Robin Hood

by Roehrig Tilman

  The sheriff’s face had lost all its color.

  Coolly, the prior dealt him the final blow: “What will happen if I report the matter higher up and bring charges before England’s highest judge, King Richard’s deputy? No one in the kingdom will dare to challenge the influential Order of Augustinians, not even Prince John. Mon Dieu, I cannot imagine how he will deal with you in his rage!”

  “Enough. No more!” The sheriff leaned far over the table. “What do you want?”

  The pious prior modestly folded his hands over his bulging belly. “For each woman and each man twenty shillings. Ten for each child.”

  “Bien. This time I will be generous.” Thom de Fitz had already pulled out his coin purse, but suddenly he hesitated. “What do we say if inquiries are made at your monastery or here in the city?”

  “Nom de Dieu, my dear sheriff, did your man not mention a monster? Just between us, there was a man of unusual size in the village. I do not know his name, but I have often been told of his amazing strength. It would appear that he killed your men. He has become worthless to me. Let us make use of him: We have our monster. The fact is this: A rabid peasant caused the bloodbath and is on the run.”

  “You are a sly fox, my lord.” The sheriff smiled. “You came to me to report this terrible incident. I have ordered a hunt for the killer, as is my duty. When he is caught, he will resist and be killed. No more witnesses. And on top of that, I shall have satisfied the law. Parbleu, mes compliments!”

  “If you compensate my loss with coin, I will confirm your story.”

  The ringed fingers tugged at the string of the pouch. “How many there were?”

  “Four men and three women, and five children. That’s seven pounds and another two pounds and ten shillings.”

  Thom de Fitz walked his guest out. High up on the battlement, carpenters were mending damaged planks. As usual, the courtyard of the castle was bustling with maids, manservants, and armed men. The iron-reinforced gate stood wide open, the drawbridge was lowered, and the cries of merchants echoed up from the market.

  “One more word of advice, in parting.” The prior took the sheriff’s arm. With a sideways glance at the obediently waiting man-at-arms, he whispered: “Only when there is no one, and I emphasize no witness, left, only then can this affaire funeste no longer harm you. May God be with you!” With this, the prior went over to the two friars of his abbey. One of them held his mule’s bridle, the other helped the corpulent prior into the saddle.

  Thom de Fitz watched the Augustinian until he had ridden through the archway. “It is not just your robe that is dark, you cunning cutthroat!”

  With a snap of his fingers, he ordered the sergeants of the castle guard to come to him. “The murderer of your comrades is still at large. He is probably trying to head north.” The orders were brief. Five men and a pack of dogs were to follow the trail. “And no mercy, Baldwin. Bring him to me, dead!” He pulled the sergeant down by his beard. “But before that . . .” His thumb pointed to the waiting man-at-arms who had given testimony. “As I have just learned, your mates would still be alive if that bastard had not cowardly abandoned them. Therefore . . .” The ringed hand made a tight horizontal cut across his throat. “You understand, Baldwin? And right away. Nothing should be left of him.”

  The man’s hatred was inflamed as intended. “To the kennel with him!”

  “No, no. Leave him to the rats! The dogs must not eat now. They must be starving when they chase the killer through Sherwood.”

  The sergeant straightened and turned to the man-at-arms. “Hey, you! Before we set off to hunt your monster, we’d better have a drink. The sheriff is treating us to a pitcher of ale. Come along!”

  The soldier was only too happy to obey and was already licking his lips. With a broad grin, Baldwin closed the gate down into the cave behind them. “Take the torch and go ahead!”

  Before they reached the ale cellar, he rammed his knife into the unsuspecting man’s neck. “Shame. If it had been up to me, I would have let you die slowly.” The sergeant spat and raised the torch. With one hand, he dragged the dead man by his iron collar deeper into the mountain. He left the body below the dungeon cells, in a blind corridor. In time, nothing would remain of it but a skeleton. And who in Nottingham cared about bones and rusty chain mail?

  When he returned to the courtyard, Baldwin nodded to his master.

  “Bien. Très bien,” murmured Thom de Fitz. “Now there is only one witness left. And he will not escape me.” Elated, he returned to the hall to attend to his official business.

