Robin Hood

by Roehrig Tilman

  Robin took the giant by the arm. “Stop it, John!” His gray eyes flashed. “We don’t kill defenseless men! That is our law. You reminded me of that, back when we uncovered this spy.” He stepped up close to the giant. “And it was the right choice.”

  “And now these poor people are dead.”

  “It was right! And I don’t want our men to doubt that. Do you understand me?” Robin gazed up at the bearded face. “By the Virgin, what more do you want? Even the saints do not know what will come to pass. We certainly do not.” He pointed to the mill. “That is not your fault, my friend.” He pointed to the dead man with a foot. “And this one? He was only one among the attackers. And then another of these henchmen stabbed a knife into his throat. That must have been how it happened. A mean game, indeed. But the real murderer is over in Doncaster, sitting there in his castle like a spider. And I’m sure no one will ever be able to prove him guilty.”

  Little John nodded. He saw that hollow-cheeked face before him, heard the nasal voice again—the baron in his black velvet robes. One day, I’ll break his neck. With growing rage, it became easier for John to turn his focus. He was not to blame for the death of the miller. Robin was probably right. “Such a tragedy for the boy.”

  Silently, their caps and hats in their hands, the freemen stood by the open grave. The prayer was short.

  “We move on,” said Robin Hood. They had to force the miller’s son not to stay behind. Only after three more hours of walking did they set up camp in a wooded area. Small campfires flickered, widely scattered. Tomorrow, they would be in Sherwood. The men spoke softly to each other. No one laughed.

  Later, Much crawled close to the bush under which John had stretched out. “I . . . I can’t . . . I can’t find no place.”

  John beckoned to him. “It’s all right, lad.”

  Much curled himself into his cloak beside the giant and hid his face.

  Only when the whimpering faded away, when Much’s breaths became calm and even, did John close his own eyes.

  IX

  YORKSHIRE. ON THE WAY SOUTH.

  That first night under the open sky again, they lay with broken branches and moss as a bed. Nothing more.

  Despite their cloaks, their new garments had become clammy. Before setting off, the freemen dried and warmed themselves by the fire. Everyone had a sympathetic touch, a sympathetic look for Much. With red eyes, the boy stood next to Threefinger. There could be no relief. Only a silent greeting, a hand on his shoulder: You are not alone.

  The embers were doused, the ashes scattered. At intervals, the groups set off. By evening, they all had to have made their way to the great oak tree at Edwinstowe. Robin and his small troop were the last to leave the campsite.

  From the corners of his eyes, Little John watched the miller’s son. “Stay by my side!”

  Much tried to smile, bravely shaking his head. “Don’t worry! Where else can I go?” He walked with Threefinger and let Robin and his lieutenant go ahead.

  They followed the trade road. The stone pavement, slightly arched from side to side, stretched straight in front of them. They could see well in advance who was coming toward them, and they could hear early enough when hoofbeats approached from behind. John ducked his head at each sound, and his hand slid down to the middle of his staff. We should hide until any rider passes. Better safe than sorry. But Robin Hood seemed unconcerned. Every now and then, they encountered a peasant cart, sometimes a wandering monk. No one was surprised at the men striding along.

  “What if someone recognizes us?”

  “No danger, John. We are in the border area between the counties. Sir Roger and the lord sheriff are far enough away.” Robin spread his arms wide. “And spring is still young . . . so it’s just the right time for us to head back to Sherwood.”

  Through the haze, they spotted the roofs of Worksop. “There’s plenty of armed men over there,” Robin informed them. “Like dogs chasing rabbits in the field, they could so easily hunt us down on the road. But those fellows are still hibernating.” Only when the wealthy merchants were on the move, when the big wagon caravans started coming up from London and moved farther north via Nottingham, or rolled down from the ports via York to reach the market in Nottingham, only then did the soldiers step in to control every road, guard the tollgates in front of the cities, and collect duties. “If there is anything left for travelers to declare.” Robin laughed. “Because before that, the moneybags have to go past us.” Suddenly he became sober. He scrutinized the giant from the side. “You know every trail in Sherwood. Why haven’t we met before?”

