Robin Hood
Page 1
Tilman Roehrig
Robin Hood
The Shadows of Sherwood Forest
I
WEST OF FRANCE. CHINON CASTLE.
“The king is dead.”
Whispers were spreading through long corridors, past chambers and halls. They quickly descended to the kitchen, and from there they leapt into the quarters of the maids, servants, and valets. Even before the news had left the palace courtyard on this sixth day of July, year of Our Lord 1189, the servants were already raiding the manor’s contents. Candlesticks, furniture, velvet, the silver tableware, whatever they could carry was seized by greedy hands and carried away. The servants entered the royal bedchamber and robbed the deceased of his rings and chains. And they tore off his clothes.
Then silence.
Hours later, some of the vassals who were still loyal to their lord finally arrived. They stormed through the looted halls and stared in horror at the deathbed. Henry Plantagenet, King of England and ruler of the western provinces of France, Henry II, the Norman prince, so powerful in life, lay half dragged from his bed, naked and motionless before them.
The loyal ones brought new robes, clothed the dead man, and folded his hands on his chest. Only then did they cry out, “The king is dead!”
ENGLAND. LONDON.
“Long live the King!”
Two months later, the great city on the River Thames was garlanded. Shoulder to shoulder, the crowds swayed through the streets between St Paul’s Cathedral and Westminster. Not just the citizens of London had left their shacks and houses to attend. They had come from all parts of England, on horseback, in carriages and carts, or on foot. Merchants and beggars, freemen and bonded men, they had all been waiting for the grand event since the early morning hours of the thirteenth of September, 1189.
The villagers from the shire of Nottingham stood close together. They were hardly more than a handful: the tinker, some women, and two children. They had sold well yesterday and the day before—carved ladles, spoons, jars, and woolens.
In the crush, the weaver woman practiced with her little son. “Say it: Long live the King!” The child struggled. The mother repeated it patiently. Suddenly, she paused. Her gaze grew stern. Her nine-year-old daughter wiped her dirty hands on her gown again. “Stop it, Marian! And stand up straight!” The mother sighed. “And please, when the king comes, shout as loud as you can!”
“I’ll shout what I want.” Marian ducked away and shook her head, sending untamed blond curls flying.
Armed men in chain mail pushed the people aside to form a wide passageway to the open portal of Westminster Abbey.
Fanfares! The ceremony was beginning.
Barons, earls, bishops, the noblest of the island, led the coronation procession. They were not met with applause or cheers. The citizens stretched their necks in silence. With closed faces, they watched as chosen knights and nobles carried the symbols of royal power past them: the scepter, the golden spurs, the purple cloak emblazoned with heraldic lions.
Restlessness. Suppressed curses. Here and there, artisans, fishermen, and grocers hid clenched fists behind their backs.
“Prince John,” the tinker hissed to the women of Nottingham. “So, that’s him.”
Rumors were circulating about the younger brother of the new king, terrible rumors. And yet he was allowed to carry one of the three golden swords the long distance from the cathedral to the Coronation Church at Westminster.
Many who saw him for the first time that day shuddered.
A splendid garment hung over his slight bent shoulders. The small head turned left and right. The eyes scrutinized the crowd from under half-closed lids. Whoever happened to meet that icy gaze quickly turned away in fright.
“By St. William,” the tinker muttered. “Better I stay in London for now. He has no authority here.”
The prince who used to be known only as John Lackland had been in England for two weeks, and for two weeks, his servants had been pressed in the taverns every night. “Tell us about him!”
And for a jug of ale, a pitcher of wine, the grooms and footmen and bellboys quickly forgot all caution. “He is false and wrathful. No one is safe from his knife.” They showed scars on their faces, their necks, their arms.
