While the others enjoyed the feast days, Much had been carving. He carved faces into wood, then he cut them away until only broken shavings remained scattered around him.
Idleness defined their days. The remaining freemen slept through the mornings. Only around noon did they trudge over to the long supply and kitchen shed. To the blazing fire. Hot soup. Dice games. Ale.
In the evening, they crouched around Paul Storyteller. “The Christmas feast was just over,” he began. “At the castle at Camelot, King Arthur sits with his head propped on his fists. A bad mood darkens his face. ‘I will not celebrate the New Year until I see a miracle.’ The Knights of the Round Table are tearing their hair. A miracle? Who can conjure up a miracle just like that?” Paul looked at the tense faces and grinned. He held his silence.
“You’d better know how the story continues,” Robin threatened. “Or I’ll stick your head in the snow with my own hands.”
Paul smirked. He laboriously straightened his stiff leg. Suddenly, his eyes grew wide and he stared at the door. “Do you hear it? Outside, hooves are clattering. A knight rides into the hall. He is green.”
“Oh, I see. That’s fine, then.” With a look at Robin, John gleefully rubbed the scar in his beard.
“Don’t break my flow,” Storyteller scolded. Again he widened his eyes. “So: A knight rides thundering into the hall. Everything about the stranger is green: face, hair, armor, shield, sword, everything. Even his stallion is green. Only just before he reaches the big round table does the knight pull on the reins. The horse rears up, its front hooves whirling, then it stands still, snorting.”
Old Paul painted the story not just with his voice but with his hands and arms. He turned the kitchen shed into the royal hall at Camelot. Suddenly, the freemen themselves became part of the round table. Everyone saw the stranger.
“The Green Knight stays in the saddle. At first, he mocks Arthur and his brave knights. Finally, he pulls out a giant ax. One of those present must strike him with this weapon—no matter where. There is one condition. After one year, exactly to the day, he will demand satisfaction. Then the brave knight must face him in a fight.
“Angered by the arrogant challenge, Arthur wants to grab the weapon himself. His nephew, Sir Gawain, catches hold of his arm. He will face the challenge for his king.
“Already the brave Gawain stands beside the green warhorse. The stranger smiles.” Paul Storyteller swung his arm in a circle. “Then Gawain cuts off his head with a mighty stroke. ‘Good work, nephew,’ praises the king.”
The audience in the kitchen shed also nodded approvingly. Warningly, Paul Storyteller raised his finger. “But look! Slowly, the Green Knight, just as he is, dismounts his horse. He goes to his head, lifts it up, and sets it back on his neck.
“Horror paralyzes the Round Table. As if nothing had happened, the stranger clasps hands with the king. Then he turns to Gawain and speaks . . .”
Paul slowly bent forward, bringing his lips close to Little John’s ear, and stage-whispered: “‘So, in one year, warrior! We’ll meet at the Green Chapel.’” The old storyteller sat back and uttered a frightening laugh. “Yes, that’s how the stranger laughed. The walls tremble. He climbs into the saddle, waves his hand again. The Green Knight gives his stallion the spurs and gallops out of the hall. Outside, the hooves thunder across the drawbridge. Then he is gone.”
Silence. The freemen stared breathlessly at their Storyteller.
“And then what?” Robin Hood filled Paul’s ale mug to the brim. “Did Gawain go to the chapel?”
“I’m done for today.” The old man drank. He wiped the foam off his beard with his sleeve. “Arthur asked for a miracle. The spirit world had to obey. Yes, that is how it was at Camelot. Now the New Year could be celebrated.”
On the penultimate day of the twelve, the day before Epiphany, water was heated over the fireplace. Outside, the freemen stood in the snow. Sun. Blue sky. Their breath froze in the clear air. One by one, they undressed. Each carried over hot water for another. “Tomorrow is Epiphany. Wash yourselves,” Robin had ordered. “Our pure Virgin and the saints have keen noses. We must not frighten them tomorrow.” He had led by example.
