Deeper in the cavern were baskets filled with silver and gold cups, plates and bowls, and the finest tableware. “That’s better.” John nodded. “At least this stuff here is worth something.” He returned to the chests. “But what do you want with these?”
“The simpler things here, we bought from the people who made them. But monk robes and all the expensive clothes, well, they’re . . . gifts.”
“Naked? You sent the people you robbed on their way naked?” John enjoyed the thought.
“Not quite. The gentlemen were allowed to keep their dirty undershirts.”
“I like it! But why do you need—”
Robin Hood tugged John’s hood. “This is our battle dress. None of us can be seen in this in Nottingham or Doncaster or any other city. Now do you understand?”
The giant shook his head.
“Actors dress up, too. Sometimes they’re monks, sometimes dukes, sometimes potters. That’s how we do it.” Robin slammed shut the lid of the robe chest and sat on top of it. His eyes were sparkling. “Ruse, John! That is the name of the game. And cunning is a dangerous weapon.”
“When I hunt, I know what I’m doing. And when there is danger, I can handle it. I don’t know anything about dressing up.”
“You’ll learn from me.” Robin hopped off. His face changed, and he gave the giant a serious look. “You’re not like me, but I like that. I’ll make you my lieutenant. Just hold on till I’ve talked to Smiling, Toad, and Whitehand. So there’ll be no jealousy.”
John froze in disbelief. Finally, he said, “So fast. You’ve only known me—”
“But I know you. When I was swinging from that bridge, I already knew you.” He lightly thumped the giant man’s chest with his fist. “I want you not just as a lieutenant. I want you as a friend.”
John wiped his eyes and muttered, “Fine, then.” That would have to do for an oath.
In the hut that evening, John checked the string of his new longbow. Marian crouched in front of him, skillfully straightening the feathered shafts of the arrows. Beth had kept her word. The girl was now also wearing the brown-black winter outlaw outfit. The individual pieces of cloth were not roughly joined together with leather threads like on the men’s garb. Marian’s seams were turned under and covered over with soft leather strips. Beth had even lined the hood with fox fur for her princess.
“Are you all right, little one?”
Marian nodded, curls falling into her face.
We are home, he thought as he flicked the bowstring with his thumbnail and listened to it sing.
Two days later, John and the girl were woken up early in the morning by unusual noise. No one had sounded the alarm, and yet all the men were on their feet. Some carried their weapons rolled up in fur blankets.
“What’s happening?”
The answer came in the form of a cheerful wink from one of them.
“Damn it!” John straightened his belt. Yesterday, he had been named a lieutenant in the Brotherhood in front of everyone. And today, he already had no idea what was going on.
The voice of old William Herbghost kept nagging through the camp. Pots, crucibles, ladles, all necessary kitchen utensils were to be brought up to the base camp.
On the riverbank, Paul Storyteller was enthroned on a boulder like a grizzled commander. A wicker basket next to his stiff leg, he ordered three fellows around. The three men were wading naked in the water despite the cold and drizzle, hunting for fish with spears, nets, and hooks.
“Don’t just stand there!” William waved to John and Marian. “Not you. The little one. She can help.” The old man presented her with five small, tightly closed leather pouches strung together on a strap. “Would you tie them under your jacket and carry them up? In them are the finest spices, crushed and dried. You keep them close until I am up! I’m counting on you.”
Marian nodded seriously. She glanced at John, then followed the heavily laden men to the supply path. “By all the saints, don’t lose them, child,” William Herbghost cried after her. “Otherwise, it won’t taste of anything.”
“Will you tell me what’s going on here?” asked John.
“Don’t interfere! I’ve got enough to do until you get back.” And with that, the old man turned and harangued a comrade who had forgotten the skewers for the roast.
Laughter! John whirled around. Robin Hood was laughing at him. “Move along, sir lieutenant. Today is your day, Little John. You will bring a guest to my base. There’ll be no food before that.” His voice sounded clear and determined, as usual, a tone of voice that each of his men trusted and obeyed unconditionally.
