Northward strode Little John, blithely enough, and he came presently to the appointed glade. Andrew was not there, but it was scarcely noon as yet, and after a quick glance round, the tall outlaw propped his back against the trunk of a chestnut-tree and settled himself to wait. At first he waited patiently, thumbs tucked into his belt and gazing straight before him at nothing in particular; but as time went by, and there was still no sign of the young outlaw, there appeared a worried frown between Little John’s brows.
At last he thrust himself from the chestnut trunk, and after pausing for a moment, head turned to listen for any sound of the missing man’s approach, walked quickly across the clearing and disappeared among the trees on the farther side. He was going to see what had become of young Andrew—and of old Barnaby, too, for if ill had befallen one, it had probably befallen both.
A few miles brought him to the head of Kinly Scar—a deep, narrow gully, thickly wooded and leading gently down between the high, steep shaws of the forest. Into the scar dropped Little John, and made his way down towards the forest verge; and there, among the wild fruit-trees of the woodshore, he halted a moment to view the lay of the land.
Before him lay a wide, shallow dale, the open turf slopes dotted here and there with stately trees; and not a bowshot from where he stood at the mouth of the gully, the highway curved southward on its way from Pomfret to Doncaster. Beside the highway rose the blue smoke of a cooking fire, with a large company of men encamped about it: a peaceful scene it was, but while Little John watched from the woodshore the peace was rudely broken by a sudden outbreak of shouting that arose from the men about the fire; and two figures broke away and came running clumsily towards him, with a yelling mob of men-at-arms behind them.
Little John knew the hunters for Roger of Doncaster’s Poitevin cut-throats by the device on their surcoats; and a moment later he recognized the hunted also, and saw that their hands were bound behind them. Andrew and Barnaby had met with trouble, even as he had feared. Setting the heel of his bowstave against his instep, he bent it and slipped the silken string into place. Next instant he had nocked an arrow to the string and stepped out from the forest.
The two fugitives, hampered as they were by their bound hands, were losing ground steadily. John shouted to them at the full pitch of his lungs, encouraging them as though they were hounds. ‘Andrew! Barnaby! To me, lads! Sweff! Sweff!’
The two heard him, and making valiant efforts to increase their speed they began to draw away from their pursuers. Then one of the archers among the men-at-arms halted for an instant, raised his bow, and loosed deliberately after the fugitives. It was a good shot. Barnaby stumbled, recovered himself, and ran on, staggering in his tracks. Little John bent his bow, with no show of haste, and sped his arrow; and the over-skilful archer threw up his arms and fell, rolling over like a shot rabbit, with a clothyard shaft in his throat.
Little John began to run towards the two outlaws, nocking another arrow to his string, and loosing into the thick of the pursuers. The three met a little away from the forest verge, and in the moment of their meeting Barnaby pitched down headlong, and Little John saw the arrow embedded between his shoulders.
The young outlaw hesitated for an instant, and then ran on toward the shelter of the forest. John wasted no glance on him, but stepped across Barnaby’s body, and casting down his bow—for the pursuit was now too near for him to use it—drew his sword.
Barnaby stirred, and rolled half over, gasping urgently: ‘Run, John! A’God’s name run!’
Little John answered nothing; there was no time. He brought up his sword, and next instant the Poitevin pack closed around him; and among the trampling legs of the fighters, Barnaby sighed, and rolled forward on to his face, to move no more.
Little John put up a savage fight, standing astride the body of his fallen comrade, head and shoulders taller than the cut-throats who hurled themselves upon him like hunting-dogs upon a boar. Five of their number he slew that day, but they disarmed him at last and dragged him down, bleeding from a deep wound in his shoulder and others on his head and sword-arm, yet struggling to the end. Some of them flung themselves upon him to hold him down, while others dragged his arms behind his back and lashed his wrists together; then, jerking him to his feet, they urged him over to an elm-tree not far from their fire.
To the trunk of this elm they bound Little John by ropes that passed several times round both trunk and man and were made fast by cunning knots. He was sick and dizzy, and when he raised his head it seemed very heavy, and the wide dale swam in his sight. A knight with a white, smooth face, who had evidently kept himself well clear of the fighting, was standing before him, staring insolently into his face; and Little John lifted his head higher with a tremendous effort, and stared haughtily back. By the device on the knight’s shield and surcoat he knew him for Roger of Doncaster.
