Robin Hood

by Roehrig Tilman

  “I can’t, girl. It is too dangerous now. Go help your mother!”

  “To weave? I don’t feel like it today.”

  “Mind what I say . . . It’s getting late. You’ll slow me down.” Gently but firmly, he pushed her aside and left the circle of huts.

  Marian ran along beside him. “Just because I’m not a boy? Is that why?” Her blue eyes sparked. “You are a coward.”

  He gave her no answer.

  “Yes, a coward and a fool.”

  John walked faster toward the edge of the clearing.

  “You probably needed more than one arrow for the stag.” Fury drove her on. “Yes! You lied!”

  The giant suddenly stopped. The scar though his beard on his right cheek flamed red. He bent down to the furious girl. “No.” His voice became dark. “I will never lie to you, you know that. Or to your mother.”

  With that, he left Marian and plunged into the brush at the edge of the clearing. No sound of rustling marked his passage as he disappeared from her view. Not a twig snapped.

  Marian looked after him and stamped her foot. “Vile man!” Only when she had reached the village yard did her shoulders sink. The day was spoiled. And it was that big oaf’s fault. Marian wiped her eyes. Should she help her mother now? No. Maybe later.

  Unnoticed, she crept her way around the cottage. Right behind the henhouse, she crouched down, pushed the reed-woven lid a little to the side, and climbed into an underground chamber. She closed the hatch again, but just enough to allow a slit of daylight to enter. John and her mother stored their supplies here in the coolness. There was not much this year: two loaves of bread. A trough half-filled with grain. Next to it, some apples, pears, and nuts. And pots full to the brim with honey-sweetened berries.

  Marian loved the smell of the bread and fruit. When she had been in a fight, when she was unhappy, this is where she fled. Nowhere else could her thoughts be put in order again and her heart be calmed. Marian closed her eyes. Oh, John, I was mean to you. You never lie to me, I know that. But a girl can be just as fast as a boy. Why can’t you understand that?

  Horses! Marian flinched. The thunder of hooves came closer, had already reached the village. Orders. Shouting.

  Now children were crying. The women called out loudly for them. Marian pressed her hand to her mouth and pushed her face up close to the gap of light. No, her mother was not among them. She was in the hut with Marian’s brother, for sure.

  “King’s game!”

  The raw roar of strangers was everywhere.

  “You stole a deer from Prince John!” one cried out over the noise. “Round them all up!”

  Marian closed her eyes. Her heart was pounding. Armed men, the soldiers of the Lord Sheriff, had discovered their stag. Holy Mother of God, do not abandon us!

  Only fragments of sentences reached her hiding place.

  “Have mercy . . .”

  “Spare us . . .”

  “Thieves must be punished, you know that . . .” Laughter, terrible laughter. “Chop off their hands.”

  “Stop! Wait.”

  That’s the blacksmith, Marian thought.

  “You must not do this without the judge. Wait—” His voice broke off with a gurgling sound. Silence.

  Into the silence shot a sharp cry: “Murderer! You murderers!”

  “M-mother,” stammered Marian. “Please don’t. Please!”

  But the weaver fearlessly hurled her indignation toward the henchmen. “We belong to Newstead Abbey. You can take us to court, that’s all you can do. But now you are murderers, a murdering gang, nothing more. Now the father prior himself will bring charges against you with the sheriff. And we will all bear witness to what you did to our blacksmith.”

  Again the squad leader laughed and laughed. Suddenly he stopped. “No one will say anything.”

  Marian heard her mother’s horrified cry. “Spare my child!” Then Mother screamed and sobbed.

  Again and again, Marian shook her head. “Don’t! Don’t! It’s not true.” Tears flowed down the girl’s cheeks.

  “Kill them! No survivors.” The leader of the troop laughed. “And you, woman, will watch. I’ll kill you last.”

  Stomping hooves. The villagers cried out in terror, whimpering until their moans died away.

  I must help Mother. “Must help.” Marian opened the hatch and climbed outside. She pushed herself along the hut wall. Frozen, she stopped. Her neighbors lay in the square. Children, women, and men. Four riders rode back and forth over the dead, still stabbing them with their spears.