The prince was ruthless to everyone. John had always looked for an advantage. He betrayed his father, betrayed his brother, then shortly after begged them on his knees for forgiveness. John played friend and foe against each other, and now he had finally succeeded. He could shed the nickname Lackland. To keep the peace, the future king had bestowed upon his brother several counties, including sole dominion over Nottingham’s castle and city, with its fertile fields and vast forests.
The tinker’s glance followed the Prince. How the little head twitched to the right and left! “No, no,” he reaffirmed. “Best not to go back home for a while.” He scratched his bearded chin. Back home up in Nottingham, and farther north to York, the poor people would now have even more reason to be afraid. Greed, unbridled cruelty, and lust for power were truly the only qualities the twenty-three-year-old prince was known for.
Solemnly and slowly, the procession moved through the crowds.
“Over there. Do you see?” The weaver carefully turned her son’s head. “There goes our old queen.”
“Long live—”
She quickly covered his little mouth. “Not yet.”
Queen Eleanor, the mother of these unequal sons, smiled openly and warmly to the people at the roadside, and it was returned with equal warmth.
At last—here came Richard, walking under a silken canopy. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with red hair and a red beard, and his gray eyes were set firmly forward.
The weaver lifted her son above her head. “Now.”
“Long live the king,” her son crowed in a bright voice.
Marian watched the tall man, her eyes shining. She supported her little brother at the top of her voice. “Long live the king!”
“Hurrah! Hail!” the bystanders shouted.
The new king radiated such strength. Even the tinker extended his arms to him and was not ashamed to do it.
True, Richard Plantagenet was a Norman, like his father. A Frenchman, a stranger to this island. For more than a hundred years, since the great battle of Hastings, Norman kings had ruled over the English people from a distance. However, their liegemen and bishops had settled here, had taken the best lands, built castles, and extended the monasteries’ power. The fancied-up nobles turned up their noses at the people—they’re just barbarians, the nobles said, without courtly manners or culture. They parlayed in French and laughed at the language of the oppressed. They were more ruthless than the marauding knights of old, and pressed more and more taxes from the defeated.
Who could break the tyranny of the almighty lord sheriffs, the barons, and the merciless bishops? What good were law and order if they were not applied equally to the rich and to the poorest of the poor? Up to now, the Norman kings had been too weak, or they had come to England only rarely and far too briefly. Thus the Norman nobility had ruled over the Saxons without restraint.
And yet, the people rejoiced today. Richard was strong—strong enough. His heart possessed the strength of a lion, and he had given his word: “Before me and before the law, there is no difference between Normans and Saxons.” Perhaps soon they would know a life without fear? Perhaps peace and justice had really returned to the land?
“Richard the Lionheart! Long live King Richard!” All the hope of the oppressed lay in his name.
Countless candles lit up the church. The Archbishop of Canterbury daubed the head, chest, and arms of the thirty-two-year-old prince with holy oil. “Do you solemnly swear to uphold your oath?”
“Yes. With God’s help.”
Queen Eleanor looked proudly at her beloved son. Next to her, his head slightly turned away, John rubbed the white knuckles of his fingers against his teeth. His gaunt frame trembled.
“Long live the King!” Fanfares sounded from all the towers of London. “King Richard invites you to feast!”
The smells of roasted meat and fresh bread filled the streets. Foaming ale spilled out of overflowing pitchers. The weaver’s son held a honeyed bun in each hand and did not know which one to tuck into first. Marian stood beside her mother with glowing cheeks, amazed and laughing.
Drums rolled. Jugglers performed daredevil tricks. Bonfires blazed until late into the night.
“Long live . . .” the tinker murmured drunkenly as he curled up against a wall.
And not a thing got better. Richard the Lionheart had no time for England, nor for the plight of his subjects.
Queen Eleanor confronted her son. “You gave your word. Your people are being tormented and enslaved. You are their hope. Do not disappoint them!”