  “Those were not my hunting grounds. All the way over to Edwinstowe and Blidworth—it was too dangerous. I stayed in the west by the monastery. Had to get the quarry to our village quickly.” John closed his eyes. His village. The smell of hearth fires. The laughter of the children when he returned from a hunt. He saw the bodies. He saw Marian’s mother. “And yet I was too late. One time, I was too late.”

  “Forgive me, my friend. I didn’t mean to . . .” After a moment, Robin began again: “Soon everything will be green, soon it will be summer. Deep in Sherwood and along the road, we will have hiding places everywhere. And we have friends in every village now.”

  “Fine.”

  They entered Sherwood on a game trail. Around noon, a light smell of smoke rose into their noses. “That’s Gabriel. I can smell his work a mile off.” Robin Hood decided to pay a visit to his charcoal-burner friend. “Gabriel is a brave Saxon. He works for the Normans, but he does not cower. If it weren’t for him, many old folk here would freeze to death in winter.” The charcoal burner and his two farmhands made charcoal for the ironsmiths of Nottingham Fortress. He was not allowed to cut the wood for it himself. He specified the quantity, and the royal forest guards delivered the wagonloads to his three kilns. Later they picked up the baskets filled to the brim, and if there was not enough, he was in trouble. Gabriel understood his craft. He piled up kilns three-stories high. He also outsmarted the foresters, always ordering more logs than really necessary, always some left over. This way, he could provide wood to poor old people in the area. “Come along, let’s have a drink at his place! Let him know that Robin Hood is back.”

  Two children were playing in front of the charcoal burner’s secluded cottage. Full of curiosity, with big eyes, they looked at the stranger. John winked at them. He stuck out his tongue. They stuck out theirs. The giant made a grimace. The little ones tried to imitate him. A warmth spread through John’s chest. How long had it been since he had unworriedly played games for children? He thought no further on that. Little John staggered back and forth in front of them, growling, turning like a bear. The little ones cheered and clapped.

  “Hey, coalman,” cried Robin. “Come out, Gabriel!”

  Immediately a young woman appeared. As soon as she saw the strangers, her face turned to stone. She ran to her children, tore them away from John, and herded them into the house.

  Robin Hood laughed. “Don’t you recognize me? Where is your husband?”

  Over her shoulder, she cried out, “Go away! You scoundrel. We have nothing.”

  An old woman hobbled outside. She waited until the mother had taken her children to safety. Fearlessly, she approached the outlaw. “Robin Hood. I curse you.” She spat on the ground in front of him.

  Robin stood paralyzed. “But why?”

  The old woman held out two fingers to him. “You’re two-faced. You hypocrite. But Satan is within you. You’re lucky my son’s in the forest by the kiln. He would put a curse on you too. Miserable brigand. A plague on you and your murdering gang!”

  Without a word, Robin turned around. John gave Much and Threefinger a sign. They quickly followed their leader.

  John walked beside his friend in silence. Now and then, he looked down at him. Above the hard gray eyes was a deeply furrowed brow. His face was pale.

  Finally, Robin shook his head. “Why?” he asked hoarsely. “With all I’ve done for these people?”


  Never before had John heard his friend sound like that. “Not every curse brings bad luck.” He tried to placate him, but did not believe it himself. “She was just an old woman.”

  “Don’t be an idiot!” Robin clenched his fists. At the giant’s reproachful expression, he relaxed his hands. “It’s not just the curse. John, I need people’s trust. Otherwise, we’ll never win this fight.” He quickened his pace. “And the worst part is, I don’t know what happened. The charcoal burner is an important ally. From him, we learn where the foresters are, what they are up to. Gabriel was on my side. And now his mother curses me.”

  “I know,” mumbled John. “It is a bad start for us. First, the miller and his wife. Now a curse.”

  “No, enough of this!” Robin turned waited for John to catch up. “We will fight if we have to, even without Gabriel. And, by the Virgin, it will be a good year.”