  “Must help.” There was Mother.

  The troop leader had wrapped his left arm around her mother’s neck from behind and pulled her pressed against his chain mail. “Open your eyes!” He shook her.

  Marian whispered: “Must help. Must help.” She could not move. She saw her brother, lying at their mother’s feet. The cloth over his chest was dark red. “Must help.”

  Now the leader raised his right fist. A dagger! Marian tore open her mouth to scream. But no sound came. In her head, she kept screaming, shrill.

  The man carelessly pushed his victim away.

  The loud scream inside of Marian died away, but a steady muffled echo remained and filled her up. Almost gently, the world shifted away from her a little. She watched her mother fall.

  The girl stood there but not there, her eyes wide.

  As if from far away, she heard another roar.

  The iron men spurred their horses around and formed a line. Ready for battle, their leader drew his sword. John Little was already upon him. His oak staff struck the Lord Sheriff’s man right in the face. The man’s head snapped back. Another roar—circling, the giant knocked two riders out of their saddles. Another roar—his blows tore through the chain mail. The fourth man stabbed with his spear at the raging giant. John repelled it, pulled the fellow down, and killed him before he reached the ground. In wild haste, the last of the murderous gang spurred his horse. The mare leaped over the corpses and rushed toward the forest.

  John Little did not pursue him. Breathing heavily, he scanned the village square. His eyes found the woman slumped next to her son. John staggered over. The oak staff slipped from his hand. His mighty shoulders trembled. Silently, he dropped to both knees. As if he was afraid to wake her up, he leaned gingerly over the dead woman, lifted her long hair, and pressed it to his eyes.

  The bell of the monastery rang out. The chime tore John out of his pain. He had to flee before the monk reached the village. No matter what the mounted men had done to the peasants, the man who had escaped would blame John. The Lord Sheriff believed his own men over any serf. John knew that. And if the prior went to Nottingham to give witness? No, that would not change a thing. There would be no tedious investigating; only one man would be blamed for the slaughter. “They will hunt me down like a wild beast, like the outlaws who live in the woods,” he murmured.

  John Little placed the boy’s body in his mother’s arms. One last look. He hastily grabbed the staff and stood. No one must find him here. Longbow, quiver, flint and sponge, some bread, especially the leather water bag! In the hut, John gathered up the essentials and hurried outside again.

  There he found the girl. She stood motionless next to the entrance.

  “Marian.” Despite his misery, he felt joy. “You’re alive. You were waiting for me.”

  Her pale eyes looked at him, blankly.

  “Marian? It’s me.”

  She did not answer. John gently took her hot hand, touched the ashen face. “Say something!” She was silent.

  “There’s no time. Come on, now. I’ll take you with me.” She did not move a muscle. The bell of Newstead Abbey rang hard. With no further hesitation, he picked up the girl and draped her body around his broad neck. “Fear not, little one! I’ll take care of you.”

  He left the clearing at a run. Northward, but not via the great trade road along the forest’s eastern edge, not along the cart tracks that ran from village to village through
Sherwood. John knew the old, almost overgrown craftsmen’s trails. But quickly now—he would have to cross the forest before the pursuers could cordon off the area. There was not much time, perhaps only until the next noon, and at night it would be too dangerous to run, and the limp girl only further slowed his progress.

  Not too much haste; he must not tire himself out too quickly! John slowed his speed. His mind forced his muscles to rest. From there on, his steady, measured breaths determined the steady, persistent pace of his steps. Now and then, he spoke to Marian but received no answer. So the giant only made sure that no branch, no thorny vine hurt the girl. They would not be safe until they had crossed the border to Yorkshire. Alone and in dry weather, the route usually took him a day via the trade road. “Two days this time,” he estimated.

  The night fell far too quickly over Sherwood. The outlines of the trees turned black. Before darkness descended completely, John Little sought a sheltered campsite.

  “Have a drink, child.” He squatted next to Marian in the moss, held her curly head, and placed the leather bag’s horn mouthpiece against her cracked lips. At first, the water ran down her chin, but then Marian opened her mouth. A first sip, a second.

