereupon set off back to Barrow Down, and arriving at the big mound wherein the outlaws dwelled, he found Robin there and told him of the Jew.
"Thou hast done rightly, Will," said the outlaw. "Go thou with two horses and bring the Jew and his daughter to the Lyncher Lodge hereby, and I will question them concerning this ruffian, Richard Illbeast. I have heard of his evil deeds at York, and I think he is not far from Nottingham."
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