by Nicky Raven
Originally published in the UK by Templar Publishing
First Racehorse for Young Readers Edition 2018
Foreword copyright © 2018 by Otto Bathurst
Text copyright © 2012 by Nicky Raven
Illustration copyright © 2012 by Anne Yvonne Gilbert
Design copyright © 2012 by The Templar Company Ltd
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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
Cover design by Michael Short
Cover illustration by Anne Yvonne Gilbert
ISBN: 978-1-6315-8271-4
E-Book ISBN: 978-1-63158-272-1
Printed in China
Contents
Foreword
A Note From the Author
Chapter One
A Conversation
Chapter Two
A Walk in the Woods
Chapter Three
Who is That Man?
Chapter Four
The Silver Arrow
Chapter Five
A Hanging
Chapter Six
Endgame
Chapter Seven
Epilogue
About the Artist
Foreword
bout three years ago, I was first approached to direct a movie of the Robin Hood story. I’ll be honest, my initial reaction was lukewarm: “Do we really need another Robin Hood film . . . What is the purpose of re-telling that story again?”
But, that was because I didn’t actually know the story—not properly, not deeply. And so, I investigated, I dug into it, and very quickly I got to feel the power of this emblematic tale and understood why it had survived for so long and been told so many times.
Truth never dies. And thus, the Robin Hood story, no matter which iteration or version it may appear in, and from no matter which era it is told, is a timeless tale that, until we have returned to a truer way of living, will live on and on and will always petition its audience.
The Robin Hood story is a crucial and deeply needed message; as much needed when it was first told as it is now, for modern humanity.
We are lost, very lost—living in a way that needs some deep and significant adjustments.
We are oppressed by the corruption of governments and the ruling classes. We are kept in the shadows by the controlling forces of the church and organized religions that enslave their congregations, rather than support them as the true sons of God that they all equally are—irrespective of race, color, creed, sex, or nationality. We are pawns in the hands of the CEO’s and shareholders of the gigantic capitalist conglomerates.
We have walked ourselves away from brotherhood, harmony, and equality and in our loneliness we desperately seek the recognition, reward, and trappings of the consumerist culture, whilst extreme poverty has laid siege to vast swathes of the planet.
With so little true connection between people and no common purpose, we all slavishly sell ourselves to social media in a convenient attempt to demonstrate that we seek to belong to a community. But we know deep within that social media is not what we are reaching out for. Social media is not true community, and it will never be while it protects the means to be abusive, vile, and slanderous. We know it is all-but-social media, and yet we not only sit idle we contribute to the deceit.
We consider ourselves the superior race on Earth, intelligent and evolving, yet no matter how many probes we put on Mars or how slim our smartphones become, disease and illness are constantly rising.
Clearly, the way we are living is not working, and so we need someone to lead us out of the shadows. A hero. An inspiration.
Thus, it became very clear to me why the story of Robin Hood needed re-telling, why the film needed to be made, and why new editions of the story, like this book, have a very specific purpose.
Robin Hood is a legendary sword of truth, an inspiration to the slumbering masses, and a rallying call to us all—loudly proclaiming that it doesn’t have to be this way, and that it is up to each of us to stand up for truth.
Because, in a society where the 99% are ruled by the 1%, it is easy to forget that every single one of us has a voice and the potential to change the system. And this is exactly what Robin Hood does—he represents the movement we are not making to say no to the abuse, the corruption, the lies, the injustice. He puts humanity before himself and he knows we are all equal, and this ignites and awakens the same light in others.
And that is the true gold of Robin Hood. Hood is no superhero, he has no special powers—he is one of us, all of us—he is real. He is simply a man who sees the evil in full and commits in full to stand up against it—no matter the cost or material losses and discomforts to himself. For him, it is all about the people.
But—and this is a very big and very important but—Robin Hood could never have become Robin Hood on his own. Another vital ingredient is necessary:
Marian.
It is only through true love—its expression and its acceptance—that we are able to be everything that we truly are.
Robin of Loxley without Marian never becomes Robin Hood. She is the one who shows him his true purpose, who inspires him, who makes him see the bigger picture. She is the one that brings him to that place of awareness and opens his eyes to the true calling that humanity so desperately needs. She is the one who awakens the love in him so that, despite all that is going on around him, he is able to be led by his inner heart.
And, once obedient to that inner heart, he starts to act truthfully and selflessly.
Marian is the core and beating heart of Robin Hood. And so it is in life—it is the women in the full power of their femininity that will inspire us all to live to our greatest potential.