  They took no rest. At dusk, they reached the meeting place. John was to stay behind, Robin decided, while he went on to the cave where Tom Toad and Herbghost were waiting for the army to arrive. Bill and Threefinger had to gather their friends in the thicket around the Great Oak and adjacent woods by the agreed signal.

  The Great Oak. John looked up at it. Even I am small beside it. His gaze became entangled in the maze of branches. This is not just a tree. For a moment, it seemed to John as if some subterranean god had stretched out his mighty arm, spread his hand, and pushed the forest back.

  Nonsense. The giant smiled at himself, rubbing the scar in his beard firmly. But it is big. Five more like me with arms outstretched, we could perhaps encircle the trunk. And in summer, a good twenty men of my size could hide up there in the branches.

  By that evening, the band of men sat under the oak, caps and hats pulled low over their foreheads, their cloaks pulled closed around them. Robin Hood’s army had safely reached the summer encampment.

  There was no laughter. No one spoke. Nothing was like it had been the year before. Everyone stared into the fire, chewing on the leftovers of their travel provisions.

  “There’ll be soup tomorrow,” Herbghost burst out, loud and angry. “Damn it! I didn’t know you were coming today.”

  “Leave it, William. No one was complaining.” Robin jumped up. With short, stiff steps, he circled the camp under the oak. The reports haunted him: One group had encountered two farmers in Sherwood. The men had addressed them amicably. Immediately the peasants had prostrated themselves before them and begged for mercy.

  Worse still, Tom Toad told of an old woman: She had been gathering brushwood and could barely carry the load. He offered to bring the bundle home for her. The old woman had thrown her laboriously collected brushwood at his feet. “Here, take it! I have nothing more.” And had shuffled off.

  Gilbert Whitehand had tried to buy bread and fruit supplies in Edwinstowe three days before in exchange for good silver pennies. When he appeared, the villagers turned to hurry away, trembling.

  “Wait a moment!” he had called.

  Only a young swineherd had the nerve to raise his face to Gilbert. “Wait? For what? You’ve already killed three of our villagers.”

  “What?” Gilbert had demanded. “By Dubric, what are you talking about? Malcolm,” he beseeched him, “you know me. I’m a friend of Robin Hood.”

  “I know you are. Everyone knows who you really are now.” Bitterly, the young Malcolm continued, “Have mercy! You already raided here two weeks ago. Why come back to torture us more? Buy from us? Buy what? You’ve taken everything we have.”

  As Whitehand left Edwinstowe emptyhanded, he heard the tall swineherd curse the outlaws.

  Again and again, Robin shook his head. The flickering glow of the fire fell on his pale face. John could see the grief in his friend’s eyes. Determined, he stepped into Robin’s circling path and grabbed his arm. “Rest! Tomorrow we will—”

  “John, what happened? When we left last fall, people were slipping us apples and bread along our way. In every village, they offered us a farewell drink. My name alone meant hope. Because they trusted Robin Hood. Because I proved it: We Saxons can stand up to the sheriff, to the Normans.”

  “It’ll be all right. I just think you should—”

  “We can stand against injustice! We are not murderers. We will fight against injustice in this land until King Richard returns . . .”

  “Enough!” John clasped the leader’s wrist hard. Robin Hood stopped in stunned silence. John, too, marveled at himself. Before Robin could get angry, he smiled at him. “Stay calm! Perhaps I am wrong, but I just think somebody’s playing a dirty trick on us. A dirty game.”

  Robin Hood broke free. “Don’t you dare . . .” He faltered, and suddenly his face brightened. “Giant! By the Holy Virgin, you’ve learned quickly from me. A game—a dirty game! Yes, that’s it!”

  The outlaw leader strode close to the fire. He spoke briefly to his followers. The feeling of helplessness began to fall from the band of men. Courage and grim determination returned. The plan for the next weeks was clear.

  Later, Robin crouched in the grass next to his friend. “Thank you, John. Since that curse at noon, my mind had simply stopped. I’m glad you’re with me.”

  “Fine.” John stared at the tips of his boots.

  “I’d rip anyone else’s head off for that arrogance. But you must always tell me if something seems wrong.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “In the unlikely chance I ever make a mistake again.” Robin laughed.

