John breathed heavily against the drunkenness. I don’t want to fight. He can insult me. I can bear that easily. But he should stop this.
Robin Hood pulled out the hunting dagger, laid his left hand on the ground, and spread his fingers. “Friends, you know the game. Watch out, John! I ask four times. The fourth time, the name fits.”
John clenched his fists, struggling to hold back. I don’t want to argue, but this . . .
The tip of Robin’s blade floated between thumb and index finger.
“John Little?” The leader looked around.
“No!” the choir determined in a deep voice.
The tip of the blade shifted and stopped over the next gap between fingers.
“Dwarf?
“No!
“Giant?
“No!
The shining blade hovered, aimed between the last two fingers of Robin’s left hand. “Little John?
“Yes!” was the solemn answer.
Robin Hood plunged the dagger into the ground right up to the hilt. “So be it.”
With roars and applause, everyone rose and approached John. He sat there, trembling. The outlaw leader shouted, “I baptize you with the name of Little John,” and emptied the ale jug over the newly baptized man’s enormous head.
With one wild blow, John smashed the jug. “No more of these games!” As quickly as he could, he scrambled up, groped for his own dagger, searched for it, fumbled around, and finally shook his head. The sheath was empty.
“I borrowed it,” Robin explained, menacingly and softly, as he turned John’s weapon back and forth in his hand. “Little John. You are an idiot. Don’t spoil our fun!”
“You call this fun—”
“Quiet! I make the rules.” The Robin laughed. “Nobody means to insult you here. You belong with us, and that’s that.” He handed the dagger back.
Speechless, John slipped it into his belt. His thoughts came together. “It’s always been like this. I’ve always been irritable. Maybe it’s because I’m so big and my name is so small. That’s why.”
A new pitcher of fresh ale was brought.
“You know, John.” Robin sat down beside him and pointed to the companion whose mouth was disfigured by scars. “The executioner slashed this one’s mouth open. We call him Pete Smiling. He says, if he pulls his lips up so you can see his teeth, only then is he actually smiling—otherwise not. But nobody makes fun of Pete. You should see him with his sword. Nobody makes fun of Pete. We laugh with him, yes, but no one mocks him.”
Robin pointed again. “And our Gilbert over there. The Sheriff of Nottingham had him tortured. See his right hand? He can still move it, but he feels no pain, and the blood no longer flows properly to his fingers. It’s always pale. That is why we call him Whitehand.” Robin pointed to a man whose sole plait of hair dangled from the back of his head. In the glow of the embers, the shriveled bare skin of the top of his head seemed itself to glow. “This is Tom Toad. Because he looks like a toad. Hey, Tom, what happened to your head? But make it short.”
The outlaw stroked his naked skull. “In Doncaster, in the harsh winter of three years ago. I needed money for herbs and a health powder. So I cut some of the Baron’s wood. My twins were only little boys. Both boys were sick. Sir Roger’s forest rangers got me. The Baron laughed when they cut off my Beth’s ear. And then they heated up some oil. Well. Hair won’t grow where they dashed me with it anymore.”
John felt as if stabbed in the chest. “And your twins?”
Tom Toad went silent and shook his naked head.
“Still upset?” Robin asked the giant quietly.
“All right.” John felt at the scar in his beard. How small it was, far too unimportant to be pointed out, told of in a story. From the corner of his eye, he looked at the leader. A smooth face, and a fine-featured, handsome one. The man had a good laugh. “And you?”
With a quick flick of the wrist, Robin pulled the hood over his head. “Hood, very simple. You can tell at once who it is. Because everybody’s special. You’ll soon know each of us by name.” He nodded with a smile to the two old men who had turned the stag on the spit. “Neither of them is named Cook, because they can’t always get it to taste as good as tonight. But our William Herbghost there knows about herbs. And the other, Paul Storyteller with the stiff leg, he can tell stories better than he can cook.”
John was not satisfied. “And you?” he asked again. “What about you?”