And then there is Tuck, a man who represents the innate wisdom of the story. Whatever the veneer (and every version of the story presents Tuck in a different way), he is a man who knows and can smell evil a mile off and will do whatever is needed to root it out and defeat it. Tuck is loyalty personified—he will walk side by side with truth no matter what might be thrown in his way. In a world where so many of us compromise, sell ourselves short, or take the easy option, Tuck is an example to us all.
Robin Hood’s friends and brothers include Little John and many others, depending on the various iterations of the story. Robin Hood knows that alone, he is nothing, and that brotherhood is the only true way forward, with every man equally important and no man left behind.
These are the ingredients to the story that inspired me. These are the ingredients that made me understand the power of the Legend of Robin Hood, and these are the ingredients that we brought to our film.
And these are the ingredients that humanity badly needs to awaken ourselves back to our truth.
And so, whether it be as a film or a book, this is a story that needs to be told. Over and over and over.
Perhaps now, more than ever before.
—Otto Bathurst, director of Robin Hood (2018)
the Author
he introduction. So, this is where the author is supposed to show you how clever he is by quoting all the historical sources he has read and telling you how he has tried to find the “true” Robin Hood, the man behind the myth . . .
I’m afraid I’m going to let you down. The important word in that first paragraph is “myth.” One thing the historical scholars agree on is that you can’t truly pin Robin Hood down—he’s a vague and varying character who crops up in different ballads and stories from the mid-fifteenth century onward. By the nineteenth century, Robin had become a romanticized figure and was the subject of several operas. One Victorian author, T. H. White, even made him a contemporary of King Arthur, another legendary British figure that no one really knows the truth about.
Robin Hood’s real fame came in the twentieth century, with the arrival of moving pictures. The film The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938) remains one of the most stirring versions of any Robin Hood tale, and established Robin as a carefree swordsman with a trusty bow, a ready wit, and an eye for a pretty lady. A popular actor named Errol Flynn played Robin Hood with a twinkle in his eye and bundles of confidence, and the actress Olivia de Havilland was an initially snobbish but courageous Maid Marian. These stereotypes stuck for a while, until more recent films and television series decided they needed to show a stronger, more modern Marian, despite this turning her into a character that doesn’t really fit with the period in which the stories are set.
By the second half of the twentieth century it became the norm to portray Robin Hood as a noble outlaw stealing from the rich to give to the poor, and books from the 1950s by authors such as Rosemary Sutcliff and Roger Lancelyn Green did just this. The 1991 film Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves maintained the theme of stealing from the rich to help the poor but also introduced a more believable version of Robin as a weary war hero back from the Crusades.
In the story that you are about to read, I have used my favorite parts of these many varied sources. However, I’ve also tried to make my history convincing. King Richard does not return to save the day at the end of the tale, he gets only a brief mention—as much as is deserved by a king who spent a tiny proportion of his reign in the country he was supposed to be ruling. I’ve also avoided the slightly unbelievable and simplistic idea that the Normans were the cruel oppressors and the Saxons were the oppressed English noblemen. The events in my story take place more than one hundred years after the Norman conquest—by this point the two peoples would be the third or fourth generation and are likely to have started to blend.
The history of the period suggests the job of a sheriff was a particularly tricky one, balancing financial responsibilities to the king whilst defending the needs of the local people. With this in mind, I have chosen to create a politically aware Sheriff of Nottingham instead of the usual cruel dictator. But, you can’t have a Robin Hood story without a baddie, so I have given that role to Guy of Gisburn, the sheriff’s lackey.
My Robin is a war veteran, mildly mysterious and a little cynical, but a good fighter and clever leader, and a loyal suitor to Marian. The major characters in his outlaw band—John, Tuck, and Scarlet—remain much as they are traditionally portrayed and I have made my female characters strong and influential without allowing Marian to be a warrior woman of the woods, which wouldn’t be accurate in the historical context.
We may be no closer to the “true” Robin, that “man behind the myth,” but when there’s a thrilling story full of heroism, gallantry, battles, and romance, does it really matter?
Chapter One
A
Conversation
ell, my Lord Sheriff,” smiled the cleric at his dining companion, “do you feel any different now that you are the most powerful man in Nottingham?”
The slim, unhealthy-looking man at the head of the table grimaced, wiping a skein of grease from his narrow black beard.
“Yes, it makes me even more nervous,” he replied tersely. “Now I’m also the most hated man in Nottingham.”
“And that bothers you?” The cleric smiled again, but it was not a good-natured, humorous smile.
The sheriff paused before replying.
“A little,” he admitted. “Taxes are high to pay for the king’s wars, and the harvest has been poor. The nobles are angry at the former and people turn to crime because of the latter. It is not an easy time to be a sheriff.”
“Who cares what a few Saxons and thieves think,” interrupted the large, florid-faced man to the sheriff’s left.
The sheriff gave the speaker a look of amused disregard.