Three times Little John asked for another bucket. He scrubbed himself all over with grease, salt, sand, and ashes until his skin glowed. He held up the fourth bucket with outstretched arms and let the water run slowly over his head and shoulders, grunting in satisfaction. Away in Barnsdale Top, Beth and Marian had been cleaning the house since the early morning.
“When the Three Kings come, princess, everything must be clean and tidy,” Toad’s wife had explained to the girl. “Otherwise, they get angry, and then we’ll have bad luck all year long.”
Marian was not convinced of that. With her lower lip pushed out, she had waggled her finger and shook her head.
“Everyone in the village is cleaning today. That’s the way it is. Come help me, princess! And when everything is clean, then there’s a delicious surprise for you.” It was only this prospect that had convinced the girl.
Soon the bales of cloth lay tightly rolled on top of each other in the pantry, the pieces of leather piled up in order of size, precious and costly needles stuck in the pincushion, strings and threads hanging from the nails like combed strands of silken hair.
At dusk, Beth stirred up the embers. “Stay close to me now,” she whispered to Marian and put small bundles of consecrated juniper on the fire. The fragrance rose, almost taking away her breath. The smoke filled the hut, every nook and cranny. Both sank to their knees. Quietly, Beth said a prayer, imploring a blessing for house and yard, and asked the Blessed Virgin to look after her two boys in heaven every now and then.
Marian trembled. Timidly she pulled Beth’s sleeve. She pointed to her heart, pointed upward. Pleadingly, she put her hands together. Her lips formed only one word over and over again.
“What do you mean, princess?”
Tears rolled down Marian’s cheeks. She pointed to herself, pressed both hands against the woman’s lap, pointed to herself again, and again to the ceiling. Silently she mouthed the one word.
At last, Beth understood. Both bent their heads over their hands. “And also look after Marian’s mother and little brother! Please. For my children and for the mother and brother of my little princess. Because we are alone here.”
Later, apples sizzled on the grill. They were served with honey-sweet bread baked with nuts and hot milk. Marian ate. Her eyes were shining.
Even before daybreak on the Epiphany, Robin Hood and the troop reached Barnsdale Top, in long dark cloaks, black wide-brimmed caps, torches blazing in their hands.
John retrieved Marian up from Beth. “I’ll bring her back to you,” he promised.
“Come on now,” Robin urged. “Wrangbrook is a long way. We can’t be late.”
Little John took the lead, closely followed by Marian. One after another, the men tramped through the snow, following in his tracks. His strides were too long. Soon the girl was panting.
“Wait!” John called out to his companions. “Come on,” he said with a smile, bent his knee, and let Marian climb up. “Is that better?” She took hold of his beard with both hands and nodded his head.
Silently, the men marched through the forest and across vast white fields, fourteen night-black figures.
The stars faded. The sun rose red, and soon its light glittered on the snow. Just before Wrangbrook, Robin stopped. He pointed over to the small church. “Gilbert, it’s your turn at the first mass. Take four people.” While Whitehand ran ahead with the outlaws, Robin assigned the next set. “Tom, you take the second mass! And you, Pete, the third. That way, every man can hear at least two masses. John and I will hear all three.”
His gaze stayed on Marian. “Let the little one help. She will hold the offering plate.”
John frowned. “You didn’t tell me about this. We are going to mass, you said because we need it. No games today. Why—”
“Don’t get u
pset. Nothing will happen to our little condition,” Robin reassured John. “Just you wait! Let her help. Nothing more.”
Marian looked up at the giant and winked one eye.
“Fine, then.”
The church bell rang out. Bright and inviting, the ringing sounded across the low roofs. Almost simultaneously, the doors of all the huts and houses opened. In their Sunday best, women, children, and men hurried through the snow toward the center, toward their church.
“Only go when the villagers are all inside. Only then.”
The bell fell silent. Standing just before the portal, Robin Hood whistled. Whistles replied. The churchyard wall was lined with his guards. Thus secured, the leader, his first set of chosen men, and Marian entered the dark interior.