  A short time later, five men-at-arms mounted their horses. Each had a crossbow, sword, and lance. Their helmets’ iron nose guards gave their faces a rigid cruelty. The high-legged gray hounds were panting, baring their teeth, impatiently yanking at their long leather leashes.

  Sergeant Baldwin raised his fist to the sky. “Fooor-ward!”

  The hunt for the monster, for the murderer of his comrades, had begun.

  IV

  SHERWOOD FOREST

  In the morning, Marian ate some of the bread. She had tried to walk, a few steps, unsteady, much too slow for an escape.

  “You’ll be all right.” John Little was confident, although the child still did not speak. “You’ll be all right if you eat and drink.”

  Before they left, Marian had made it clear to him by signs that she wanted to sit on his shoulders, rather than be draped across them like a carcass.

  “Then show me you can!” The giant slung the taut bow on his left shoulder and the fighting staff beside his right leg. Marian hesitated.

  “Come on, little one! You can do it all by yourself.”

  She finally clambered up over his knee and arm and sat astride his neck. She wrapped her arms around the giant and leaned her face into his black mane.

  John snorted and pranced. But there was no laughter, not even a giggle in response. Only a faint tug at his chin beard signaled that his ward felt safe.

  Hills and valleys, thick-stemmed oaks, beeches, ash trees, then thick bushes again. They had made good progress through Sherwood. Around noon they reached the rise above the River Meden. “If these fellows are fast, they’ll be waiting for us down there,” John figured. From his shoulder, Marian had clambered onto the broad branches of a beech tree. “Wait here.”

  John carefully surveyed the riverbank below. Then, roaring like a bull, he suddenly stormed through the ford to the opposite side. He stopped, waited.

  Nothing moved. No ambush. The hunters had not entered Sherwood from the main road along the Meden River. “Then they’ll be trying farther north at the River Poulter. Otherwise, they’ll never catch me.”

  And on they went. They bypassed two settlements. No dog barked, nobody noticed them. In the early afternoon, rain set in. At first, they heard the patter high above them, in the leafy canopy. Eventually, the water came through, and soon the path was sodden. John let Marian get down. Her curls hung in limp strands, the wet frock stuck to her. She stared past him absently.

  “You shall not freeze.” He loosened the neck strap of his gray wool cloak, and wrapped the cloak around the girl, pulling the hood over her wet head.

  In the vast, jagged valley of the Poulter, they waited. The only way to cross over was between the upper and lower lakes, where the water flowed past the village of Carburton and through a narrow riverbed for a good two miles.

  And from there, John already heard the hoarse barks of a pack of hounds and the horn signals of the Lord Sheriff’s men-at-arms.

  “We can’t get past them that way,” he whispered to his rider. “Hold on tight! It’s going to get rough.” Marian tugged at the beard hairs. She had understood.

  John left the path and entered Sherwood to the west. Gradually the barking of the dogs faded away. The cloudy sky covered the sun. In order not to lose his bearings, John wandered within sight of the upper lake. He knew that the shore would eventually lead him north again. His progress was laborious. On paths torn into by t
he storm, he was blocked by giant fallen trees. And rain, ever more rain. The hidden gullies were dangerous. Often, he groped with his staff like a blind man across heights covered with thickets and moss. The giant lost time, valuable time.

  At dusk, rocks rose up on their left. “We mustn’t go any farther, girl. Creswell lies beyond that.” The village was in the shire of Derby. The Sheriff of Nottingham also ruled Derby.

  John found a dry cave, built a fire, and persuaded Marian to eat some bread. She took only two bites. “We’ll make it across tomorrow,” he promised. The girl had closed her eyes and sank forward. Gently John caught the slumping body and leaned her head against his side.

  The space was too narrow for him. He tried to sleep, but terrible images rose through his dreams. John groaned and pressed his fist against his forehead. He wanted to get some rest, at the least.

  Dense wafts of mist hung in the treetops. The rain had stopped.

  John gathered some mushrooms to strengthen them. “They won’t find us in the fog. What do you think?” Tense, he waited, hoped. In vain. Marian remained silent.

