“Stop your babbling!” Sir Roger of Doncaster thumped his fist on the table. “Even if the bond expires, the knight still must sign the deed. We need certified confirmation.”
“Just a formality,” the judge reassured him immediately. “However, it will cost—”
Voices. Noise. Hoofbeats outside the hall. The porter monk slipped through the door hangings, hurried to the table, and bowed. “Forgive me, Father Abbot! The knight and his squire. They are waiting just outside. I could not stop them. They even refused to take the horses into the stable.”
The abbot stared at the sun. The glowing red orb still stood above the horizon in the west. All color disappeared from his face.
Sir Roger’s lips stretched into a smile. “There. At last! Let him enter! And you, dear father, you lead the performance. And . . . par la Vierge, woe unto you if you fail now.” With that, he leaned back and crossed his arms. Obediently, the porter grabbed the two door curtains, tied them to the side, bowed, and quickly withdrew.
The knight at the door carried his helmet in his hand. His chain mail hood fitted tightly around his head. The weathered cloak was pulled closed and enveloped his tall figure. Thus Sir Richard at the Lea entered the hall. Behind him, his squire stopped in the doorway, his massive body filling the entrance, his large hood hiding his eyes and nose. He held the packhorse’s rein in his left hand.
After a few steps, the knight bent to his knees before the assembled gentlemen. “I offer you all my greetings. I greet you, Reverend Father.”
The abbot just nodded. He did not ask the guest to get up and come sit down, as politeness dictated, nor did he offer him a welcoming drink.
Richard remained on his knees. “After twelve months, I am come exactly to the day and hour—”
“You have my money?” the abbot interrupted.
“The harvest was poor. The yield was not enough to raise the sum.”
The abbot shot up from his seat. But he regained his calm and lowered himself back into the chair. His eyes roved across the faces of his dinner companions. “Did everyone hear?” He pulled the deed from where was tucked into his rope belt, lovingly laid it down before him. “Deo Gratias! He does not have it. He really doesn’t have it. What a—”
“Carry on,” Sir Roger said. From narrowed eyes, he watched the humbly kneeling knight.
The judge leaned across the table. “Reverend Father?” he murmured. “What do you offer me if I see to it that he signs the deed of transfer today?”
“You want more? You already have—”
“That was for my seal.”
“No more haggling!” the baron snapped.
“Very well,” the abbot huffed. “Fifty.”
The judge held out his hand. “Now, if you please!”
“Au Dieu!” The abbot pulled a pouch from the sleeve of his black robe. “There’s fifty in there, trust me.”
Opening the coin pouch, checking its contents, and weighing it in his hand took the royal judge hardly longer than a breath. “Bien. You have my deepest trust, Father.”
A vein pulsed across the Benedictine’s forehead. The flabby skin hung pale from his cheekbones. He had already lost a hundred pounds from the monastery’s purse. His rage found a target in the kneeling knight: “You come here empty-handed! And still dare to enter my sight? You are worthless! What a pitiful figure you are!”
“Mercy!” Sir Richard entreated. “That is why I dared to come here. Have mercy! Don’t take my land away from me! Don’t push my family and myself deeper into misery!” Richard at the Lea clasped his hands together. “By the pure Virgin, I beg you, extend the due date for the debt!”
“Ungrateful wretch! It was out of pity and charity that I gave you the money a year ago at all. You’ve lost your chance to repay it.” The abbot was fortified by a quick glance at Sir Roger. “Given the other beneficent duties of my monastery, I am forced to be mercilessly strict.”
Except for the prior, all the gentlemen at the table nodded.
Richard at the Lea did not relent. “And you, honorable judge? Never have I owed our king a penny in taxes. Help me out of my misery and advance me the sum.”
“A pity, it’s a pity.” The judge heaved a long sigh. “I am but an officer of the Crown. And as the king’s servant . . .” He let the word trail away and shrugged his shoulders.
The knight looked at the emissary of the lord sheriff. Who was grinning stupidly. Richard at the Lea turned to the baron. “Sir Roger of Doncaster. Neighbor!” He fell silent and seemed to be searching for words.