  “That’s the way.” John smiled. When he felt her hand on his arm, he murmured, “I will hold the bag. You just drink.”

  Next, he took the horn between his teeth. Without stopping, he quenched his great thirst.

  “Do you want bread?”

  The girl shook her head slowly.

  “Say something,” he asked and waited.

  Marian was silent. Suddenly she trembled all over her body. Helplessly, she opened her mouth, and tears ran down her cheeks.

  “Don’t. Leave it, then. Let it be!” He stroked her skinny back. “No more crying!”

  Later, John cleared the hiding place of rotten branches. On top of the moss, he piled more moss, so that his charge would be comfortable. “Sleep now, little one!”

  She stared at him.

  “We must rest. Tomorrow will be hard.”

  Marian curled up.

  “That’s right,” he murmured. Lying on his side, he moved the girl closer to him so that she could sleep on the mossy bed, protected in the crook of his giant body.

  III

  NOTTINGHAM SHIRE. SHERWOOD FOREST.

  Visible from far across the plain, the castle stood high above the River Trent on a hilltop. Extending close to the edges of the steep cliffs, the defensive walls, towers, and buildings enclosed a courtyard. The only way up or down was through the gate and drawbridge to the northeast. To the right and left of the sloping road, the poorest peasants had built their huts and stables. A little farther down by the market, beside the smoky taverns, stood the houses of the court servants and merchants, substantial houses with carved doors. The most splendid one, only a few steps away from the church, belonged to the Lord Sheriff.

  In case of an imminent attack, the inhabitants fled up to the castle fortress. Its walls could withstand any assault, and Nottingham Castle was well equipped for a siege.

  The mountain’s sandstone was riddled with countless caves, back and forth and up and down, ancient, carefully closed tunnels and newly excavated passages. Almost all the entrances into them were located in the city. And the more recent shafts had been expanded into chambers by stonemasons. There, grain and salted meat and dried stockfish were stored, enough to hold out until a besieging enemy ran out of supplies.

  However, the citizens were careful not to open their ancestors’ tunnels and penetrate deeper into the dark labyrinth of caves. They were often startled from their sleep. Wasn’t that a scream? Can’t you hear the whimpering? Mothers pressed their children to their breasts. Hush! Herne the Hunter is driving the souls of the damned through the mountain. Hush! We are safe here in bed.

  The largest cave belonged to the castle. Those who knew its secret could travel the tunnel through many turns all the way down to the cliff directly above the banks of the River Trent. The tunnel’s upper, spacious niches served as wine and ale cellars, and the lower side tunnels were lined with iron grates embedded in the rock. How many of the sheriff’s prisoners had perished miserably in those dungeon cells, tortured, tormented by rats? Up in the castle hall, daylight fell through high slit windows and spread like a shining jewel directly upon the elevated dais at one end. This bright area, surrounded on three sides by tapestries of hunting scenes, was reserved for the count and his guests of honor. The rest of the room remained in a gloomy twilight even during the day, sparsely lit by the glow of the fireplace.

  When Prince John was not in Nottingham, his governor and Lord Sheriff took advantage of the freedom. He claimed the stately dais for himself and loved to conduct his official business there instead of in his own house. It gave him pleasure to look down on the accused on court day.

  Small in stature, Thom de Fitz dressed according to the latest French fashion. On each hand, he wore three artfully forged rings. In a tournament bout with sharp weapons, the Lord Sheriff had lost the tip of his nose. Since this defeat, he had covered the scarred stump with a false nose of chalk paste every day. Despite his pleas and then his threats, his wife Beatrice had never gotten used to this sight. But no stranger dared to scoff, especially when anger darkened the sheriff’s face and made the mark of his shame stand out even more.

  Thom de Fitz was on his guard this morning. As a precaution, he had taken a seat in his master’s high armchair behind a massive oak table. His visitor sat directly opposite him, eye to eye. More than an hour had passed, and again and again, the Lord Sheriff had tried to outsmart the prior of Newstead Abbey.

