The Rise of Robin Hood

by Angus Donald

  As Robin sprinted towards them, the last surviving Lichfield horseman plucked a long axe from behind his saddle and kicked his mount forward, swinging the heavy weapon down at his enemy, a vicious blow that would have caved in Robin’s skull had it landed. But the young man dodged under the horse’s neck, narrowly avoiding a savage bite from the animal. The horseman turned his mount with his knees and carved the axe down again. Robin desperately blocked with his sword, before jumping to his right and rolling between the agitated hooves of the two huge oxen – a painful mistake! He emerged a few moments later, kicked, scraped, stepped on and bruised, but not seriously harmed, on the other side of the wagon.

  Robin popped up, grinning ruefully, and, as fast as thought, he reached up his right hand to lance his long sword over the top of the wagon into the groin of one of the surprised men-at-arms standing on it. The poor man screamed out the Virgin’s name and dropped to his knees, blood pouring from between his fingers as they clutched at his torn parts below the frayed cloth hem of his hauberk.

  Behind them, the blond giant was fast approaching, his joyful battle shouts echoing through the trees. The horseman turned to this new assailant, kicked his horse towards the charging giant, his long axe swinging . . . and received the hurled spear directly in the centre of his chest. The weapon smacked home, the man plunged backwards in the saddle, both hands holding the spear shaft as if attempting to pull it from his torso, blood pouring from his gaping mouth, the axe dangling impotently from a little leather thong that attached it to his wrist.

  Meanwhile, in one easy movement, Robin swung himself up and over the low side of the wagon, and on to its plank bed. He warded off a hacking sword blow from the second man-at-arms, lunged, was blocked, stepped in and lunged again, his sword tip finding a gap between coif and helmet and scoring a bloody line up his enemy’s cheek. The man-at-arms, now terrified, swung wildly, a round-house flail aimed at the head. Robin parried, struck at his opponent’s blade, knocked it aside – and took out his left knee with a swift downward-diagonal chop. The Lichfield man fell screaming; and Robin split his skull with a hard vertical strike.

  All was suddenly quiet. John was still breathing heavily from his encounter with the mounted man-at-arms; a few of the enemy, wounded and lying in pain on the tree-obstructed track, were moaning pitifully; and somewhere in the woods a riderless horse gave an anxious neigh. Otherwise the wood was as silent as a graveyard. Even the birds had ceased their song-making.

  The young man grinned at his friend. ‘Our first battle, John; our first victory,’ he said. ‘Shall we look to the spoils of war?’

  ***

  An hour or so later, Robin plunged his hands into the barrel and scooped out a double handful of bright silver pennies. He let them trickle slowly through his fingers back into the small wooden container. He looked up at his big friend. ‘How much d’you think is here, John?’

  By now, the two euphoric outlaws were a good three miles from the scene of the ambush, squatting on their haunches in the open curve of a vast old hollow oak tree, in a small clearing far from any of the larger forest trackways. They had carried two heavy barrels apiece on their shoulders, as fast as possible, by little-known deer paths, to the clearing of the hollow oak.

  That ancient tree had been their refuge during a pummelling rainstorm three days ago and, since then, it had stood duty as, if not a home, then a semi-permanent shelter against the elements. A small fire blazed inside the body of the oak, which could comfortably accommodate the two men lying wrapped in their cloaks on the leaf-padded floor. John was kneeling over it, feeding sticks under a three-legged iron pot containing spring water, wild garlic and marjoram. When the fire was burning merrily, he began cutting slivers of dried mutton from a square wood-like block of salt-preserved meat into the bubbling liquor to make a thin broth.

  ‘Difficult to say, lad, without counting every penny. But I’d say five pounds of silver in each barrel – four barrels all together – about twenty pounds. A handsome sum, by any road.’

  Robin rocked back on his heels, gawping at the older man. ‘It’s a bloody fortune. I’ve never seen so much money in my life. My father would be pleased if all his Edwinstowe lands brought in this much silver in a whole year – and his demesne is reckoned a fat one. Yet we took this in less time than it takes to mumble ten Paternosters.’