At the entrance, Little John flinched. Sir Roger of Doncaster! Under the hood, his eyes turned to ice. So, it is you. Our Much’s parents tremble before you. You had Tom’s head doused with boiling oil. You had poor Beth’s ear cut off. John breathed heavily. You let her children die. I have seen your face, you bastard. I will know it forever now.
Richard at the Lea began with a firm voice: “We both come from old and noble lineages. Our grandfathers came to this island together with the victorious King William more than a hundred years ago. We are both Normans. Forget your hatred. Do not leave me here on the ground!”
The baron’s nostrils flared. “You dare to compare yourself to me? I’d rather give a sausage to a stray dog than give you a single penny.” He pointed to the west. The sun almost touched the horizon. “When it sets, you too will go down. And I will watch.”
John stared anxiously at the window. Why was the knight dawdling?
“I’ve been saving some coins,” the prior feebly inserted. “I would be ready to—”
His words cut off in a choked whimper as the cellar master stuck his knife blade through the back of the monk’s hand. Blood poured from the gaping wound.
“Oh, pardon, dearest brother!” The cellar master’s grin grew wide. “What did I hear? You keep personal property? Did you steal from the abbey? Or did I mishear?”
Once again, the large-headed cellar master set the tip of the blade against the prior’s hand. The prior stammered pleadingly: “M-misheard. Y-yes, misheard!”
Sir Roger snapped his fingers at the crown official. “Finish the last formality and then throw the beggar out the door!”
Richard at the Lea, with painstaking self-control, closed his eyes and remained silent.
“Be generous, venerable Father!” the judge put in. “And pay him a little something for the land. It will make our business go more smoothly!” The judge winked at the abbot. “Give him another hundred pounds . . . and in exchange, he will sign the deed.”
“A hundred pounds?” The Benedictine monk put a hand to his throat. “I am to shove one hundred pounds down the purse of a knight who has broken his word?”
“Broken my word?!” Sir Richard at the Lea rose. “Never! Never will I allow anyone to accuse me of breaking my word. On my honor, if you were a knight—!” He shook a fist. “You would face this! And if you offered me a thousand pounds, I would never put my signature on such a shameful document.”
“I represent the law,” the judge began. “And it seems to me that you have—”
“Silence!” demanded Sir Richard. “I am ashamed to see you wearing the colors of our king.” His wedge-trimmed goatee trembled. “And you, Father Abbot. What a travesty to have to call you holy father. I came to stir your heart, but you are false and greedy. You confirm everything that the tortured, exploited Saxons accuse you servants of the church of being. And the only one who shows mercy, you torture with a knife.” Anger flared in the knight’s face. “And you, my neighbor! You are the head of this? Yes, outwardly, you are the great patron of all! But in reality, you sneak around like a greedy wolf. One monastery, one aristocratic hall after the other, you force all into your control with your money and influence. Power is your lust. You never soil your hands in the process. To whom have you sworn allegiance? I ask you. Is it really Richard the Lionheart? Oh yes, I know all too well why you want to destroy me.”
“Strong words,” Sir Roger drawled. “You are right
. I won’t soil my hands on worms. I stomp on them.”
Sir Richard at the Lea rose to his feet. He pointed to the window. The glowing red ball was still half visible. “A year ago, I gave my word of honor. And today, to the hour, I repay my debt.”
For a moment, he enjoyed the incredulous looks around the table. Then he ordered, “Squire!”
Relieved, John obeyed. He dragged the packhorse right through the doorway into the hall. With a saddle chest under each arm, the giant stepped toward the assembly. He tipped the gold bars over the empty platters.
“That should do it,” he growled.
With practiced skill, the judge assessed the dully shining pieces. “It’s true. That’s four hundred pounds’ worth.”
Sir Roger swiped his goblet from the table. “Who dared give you this? Who helped you? Enfer et damnation! Who?” He reached out and caught John’s green-and-yellow striped cloak. “And who is this monster with no manners? He’s no servant. Show me your face, man!”
John grabbed the hand, pulled it up and off him, and crushed the fingers in his fist. The baron pressed his lips together in pain but made not a sound.