“If only life were as simple as Sir Hugo thinks it, my Lord Abbot,” he said, dryly, to the cleric. “Drink, eat, sleep, and kill anything that gets in your way.”
Sir Hugo De Brassy’s face carried a mixture of confusion and embarrassment. He managed only a snort by way of a response.
“Sometimes the direct approach pays off,” said the cleric smoothly.
The sheriff looked up sharply. The mistrust in his eyes was obvious.
“Meaning...?” he asked.
“Well, take these outlaws in Sherwood,” the clergyman continued. “They prey on any traveller passing through the forest.”
The sheriff raised his brow. “And that might include your good self in two days’ time, Lord Abbot. I think I see where we’re going.”
“Indeed,” persevered the cleric. “Of course you are right in thinking I have the interests of my abbey and the Church at heart. But you cannot deny my party is an obvious target for these thieves, especially considering what we are transporting.”
“I agree,” said the sheriff. “It would be most surprising if you were not attacked.”
“So why not make it more interesting?” asked the cleric. “Why not replace my men with your own, under De Brassy here, and wipe out this nest once and for all?”
De Brassy, who the sheriff had assumed was lost in drink, was all attention. He and the abbot had obviously dreamed up this little scheme together. The sheriff stared into his glass for a moment. It was a risky game to play. On the positive side he could spare the men, and if things went wrong there were plenty more like De Brassy. Not many as mean, but plenty younger and more capable. On the downside, failure might make him look foolish and weak—not a good start for a newly appointed sheriff. Still, it was a good opportunity to stamp his authority in the county.
“Very well,” he declared, “you have my full authority.”
The dinner and the conversation at an end, the sheriff swept out of the room, leaving the abbot and De Brassy to toast one another’s health and talk of the plaudits and rewards that would come after they routed the rebels of Sherwood. When they stumbled from the hall later that evening, neither noticed the friar sitting quietly on a stool outside the door.
Chapter Two
A Walk in
the Woods
riday was Marian Kirwan’s favorite day of the week. Free from the affairs of her father’s estate, she could take her palfrey into the forest, with only her confessor for company. Marian had fretted at her father’s insistence that she take a chaperone, but in truth Friar Michael was an interesting and friendly companion, and she looked forward to their conversations.
Today they were quiet, enjoying the early sunlight while Friar Michael finished his breakfast: a haunch of cold chicken. The man’s appetite was legendary—which was why everyone around the castle called him Friar Tuck. So much for the restraint of the clergy.
It was a typical English spring morning—dewy and misty, with a sweet haze like the flecks of moisture that spin from the first bite of an apple. Marian wrapped her cloak around herself more tightly, and listened to the sounds of the forest. This wasn’t the deepest part of Sherwood but even here the noises differed from those of the farmland around her home. The rustlings and shufflings in the woodland were furtive and secretive; stealthy predators stalked fearful prey in and around the trees. Even the stream ahead soun
ded as if it fought for its existence, battling past roots and rocks that didn’t trouble the lazy river that strolled across the Kirwan estate.
There was a bridge across the stream, and Marian and her escort slowed as they neared it. Two men stood by the bridge, one tall and spare, the other shorter but just as lean as his fellow. As they turned, Marian noticed that the taller man lacked two fingers on one hand—a poacher.
“Nice ’orse,” said the tall man, taking a step towards them. Marian’s palfrey, Sally, tossed her head and snorted, and Marian fought to calm her. Friar Michael simply carried on gnawing on his chicken bone.
“I could use an ’orse like that,” said the man, treating Marian to a toothless leer.
“Well you can’t have mine,” said Marian firmly.
“Oooh,” mocked the man, “’ark at ’er. You ’ear that, Jem? Very ’oity-toity.”
The smaller man laughed, but his hand moved to the long knife at his belt.
“Come on lady,” said the tall man, sharper this time, reaching for Sally’s reins. “Off the ’orse—NOW!” With this he started to unsheathe the rusty blade at his hip.
Sally bucked and it was the best Marian could do to stay in the saddle. There was a howl of pain, a grunt, and another cry of agony. She righted Sally just in time to see the shorter man fall to his knees, clutching himself between the legs. The tall man had stumbled away, cursing and screaming and holding his face, his sword discarded on the ground.
Friar Michael stood smiling cheerily at her, an arm reaching out to soothe the frightened palfrey.
“How...?” spluttered Marian.
“Amateurs,” replied the friar by way of explanation. He gestured towards the tall man, now kneeling by the stream, sobbing and washing his face over and over with cold water.
“But . . .?”
“Chicken bone, my lady,” smiled Friar Michael. “Painful, especially in the eye.”
“And . . .?” this with a glance to the other man, who still fought for breath behind them.