“What did you say?” John scratched the scar in his beard. “Is everything all right?”
At once, the gray eyes became hard. “I’ve decided . . .” Robin broke off. “Oh, no matter. Nothing about you.” Smiling, he reached for the giant’s arm. “Come on. It’s an easy game.”
As they climbed the steep path, one behind the other, John learned his task. Everything was thought out down to the last detail. He was to lie in ambush above the bridge over the River Went. “From there, you can see everyone coming up the main road. If it’s a team, then the horses will be foaming at the mouth when they reach the top. They must rest. The coachman won’t be able to drive them onward even with a whip. Any rider will be in the same situation. His horse will be so tired that you could keep pace walking beside him.
John was ready. Not really a game, then. It was serious. Robin wanted him to prove himself today. He had to bring in some loot. Good. But why all the effort, the move to the upper camp? “And who am I to grab?”
Robin stopped on a ledge and looked down at the giant. “Not a farmer or a freeman! They have it hard enough. John, we’re not ruffians, never forget that! My men and I are polite as long as someone does exactly what we ask in a friendly manner. Nothing is taken from anyone except the puppets in chain mail. Not from merchants, royal messengers, not even from Norman squires, goodly knights, or simple priests. We merely unburden the liars.”
“I do not understand. How can I—”
“Wait and see. You shall learn the gentlemanly way from me.” The outlaw touched the hilt of his sword. “But there are exceptions to civility. You can always give the Lord Sheriff or one of those bishops a good thrashing first. And if he’s still alive, you will bring him safely tied up to the base.”
Robin continued on with light feet. John silently stayed at his heels. I am supposed to be a robber and yet not a robber, that much I know now.
Near the huts, Robin brushed the strands of wet hair from his forehead. “Just hope the weather clears up by tonight. Otherwise, we’ll have to go into the stables.” The men would not care. They would sit under the trees with their bowls. “I, you, and my three other lieutenants will dine with our guest. Do you understand, John? Only the best.”
“And we need a stranger here? If we eat alone, everyone will have more.”
“Don’t be a fool.” Robin quickly raised his hand. “Now, now, I don’t mean it like that. Calm down! But I learned from William how our old King Arthur did it. The king would not eat until a stranger sat at the table, and the guest had to tell him new stories. I like that. I’m going to do that and a little better.”
“That’s fine,” said John, thinking: I’ll learn his ways. After a sigh, he grinned broadly. “So, you want a fat, tied-up bishop, and before I slap him in the mouth, I’ll ask him if he has any new stories to tell.”
John stayed serious until the last word. When he saw Robin’s astonished face, he couldn’t hold it back any longer. He snorted and slapped his thighs. Robin joined in.
Startled by the booming laughter from both of them, some of the men curiously abandoned their work. Robin wiped his eyes. “Enough now. Get out of here, little man! Much and Threefinger are with you.” The two were already waiting impatiently at the edge of the dwellings. The miller’s son waved and flailed his arms in the air. “Much is as fast as a hound, and Bill can see what is not even the
re yet.”
John shouldered his staff. Where was his ward? Marian waited silently amid the kitchen utensils, clutching the treasure of herbs with both hands. She wasn’t looking at John. She was watching Much and seemed determined not to laugh at his shenanigans. What was that about? Ah, never mind. John stomped away with broad steps.
Robin’s voice was clear and strong. “And remember. Everyone is hungry tonight. But we wait. We will not eat until you bring a guest! And be polite. Remember that.”
They had taken position on the hill between hazel bushes two hours ago. And for those two hours, they had been watching the wide main road. John stared northward down to the bridge. He had the straight section of road directly in front of him firmly in view. Further below, the paved lanes could only be seen at the three hairpin bends. With their backs to him, Much and Bill peered intently to the south. Nothing so far. A potter had cursed and dragged his mule and cart behind him. A craftsman’s apprentice. A knife grinder. Nothing else. And it had been raining for two hours. Their hair was sticky, and moisture seeped through to their skin, despite the tightly woven brown-black cloth of their clothing.