“Do not wish to see my face. You’ll see it just before I break your neck.”
“Squire!” admonished Richard at the Lea.
John released the baron’s fingers.
“With this, all debts are paid.” The knight demanded return of the deed.
Hurriedly, the abbot gathered up the parchment document protectively. “No, wait! First, I want my hundred pieces of silver back. Judge, give them to me!”
“I have done what I could. I have earned my reward fair and square.”
“Then I demand them from you, knight! I must have my expenses back. Or I will not give up the deed.
Sir Richard shook his head in disbelief. “A den of thieves. Not monks, but robbers dwell within these sacred walls.”
“Well.” John urged the knight aside. “I can handle thieves,” he growled. With that, the giant spun around, as he pulled the hammer from his belt. He let it whirl once, then the massive iron head crashed onto the table. The tabletop splintered. Cups, plates, gold, bones, and bowls flew up. Pie scraps, sauce, and wine scattered everywhere. The shock paralyzed the thoroughly splattered men. John leapt upon the table and, kicking table debris aside, cleared a straight path toward the abbot.
“My son. Please! Par la Vierge, do not sin,” the abbot stammered. “Don’t sin, my son.”
“It’s all good, Father. Just give me that paper.”
The parchment was willingly handed over. The squire asked his knight: “What now? We paid on time. We have the deed of debt.”
“Those present must bear witness. Only then shall we depart.”
“You heard him.” John let the hammer dangle in front of the gentlemen. “Hurry!
The prior smiled and raised his bleeding hand. “I testify before God that Sir Richard at the Lea has paid all his debt, that our monastery at St. Mary’s Abbey has no more claims on him.”
The judge made an effort at dignity. “By the power of my office, I confirm that Sir Richard at the Lea has fulfilled his duties according to law and order. He is debt free and remains in possession of his castle and all his lands. Whoever says otherwise, whoever slanders him or persecutes him, shall himself be subject to severe judgment.”
“Well said. I like that,” John growled under his hood. “And what about you other fellows?” The hammer swung ominously.
Baron Roger of Doncaster confirmed with a quick hand signal, as did the abbot and the cellar master.
“What shall I do?” asked the lord sheriff’s emissary.
“Fingers up, you idiot, if you value your knees.” The squire raised both hands, even stretched them above his head. “Good boy. Now that’s the way I like it.” John put the hammer back in his belt. “Lead the way, sire!”
Sir Richard at the Lea eyed the baron with cold contempt. “England is threatened by a wolf and his pack. Only yesterday did I learn that the real danger does not lurk in the woods. It’s not the outlaws and their dreaded leader. I met rough but upright men there in the wilderness. Yes, they are rebelling. Yes, they are breaking the law because they feel betrayed by us Normans. But their loyalty to the king is such as can hardly be found in our counties. In the castles, in the monasteries, that is where the real danger for England lurks. God save King Richard in the Holy Land! May the Lord safeguard his speedy return!” With this, the knight pulled off his worn cloak, threw it over the ruins of the table, and stepped out of the hall in his fur-trimmed robe, his head held high.
“That’s that,” growled John. He grabbed the packhorse’s halter and followed his knight.
The knight and his squire safely exited the gate of St. Mary’s Abbey. The sun had set. The western sky was still glowing.
“Thank you,” said Sir Richard. “Thank you, and Robin Hood!”
John jogged beside the white stallion. “It’s all good. Now I know, sir. About the Normans, I mean. There is one kind, and there are the other kind.”
In the dining hall of the monastery, Sir Roger was still sitting in his armchair. “Where did he get the gold? Sacre Dieu.” His hollow-cheeked face was ashen. Except for the abbot, the others had quickly melted away. The baron carefully opened and closed his bruised right hand. “So, our plan failed. Now I must be a good neighbor to this Richard at the Lea. He triumphs over me, and my hands are tied. But at the next opportunity . . .” The pale green eyes stared at the window. “Outlaws! He defended that filth!” His nostrils flared. “No Norman, no landowner, not even—” his voice sank into additional contempt “—one of the wealthy Jews of our shire would dare to thwart my plans. Sacre Dieu! I can guess who lent him the gold. Yes, I know. What does he call himself?”
