Robin Hood

by Roehrig Tilman

  “Watch-Sergeant Baldwin returning with his troop,” the officer shouted up to the narrow-slitted windows of the gate tower. A moment later, the iron grating rose, and the doors of the massive oak portal swung apart.

  Following immediately after the troop, the market people moved into the city, and behind them, the travelers and beggars pushed through. Shouts, barking dogs, clucking and quacking, the creaking of cartwheels: The day in Nottingham had begun.

  “Par le ventre de saint Jacques! You are worth your pay.” The lord sheriff reached up and pulled his officer’s face down to him and patted his cheek. “Keep this up, Baldwin, and I’ll make you a rich man. But . . .” he stabbed his index finger against the man’s chest. “Not a word to anyone. Or I will personally rip your heart out. You are responsible for your men. I pay you well, so keep their mouths shut.”

  Baldwin had not let his men dismount. The remainder of the troop was sent straight up to the castle. Baldwin hitched his horse in front of the sheriff’s house, dragged the two pack animals into the courtyard, and locked the gate.

  “Don’t worry, Lord! My people know exactly what they can expect from me if they misstep.” Baldwin put his hand on his sword. “They stay silent.”

  “Bien.” Thom de Fitz walked around the heavily loaded horses. “Now show me what you brought me today.”

  Sacks of wool. Soft tanned sheepskins. Carved spoons and bowls. At the sight of the goods, the sheriff pulled a face. “Diable. The same as always. My cellar will soon be overflowing with this horrible junk. No embellishments, not the smallest carved ornamentation. These Saxons are nothing but unimaginative barbarians. Without culture, sans finesse. Regardless, down in the capital even the most primitive goods are in short supply. As soon as the large wagon caravan arrives from London, I will be rid of all this rubbish for good money.”

  The sergeant took the covering off the second packhorse. “That’s all the supplies they had.”

  Thom de Fitz paid scant attention to the fruits preserved in honey. “You will divide this among your men?” He felt a bulging sack. “Magnifique. Grain seeds! Baldwin, the more you bring me before they plant their fields, the faster my plan will succeed. Grain is the most important thing they have. No seeds, no harvest. The villagers will never forgive their Robin Hood.” He breathed on the gold rings of his right hand and polished them on his doublet sleeve. “And how many did you . . . ? Tell me!”

  “Just one.”

  “And?”

  “As you commanded. Don’t worry, sir. No one in the village will forget it.” Baldwin reported with an impassive face: First, the peasants themselves had to put their supplies and all the goods they had made over the winter on the pack animals. “Before we left, we chopped off the head of one of them.”

  “And nobody recognized you?”

  “It was still mostly dark. We had green capes over our chain mail and the hoods over our helmets, like every time. And all the while, my people were calling to me. Robin Hood! or Robin, come here! No one knows it was us.”

  “Bien. Très Bien. Remember, kill no more than three at a time. And the others must watch it happen. We need witnesses to tell the tale.” The lord sheriff raised his chin. “A few more villages, and the name Robin Hood will become a curse on Sherwood, and not just there. The whole shire will curse him. Soon no one will protect the outlaws. They won’t be safe anywhere. You shall see, Baldwin—soon the first Saxons will come groveling before my judgment seat and tell me the bastard’s hiding place.” His eyes were shining. “My plan is succeeding! And I will show Prince John the gallows in the summer with the bones of Robin Hood, gnawed clean by ravens, hanging from it.”

  Abruptly Baldwin jumped forward, hurriedly threw a cloth over the loot on one animal, and reached for the second one. Too late. The sergeant snapped to attention, staring at the door. Thom de Fitz turned to look. His wife had entered the courtyard. Her hair was hidden under a cap, and she wore a simple high-necked robe. “Don’t you have more than enough by now?” Her high forehead wrinkled as she frowned, full of reproach, at her husband.

  “Beatrice. Ma chère.” Hurriedly, Thom de Fitz approached her and gave a gallant bow. Before he could complete the greeting by kissing her hand, she crossed her arms in front of her chest.

  “Your manners do not impress me.” She nodded over to the pack animals. “Why, Thom de Fitz? We have a fine livelihood and much more than we need. But you, in your greed, deprive poor people of everything they own. I am ashamed of you.”

  The blood burned in the Lord Sheriff’s face, leaving the white spot of his false nose. “Please, Beatrice! Not here. Come inside! Not here, Beatrice.” He reached for her arm. Over her shoulder, he called, “You wait for me here, Baldwin!”

  Reluctantly, Beatrice let him lead her to the door. In the main hall, the Lord Sheriff moved his wife’s carved armchair to the window. “Take a seat!”

  “I prefer to stand.” Only with difficulty did she maintain her composure, her voice trembling with irritation. “Day after day, you pass judgment on petty thieves, cruel judgments. While you squeeze the last belongings out of people. You are the true robber in Sherwood. No, let me speak! Did you think I don’t know what you have been accumulating in the cellars? Ever since the snow melted? You shamelessly use your power. Crop seeds! Because of you, children will starve! And you smile as the peasant families plunge deeper into misery!” Bright tears stood in her eyes. “I couldn’t help overhearing: You will not even stop at cold-blooded murder. Oh, Thom de Fitz, you bring shame and a curse on yourself and our house.”

