The Chronicles of Robin Hood

by Rosemary Sutcliff

The abbot took a deep breath, swallowed thickly, and replied: ‘A hundred pounds for yourself.’

  By now it was nearly noon, and Sir Richard thought it was time to drop the game, for he had no mind to risk his lands again. ‘Not so fast,’ said he, and turning towards the curtained doorway he called: ‘Little John!’

  The tapestry was pulled aside, and into the hall strode Little John, bearing a leather bag, which he carried across to the table.

  ‘Give the Lord Abbot his money, Little John,’ said the knight; and the outlaw untied the neck of the bag and poured out the golden coins among the trenchers and wine-flasks.

  The abbot stared at the gold with goggling eyes and open mouth, too astonished to move or speak, and the others about the table were in no better case. The ancient cellarer was the first to move, and putting out a greedy hand he began to count the coins.

  ‘Yes, count them well,’ said Sir Richard, with a hard laugh. ‘You will not find one missing.’ And when the counting was over, he turned back to the abbot: ‘Take your money, Lord Abbot, and give me my quittance. Not to-day do my lands pass into the keeping of St. Mary’s Abbey!’

  The quittance was brought, also a quill and ink-horn, and the abbot signed it with a shaking hand. Sir Richard took it from him with a stately bow and, folding it, thrust it into his wallet. ‘I call all those here to witness that I have kept my day and paid my debt in full,’ he said, looking round the table. Then he turned on his heel and, followed by Little John, stalked out of the hall.

  At the gates of York they parted and Sir Richard rode blithely homeward, while Little John made his way back to the Stane Ley to tell the joyous tale to Robin Hood.

  A year passed, all save a few days, and in his castle at Linden Lea Sir Richard bethought him that the time was almost come to repay his debt. He spoke of it to his wife one evening as they strolled among the sweet-briar and sops-in-wine in her garden.

  ‘I must set out for Barnesdale in a few days to repay my good friend Robin Hood his loan; and it is in my mind that I would like to take him a gift beside. You are wiser in such things than I, dear wife. What do you advise?’

  The lady thought for a little while and then she said: ‘If it were me, I would take him a hundred bows of red Spanish yew and a hundred sheaves of arrows flighted with peacock feathers.’

  So Sir Richard gathered together the bows and the sheaves of arrows, and with two men to see to the train of pack-horses, he set out.

  Riding at the head of his little troop he came, early the following morning, into a large village; and here, on the village green, the whole population had gathered to watch a midsummer wrestling bout.

  A white charger was tethered under a tall mulberry tree at one side of the green. A pipe of wine stood close beside it, with a pair of embroidered gloves laid across the top, and hanging from a forked hazel twig Sir Richard caught the glitter of a gold ring.

  ‘It must be about between two famous champions,’ he thought, ‘judging by the richness of the prize,’ and because he had ever loved the sport of wrestling, he reined in his horse on the outskirts of the crowd, to watch. The two seemed well matched, and Sir Richard’s face was alight with interest as he followed every movement of the wrestlers as they sought for the holds they wanted; but one of the men was tiring, his holds were less sure, and suddenly there was a shout from the people, and the victor staggered to his feet.

  Sir Richard looked about him, and was surprised to see black looks and clenched fists that contrasted ill with the gay holiday garments of the people. Turning to a tall fellow beside him, he asked the meaning of this, and was told that the champion was a stranger and had therefore no right to win the prize.

  ‘That seems hardly fair,’ said Sir Richard, gently. ‘He has won the prize by vanquishing his opponent fairly, and it is his, be he never so many times a stranger.’ And he urged his horse forward through the crowd into the open turf of the prize-ring to the side of the stranger-champion, who stood staring about him in bewilderment.

  The mob shouted angrily, and pressed forward around the knight and the wrestler; but the two men in charge of the pack-horses thrust their way through to their master’s side, and at the sight of their resolute faces the hot resentment of the village people began to cool away. In a little while the whole crowd was quiet.

  Then Sir Richard turned to the wrestler, saying kindly: ‘Take your prize, lad.’

  The man looked up at him for a moment, then his young, troubled face broadened into a grin, and pulling his forelock with a ‘Thank ’ee, sir,’ he turned to take the bridle of the white horse. As he did so, the knight took a gold piece from his wallet, and called after him: ‘Ho, lad! Will you sell me your pipe of wine?’