  ‘Plus a few hours of sweat-work with the saw,’ said John reproachfully. ‘Not to mention a good deal of muscle-use hauling those damned wedges out. Not that I’m complaining . . . And we mustn’t forget that we took the lives of half a dozen of the Bishop’s men or more in that affair. There will be consequences, you know.’

  ‘Damn the consequences. The Bishop will not find us here. We are quite safe – and quite rich. Just like that!’ Robin snapped his fingers. ‘Who would choose to trudge behind a plough all his life, or fetch and carry for a plump, idle lord, when there is all this wealth just for the taking?’

  ***

  The two men ate the broth, dipping a little two-day-old bread in the steaming bowls and, when they had each had their fill, Robin sat with his back against the rough bark of the tree and began to clean his sword with a rag and a lump of mutton fat.

  John spread a large green cloak on the floor of the clearing and poured the contents of the barrels on to it in a chinking, glittering, glorious pile. He bent his head over the hoard and, mumbling happily to himself, started to count the little silver pennies into mounds of twenty, each mound a shilling. With his tongue protruding from a corner of his mouth, he looked like nothing more than a massive child at some absorbing private game.

  After a short while, Robin sheathed his sword and laid it down beside him, pulled his hood forward over his eyes, crossed his long legs and fell into a deep sleep.

  ***

  When Robin awoke, the little clearing by the big hollow oak was filled with the sound of the roaring of beasts.

  No, not beasts. Men. Indeed, one man.

  John was at the centre of a scrum of desperately struggling men, eight or nine ragged fellows, all strangers and seemingly unarmed, or at least with their knives sheathed, who were attempting to subdue him with muscle power alone. The blond giant roared and fought like a great bear besieged by the dogs of the pit, his huge arms lashing out and felling anyone within range, while a few brave souls clung for their lives to his body and legs. John threw his attackers around like dolls, sometimes dislodging a fellow and hurling him several yards away. Whereupon another bold man would dart in and seize hold of an elbow or knee, ankle or wrist, and cling on grimly like a terrier until he too was violently dislodged. But when dogs are set to bait a bear, more often than not, the bear loses. And the thrashing of John’s powerful limbs was visibly growing ever weaker.

  Robin took in all this in half a heartbeat and began to struggle to his feet, groping for his sword with his left hand.

  ‘You’ll stay just where you are, boyo,’ said a voice. And Robin shook off the last shreds of unconsciousness to observe a squat man standing directly in front of him. He was immensely thick in the chest, his arms writhed with muscle, and his words, although in good English, had a foreign-sounding sing-song quality that Robin could not immediately place. In his strong, stubby hands was a bow, a tall weapon some six feet in length, with a yard-long arrow nocked, the goose fletching pulled back to the cheek, its bright barbed triangular point aimed at Robin’s chest.

  ‘From here I could nail you permanently to that tree, boyo,’ said the bowman. ‘And I’ll happily do so if you stir so much as a hair.’ Robin recognised him by his accent as coming from the half-civilized mountains of the West, where the men were dark, short and oak-tough, and lived only to eat meat and drink enormous quantities of ale, and to fight and fuck and sing with a strange and haunting beauty.

  He was a Welshman.

  ‘You’ll ruin that bow if you keep it pulled back like that for too long,’ said Robin. ‘The stave will follow the cord and lose its shape.’

  ‘Kno
w all about bows, do you?’ said the Welshman scornfully. But he relaxed the bowstring until the arrow was only half drawn. The point, however, he kept aimed unwaveringly at Robin’s chest.

  ‘A little; they interest me a good deal – but I would learn more. I would become a true master of the bow.’ Robin smiled at the Welsh archer; his grey eyes twinkled. ‘Perhaps you are the very man to instruct me in this noble art.’

  ‘Hnnnf,’ said the bowman. ‘Teach an Englishman archery? They kill us well enough as it is, I think. I’ll wager that those lessons would not bode so well for me and my countrymen.’