John asked over his shoulder: “Tell me, Bill. Who did that to your fingers?”
Much giggled. “Nobody. It was he himself.”
“Shut up, boy! I didn’t ask you.”
“He’s right, though,” admitted Bill. “It was me. Butchering. A long time ago.”
“And why are you with Robin?”
“Couldn’t get a proper grip anymore. And it was always festering. They chased me out of the kitchen. So I just moved around.” His eyes became bright. “Then, I met Robin. First, he took me to Kirklees Abbey. To his aunt. She’s a nun there. She knows all about healing and stuff.”
Much rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Costs a lot. But Robin pays for us. If someone gets something bad, he sends them to Kirklees to Sister Mathilda. Once, when I was—”
“Shut up, boy! Keep talking, Bill!”
“And afterward, Robin looked at my hand and said I only needed three fingers to pull a bowstring. That’s the way it is now. I can shoot an arrow. And I’ve got good eyes.”
Silence.
The rain became heavier.
All of a sudden, John’s back tensed. “There. Down there on the bridge.”
Immediately, the two companions stood beside him.
It was a rider in a black rain cape. He seemed to be in no hurry. The horse trotted calmly across the river.
“What is he?” John rammed the staff into the ground before him. I’m tired of this. Whoever you are, I’m gonna get you. You eat, don’t you?
“That’s a shield hanging off the side of the horse,” Threefinger said. “Must be a sword under the cloak.” They waited until the next turn. “Two boxes, right and left, not big, but who knows.” The rider took his time. “All I can see is a speck of the face.” Finally, the rider reappeared. “We’re in luck. He’s wearing chain mail under his cloak.”
No sooner had the horse disappeared behind the last bend than Much took the bow from his shoulder. “A knight, clearly.”
“By St. Dunstan,” John said. “About time.” He tapped the miller’s son. “Go on to the other side. Hide. Wait for my signal!” The boy rushed across the road. “Bill, you stay here!” Threefinger put an arrow on his bowstring and nodded.
The rider appeared in the straight section of road. He had almost reached the highest point when John, the hood low over his forehead, broke cover and positioned himself in the mud of the cobbled lane with his legs set wide apart.
The horse trotted on toward him. The knight seemed not to have noticed the giant in the middle of the road. John narrowed his eyes. The man seemed to have closed his own eyes. Is he asleep, or . . . What is he doing? Just as well. John was alert and ready for anything. The horse was close enough. “My lord!
All in one moment, the rider’s eyes opened, his left hand threw back the cloak, his right hand shot to the sword’s hilt. Fast. Not fast enough. John’s staff swung forward and pinned the rider’s right arm against his armor breastplate. In the same instant, John had grabbed the horse’s bridle tightly. “All right, sir.” He grinned as politely as he could. “I have something to tell you. If you listen, I won’t push you off your horse.”
Silently and calmly, the knight looked at the giant figure.
“How about it?”
No answer. The rain poured down on them.
“If you won’t say anything, then at least nod your head,” John suggested. “Or do you not understand my language?”
“I understand every word you say, man. I respect honest Saxons as I respect honest Normans.” A full, dark voice. “But I’m not sure about you. I don’t know who or what you are. I didn’t expect anyone here in such weather. You’ve torn me from my thoughts. Yet I am ready to hear what you have to say.”
He is a gentleman, the way he speaks. Carefully, John drew back the staff. The knight did not move his sword hand.
Now came the hardest part. John pulled back his hood and bowed his head in greeting. “My friends and I . . .” He solemnly waved to the right and left. No sooner did his companions step out of the bushes than the knight made to reach for his weapon again. “Easy, easy,” John placated him. “So: My friends and I, we would like to invite you, Sir Knight, in the name of our master, to a meal. A wild boar, nice and fat and crispy. And fish.” John let out a breath. That had to be enough of politeness.
“Who is your master?”