“First, I must go to the Holy Land. My Crusade pledge is older than the oath I swore to the English people.” Gently, the great man put his arm around the now-elderly dowager. “Do not worry, Mother. In two years at the most, we will have driven the infidels out of Jerusalem. When I return, I will—”
“And what happens until then?” The queen angrily freed herself from his embrace. “Who shall be your representative? Your brother John? He has the right.” She sighed and quietly continued, “He also is my son. But even I am afraid of him.”
“Do not worry. I appointed one of my closest friends as high judge. He will represent me during my absence. John must bow to him.”
With a bitter smile, Eleanor looked at the king. “How little you know your brother.”
Heavy clouds gathered. Rain. At the first gray light of December eleventh, Richard’s ship weighed anchor.
“Safe homecoming!” On the shore, the king’s courtiers and lieges shouted and waved. “We wish you safe return!”
Prince John waited motionlessly for the wide Norman ship to turn into the wind and set course for France with a billowing sail. “You shall never return,” he whispered. He pressed his narrow lips together. You gave me six counties. That is not enough. I want England, your throne, and everything you own.” His eyes gleamed icily. “And I wish you death, brother dear!”
II
The latest dispatch from the Crusade: In June and July of 1191, Richard the Lionheart and the Crusader army besiege the coastal city of Acre. Sultan Saladin cannot hold the gateway to the Holy Land.
NOTTINGHAM SHIRE. SHERWOOD FOREST.
He cut the struggling animal’s neck. Still crouched in hiding, he rubbed his blood-smudged hands with earth and cleaned them on the dewy grass. It was early, just graying, a chilly October day. The smell of steaming blood and intestines hung in the air.
The giant man slipped out of the undergrowth with a brief glance back. No one would discover the spot, and by tomorrow, foxes and crows would have dispersed the bloody remains. He quickly walked away with his load. The bushes were still. No twig snapped to the right or left of the path. With the gray hood of his thick, tightly woven wool cloak pulled down to his forehead, John Little carried the dead deer draped over his shoulders and neck.
He had had good hunting. His lips stretched into a smile under his thick black mustache and beard. Forbidden hunting. He had to bring the game safely to the village before the forest rangers or the mounted soldiers of the Lord Sheriff of Nottingham started their daily patrols through Sherwood.
A jay sprang high, its warning cry audible far and wide.
“Be quiet,” John growled. His fists tightened their grip on the deer’s legs. He had slung the longbow on his left shoulder, and the bowstring pulled his short cloak tight against his worn leather jerkin. Antlers down, the mighty deer head hung in the crook of his right arm. John looked up and narrowed his eyes. Here and there, the first rays of sunlight flashed through the crowns of the trees. “I’m late.” He quickened his pace. No sign of danger yet. “And may it stay that way.” He would check the rabbit snares later.
The giant carried his heavy prey without effort. “There will be enough meat today.” He pictured the wide eyes of the children, the grateful look of the women, and smiled. “Enough for us all.”
His village—five huts, the stable, and fourteen people, children included—belonged to Newstead monastery. The men and women worked hard for the monks’ welfare, and the peasants hardly had time to cultivate their own narrow strip of land. And this past wet summer, the fruits in the fields had rotted. Hunger loomed. The pious brothers would give nothing of their wealth, neither now in autumn, nor during the winter months.
Marian’s mother always clenched her fists when she mentioned the monks. “The prior fawns over his sheep and pigs. He doesn’t care what happens to us, John. While we must slave away for those black-robed vultures . . .” After a while, she added bitterly: “Until we are dead. Oh, John, it was supposed to get better for us, King Richard promised. I heard it myself. But it is worse . . .”
“Hush! I’ll take care of it,” he had assured her. It was no comfort to her, John Little knew that. He had lived with the weaver and her two children ever since her husband had been killed by a falling tree the previous spring. His wife had died in the harsh winter three years before. He had learned to live with the loss, but her own wound was still too fresh for Marian’s mother. He did not pressure her. He gave her, her little boy, and her girl Marian his bear-strong protection, and waited.