“In Nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,” the priest sang while making the sign of the cross on his forehead, shoulders, and chest.
“Amen.”
The outlaws quietly pushed themselves forward through the kneeling congregation. Here and there, one of the villagers lifted his head, recognized the men in the long cloaks, and nudged his neighbor. Whispers. Eyes lit up. Soon all the congregants knew who was attending mass as a guest today.
“Dominus vobiscum.”
“Et cum spiritu tuo,” Robin sang, and his full voice resonating over the murmuring of his companions.
The companions stood side by side, upright in front of the altar step. The priest paused and turned around. He raised his brows. Robin took off his cap; his men followed suit. Still dissatisfied, the Cistercian monk waited. As one, the outlaws sank to their knees. Marian moved close to John and folded her hands in prayer. The light of the candles shone in her eyes.
Now the priest nodded, and loudly and solemnly, he celebrated mass. Together with the congregation, the companions confessed their guilt and asked for mercy and intercession.
The monk lifted the host. He drank from the chalice. He turned to the congregation.
“Ite, missa est.”
“Deo Gratias.”
The mass was over. But none of the faithful stood up. Even the Cistercian waited in silence at the altar.
Robin showed him three fingers. The pious man agreed. Slowly the outlaws rose and left the church. Just before the exit, Robin tapped Marian on the head. “Stand here by the side.” He reached for the wooden offering plate, wiped the depression with his sleeve, and handed it to Marian.
Little John watched the leader like a hawk. A game after all? He snorted.
From under his cloak, Robin extracted a bulging pouch and piled a mountain of silver pennies on the plate. “Stay like that and just hold it,” he whispered, smiling at John. “Come on, we’ll wait outside!”
“I’ll wait here.” The giant never took his eyes off his Marian.
“Don’t be silly, Little John,” whispered Robin. “Well, suit yourself.” He waved and followed his men into the churchyard.
From the altar, the monk gave the signal. The faithful rose. Orderly, they walked toward the bright exit. No one pushed or shoved. The first man reached Marian. His hand jumped forward. Ready to defend her, John clenched his fist. But the man’s clumsy fingers reached for a coin. He nodded gratefully and went outside. A woman took the next piece of silver. Men, women, they all grabbed one. Nods and curtsies. Marian beamed and stretched out the plate. Children pecked out pennies with pointed fingers from the silver mountain. Some pecked twice. Marian laughed silently.
“That’s all right,” hummed John. His ward was not in danger. And to give silver away? He didn’t understand it. But if this was Robin’s game, then fine.
The priest was the last to step to the offering plate. With both hands, he reached for the silver pennies. But there were too many. Without further ado, he lifted his light-colored robe and swiped the remaining coins into it. With a happy step, he turned and hurried back to the altar. John watched and marveled.
The bell rang, bright and inviting. With a devout look on their faces, the people of Wrangbrook entered the church again, followed by the freemen. This time Gilbert Whitehand was there, but Tom Toad and four others were missing. They had been ordered to stand guard. Robin stroked Marian’s hair. She was supposed to put the plate down again. He winked at John. “Well, what do you say?” he whispered as they walked side by side to the altar step.
The giant shook his head. “It’s all right.”
“In Nomine Patris,” sang the priest. And together, they ended the second mass with the praise of Deo Gratias.
The new silver mountain was cleared away. The bell rang. This time Pete Smiling was sent off to guard. “In Nomine . . .” And what a resounding Deo Gratias there was to finish the third mass in the small church of Wrangbrook!
Outside, the mothers held their children, collected all their pennies, and hurried home with their men, rich. The little ones threw snowballs, laughing, cheering.
In silence, the freemen put on their wide-brimmed caps and trudged to the gate in the churchyard wall. A snowball hit Robin Hood’s back. Slowly he turned around. The daring attacker retreated. With a grim face, the outlaw bent down, reached into the snow, and formed a thick, hard ball. He weighed it in his hand. Screaming and giggling, one child ducked behind the back of the other. Robin weighed the bolt, pulled his arm back, and hurled the ball high above the church tower, into the sunlight.