A steep wrinkle appeared on the leader’s forehead. His features became hard. Robin pulled up his green doublet and turned his back to John. Wide dark scars crossed one over the other from his neck to his hips. “That was fifteen years ago. I was twelve, then, when the bishop’s servants came to Loxley.” He pulled the doublet back down. “I couldn’t get away from them. I was too young to escape.”
“I see.” John had a hard time standing up. “I’m tired . . . and . . .” He found no words, just stood there and stared into the faces of his new friends.
Robin measured the shape of the giant from bottom to top with his gaze and marveled exaggeratedly: “Truly: our Little John!”
A grin crept onto John’s bearded face. “Whatever. Frog.” As he stomped over to the trees, he heard amused laughter behind him. “Little John,” he muttered. “I’ll get used to it.”
Muffled blows. Still mostly asleep, John growled, reluctant to stir. He felt his shoulder pushed, his beard pulled. John opened his lids and was looking into the girl’s frightened face. “What is it?”
Marian pointed to the door.
Thumping, jiggling at the door. “Open up! By Satan! Who’s in there?” A male outline was faintly visible through the cracks between the willow trunks, which were firmly tied together with hemp ropes. “Open up!”
Danger. Sheriff’s men-at-arms! Not quite awake yet, John pushed the girl behind him into the farthest corner. Danger! He jumped up, hit his head hard on the ceiling beam, ducked again, and grabbed his fighting staff. Not enough space to swing it. “Get away from here,” he thundered. “Or should I come make you?”
Immediately the demanding knocking stopped. Silence. After a while, a boyish voice stammered: “This . . . this is my. . . That’s where I live.”
Now John remembered where he was, and he eased his breath. Since yesterday they had been safe with friends. The men who had been on guard were returning from the night watch. No enemy was waiting outside. But did the person outside also know that John was no enemy, lurking in his hut? John peered through the viewing hole in the closed door. A slim lad, barely a grown man, with flaxen hair, a bit of fuzz on his upper lip. The fellow held a bare sword in his fist. “It’s all good, boy,” he shouted. “Take a few steps back and put the toy away!”
The young man did not move.
As you wish. John sighed and put the staff aside. Quietly he lifted the inside locking bar off its iron hooks. He grabbed the door at its middle and pushed it through the opening, held on and hefted the willow door like a shield, and stormed out roaring. There was no time for the boy to react. He hit the ground backward. Immediately he started to jump up again., but when he saw the massive figure above him, he stayed down.
“I am John Lit—I mean, Little John. Why didn’t you listen to me?”
Laughter all around. Some of the band of men came up from behind tree trunks, around the corners of the neighboring huts, and applauded John. Pete Smiling placed himself next to John with his legs apart, his head reaching barely up to the giant’s shoulder. “We were all looking forward to this. And, by St. Wilfred, you’re even better than I thought. The other sentries have already gone to bed. You’ll get to know them later. But this here is Much, our youngest. Full eighteen years, he says, but I think sixteen.” Pete Smiling finally addressed the young man. “Hey, Much! This little one is our newest.”
“Why . . . why . . .” the lad’s voice faltered “. . . didn’t you . . . you idiots . . . tell me?”
Pete nudged the giant in the side. “Our Muc
h stutters. Sometimes. When he is excited.”
“Fine.” John bent down and reached out his hand to the young man. “Come on!” He pulled him up. “No offense. Didn’t know what else to do. And thank you . . .”
Incredulous, Much stared past him. “And who . . . who is this?”
The girl stood in the entrance of the hut. Her curls were shaggy, her face as dirty as her gown. John waved her over. Marian approached reluctantly.
“She belongs to me. Marian is her name. She’s mute. But was a time she could speak faster than you or I, believe me!”
Much had recovered from the shock. He clasped his hands behind his back. “She’s not too clean,” he said with a grin. “And that’s what was sleeping under my sheepskin.”
Before John could say anything back, Marian suddenly clenched her fist and waved it threateningly at the young boy.
“Well, look at that.” Pete Smiling nodded approvingly. “She’s just fine. She won’t be told what to do.”