Cattle were more valuable to the prior than the serfs who guarded them! What was left for the bondsmen of the Augustinian monastery? Someone had to supply them with meat.
All game in Sherwood was King’s game. Such was the law. Before the coronation feast, Richard the Lionheart had granted the shire to his brother. From that day on, hares, roe deer, wild boar, and every animal of the forest belonged to the hard-hearted John. His governor and judge, the Lord Sheriff of Nottingham, had no mercy. Pity the man who was found poaching an animal. His trial would be short. Mutilation, dungeon, or death awaited him after the verdict—and woe to the village where royal game meat was found. The inhabitants were at the mercy of the judge’s cruel whim.
John Little knew every trail, every deer passage in Sherwood. His fists were hard, his arrows always struck, even at a hundred paces. And so he went hunting for everyone.
Luck of the hunt, this morning he returned with great spoils. He stopped still in the shelter of the woods and peered through the leaves into the wide clearing.
Children were fighting over a wooden ball. The sod-covered huts stood together in a circle. Thin columns of smoke rose from the roof openings. There was the familiar smell of hearth fire. Two women were already sitting outside on the village yard, plucking sheep’s wool from the distaff, making the spindle dance as they wound the yarn. Across the yard, next to the stable, the blacksmith and the three other men of the village were plastering the new barn’s wood-post walls with clay.
“Not too late.” John Little saw no black robe anywhere. The monk who supervised the day’s work was not yet there.
Satisfied, he released his breath. With a swaying step, he carried his prey toward the huts. As soon as the children spotted him, they forgot their game and let the ball roll carelessly away.
“John!” They ran toward the hunter, cheering. The giant man made a frightening grimace for them, clawing back and forth like a bear in front of the giggling pack.
“Turn around! Turn around!”
“That’s enough, now,” he growled after a moment.
The little mouths shut immediately. The children silently ran from door to door. “A deer,” they whispered. “Come quickly.” Their spread arms were not long enough to show the size of the animal.
Marian stormed into the open.
Her little brother followed right after. In his eagerness, he stumbled, miserably shouting after his sister. Marian did not care. She laughed at the bearded hunter, examined the prey, and took in the sight of the large antlers. “How many did it take? Say it!”
“One arrow. Straight through the heart.”
“On your honor?”
“It is as I said, girl.”
“Someday, I’ll be able to do that, too.” She whirled around in circles, blond curls flying.
The weaver woman was waiting for him outside his hut. “I’m glad you’re back.”
John paused a moment to give her a loving gaze, and reassure her. “It’s all right.” He smiled.
Behind the stable, the men of the village had already erected a wooden frame. John heaved the carcass from his shoulder, and together they hooked the game by its hind legs to the crossbar.
“We share.” The giant pushed his woolen hood back around his neck. “But this time, I want all of the hide.” Almost embarrassed, he wiped the sweat from his forehead up into his black mane. “I need a new jacket. There won’t be much left after.”
“And the antlers!” Marian reached for them.
“Let it go, girl,” mumbled John. As he walked away, the neighbors carefully began to peel the deer out of its hide. What a day! Anticipation lit up their faces. There would be a feast, and everyone would be able to eat their fill!
In the hut, the hunter loosened his longbow and put it down next to the quiver. “Be right back. Just quickly checking the snares.”
Marian’s mother looked up from her loom. “Take care of yourself! We need you, John.”
“Yes, yes.” He briefly checked the hunting dagger in its sheath and reached for his oaken staff. In his hand, the man-tall, arm-thick trunk became a dangerous weapon. He could bring down rabid boars with a single blow. Push and strike: in a fight, he let the stick whirl and feared neither sword nor battle-ax.
Marian was waiting for him outside the hut. “Take me with you!” She had girded her wool frock with a leather strap, at her narrow hip she carried a knife. In her hand, she weighed the stick John had carved for her.