The Chronicles of Robin Hood

by Rosemary Sutcliff

  Robin’s glance moved over them, and he called to the small, bright-eyed man beside Little John. ‘Peterkin lad, do I make as fine a minstrel as I did the last time you and I went to steal a lady?’

  The little juggler nodded, his black eyes dancing. ‘Aye, Master, you’ll do well enough. And I? Do I put on my motley again?’

  ‘No, keep your good forest brown,’ answered Robin.

  ‘It is your skill with a broadsword that I shall want this day.’ And turning to the rest, he told them quickly what was in the wind. ‘Lads,’ he ended, ‘I need five-and-twenty of you to follow me and Alan here to Kirkby. Those of you who would come, hold up your right hands.’ Instantly every right hand in the company shot up. Robin laughed. ‘Good lads!’ he said. ‘Yet five-and-twenty is all I need, so I must make my own choice.’

  Man after man stepped out from the band and fell away to form a smaller company of their own as he called their names: Little John, Peterkin, Gilbert, Watkin, Hob-o’-the-Hoar-Oak, and a score more, including a tall, yellow-haired Dane called (because of the power of his fists) Right-Hitting-Brand, who had lately joined the brotherhood.

  Alan stood very still, looking into the face of each man as they came forward. Their resolute looks gave him hope, but all the time his fever of impatience was rising with the sun that crept up over the tree-tops, until he could scarcely bear the quiet orderliness of the preparations going on, as men saw to their bowstrings and made sure that their brands were loose and easy in the sheaths and collected the arrows that were issued from the fletcher’s store. Yet it was only a very short while that he had to wait after all.

  Will Scarlet and Much-the-Miller’s-Son were left in command of the camp, greatly to their disgust; and the chosen band set out, Robin at their head, with young Alan A’Dale striding beside him, and the rest strung out in single file behind. They struck straight through the forest in the direction of Kirkby, moving swiftly and silently between the crowding trees. Not a dry leaf rustled, not a twig snapped, to tell of their going, only now and then a jay would scream its harsh defiance; or a buck rabbit would thump its warning to the forest before diving for safety in its own bury; or the grazing deer would raise startled heads, and then, as though reassured, return to their cropping of the grass.

  It was still some time before noon when they came down the last wooded slope and glimpsed the brown ploughland of Kirkby Village, between the tree-trunks. On the woodshore Robin halted, and after taking a quick look at the lay of the land, turned to his followers who had silently closed up behind him.

  ‘Follow yonder willow-plantation,’ said he. ‘It will bring you within half a bowshot of the church. Wait there till you hear my bugle-horn; then come to me as swiftly as you can, for there will be work for you to do.’ He gripped Alan’s shoulder for a moment, saying kindly: ‘Never fear, we will save your lady,’ and was gone, striding across the ploughland down towards the village.

  In the long street people were gathering, some standing at their doorways; some were already drifting towards the little church among the lime-trees on the far side of the green. They were in holiday clothes, the men with their best hoods carefully mended, the women in their Sunday gowns, gay with ribbons, so that the whole village seemed as bright as a flower garden; but their faces were set and angry, and they whispered together as they watched the green track which led from the Manor House.

  Before the door of the village alehouse, with its green bush for an inn sign, a little group were talking together in low voices.

  ‘Ai-ee, poor lass!’ said a wrinkled crone. ‘This will be a sad day for her, I’m thinking!’

  Mine host of the alehouse nodded gloomily. ‘And they do say as her heart belongs to young Alan A’Dale, even yet!’

  ‘Then why doesn’t he come and save her?’ demanded a young woman fiercely.

  ‘How could he, you silly wench? He be almost as poor as we are. He has no men to follow him; and old Niger le Bigot be the most powerful man in these parts—which is why our poor master be giving him his daughter, as we all do know!’

  But the girl only tossed her head angrily. ‘If I were the man my Lady Alice loved, I’d not sit back and see her wed to another against her will, be he never so powerful!’ she said, and received a quick smile of approval from a lean and ragged minstrel who happened to be passing by.