‘You should be Little John, judging by your size,’ said the knight, in a voice as smooth as silk and bitter as gall. ‘Excepting only your master, there is no man I would sooner hang than you, you vermin! And hang you I most assuredly shall, this day!’
‘That is as God wills,’ answered the other, proudly.
‘No, no—it is as I will,’ said Sir Roger of Doncaster, and his lips twisted into a smile that was half a snarl. Turning to the men-at-arms, he ordered: ‘Bind me up this hedge-knight’s cuts, for he bleeds like a stuck pig, and I would not have him die before Sir Guy returns from his errand to see him hanged.’
So Little John’s wrists were unbound, and the wounds in his arm and shoulder roughly bandaged with strips torn from his own hood, and afterwards his hands were re-bound in front of him instead of behind, that the strain might not again open the wound in his shoulder.
While this was being done, certain others of the men-at-arms, under the directions of Sir Roger, were running a stout hempen rope over one of the branches of the elm-tree, and making a noose in one end of it, in readiness for the hanging which would take place as soon as Sir Guy of Gisborne was there to enjoy it.
When all was done, they settled themselves to wait. Sir Roger seated himself on a great fallen branch, where he could watch his captive to his heart’s content; and his men sat or lounged about on the turf, tending the fire that they had lighted to cook their noonday meal and while away the time of waiting, talking among themselves in their own tongue, staring insolently at Little John, and—those of them who had taken scathe in the fighting—attending to their hurts.
Bound to his tree, Little John waited also, wondering how long it would be before Guy of Gisborne returned from his unknown errand. If he delayed long enough, it might yet be that rescue would arrive in time; for Andrew would have gone straight back to the Stane Ley and raised the outlaws to his aid. But the Stane Ley was the best part of ten forest miles away, and at any moment the hated figure of Guy of Gisborne might appear between the boles of the trees. So, weighing up his chances, the outlaw faced the fact that there was not one chance in a hundred that he would see the sun go down that evening.
It had been a good life, he thought, and now it was over. He lifted his heavy head and gazed away down the sweep of the dale, which still swam oddly in his sight, watching the late September sunshine upon the hills, for the last time.
There was an intruder in the forest that day—a strange, fantastic figure that lurked among the undergrowth, skulking through the thickets like an evil spirit, or some creature out of a nightmare.
Many times Sir Guy of Gisborne had sent his cut-throats questing into the woods after Robin Hood, and always they had bungled the business. This time he had come himself, clad in a disguise which should give him an unquestioned right of way wherever he went, by striking terror into the heart of any whose path he chanced to cross. For who would dispute the right of way with the Phantom Horse of Barnesdale?
He had come only to spy, to carry back word of the outlaw band and its whereabouts to Sir Roger of Doncaster and the waiting men-at-arms, that they might know where to a
ttack. Yet he carried a serviceable six-foot bow in case of need, and before long he was to use it.
For as he skulked beneath the earth-clogged roots of a fallen forest-giant, his eye was drawn to a flicker of movement between the trees. He stiffened, his face alight with a savage eagerness, and rose silently to his feet, taking care to keep himself well hidden by the hazel-scrub from someone coming up the narrow deer-path, and nocked an arrow to his bowstring.
Robin came swinging up the path, his birding-bow in his hand and a brace of plover in the other. He heard the twang of a released bowstring in the thicket to his left, and a hot brand seemed to sear his left forearm. The murderous arrow smacked into the turf, and instantly Robin pitched down sideways into a thick mass of brambles and old-man’s-beard, landing on top of the shaft and breaking it off in his fall. He contrived to twist over in landing, and lay still, watching between the gold and russet bramble leaves for the coming of his would-be murderer.
The terrible creature that a moment later came leaping out from the undergrowth was enough to strike terror into the boldest heart. The Phantom Horse of Barnesdale! The phantom horse that was yet in some strange and horrible way also a man, and which boded death to all who chanced to see it!
The black mane and crest swept against the gold-and-green woods as the creature leapt down into the path; the savage teeth gleamed in the hideously up-reared head.