  “Well, never mind. You’ll see, one day, everything will be good.”

  She refused to climb onto John’s shoulders, paced up and down the cave to prove to him how strong she was again. John clapped his hands. “That’s it, girl.”

  He gave her time. For a grueling mile, Marian bravely kept up. After she had stumbled the third time, she yanked at his leather jacket and pointed to his shoulders.

  “Well, come on up! I have plenty of room.”

  They crossed the upper reaches of the Poulter. In a wide arc, John returned to a path that tradesmen had once used on their way north.

  The fog lifted. The trees stood far apart, with more bushes and shrubs instead. They had almost reached the edge of Sherwood when the smell of roasting meat warned John. He stopped at once and held the fighting staff tighter.

  It was too late. A voice from behind commanded, “Move on, man! Nice and slow . . . or you’ll have my arrow in your back.”

  John obeyed. With Marian on his shoulder, he could not let himself fall, nor could he suddenly jump to the side and turn to attack the enemy behind him.

  “Now, go left!” the voice ordered.

  John obeyed. “Don’t be afraid!” he whispered to Marian. They came through the bushes to a clearing. Three men sat around a fire. Each of them was roasting a hare on a stick.

  Forester rangers! The silver emblems on the dark leather caps and the almost-black leather jerkins were unmistakable.

  They had hardly spotted the giant when each one threw his roast into the grass and reached for a bow—three arrowheads were aimed at John’s mighty chest.

  “Quiet, people!” came the voice with another order. “He won’t risk anything.” With that, the fourth forest ranger slipped past John. He stood there, standing broad-legged, and mocked, “He is obedient as a lamb.”

  I could crush you. John conquered his rage. His opponents had the advantage, and he could not fight them. Just as well, he thought.

  The forester had to tip his head back to look face-to-face with his prisoner.

  “Where are you from?”

  “From back that way.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “John.”

  “What are you doing in Sherwood?”

  “Goin’ up that way.”

  The woodsman shouted over his shoulder to his comrades. “A bit dimwitted, this one. What do you fellows think?”

  “I don’t know,” said one.

  “Be careful,” said another.

  The leader narrowed his eyes. “You’re under arrest.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Any man caught with a bow and arrow in Sherwood will be arrested,” the leader announced. “We’ll take him over to Worksop. He stays in jail until court day.”

  With both fists, John deliberately clutched the man-size, arm-thick oak staff and put one foot forward.

  The forester jumped back. The others stood ready to shoot.

  John did not seem to notice the danger. He sniffed, stared at the roast hare, and licked his lips. “I’m hungry.”

  “Yes, he is dim.”

  “Ask him about the brat,” someone demanded.

  The forester pointed at Marian.

  John was silent.

  “Well, come on.”

  “What?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Daughter.”

  “Drop the girl. But before that, hand over your bow and quiver.”

  The giant obeyed only when one of them aimed the arrow at his ward.

  Marian stood still. Her blue eyes showed no fear, but stared blankly through the men. The forester asked her name, but she did not answer. He shouted at her. He grabbed the girl by the shoulders. He shook her. No reaction. Upset, he raised his fist.

  A rumble made the guy spin around.

  “She’s got the awful fever.”

  Horrified, the royal forest rangers stepped back. John grinned stupidly, babbling, “The Master has cast us out.” He let his big head dangle back and forth, stepped from one foot to the other, and uttered strange sounds.

  “Both have it. By St. Godrick. Both of them!” Fear seized the troop. “Chase them away,” one of them demanded hastily.

  “Don’t move!” The forester ducked and crept closer, picked up longbow and quiver from the ground, and hurriedly threw the weapons into the fire. “There. And now grab your brat! Get lost!”

  John shouldered the oak staff, shook his head, and nodded to Marian. He pushed her closer to the fire. The men’s drawn arrows followed every move of the giant.

  “I’m hungry.” Calmly John bent down and took a wooden skewer together with a brown-roasted hare and laid it on his shoulder with the fighting staff.

  “Away with you,” cried the forester.