  The minstrel went swinging up the street, not seeming to notice the gloomy faces of the serfs and villeins. Across the green he went, past the stocks and whipping-post and pillory, and so came to the churchyard gate, where half the inhabitants of the village had by now gathered, all craning their necks to look for the coming of the bride.

  Propping himself comfortably against the mossy churchyard wall, Robin the Minstrel looked about him, plucking gently at his ribboned lute, and listened to the angry mutterings of the villeins. The church door was already open, and the candles lit on the altar, and once he caught a glimpse of a figure in gold-embroidered vestments as it passed between him and the light.

  One of the younger villeins saw the gorgeous figure too, and muttered, with an ugly laugh: ‘My Lord the Archbishop of York! Now I wonder how much yon devil le Bigot is paying you for your help in breaking our poor little maid’s heart?’

  ‘Hush, lobkin!’ said a woman beside him, and craned her neck to get a view of the road. ‘She should be here soon.’

  But it was the bridegroom who arrived first. He came up at a hand-canter, followed by his knights and men-at-arms, and reined in savagely at the open churchyard gate. He was an old man, with a thin grey beard that straggled out over his gay silken tunic. His face was red and blotchy: a cruel face with a sneering, savage mouth and small, malevolent eyes; and watching him, Robin thought again of the ugly tales that clung about the name of Sir Niger le Bigot.

  The evil, glittering eyes of the old man swept over the crowd of humbly-gaping serfs. ‘Oafs! Clod-hoppers!’ he snarled. ‘Has the lady not arrived?’

  The reeve, the chief man of the village, shook his head. ‘No, not yet, sir.’

  Sir Niger sat his horse for a few moments, fuming with impatience, and then, as one of the men-at-arms came forward to take his bridle, slid stiffly to the ground. The whole party had dismounted, and now gathered round the gateway, insolently shouldering aside the villagers. They were an evil-looking crew: the young men slovenly; the older ones cruel-faced and vicious-looking. They were disposed to be merry, and laughed and jested among themselves; while their master pulled his beard and swore under his breath, fretting and fuming as the moments passed, his ugly face growing darker and more blotchy with rage and impatience.

  Presently the knights began to grow bored, and one or two of them kept glancing aside at the raging old man. Someone whispered behind his hand that the bride was taking her time, or had perhaps run away to the Greenwood. Someone else laughed, and hastily swallowed his laughter as Le Bigot swung round on him, glaring with an evil light in his eyes.

  At that moment a red-faced young knight in a green surcoat chanced to catch sight of the minstrel who leaned against the churchyard wall, watching the bridegroom with grim amusement under his hood.

  ‘Hi! You insolent cur!’ cried the gay young sprig. ‘How dare you stand there grinning at your betters?’

  ‘Nay,’ replied the minstrel gently, ‘I do not grin at my betters. I only wait to sing to the bridal party, if they so wish it. I can sing you the latest songs from London Town, or ditties of my own making: songs grave or gay; songs of love or war or hunting. Shall I sing?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the knight. ‘Anything to pass the time. Sing, and be cursed to you!’

  So Robin strummed his lute for a moment, and then raised his head and sang. It was a merry song that he chose, one that Peterkin had taught him, with a great deal of love and fighting in it, and it was well suited to his audience. When it was finished, they demanded another, and Robin bowed, shook back his dagged sleeves, and sang again.

  The last notes had scarcely died away, when the crowd ar
ound the churchyard gate heard the sound of horses’ hooves in the distance. Every face turned towards the Manor road. Old Sir Niger stopped swearing, settled his rich brocade cloak on his shoulders, and wiping the evil scowl from his face, strove to look pleasant.

  Round the nut-trees at the corner of the road came two riders, who turned towards them across the green. The knights doffed their velvet caps as the riders reined in before the gate, and the villeins came crowding forward, despite the angry curses of the men-at-arms, eager to show their Lady Alice that they shared with her in her grief, though there was nothing they could do to help her.

  Sir Simon de Beauforest dismounted slowly. His face looked lined and heavy with grief, for he loved his daughter, and despised himself that he was too weak to save her from the wicked old man who now came forward, bowing and grimacing, to aid her from the saddle.