Robin was no superstitious villein, but his heart gave a sickening lurch into his throat, and he knew one instant of goose-fleshed horror. Next moment he realized that the phantom of the forest was a man clad in a horse’s hide, with the vicious head pulled forward over his own in the manner of a hood; and as the wild figure came dashing towards him, he saw that the dark brutal face which showed under that of the horse was the face of his ancient enemy—Guy of Gisborne.
Very still lay Robin, with his right hand tensed on the grip of his sword; and an instant later Sir Guy reached the place where the outlaw’s feet stuck stiffly out into the path, and checked his headlong rush, to stand looking down at them. His face was full of evil triumph, and hatred was in the cold glitter of his eyes.
‘There you lie, Robin of Barnesdale!’ said he, in a grating voice. ‘I have waited a long time for this reckoning, and now that it has come at last, I shall sleep the better in my bed of nights, for thinking of it!’ And he bent down to drag aside the autumn tangle which hid the body of his victim.
As he did so, there came a sudden movement among the brambles, and Robin Hood sprang up to face his enemy, bright-eyed and grim of mouth, with his sword naked in his hand.
Before him, Sir Guy of Gisborne fell back with an oath, dragging his own blade from its scabbard. ‘Wolfshead! Hedge-robber!’ he cried. ‘You tricked me!’ And he rushed fiercely upon Robin, hatred flaming in his eyes, the horse’s mane rolling and streaming out behind him in the fury of his attack.
The wood-ranger stepped lightly forward to meet him, saying scornfully: ‘So you have come at last, Sir Guy of Gisborne. Many times you have sent your hedge-creeping blackguards to murder me; and now you come to see if you can succeed where they have failed! You spoke of a reckoning, Sir Guy, and a reckoning there shall be this day!’
Sir Guy made no answer save a snarl. And there, in the peace of the little green deer-path, the two old enemies came together, and the quiet forest rang with the clash and grind of blade on blade. Sir Guy had a small buckler to his defence, and Robin had none; but the evil knight was half blind with his own rage, whereas the outlaw fought with a cool head and clear judgement, and this was better than any buckler.
Back and forth they padded on lightly planted feet: smiting, guarding, lunging, each grimly bent on the death of the other, until a lucky stroke of Sir Guy’s gashed the breast of Robin’s tunic, and biting into the flesh beneath, drew blood above the collar-bone. Robin sprang back out of touch, and as Sir Guy rushed in with an exultant shout, stepped swiftly to one side and lunged above the guard of his enemy’s sword.
Robin’s blade entered cleanly over the other’s black heart, and with a choking cry, Sir Guy of Gisborne dropped his sword, and staggering back, crashed to the ground.
The outlaw stood over him, breathing quickly, and looking down on his fallen foe.
‘A swift death, and a cleaner one than you deserve!’ said he, quietly. ‘Howsoever, there you lie, Sir Guy of Gisborne. No more will you torture humble folk who have no defence against you. Slain men, and men branded and mutilated, the aching hearts of women, and little children left alone in the world—all these are avenged, Sir Guy; and so I thank the sweet Mother of Our Lord!’
He stooped, and wiping his sword on the grass to cleanse it, slid it back into its sheath. And at the same moment there came to his ears a long-drawn, high-pitched cry, so faint and far off that it all but blended away into the natural sounds of the forest. It was the outlaws’ seeking-cry. Instantly he called back, and was answered.
A few minutes later the bushes parted, and out into the path stumbled the dishevelled figure of Andrew. The boy glanced wildly to left and right, saw Robin standing beside the fallen body of his enemy, and came lurching towards him.
Robin Hood saw that his youngest outlaw was the bearer of ill tidings, that he was spent with running and had cuts and scratches on his face and rents in his clothing as though he had fallen often among the undergrowth, and that his hands were bound behind him.
‘Master Robin!’ he panted. ‘Thanks be to Our Lady—I have found you! I feared I—might not come up with any of the—brotherhood, this side the Stane Ley!’
‘Steady, lad.’ Robin had drawn his hunting-knife. ‘Your hands—now, speak on.’