John scratched his scar. Since that day in the village, Marian had communicated only to him, silently. Strangers had gotten nothing but apathetic stares. And now? All that was missing was if she had screamed, “Shut up!” John sighed at the thought. That would have been something. Then all would have been right again.
“We won’t sleep in your hut anymore,” he said dismissively. “It’s much too low for me. The bed is too short. But for you, boy, it’s enough. Get some sleep!”
Marian nodded, satisfied. John smiled at her approval of what he told the runt.
Robin and some men had left very early in the morning to go hunting. With the enormous appetite of their new man, more meat had to be provided. They would be back in the evening, or tomorrow morning at the latest, Pete explained; until then, Pete was in command. John was supposed to build a shelter. “We’ve already chosen the place. Come!” The current commander walked on ahead. The place was marked out between two mighty, smooth-stemmed beech trees right at the edge of the meadow. “We’ll give you a hand. We have wood enough, even for a giant like you.”
They rammed sharpened stakes into the earth, dragged rocks from the river, and skillfully carved the crossbars.
Marian stole to the water, returned with a freshly washed face and wet hair. She helped to cut flexible willow rods to the right length. She smiled when John looked at her.
Much stumbled out of his hut in the late afternoon, yawned, and strolled over to the construction site. Marian’s eyes flashed angrily.
“She’s clean,” the young lad mocked.
She turned away and continued working.
“Leave her alone,” growled John.
“Why . . . are you . . .”
The giant hefted his ax. Annoyed, Pete Smiling ordered: “Much, get your provisions and go up to the sentry. Bill Threefinger and the others have already left. You’re always last.”
“All I did was . . .”
“Much Miller’s-son! Get on with you!”
Reluctantly, the lad obeyed. John watched him go. “That Much . . .” With a sudden realization, he slapped his forehead. “What did you say? His father is a miller?”
“As I said. His parents have a mill outside Doncaster.”
John tossed the tool aside and went after the boy. He reached him by the firepit. “Hey, boy. Wait!”
Guiltily, Much ducked his head.
“Don’t worry. I have a message for you. From your mother.”
“From? For? Where?” He couldn’t say another word. By the time John was done speaking, tears rolled down Much’s cheeks.
John put his hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, boy.”
Much wiped his nose on his green sleeve. “I’ll be all right.” He tried to smile. “And . . . and if you want, you can sleep in my bed for now. You and Marian.”
“We will.”
By noon the next day, the roof of the new hut was weighted down with earth and stones. The men brought furs. Robin Hood contributed two candles. And to celebrate, John was given the ale mug. “You get the first sip.”
“Wait!” cried Much. He had forsaken sleep, had walked over to the village right after guard duty, and returned with a pot under his arm. Now he brought from his hut a drinking horn filled to the brim with milk and held it out to Marian. “This is for you.”
The girl crossed her hands behind her back. She shook her head.
“Go on.” John winked at her.
Marian stretched her chin forward and raised both fists. Only just before she reached the drinking horn did she open her fingers and snatch it from Much’s hand. The milk spilled over. The celebration could begin.
VI
YORKSHIRE. WINTER CAMP IN BARNSDALE.
In mid-October, the sun lost its power. The nights became cold, and the morning fog only rose very slowly from the narrow valley. The big linden tree in the middle of the meadow turned yellow. The colorful splendor of the beeches and oaks intensified with every passing day. In the autumn breeze, the first leaves drifted to the ground. The outlaws exchanged their green summer outfits for brownish-black winter jackets and brown hooded cloaks.
John could not fit into any of their uniforms, and Marian had drowned in all the fabric of each one.
Tom Toad accompanied them to Barnsdale Top. “Bread. Ale. What we need, we get from there. There are also workshops there. Ropers. Bowmakers. Blacksmith. Quite normal.” Tom reached around to the back of his head and pulled the leather strap tighter around his pigtail. “In reality, these are all our people. Even the farmers, because we protect them, and Robin always pays double for their crops. No stranger would know. They work for us in secret, sometimes even at night. My Beth sews. And there are plenty of bales of cloth.”