  The wrestler looked back, laughing. ‘Willingly, Master—I would sooner have its worth in money than a clumsy pipe of wine to carry along with me.’

  So the gold piece and the pipe of wine changed hands, and no sooner was it done than Sir Richard called to the gaping crowd: ‘See, good folks, here is a pipe of wine; broach it, and make merry, with my blessing.’ And he touched his heel against his horse’s flank, urging it forward.

  The people parted to let him and his men through. Their dark looks were lightened, some of them called out a rough ‘thank-you’ after him, and a red-nosed old fellow, who looked as though he had broached many pipes in his time, struck up a song and began to jig up and down in the dusty highway. As he rode away, Sir Richard knew that the village was in a holiday mood.

  He was now very late for his tryst, but he thought Robin would forgive him when he heard the cause of the delay, and so he rode on, blithely enough.

  Meanwhile, Robin was waiting patiently enough in the Stane Ley. But noon came and went, and presently he began to look worried and to watch the far end of the glade, with a small frown between his eyes.

  ‘Master,’ said Little John, who was waiting beside him, ‘let us eat now, and wait no longer.’

  Robin shook his head. ‘John lad, I cannot eat. I fear Our Lady is angry with me that she has not sent my money. And I would have staked my life on Sir Richard’s honour.’

  ‘Do not be downhearted, Robin,’ said his tall lieutenant. ‘The loan was not due to be repaid until noon. Something has happened to delay the knight a while, that is all.’ And he put a huge hand on Robin’s shoulder.

  For a long while the two men waited, and then Robin said abruptly: ‘Take Much and Will Scarlet, and go up to the Irming Street, as you did last year; and bring a guest to dine with me. Be he messenger or minstrel, monk or villein, he will come in God’s name.’

  So the three took their bows and quivers and went up through the willow plantation to the Irming Street. They had not long to wait before they saw a cavalcade approaching from the north. Two black monks rode at the head, and behind them came seven well-laden sumptermules and a file of two-and-fifty men-at-arms.

  ‘See yonder monks?’ said Little John. ‘They look as though they have brought our pay!’

  ‘But they are many, and we are only three,’ replied Much, doubtfully.

  Little John laughed softly in his throat. ‘Unless we bring them as guests to our master we shall get no dinner. If you do not wish to go hungry upon this feast of Saint John, see to your bows, lads. I take the foremost monk… .’ He broke off to watch the road in silence. ‘Now!’ As the cavalcade came trotting up the last slope, the three stepped out into the road, bows bent and arrows ready nocked on strings.

  Little John addressed himself to the leading monk: ‘Shame on you, Sir Monk, to keep our master waiting!’

  The monk reined in and sat looking down at him angrily. ‘And who is your master, you great oaf?’

  ‘Robin Hood, the lord of these parts. He bids you dine with him—and he is not used to being kept waiting!’

  ‘Robin Hood, is he?’ said the monk, with an ugly laugh. ‘Robin Hedge-knifer! A foul thief if ever there was one, and he will be sure to hang on the gallows tree at the last!’ And setting spurs to his horse, he str
ove to ride down the three outlaws.

  Next moment Much’s bow-string twanged and a long arrow hummed its way into the monk’s heart. For an instant he swayed in the saddle, then crashed headlong to the ground and lay still; while his terrified mount sprang away among the men-at-arms. In the confusion all the men-at-arms took to their heels, thinking there was an ambush in the woods; and the second monk, bewildered and terrified, was easily taken captive.

  ‘Well,’ said Little John, ‘that was neatly done. Now for dinner!’ and leading the monk’s horse by the bridle, followed by Much and Will Scarlet with the pack-mules, he set off for the home glade.

  Robin greeted his unwilling guest with all courtesy. ‘Welcome to the Greenwood, Reverend Sir. It is a happy chance that has sent you to us, on this feast of Saint John, for you shall say the mass for us and our own chaplain shall have a holiday.’

  The monk was livid with spiteful fury, but he dared not disobey, and gabbled his way through the prayers while the outlaws knelt around him, reverently, with their caps doffed but their bows ready.