  Without haste, without turning around again, John led the girl from the clearing. No sooner were they out of sight than he lifted Marian on his arm. “Hold on, little one!” He made off at a run.

  Soon, Sherwood opened. John stopped running. At a safe distance, he walked west past the town of Worksop, breathing with relief. A vast sunny landscape opened up in front of them: villages, rolling hills, fields and meadows, scattered small copses of trees. “We’ll be down there by evening.”

  They rested in a sheltered grassy hollow. John enjoyed the smell of roast hare. “King’s quarry.” He winked at Marian. “No one has ever voluntarily given one to me.” Happily, he cut a tender piece from the back for her. “Here. This is the best.”

  Marian took it. For a moment, she looked at him clearly and openly.

  John leaned over to her. “Yes. Come on, say something. Yes, try!”

  Marian clenched her fingers into the meat. She moved her lips, struggled. Tears rose.

  John quickly stroked her head. “Never you mind! If that’s how it is, that’s how it is.”

  They ate the rabbit. The girl took only a little, John ate the rest, nibbled every bone clean.

  As they headed along the edge of a cart track, Marian sat on his shoulders again. After an hour, John tugged her foot. “I don’t understand, little one. Before I ate the rabbit, my hunger was not nearly as bad as it is now. Do you understand that?”

  She grabbed his mane of hair and shook his head.

  Then he laughed.

  Farmers’ wives passed them. A wagon overtook them. Nobody paid much mind to the man who carried a child on his shoulders and greeted them politely. John was convinced: “The men-at-arms won’t look for me this far north.” And if they did, if he was stopped? Very well. He was merely a father taking his sick daughter to the next town. Who would be suspicious? Unless . . . ? John thought of the sole one of those murderers who had escaped. No. He brushed the thought aside. They won’t look for me that far north.

  At last they crossed into Yorkshire, late in the afternoon. Like a big wheel, the giant let the staff whirl around his right hand, then grabbed it again
firmly. “Tonight, little one, we sleep well. I promise.”

  He spotted a mill by a stream and knocked. With a bland expression, the miller listened to the father’s story about the sick daughter and asked no questions. It was fine with him. They could sleep in the hay.

  His wife brought a cup of milk over to the barn. She had pity on the exhausted, mute girl. Uncertain, the woman stood there, staring John in the face and then turning her back to him. Falteringly she asked, “Might you know my son?”

  “What is his name?”

  “Much. Yellow-haired boy.”

  “No, I’ve never met him.”

  “He’s on the run, too.”

  John sucked in his breath. “What are you talking about? I’m taking my daughter—”

  “Stop! I saw it in your eyes. They change, I’ve seen it.” The miller’s wife turned around again. “Don’t be afraid! We won’t say anything. We never say anything.” Her lips trembled. “When you meet my son . . . Tell him we are thinking of him. But he must not come here, tell him. Tell him it was the Baron’s own servants. They killed the steward. And Sir Roger ordered it. Tell him that!” And she raised her hands in despair. “But Sir Roger blames my boy. Because he needs someone to blame.”

  She began to hurry away. After a few more steps, she stopped again. “Much. That’s his name. Much. Remember that!”

  John scratched his beard, staring after her until she disappeared into the cottage. “Fine, then,” he murmured. “I’ll remember.”

  Later, he lay stretched out on his back. Marian had curled up next to him. “You know, girl, we are going over to Doncaster. That’s a real town. I’ll ask at the blacksmith. I bet he could do with another pair of strong hands. We’ll stay there through the winter.” John paused and listened. In short, regular pace, Marian breathed in and out. “Poor thing. At least I can hear that much from you.”

  Before he fell asleep, he thought, Next time, I’ll take all their rabbits.

  V

  YORKSHIRE. DONCASTER AND FARTHER NORTH.

  John had asked twice. And for the second time, the blacksmith had shaken his head. With sharp hammer blows, he stretched the red-hot iron on the anvil, thrust it into the water, until he was satisfied. Only then did the blacksmith look at the tall man and say, “Look! I won’t feed two mouths.” He pointed to Marian. “The mute there is worth nothing.” In a mollifying gesture, he offered the giant a sip of ale. John refused.