  Watching from his place beside the mossy wall, Robin saw the lady on the second horse flinch and draw away at his approach; then she leaned forward and gave him her hand; but she never looked at him, and the moment she reached the ground, snatched her hand away, and went to stand beside her father, who looked down at her with all his shame and misery in his face.

  Sir Niger looked at her with an ugly expression in his eyes, and then shrugged and turned away. ‘Flout me while you may, my lady,’ he said in a savage voice. ‘It will be my turn later!’

  One of the knights gave a brutal laugh. The girl shrank against her father; and the face of the minstrel leaning against the wall grew suddenly very grim.

  Next moment the Lady Alice had taken her father’s arm, and he was leading her in through the gate. She passed quite close to Robin, and he saw that she was beautiful in a fair and gentle way very different from Marian; but her face was drained of colour so that even her lips were white—whiter than the creamy samite of her gown and wimple—and her eyes looked blind with the tears that she was too proud to shed. Then she was gone, moving up the path towards the open church door.

  Sir Niger followed, with his knights jostling at his heels. Two of the men-at-arms remained with the horses, and the rest followed their master into the church. After them crowded the villagers, and with the villagers, his lute laid aside and his fingers on the bugle-horn beneath his cloak, went Robin Hood.

  Inside, the church was as gay as a dandelion flower, with its green walls painted with saints and devils, bright-winged cherubims and golden stars, and little crimson-winged angels looked down from the hammer-beams of the roof. The candles on the altar were tipped with glimmering crocus flames, shedding a soft yellow radiance on the fat archbishop who stood there with the service book open in his hands; on the sorrowful figure of Beauforest, and the trembling maiden beside him; and on the evil, grinning face of the old knight who waited for her at the altar steps.

  The archbishop was beginning to read the service as Robin came in, and for an instant the outlaw waited just inside the door, listening to the greasy voice. Then, putting his horn to his lips, he winded a shrill rallying-call that set the painted roof a-ringing. As the echoes died away there was a moment of stupefied silence. Everyone craned round to see who it was that had sounded a hunting-horn in the House of God.

  Old Sir Niger had whipped round, and his hand was on the jewelled hilt of his sword. Beauforest stood very still, and beside him the Lady Alice might have been a figure carved in stone, so rigid was she as she gazed down the long, dim aisle; but there was sudden, desperate hope in her eyes.

  Then Robin the Minstrel stepped out from the shadows beside the door and strode up the aisle into the golden radiance of the candles. Every eye in the church followed him, and the faces of the poor villeins were suddenly hopeful and eager; but the knights and men-at-arms were fingering their weapons.

  ‘This is an ill match!’ said Robin very clearly, coming to a halt before the altar. ‘An evil match, and it shall not go on! The maiden shall choose for herself who she takes for bridegroom; and assuredly, old man, it will not be you!’

  ‘And who are you to say so?’ snarled Sir Niger.

  ‘I am Robin of Barnesdale, or you may have heard of me as Robin Hood,’ answered the minstrel, and flinging back his cloak from his sword-arm, drew his blade clashing from its sheath.

  Next instant the old bridegroom had whipped out his sword, but he was slow with age, and his younger knights were first to come at the ragged outlaw.

  With his back against the chancel wall, Robin fought them off. He knew that his own men would arrive at any moment now, and he had no fear of defeat. His swift blade flickered in the candle-light as he lunged and struck and parried, and already one man lay dead at his feet.

  The fat archbishop had let forth a howl of terror and slid out through the vestry door at the first sight of naked steel. Beauforest had drawn his sword, and then, seeing that the outlaw seemed in no need of his aid, had thrust Alice clear of the fight into a place of safety between the high altar and the carved and painted tomb of his father. He would have stood between her and the fray, but with a swift movement she prevented him and stood looking on, her hands pressed to her mouth, but her eyes as bright as stars.