  When the mass was over and the feasting began, the monk was set in the place of honour; Little John brought him a fine brass basin of water in which to wash his hands, and Robin himself served him with meat and wine, all of which frightened him greatly, for he wondered very much what it all meant and what was going to be done to him.

  Presently Robin asked from which Abbey he came.

  ‘From St. Mary’s Abbey at York; and I am the cellarer,’ replied the trembling monk.

  Robin glanced at him with a glint of amusement in his eyes, which the other did not see. ‘If Our Lady is your patron saint,’ said he, humbly, ‘you must intercede for me with her, for she has not sent me some money she owes me, and I fear she is angry with me.’

  ‘But, Master,’ said Little John comfortingly (but his eyes twinkled); ‘if this good monk is her cellarer, no doubt he is her messenger also, and has brought you the money.’

  Robin nodded and glanced up at Little John, with laughter twitching at the corners of his mouth. Then he turned gravely back to the cellarer, saying: ‘Sir Monk, Our Lady stood surety for a loan between me and a certain knight, and the money is due to be repaid to-day; so if you bring it with you, give it to me now.’

  At this the ancient cellarer became more terrified than ever. ‘I know of no such suretyship,’ he protested shrilly. ‘I am a poor man, with only twenty marks in my coffers.’

  ‘If that is the truth,’ said Robin, ‘I’ll not touch a penny of it; indeed, I will lend you anything you may need. But if there is more than twenty marks, not a copper coin will I leave, for a monk should have no use for money.’ And seeing the anxious eye which the old sinner cast in the direction of his sumpter-mules, he was sure that there was a goodly store of gold somewhere in the pack-saddles. So he made a sign to Little John to search the bags and coffers; and while it was being done, he sat enjoying the expression on the face of St. Mary’s cellarer, who was in an agony of mingled greed and fear.

  Little John went steadily to work. He spread a cloak upon the ground, and opening the coffers, poured their contents into it. When he had finished, he counted the pile of gold and silver coins which lay there, and then, gathering the cloak by its four corners, brought it to Robin.

  ‘The monk spoke truly, Master. Here are his twenty marks, and here with them are the eight hundred pounds which Our Lady sends you in repayment of your loan.’

  Robin flung back his head and laughed; then clapping the shrinking cellarer on the shoulder, he cried: ‘Did I not say so, Sir Monk? Is not Our Lady the best surety a man could have? I lent only four hundred pounds, and she has repaid me twice over! Go back to your abbey in peace, man, and remember to tell your brethren of the good dinner Robin Hood gave you in Barnesdale Forest.’ Grumbling and muttering that his dinner had cost him dear (though he was careful not to do so above his breath) the ancient cellarer was hoisted by willing hands on to his horse. The outlaws kept his sumpter-mules. ‘For,’ explained Will Scarlet, ‘we would save you the trouble of driving such troublesome brutes single-handed.’ And two of their number went with him to set him on the nearest track that led to York.

  Late in the afternoon Sir Richard and his little troop rode into the Stane Ley, and the good knight swung down from his saddle as Robin strode forward to greet him. The two clasped hands, looking gladly into each other’s eyes, like the friends they were. Sir Richard craved pardon for his delay and explained the cause of it. Then he turned to take his coffer from the saddle-bow; but Robin stayed him with a hand on his wrist.

  ‘No, Sir Richard, let your coffer be.’

  ‘But there are four hundred pounds in it, for the repayment of my debt,’ said Sir Richard, with a puzzled smile.

  ‘Your debt is already paid, and paid twice over.’ And Robin told him the story of St. Mary’s cellarer, drawing him away to sit beside him in the shade of the giant lime tree while he told it. ‘Our Lady owed me four hundred pounds, and she has returned me eight hundred. So you must take the half, with my blessing; and if ever you should need more, come to me, and I will share with you whatever I have, whether it be much or little.’

  Sir Richard strove to speak, but words were beyond him just then and he could only wring his friend’s hand in silence. Meanwhile, his men, aided by some of the outlaws, had unstrapped the bows and peacock-flighted arrows from the backs of the pack-horses, and now, one of them carrying a bowstave and the other a sheaf of arrows, they came across the glade to their master.

  ‘Here be the gear, Sir Richard,’ said the elder, ‘and not a cock-feather out of place.’

  The knight glanced at the weapons and then back to the outlaw chief. ‘Friend Robin, you have refused to let me repay my debt, but you will not refuse my gift?’