  John’s struggles had now ceased, and he lay on the grass of the clearing with two men holding down each limb; he was looking behind and to his right, his head twisted round uncomfortably. And for the first time, Robin noticed three figures standing just behind his supine friend, gazing at him silently. Of the trio, two were tall, tough-looking men-at-arms of middling years in rusty, ripped mail, steel caps, and bearing old-fashioned round shields. They had long swords at the hip and daggers in their belts, too. But while these two looked formidable, it was the one inbetween them who drew Robin’s eye: a round and very, very fat fellow, not tall – indeed almost as broad as he was high – and bearing more than a passing resemblance to a trapped wild animal. Which impression was enhanced greatly by his choice of clothing. He had swathed his nearly spherical body in a suit of thick furs and pelts – deer and wolf and rabbit, all crudely stitched together and greasy with age and wear. But this was a man, clearly, for in one big grubby paw he cradled an axe, a war axe from an ancient saga, a truly beautiful weapon, its two shining semi-circular blades attached to a long, thick, leather-wrapped blackthorn staff. John, his head oddly twisted, was staring at the axe. He seemed utterly enchanted by it.

  The fur-swathed man regarded Robin in silence. He was more heavily bearded than any fellow Robin had ever seen. Indeed, very little of his face was visible beneath the tangled grey-black hair that covered his scalp, cheeks and chin. A pair of reddish-brown eyes peered out from under bushy eyebrows that spilled over and joined the dense thatch on his cheekbones. His beard and moustache were long, matted with filth and extended down over his deep chest and huge belly almost to his groin.

  Then he stepped forward, waddling slightly, and stopped before the spread cloak and the scattered piles of silver coins winking prettily against the green cloth. Behind him and his two tall attendants were a few dozen or so other men, and even a woman or two, all dressed in raggedy, very dirty clothes, and armed with a strange assortment of rusty blades, woodsman’s axes and even pitchforks. The small clearing seemed to be crowded with them – perhaps thirty or forty souls. But they kept a respectful distance from the fur-covered man.

  They’re frightened, Robin realised – not of him or John but the vast round man. Only one of them, a thin woman in a sackcloth dress with a Y-shaped amulet hanging from her neck, did not seem afraid. Indeed, she was smiling at Robin and, when she caught his eye, she appeared to nod a friendly greeting.

  Robin jerked his attention back to the fat fur-swathed fellow, who was now addressing him.

  ‘You had a good take today, I see. Much silver, eh? You got some good fortune,’ the man rumbled. He spoke in English but rather oddly, and Robin had the weird feeling that he was not quite comfortable with human speech. It was as if a giant overfed badger or some other powerful earth-dwelling creature were trying to speak the language of men. Robin was also conscious of a rich smell emanating from the man, a dank, moist, mushroomy odour with the sharp tang of weeks’ old urine.

  The fur-clad man fell silent again, clearly waiting for Robin to say something. So the young man cocked his head to one side and said, cheerily, ‘I don’t believe we have met before. I am Robert Odo, originally from lands around Edwinstowe, now a denizen of these charming and hospitable woods.’

  The fat man said nothing, but he seemed to be scowling. He looked at the silver lying on the dark green cloak. Robin whispered, but in a tone not much quieter than his normal speaking voice, ‘This is the part of the conversation where you tell me your name. That is . . . if you can recall it.’

  The man-animal jerked. ‘You want my name? I am Hussa; I am the Lord of Sherwood. This is my demesne, eh? All this. Everything in these woods belongs to me. You belong to me.’

  ‘I think you will find – Master Hussa, is it? – that Sherwood is a royal forest; these lands are in the keeping of King Henry—’

  The fur-clad man leapt forward, moving faster than Robin would have thought possible for a fellow of such great bulk. His right hand lashed out and an open palm the size of a trencher crashed into Robin’s cheek, knocking his head back against the trunk of the tree with reckless, stunning force.

  Robin was dazed momentarily; he tasted coppery blood in his mouth. And anger – dark, midnight anger. Something seemed to click in his head. To John, looking up at him from on the ground, his eyes appeared to change colour, the soft grey hardening into a bright steely silver. Robin was on his feet instantly and within a heartbeat of throwing himself at the fat fur-covered man, when he heard the Welshman speak: ‘One more step, boyo, I’ll skewer you. I don’t like to see a man struck without he is given a chance to return the blow, but Hussa truly is lord of these woods. His word is as good as law in Sherwood and you’d best remember that. Move again and I’ll kill you. I swear it by the Blood of Christ.’