The cords fell away, leaving bleeding weals on the boy’s wrists; but he did not seem conscious of them, any more than he was of the strange figure of the dead man in the horse’s hide. His breast still labouring from his desperate speed, he began to pour out his tale: how, by an ill chance, he and Barnaby had fallen into the hands of Sir Roger of Doncaster; how Sir Roger had determined to use them as decoys in an attack he was launching against the outlaw band; how they had broken away from their captors when Sir Roger made camp on the Doncaster road close to Kinley Scar, and of the shooting of Barnaby, and the coming and capture of Little John.
‘And so I came with all speed to bring you the word,’ he ended.
Robin said nothing, but he set his bugle-horn to his lips and winded a strident call that tore through the forest quietness, sending out its urgent summons to any of the brotherhood who might be near enough to hear it: ‘To me! To me! and swiftly!’
Then he spoke rapidly to the young outlaw: ‘Andrew, cut through the forest to the joining of the Stane Way with the road from Doncaster. You’ll find Much and a score of the lads there; bid them join me at the Mark Oak by Wragthorne Heath, as swiftly as may be. David-the-Smith is the fleetest-footed among them; bid him take the same word to the Stane Ley, saying that Little John is in the hands of our enemies.’
Andrew started away on his errand; and for a few moments after his going, Robin remained staring frowningly before him. ‘Kinley Scar,’ said he, half under his breath. ‘That is all of seven miles from here, old fellow, and the Good Lord knows whether you are dead already, or pent within the walls of Pomfret Town!’ He bent down, and began to strip Sir Guy’s body of its strange garment. Then he took off his own tunic of faded Lincoln green, and covered the dead man with its weather-stained folds.
‘If you have the harder bed this night, Sir Guy of Gisborne, you shall have the better covering,’ said he, and turning away he took up the horse’s hide and belted it about him, pulling the hideous head forward over his own. Sir Guy’s bugle-horn he took, and his bow and clothyard shafts; but he kept his own sword. Lastly, he picked up Sir Guy’s blade from the place where it had fallen, and laid it beside the body.
And all the while he did those things he was praying, silently and ceaselessly, that he might be in time to save Little John, his sword-brother.
Har
dly had he finished his preparations when Gilbert and three other members of the band came bursting through the bushes in answer to the summons of the bugle-horn. At sight of the wild figure awaiting them they came to a horrified standstill. One of them began to retreat, crossing himself fervently, and even Gilbert, who had seen foreign lands and many wonders in them, thrust out a shaking left hand with the first and second fingers crossed to ward off evil.
Robin looked at them in surprise. In his desperate anxiety for Little John, he had forgotten the effect his disguise would have on his own men, and it was a moment before he understood; then he thrust back the fiendish hood, and said: ‘It is myself, lads; there is no need to cross your fingers.’
Gilbert uttered a gasp of relief and wiped his forehead with the back of one hand as he came forward. ‘Phew! Us thought Old Nick had us for sure, this time!’
‘No,’ said Robin, harshly, ‘it is Sir Roger of Doncaster who has Little John!’ In as few words as possible he told them what had happened; and he was yet speaking when two more green-clad figures came thrusting through the undergrowth, and almost in the same instant Arthur-a-Bland sprang down into the path. Three more answered the summons; then Robin pulled the horse’s head forward over his face once more, and set out for Wragthorne Heath, the others following in single file.
The little party pushed swiftly northward, travelling at a steady wolf-trot that was almost a run; and as he strode ahead, Sir Guy of Gisborne’s bow ready-strung in his hand, Robin was still praying in his heart that he might be in time to save Little John.
Much and his party had already reached the Mark Oak when Robin arrived with his ten followers. Small brown Much, very grim, and with his bow ready strung, came to Robin at once; and after a few brief words between them, the band pressed forward again, travelling at the same gruelling pace as before.
The Mark Oak grew on the edge of the open heath, and leaving the shelter of the trees, the wood-rangers cut straight across, plunging through a green and golden sea of waist-high bracken that parted to let them through and swayed together again behind them. When they gained the forest on the farther side, they were only a short distance from their goal. Up to this point there had been no need for silence, only for speed; but from now on they began to stalk, moving swiftly still, but silently as shadows, among the trees.
The Chronicles of Robin Hood Page 21