  For one moment the villeins had seemed quite stupefied by the sudden turn things had taken, but now the menfolk began to slip from their places and come quietly but very purposefully up the aisle, crowding in on the knights and men-at-arms before the altar. They were unarmed, but they were ready to fight with their bare hands and their wives’ bodkins—aye, and die if need be—for their lady, now that they had a leader.

  In another moment the battle would have joined, and it would have gone ill with the faithful villeins; but suddenly, above the noise and shouting, the trampling of mailed feet and the clash of weapons, there came a deep, musical droning as though a giant bee had entered the church; and old Sir Niger threw up his hands and fell, with a clothyard shaft quivering in his throat. Robin never glanced round; with five blades at his throat it was wiser not to.

  A second arrow hummed into the back of a man-at-arms, and he pitched down on his face, arms flung wide, the shaft vibrating between his shoulder-blades. A moment later the two men-at-arms who had been left with the horses came running into the church, looking back over their shoulders as they ran. Again came the musical droning, and one of the men fell in his tracks and rolled over like a shot rabbit.

  Then the doorway was full of brown-clad men blotting out the autumn sunshine, and the mail-clad figure of young Alan A’Dale was at their head. With a shout, Sir Niger’s men turned to face the outlaws, and leaving Robin to himself, sped and jostled their way down the church to charge the ranks that blocked the doorway, striving desperately to break through, for they knew, every scoundrel in his black heart, that they need look for no mercy from these grim-faced men.

  The forest-rangers closed up, shoulder to shoulder, their deadly blades making a leaping, many-pointed hedge of steel which the knights and men-at-arms strove wildly to beat down. Robin and the faithful villeins, some of whom were now armed with swords and daggers hastily snatched from the fallen men, hurled themselves upon them from behind, and the fight swayed savagely back and forth in the church doorway.

  Then quite suddenly it was over. After the turmoil everything seemed very quiet. Several of Sir Niger’s men had broken through and made their escape—for the outlaws made no attempt to give chase to those who got away. The rest lay dead in front of the altar or in the autumn sunshine before the doorway. There would be no more of the knightly hornets’ nest that had made life a misery through half of Nottinghamshire. Then Robin drew a deep breath, wiped his sword on the cloak of a fallen knight, and sheathed it at his side.

  The archbishop had gone. He had got out of the vestry by another door, mounted his fat horse, and ridden off at a pace that the poor brute was quite unused to. No one troubled about him when his flight was discovered; there were other and more important things to be attended to.

  Several of the men were wounded. Hob-o’-the-Hoar-Oak, with a sword-thrust in the hip,
was the sorest hurt, but the rest were for the most part no more than flesh-wounds and gashes. George-a-Green had taken a slash that had laid his cheek open; Gilbert was sitting with his back to a pew, staunching a deep cut between his neck and shoulder. Alan A’Dale was looking down ruefully at the long gash which had slit his leather sleeve from elbow to wrist, and from which the blood dripped down, reddening his hand.

  Alice had not moved from her place beside the altar, where the womenfolk had gathered about her. She did not seem to notice when her father left her side and walked down the church to join Robin Hood. She was searching with her eyes among the outlaws round the doorway—searching for Alan; and then as he moved out into the sunlight she saw him. ‘Alan!’ she called breathlessly. ‘Alan!’

  Alan looked up and saw her standing there, and began to walk rather unsteadily towards her. She drew her creamy skirts about her and came to meet him, the other women falling back to let her through; but before she reached him she swayed, and then crumpled up in a dead faint on the stone floor.

  Alan sped the last few paces to kneel at her side and gather her into his arms; and the next instant Robin was beside them also.

  ‘Go down to your menfolk,’ he bade the crowding women. ‘There are wounds to be dressed down there, and they need your aid.’ Dropping on one knee, he turned to Alan. ‘Give her to me, lad. You should have that gash tied up.’ And he took the unconscious girl from her lover’s unwilling arms.

  ‘I shall do well enough,’ replied Alan.

  ‘No, but you will not. You are bleeding like a stuck pig. We shall have you swooning too, like the little maid. Go to Little John and bid him see to your wound. I will look after your lady.’