Marian trembled when she noticed the scar on the left side of the woman’s head. Beth patted the girl’s hand. “I would have given both ears, princess, if only it had saved the boys. You would be their big sister now.”
Tears flowed down Marian’s cheeks. She tried to speak, to explain, could only gasp.
“I understand you.” Beth smiled. “You are my little princess now. Yes? And I’m going to make you something very special.”
For the past two weeks, John had been instructed by Robin Hood. Three trails climbed up the gorge from the main camp below. One carefully carved out with long switchback turns. It was the only way to transport supplies and loads into the valley. The other two were steep, leading over crevices and protruding boulders. The freemen used them daily for quick ascent and descent. And if an enemy ever succeeded in finding his way down to the main camp, these paths served as escape routes.
Robin crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Well, what do you say?”
“Safe as a fox in a hole.” John peered down from the edge of the escarpment and pursed his lips. “No sight of the valley. Only the river. By St. Dunstan, nothing else.”
“And you, out of all people passing by, found our fourth path.” Robin took the giant’s arm, smiling lightly. “Threefinger had already spotted you above the waterfall. He raised the alarm because the branches were moving. His eyes are the best. But we didn’t see you until you came to shore.”
“That was just by accident,” mumbled John.
Robin laughed. “Not accident. Good luck, I hope. And we both really needed it.”
In the dense forest, he led John to another compound in their sprawling hideout. “Anyone who finds this place will stop here and look no farther.”
Huts surrounded a fireplace. They were larger and not as solidly built as the shelters in the main camp. “Whenever we stay up here, they’ll do for the night.”
Ten horses grazed in the paddock outside the stables. Almost in awe, Robin pointed to three white stallions. “The knights of the Round Table rode such stallions, I believe. I would be sorry to lose my white horse, but it wouldn’t bother us if the others were discovered. We’d just get new ones.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “John, you wouldn’t believe how many nags are there for the taking ov
er on the great trade road—hardly any white ones, but black, brown, and spotted ones. And all of them free, and they come with saddlecloths and bridles.”
Via another path, they reached the carefully cleared training grounds. “This is what we built this year. Courage alone is not enough. I want fighters. Do you understand, John?”
This was where daily exercises were to take place throughout the fall and winter. Sword, lance, knife, and above all, archery skills had to be improved. “You’ll teach us what you can do with your stick.” Robin tapped the healed wound on his head. “You won’t be able to do this again.”
John looked straight into the gray eyes. “There won’t be a next time, believe me!”
Robin laughed again. Then he showed John the well-camouflaged caverns. In the first were barrels of ale and wine. “The monks up at Fountain Abbey will have to cut back a little this winter.”
At the sight of the armory, John took a deep breath. More than fifty bows were arranged according to size. Unbreakable bowstrings twisted from linen. The quivers were filled with the best arrows: gray goose feathers, needle-sharp iron tips. Astonished, the giant took in the swords and shields, enough to arm more than twenty men. “And all new!”
“Luck, Little John.” The leader grinned broadly. “By luck, on the road from Wakefield to York, we met a cart with only two chain mail shirts for protection. The delivery was meant for the Abbot of St. Mary’s Abbey. Well, we managed to persuade them, and in the end, they were kind enough to leave the whole load to us. And here—” Robin picked up a crossbow. “We took six of these from the sheriff’s iron puppets down at Sherwood last summer.”
The next cave contained three large chests that stood side by side like coffins. Robin lifted the first lid. Cloaks—some almost white like those worn by Cistercian monks, others black like those worn by Benedictines and Dominicans. John shook his head. “That’s enough for a whole monastery.” The second chest contained splendid clothing—silk trousers, coats of the finest velvet trimmed with fur. Pointed leather boots. Artfully forged spurs. And hats! Pearl embroidered, feathered, round, peaked, even a tall bishop’s mitre. In the third, piles of leather aprons, tunic shirts, caps, and coarse sandals—clothing worn by craftsmen of diverse professions.
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