The wide pairs of eyes followed its flight, blinded.
“He hit the sun,” the children marveled. “Definitely.”
A little one crowed: “I know his name.”
Immediately his sister covered his mouth. “You must not say his name. Mother has forbidden it. Otherwise, he’ll never come back.”
They left Wrangbrook far behind them. Robin Hood stomped to the front. He nudged John’s side. “What do you say?”
“Well, it’s good for the poor folks.”
“And nobody’s going to tell on us.” Robin clapped his hands. “But it’s for more than that, John. We help them. Two or three silver pennies will keep the misery at bay. You see, people must not be afraid of us. That’s what I want. And who knows. Someday they may protect us, someday they will help us. To these people, we are not criminals.”
Little John walked silently beside his leader. Suddenly, he grinned broadly. “That’d be ridiculous. I mean, who would rob poor people?”
Robin laughed. He tore the cap off his head and whirled it up into the frosty air. “Oh, John, my friend. I’m glad you’re with me.” The reddish-blond hair glowed. “You know what else we need? A priest of our own.”
“What?”
“No, wait. A monk, who lives with us, who belongs with us. He could say mass before every fight, but at least once a week. You know, like King Arthur had.” Robin earnestly added, “Everyone has a priest along with them, the good and the bad. Why shouldn’t we?”
John stretched. “But, Robin. Would the priest hide with us in the bushes? There’s no order of green-robed monks.”
“There could be. Why not?” Robin’s voice became soft. “And one more thing, but it’s between us. Know what my dream is? You know, everyone builds churches, or even cathedrals in their own town. Someday I’ll build us a chapel. In Barnsdale Top. And an altar for the statue of our pure Virgin.”
John stopped. “And where will you steal that?”
“You don’t steal a Virgin, giant. I’m having it carved. I want it to be at home in our chapel.” Robin held up his chin.
Home! Little John thought. Marian, me, we’ve found one with Robin. And if he thinks the Blessed Virgin should be with us . . . “Why not?” he rumbled.
Robin Hood grabbed the giant’s arm. “’Tis a good day today. It will also be a good year. What do you think?”
“Sure.”
A horn signal sounded, breaking into the silence of Epiphany in the late afternoon. High and long, it echoed down to the main camp. Not an alarm, but: Attention! An urgent message is about to be delivered.
In the outlaw leader’s spacious hut, Robin Ho
od and his lieutenants interrupted their discussion. “It’s is the Barnsdale Top guard post.” They stepped outside and listened for more, and everyone in the camp also paused. They waited tensely.
At last, a long note followed by two short blows at the same pitch: Strangers in the village.
Robin raised his horn. Before he put it to his lips, he asked curtly, “Is everyone else back?”
Gilbert Whitehand shook his head, holding up his white thumb. One. “Of those who went home, one is still missing. But that one also has the longest way to travel. His sister lives in Blidworth, down near Nottingham.”
Robin sounded the horn. Deep and long, then high, then short: We’re coming.
Orders were given. Tom Toad was to take command of the camp. Gilbert and Smiling were to stand by with ten fully armed companions until Robin blew the all clear. The assigned men ran to their quarters. “Bring your staff, John, also your bow and arrows! We’ll both go look.”
The sentry awaited them outside the village in the snowy darkness. “Our Vincent from Blidworth. He brought three new people with him. They want to join us, he said. Sent them to the cobbler.”
Robin’s face relaxed. Two long low calls from his horn announced the all clear through the forest.
“While we’re up here—” John pointed to Beth’s cottage. “I’m going to check on the girl.”
“No,” said Robin. “These newcomers, John,” he warned. “Are they lice and scoundrels? Or are they men we can use? You’re my right hand. We decide together.”
Very well. The giant shrugged.
The cobbler had divided up his house. Half of it was a workshop and living space; the other half was a tavern. When John and Robin entered, Vincent and his companions put their mugs down. As agreed, John waited at the door. From the semidarkness, he kept an eye on the strangers.
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