“Robin Hood. He owns all the land around here. What of our offer?”
“So, he does exist.” The knight raised his brows. “I suppose I have no choice.”
“No, damn it,” the giant blurted out before he could stop himself.
“Well, then . . . I am delighted and accept your invitation.”
The torches on the walls of the stable were half burnt down. On the tabletop, the melted wax of the candles pooled between the silver bowls and plates. The spicy fish had really whetted everyone’s appetite. No sooner had the head and bones been discarded onto the clay floor than Robin Hood and his lieutenants had plunged their knives simultaneously into the browned rind of the wild boar’s back, cutting out steaming pieces. Paul Storyteller limped around the table and poured dark red wine into the silver goblets. Sweet wine and sauce dripped from the outlaws’ chins. Marian sat next to the knight with both elbows propped on the table, gnawing dark, savory flesh from a bone.
Except for the men’s noisy chewing and swallowing, silence prevailed at the table. No laughter. No conversation wanted to arise. From beneath half-lowered eyelids, Robin watched his guest at the other end of the table, glanced at Tom Toad now and then, shrugged his shoulders, and continued to watch the taciturn, stiff man.
As soon as he arrived, the freemen’s leader had formally welcomed the knight and offered him hospitality.
“Baron Sir Richard at the Lea, lord of Fenwick Castle and loyal servant of his king, Richard the Lionheart.” After introducing himself, the knight had thanked Robin formally and as was customary, had taken off his cloak, chain mail, sword, and armor. Astonished, the outlaws had gawked at his tattered tunic. No gold chain, no ornate spurs on the boots?
This was supposed to be a baron, a Norman? By St. Cedric, what kind of pathetic figure had Little John dragged up there? But the elegant gestures! That fine voice! Yes, he had to be of noble birth. “It is long since I have been asked to sit at such a richly set table,” the man announced. “And, if I may say so, I would not have expected such refined courtesy here in the wilderness.”
“So they say, sir.” Robin had led the guest to the seat of honor. “Many claim to know me. But who among these babblers has ever fired Robin Hood’s bow!”
“Very well parried.”
That was all. Since then, the knight had not spoken. A small filet of fish, only three bites of wild boar, that was all he had eaten so far, and so far Storyteller hadn’t had to refill his glass. Richard at the Lea stared ab
sentmindedly into the flickering light of the candles. A slender head, a high forehead, the beard trimmed to a wedge on his chin, and gray hair that fell down to his robe’s worn velvet collar.
Only Little John was pleased. He noticed nothing of the discomfort of his companions. He enjoyed the reward of his first kidnapping more and more with every bite and every sip. He had no time to talk, anyway. Just before the feast, Robin had told him that ridiculous rule. And before the signal came, he wanted to at least have eliminated the worst of his hunger.
Paul Storyteller bent down briefly to Marian. “Come with me for a moment! It won’t take long.”
Outside the entrance to the stables, old Herbghost grabbed the girl’s hands. “What’s wrong? Does the fellow not like the food?”
Marian moved her lips, nodded, and shook her head.
“By St. William, why doesn’t he eat? As lean as he is? I seasoned everything. Twice.”
Marian waited silently.
“Listen, child!” Herbghost turned her around. “Go in and shove the fish in front of his nose again. He has to eat at least one.”
Marian nodded her understanding.
The two old men did not let her out of their sight. “You know, Paul, if Robin complains again this time, I’ll chuck it in.”
Storyteller stretched a stiff leg forward. “You’re right. Let him cook for himself! And he can tell stories to himself while he’s at it.”
The girl bent over the table and pulled the silver plate through the grease and wax to the place of honor. With both hands, Marian grabbed one of the remaining fish. Her blue eyes shone up at the guest.
Returning from his thoughts, Richard at the Lea looked at the girl’s face. “How pretty you are.”
Marian lifted the fish to just below his chin and smiled pleadingly.
“No. Thank you, my child. But I do not feel like eating today.” With that, the knight dipped his hands into the silver water bowl.
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