  Robin relaxed; he leaned back against the trunk of the hollow oak and pushed his rage down into a tight, black corner of his soul. He tore his eyes from the ugly man in his foul-smelling furs and looked at the bowman, who had once more drawn his string back to his ear, a hair away from loosing.

  ‘What is your name, Welshman?’ Robin said. ‘And what brings you to this fair part of the world?’

  ‘My name is Owain, lad, and you’d do well to pay less mind to me and more to Lord Hussa – if you know what’s good for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Owain – I believe I’ll take your advice.’ Robin looked again at the gross man-animal before him.

  ‘So, my lord, how may I serve you? What is your pleasure this fine evening?’

  ‘You talk funny, eh? And far too much for a rabbit-skinny boy-thief,’ rumbled Hussa. ‘You should listen more. It is good manners. It is polite, eh? Else I will have to put you over my knee – eh? – and teach you the proper way to speak to me.’

  Robin said nothing, but his eyes glinted like a pair of drawn daggers glimpsed by moonlight.

  Hussa continued: ‘These are my woods, eh? You thieve and rob and steal here by my leave – and you make your living under my protection. When the sheriff’s men come, we go into hiding – a secret place, a place of secret caves, eh? – a place they will never find us. We feast and drink ale until they grow tired of the game and go home to their castles with only their foolishness and their shame for company. This is my protection, eh? And I offer it to all the masterless men of these woods. In return, you offer me tribute – a share of everything that you take in this forest. A two-thirds share of every purse of silver lifted, every hart or hind poached, every loaf of bread or hot meat pie snatched from a sill. All you take must be shared with me, eh? And I will know if you cheat me. In return, I give you protection. That is my law.’

  ‘And what if I do not choose to accept your protection?’

  The furry man moved, again as fast as summer lightning, his broad right hand smashing open-palmed into Robin’s cheek, and rocking his head back, banging it painfully against the tree behind. This time Robin did not respond. He kept his eyes on the Welsh bowman, who was nodding his head slowly in appreciation of the young man’s self-control. Someone in the crowd of raggedy followers behind Hussa snickered and muttered to a friend, who laughed a little too wildly in his turn.

  ‘I think maybe that you are a bit stupid. A little slow, eh?’

  Robin said nothing. A trickle of blood flowed from a cut inside his lip. His eyes were locked on Hussa’s hairy face, seemingly drinking the gross features i
n. Then he smiled widely at the fat man – it was not a very friendly expression.

  Hussa shook his head. ‘I think maybe I’d better take all of this; maybe if I take all this, it will teach you a lesson in manners, eh? Teach you to be a good boy next time.’ He beckoned to one of his men-at-arms to gather up the cloak on which the silver hoard lay.

  Robin held his tongue as his worldly wealth was parcelled up and carried away, but John indulged himself in a useless writhe under the carpet of bodies that pinned him to the earth.

  ‘I leave you your sword – and your life, eh? But know this, boy, you bring me tribute at the full moon. Go steal, rob and kill the sheriff’s men, if you will. But I must have my share at the full moon – in five days. Bring it to the caves, eh? Owain here will tell you where to go. And you’d best come to me unarmed. Fetch me something nice, boy. Otherwise I won’t be so friendly next time, eh?’

  And with those words the huge fur-covered lump shouldered his fine war axe and waddled across the clearing; the two men-at-arms, evidently his bodyguards, fell into step behind him, and the raggedy crowd parted before his passage, then flowed like a sea of misery after his shuffling form. The eight men on the ground released John all at the same time, sprang to their feet and hurried after their departing comrades. Only Owain remained, his bow again only half drawn, but the arrow still nocked.

  John sat up scowling, rubbing his right shoulder and cursing.

  ‘Is your master always as pleasant as that?’ Robin asked the bowman. ‘Or was this a particularly good day to make his acquaintance?’

  Owain shrugged. ‘He’s a turd-stuffed pig’s bladder. But he’s the big man around here, the king shit, and if you give him what he wants, he’ll mostly leave you alone. So find him something – a purse of silver, a brace of hares, or whatever you can get – and take it to the caves before the week is up. Be respectful, for your own sakes.’