  “He is the only witness!” With an outstretched finger, Thom de Fitz pointed toward his man-at-arms somewhere deep in the hall’s semidarkness. “And he is telling the truth.”

  “The truth?” The prior mockingly raised his brows. “Pardon me. Since Prince John appointed you judge here, the truth has become a rare commodity. Hardly anyone has seen it lately.”

  “Hold your tongue!”

  Unimpressed, the prior smoothed a wrinkle on his dark travel cloak. “The fact is, cher ami: My monk, who supervises the peasants, went over to the village yesterday after the morning bell. There he found all the inhabitants slain. Slaughtered most horribly, if I may say so.” A slight indignant shake of the head. “Even the children!” The pious gentleman continued: “These people belonged to my abbey. I have lost property!”

  “Diable! My men were lying just beside them. I am less four armed men. We are even.”

  Tense silence. The sheriff pressed his hands against each other, an angry blush spreading over his angular face. Only the white spot on his nose did not change.

  They eyed each other. A conciliatory word spoken too soon would cost money, pieces of silver coins.

  “The fact is, cher ami, none of the villagers would have dared to attack your henchmen.”

  The Lord Sheriff thumped his fists on the table. “Diable!”

  “Do not curse in my presence,” the prior admonished him softly. “It will get us nowhere. We are negotiating a transaction, nothing more.”

  “Very well. By St. Dunstan, then! Let’s start at the beginning. for the last time.” Thom de Fitz snapped his fingers at his armory sergeant. “What happened yesterday in this village?”

  “It was like this . . .” Under cover of the semidarkness, the sergeant repeated his memorized story. They had discovered the stag. As ordered, they had rounded up the people in the village square. “Our squad leader was just about to start the interrogation. Then the monster came out of the forest. Not with a staff, he came at us with a tree trunk. Nothing could be done against the savage. My comrades were dead. I barely escaped.”

  “And the villagers? Were they still alive?” the sheriff pressed on.

  “When I left, everyone was well.” A long pause.

  “Go on, lad!”

  “That’s what happened. I heard the screams behind me. That’s what happened. Everyone was screaming
, including the children.” The servant fell silent.

  “Bien. Are you finally convinced, venerable father?” Thom de Fitz pulled out a small cloth with the ringed fingers of his right hand and wiped his face, carefully dabbing around the stump of his nose. He then ordered his sergeant: “Get out! Wait outside!”

  No sooner had the armed man left the hall than the prior added, in the witness’s tone of voice: “And then, the monster mauled the peasants. Yes, it was just like that.” He laughed dryly. “Excuse me. Even the third time doesn’t make the story any more credible. No, cher ami. This is not going well for you. Consider that it is not just some Saxon chief who has had valuable serfs slaughtered like cattle, but I, a Norman and prior of an Augustinian monastery. And this act was not committed by forest rangers, but by Nottingham castle guards. No law gives armed men the right to do this. They only undertake such raids on your express orders. And don’t they have a far greater nuisance to deal with in Sherwood?”

  The Lord Sheriff froze, struck to the core . . .

  Before Thom de Fitz could compose himself, the pious prior lifted his finger. “Is it not so? Your men are hunting those outlaws in vain. They stalk through the forest like blind sheep. There are rumors everywhere that the vagabonds have become more and more organized during your time as sheriff. They are even said to have a leader. What was the name?” The prior tapped his fingers on his forehead. “Capuchon? Capeline? That they wear over their heads, it’s supposed to be green. I cannot think of the word in the language of these uncouth Saxons.”

  “Hood!” Thom de Fitz grunted. “Robin Hood is what this fellow calls himself. Par saint Fontin!”

  “No swearing in my presence!” The prior glared, menacingly.

  The sheriff bit his lips.

  “Bien, mon cher. It’s no secret: Because you neglect your duties, the savages run free. Instead, you let the villagers be terrorized. You alone are responsible for the killing and plundering. Pitiable Thom de Fitz, you know your master well enough. Prince John wants his shield to look unblemished . . . on the outside. And you must see to it!”