  Getting up, Robin put out his hand for the bowstave and bent it against his instep. ‘I will not refuse your gift,’ he said, smiling. ‘I accept it gladly, for its own sake and for the sake of the giver.’

  Later that evening, when dusk was creeping up the Stane Ley and the owls were crying softly in the shadows, the outlaws settled down to their supper. Sir Richard sat with Robin Hood beside the largest of the camp-fires, feasting royally on roast venison and peacocks which had been poached by Simon-the-Fletcher from the poultry yard of Sir William de Trumpington. And next day, in the full glory of an early summer morning, he set out for Linden Lea once more.

  It was some years before he and Robin came together again, but Sir Richard remained a loyal friend; and indeed, the day came when without his aid the outlaw brotherhood would have fared ill indeed.

  5

  How Marian came to the Greenwood

  IN THEIR CAVES at Dunwold Scar the outlaws sat or sprawled around the fire. The spitting pine logs burned with clear red and saffron flames, sending up thick curling feathers of smoke that found their way out through a cranny in the rocks overhead. Outside, the cold February rain drenched down, turning the forest tracks into icy quagmires and every leaf on the holly bushes to a spouting water-chute. But within the great central cave of the many that honeycombed the sandstone scar, there was warmth and shelter, dry sand underfoot and warm, high-piled bracken for bedding, and the saffron flicker of firelight on the faces of the men and hounds gathered about the rude hearth.

  Scarcely a man sat idle, for there were always many tasks to be attended to when ill weather closed the roads and hunting trail alike. Some of them were making new clothes or mending old ones; others were refurbishing their weapons. Will Scarlet was building himself a short birding bow; Little John, with a pot of glue heating in the fire beside him, was mending his fishing tackle; Robin himself was burnishing the red rust-blotches from his steel cap.

  As they worked, the outlaws talked among themselves and to their guests—for they had, guests that day, as they often did in bad weather—a quiet palmer who had been found trudging along the sodden highway by Will-the-Bowman; a burly man-at-arms with a damaged knee that needed resting; and last,
but assuredly not least, a very small man with a snub-nose and sloe-black eyes set very wide apart in his tanned face, who now sat in his shirt and scarlet hose, holding out a tattered particoloured surcoat to dry before the fire. He had pushed his fantastic red and yellow fool’s cap back from his forehead, and every time he moved his head to look from one speaker to another, the tiny silver bells along the flaunting cockscomb rang very sweetly. He seemed a quiet little man, and though he sat there fully an hour, he had scarcely spoken; yet his face was alight with interest, and his bright black eyes flickered ceaselessly from face to face of all the outlaws scattered around the fire.

  Presently Ket-the-Smith turned to him, saying: ‘Now, Master Fool, how about a song? A song of love, or a song of battle—who cares, so long as it be a merry one?’

  The little man shook his head and laughed. ‘I am no minstrel, to sing you songs. A juggler am I, and my name is Peterkin. But if you are minded to see some juggling, the best juggling in all the North Country… .’

  ‘Lads!’ cried Ket, looking round about him. ‘Here is Peterkin the Juggler. He says he will juggle for us. Shall we take him at his word?’

  ‘Yes,’ cried the outlaws; ‘let us have some juggling! Begin, Master Juggler—up with you, and begin!’

  Work was laid aside and every man settled himself more comfortably, turning to face the little juggler, who first wriggled into his red and yellow surcoat, and then, getting up, opened his ragged bundle and delved inside it. Gay balls of painted wood rolled out on to the floor—the green of a breaking wave; the scarlet of a corn-poppy; the gold of saffron cake; the blue of the Madonna’s mantle. Two or three little bright daggers spilled out after them, and he gathered them up and turned to face his eager audience.

  Then an odd change seemed to come over Peterkin the Juggler; he was no longer a ridiculous little man—for a little while he was beautiful. The firelight flickered over his thin figure in its fantastic garments as he tossed up ball after ball, seemingly without any thought of the matter, until there were eight of them shuttling backward and forward above his head. Sometimes they seemed a continuous many-coloured arc; sometimes they would separate, and for an instant the firelight would pick out a ball of blue or crimson or bright gilt, or the sparkling blade of a little dagger.