The abbot shrugged. Sir Roger threatened him: “You should know his name, if you want to remain in my favor. Robin Hood! That self-declared freeman. I have had reports from all over that he and his cohorts want to take revenge on me. How careless I have been!”
The knight had only been the tool. Today, Robin Hood had skillfully struck a first blow against him, Baron Sir Roger of Doncaster. Such humiliation! The woods no longer harbored mere rabble-rousing creatures who would eventually end up on the gallows. This Robin Hood had welded the outlaws together and turned them into his army. And the stolen gold and silver was not just used to fill their bellies. And weapons! For three years, the robber had seized wagonloads of weapons! Roger of Doncaster slapped his forehead. “And I paid no attention to the Lord Sheriff of Nottingham’s request for help! I laughed because I thought this yapping mutt could do no more than lift his leg on a few trees. Now I know better. I will never forget this shame. But Robin Hood poses a danger not only to me but to all our plans. And I want him. From this day forward, I will not rest, I swear it! I will stand by the lord sheriff with everything I have at my disposal. I will convince Prince John that this pestilence must be burned out of our forests. And woe to anyone who dares . . .” He broke off. The corners of his mouth twitched. “At Kirklees. In the convent of Kirklees. Those pious sisters also live off my generosity. Father Abbot? Think on it!”
“They live well. I know nothing more about them.”
“One of the nuns is an expert in the art of healing. People come from far away when they have serious wounds.”
“This is well known. I don’t follow.”
Revived, Sir Roger nodded. “Sister Mathilda. A capable, honorable woman. Whoever pays is treated well. Norman or Saxon, honorable or bad, no matter, she helps everyone, because pieces of silver don’t stink. I always liked that about her. And one day, yes, she told me that her family is related to this Loxley, this Robin Hood. We laughed about it, then.” Sir Roger of Doncaster stood up. “Right,” he said, dangerously soft. “I think it’s time we paid a visit to Kirklees Abbey.”
VIII
The latest dispatch from the Crusade: Richard the Lionheart wins the Battle of Arsuf on September 7, 1191. Sultan Saladin is forced
to retreat. Richard does not attack Jerusalem, even though it is barely defended! He digs in his heels in Jaffa with the Crusader army. In November, the rainy season begins. Still, Lionheart hesitates. The allied military leaders grumble.
YORKSHIRE. BARNSDALE WINTER CAMP.
The first snowflakes fell in early December. They remained on the frozen ground.
“It’s getting too cold for you at my place, little one.” Little John was determined.
Marian had fought back, had threatened the giant with her fists, had put three sheepskins over her shoulders. It was no use. John took her to Beth. “You’ll be comfortable by the fire. And you can crawl under her blanket to sleep. And you’ll be warm.”
“My little princess!” The seamstress’s happy smile had wiped the anger from Marian’s eyes. She squeezed John’s hand. She finally consented.
Just before Christmas, a snowstorm howled over the ridges and bare forests. It also snowed on the first nights of the twelve holy days. Every morning the peasants and craftsmen in Barnsdale Top had to dig out their huts’ doors and the path to the stables.
Below, in the storm-protected main camp, the snow fell soft and silent. The linden tree stretched out rigidly in the middle of the whitened meadow. The river piled ice floes over each other against the bank.
Robin had allowed his troop a break to rest. No weapons training. Only the guards took their posts day and night as usual. Only after Twelfth Night was the hard combat training to be resumed again. The few who had family had wandered home.
“Not you, Much!” Robin had ordered. “You stay here.”
“Why . . . why not?” the boy babbled. “I . . . I want to. Only for Christmas . . . Christmas. Please.” His chin trembled.
“It’s too dangerous, boy. For your parents and for you. Do you think that damn Baron Roger has forgotten you? His spies are just waiting to get their hands on you.” Robin put his arm around the unfortunate lad’s shoulders. “But soon. In the spring, we’ll go to the mill together. When we move down to Sherwood, we’ll go past your mother’s house. I promise you that.”
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