  X

  The latest dispatch from the Crusade: In November of 1191, Richard leaves Jaffa with part of his army. In the destroyed town of Ramleh, he sets up camp. He celebrates Christmas even closer to Jerusalem. Despite sleet and storms, Lionheart lets the troops advance into Judea’s hills during the last week of December. The Crusaders breathe a sigh of relief: The liberation of the Holy City is imminent. The Crusaders rejoice: Wealthy Jerusalem promises rich plunder. But Richard does not attack! He hesitates for five days, then he turns back. Through the thick mud, he leads the disappointed army back to Ramleh. “You gave away Jerusalem with your cowardice,” grumble his allies. In January of 1192, many turn away from him. Some board their ships and return home.

  NOTTINGHAM.

  The sky brightened, a light wind dispelled the morning fog, and pale sunlight reached for the fortress’s battlements.

  Horsemen had appeared, far to the north, between the hills. They had to pass through open terrain, first descending through the valley, then onward up to the defensive wall to reach the city.

  The gate was still closed. Merchants, market women, ropemakers, knife sharpeners, poultry sellers, and fish traders had been waiting outside since dawn. They came from the surroundings of Nottingham and all knew one another. Some had dismounted from their high ox carts. Those who pulled hand carts had unhitched themselves. Chest and shoulder straps hung from the bars, thick stones behind the wheels prevented the carts from rolling backward. People rubbed their cold hands and chatted—no pushing and shoving. Everyone submitted to the unwritten law that whoever had reached the gate first was allowed to enter the city first. The best place on the market was reserved for the firstcomer, who was allowed to put their cart near the church, right in front of the lord sheriff’s house. Next to it, the second, behind it the third, until the last one had to find a corner with his goods somewhere at the edge of the market.

  Only here and there did some of the waiting people turn their heads at the sound of approaching hoofbeats. None of the conversation was disrupted by the troop of castle guards. Their chain mail and helmets shined dully. No one was surprised to see them. At the most, they shrugged their shoulders. It had been so almost every morning for weeks: Shortly after sunrise, armed men returned from a nocturnal ride.

  A stone’s throw from the gate were the traveling minstrels, jugglers, and beggars. They were evicted from the city at dusk and returned at dawn. During the night, Lord Sheriff Thom de Fitz did not tolerate any riffraff within the protecting walls. “O
ur citizens shall sleep soundly and safely.”

  The beggars, who came day in, day out, were restless. They cast hostile glances at six new ragged figures. The strangers had appeared a week ago for the first time: one-legged, slow-witted, limping. Or claiming to be—they knew every begging trick, and every morning they were back again.

  “Where are you from?”

  “London.”

  “Lincoln.”

  “York.”

  That’s all that could be gotten out of them. The newcomers would limp through the alleys on crutches, crouch on corners, snatching the best spots. And how they could spin a patter! Hardly a townswoman passed by without putting at least half a silver penny into a stretched-out wooden bowl. The one with the white hand got the most money. As experienced as the beggars of Nottingham were, they did not know how he managed this trick. There was no paint on his skin; no, his fingers really were white. The man needed only to lie down in front of the sheriff’s house and raise his right hand. That was enough. Nobody chased him away. On the contrary, every day at noon, the sheriff’s wife had soup brought to him.

  The horses snorted up the steep road, their breath steaming from their nostrils. “Make way!” At the head of the troop, the sergeant drew his sword. Hurriedly, the merchants obeyed, dragged draft animals and carts to the side, and cleared the way. But the strange beggars limped, hopped closer. One of them dared to approach the troop leader. Whining, he asked for alms.

  “Get away with you!” The sergeant pulled at the horse’s bridle. At the same time, he kicked in with his spurs, and his horse reared up. Its front hooves whirled dangerously. At the last moment, the ragged man threw himself to the side.

  The armed men rode unhindered through the cleared lane. Ten riders. The nose guards of their helmets made their masked faces look alike. The last two iron men led two heavily laden horses behind them. Their load was hidden under linen blankets.