  “Diable. Watch your tongue!” The lord sheriff bit his lower lip. He paused for a deep breath and began again, this time more restrained: “You’re my wife, nothing more. What do you care about the serfs?”

  “They’re people.”

  “No, they’re not. These Saxon vermin work for us. A Norman pays more for a decent horse than for two serfs.”

  In disgust, Beatrice turned away from him. She stared out the window. Thom de Fitz stepped up close behind her. “Why so angry? Appearances are deceptive. I would not let the villages be plundered merely for greed, ma chère. But it must be done. Unfortunately, I must—I will—destroy Robin Hood. This is all part of my plan. And it is succeeding. This time the outlaw will fall into my net. And Prince John will amply reward me.” He pressed on, his voice flattering, “How do you like the sound of Baron Thom de Fitz?”

  Beatrice’s back stiffened. After a long moment, she coolly replied: “Even if you dress in the most expensive robes, wear rings on every finger, and cover the scar on your face with paint, even if you style yourself as baron or duke. You do not impress me. Underneath all those baubles, I always see the true Thom de Fitz.”

  The sheriff threw up his arms in exasperation. His wife turned around. Her bold stare made him back off, even as he threatened her with a raised fist. “Remember—just one word from me and you will spend the rest of your days in the deepest dungeon of the fortress. You would not be the first lady of noble lineage to perish there in the company of rats.”

  He could not withstand her unflinching gaze. Finally, he lowered his fist, and his shoulders sank. “I am the law,” he proclaimed miserably. “I am the judge of Nottingham.”

  Beatrice nodded. “But there is a judge before whom you and all your friends must answer. He will mark this in the book of Heaven. Remember that, Thom de Fitz! Please, leave me alone now!”

  Wordlessly, the Lord Sheriff turned around and stormed out.

  Meanwhile, in the yard, Sergeant Baldwin had unloaded the plunder. No, the sheriff told him, he was not to take it into the cellar. The sheriff wanted to be rid of him quickly today.

  “But the reward?” asked Baldwin. “I have to pay my men.”

  Thom de Fitz tossed him a heavy coin bag. “Here, take it! This time I’ll give you a hundred twenty silver pennies. Pay each man five, put the rest in your pouch! I’m well satisfied with you.”

  In disbelief, Baldwin weighed the wealth in hi
s hand. His master did not give him time to give thanks. He had already opened the courtyard gate himself. Together they led the unburdened horses out of the yard and through the narrow alley to the market, into the shouts and haggling, the flute playing intermingled with tambourine beats. The market bustle was in full swing. Nobody paid attention to the lord sheriff and his sergeant.

  “Damn!” Baldwin let go of the pack animal, drew his sword, and stormed to his horse where it stood hitched. A beggar was unashamedly tampering with the saddlebag. His white hand was just pulling out a piece of green cloth. At a full run, Baldwin rammed into the beggar with his shoulder, who fell to the ground, still. “Damned thief!” The sergeant raised his arm for a thrust of his blade. In an instant, the sheriff was by his side, grabbing his sword arm.

  “Let it go,” he hissed. “I don’t want any fuss.”

  “He found the cloak.” Reluctantly, Baldwin sheathed his sword.

  The lord sheriff nudged the toe of his boot into the beggar’s side. The man lay motionless. “Don’t be a fool,” he reassured the sergeant. “He saw green cloth, nothing more.” Thom de Fitz dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. “I do hope he comes to. If you had stabbed him, it would be unimaginably awful: My wife would have never forgiven me for it. She’s been fluttering around this foul creature for days.” He tucked the kerchief back into his sleeve. “Bien. On to our plan. Which village is next?”

  “Blidworth. First thing in the morning.”

  Neither the sheriff nor his watch officer paid any further attention to the beggar. He lay on the ground as if unconscious, but at the name Blidworth he had opened his eyelids a slit.

  Thom de Fitz shook his head. “Not tomorrow.” With a quick glance at the windows of his house, he instructed: “Not so soon after the last. Wait two days.”

  “Yes, sir.” Baldwin mounted his horse. “The day after tomorrow, then.” He pulled the pack animals ambling behind him.

  For a while, the lord sheriff stood and watched the fishmonger in front of his house. Fresh trout, eels. The dried fish hung on a rack. “That is how I want you, Robin Hood. You and your gang. Strung up. One by one.”

  No sooner had Thom de Fitz disappeared into the house than the beggar picked himself up, picked up his staff, and hobbled away.

  XI

  NOTTINGHAM SHIRE. SHERWOOD FOREST.

  A peaceful silence lay over Blidworth. The first twilight between night and day.

  A dog barked. A second! A third one! The dogs tugged at their chains, lunged, were pulled back by their collars, lunged forward again. They growled, barked, turned in circles, barked on.

  Torches blazed around Blidworth, and the noose tightened. The village was encircled.

  Horsemen charged up the only road. Two each from both directions! They reined in their horses as they reached the first huts. With their sword pommels, they banged on every door: “Out! Come out!” The horsemen met in the middle of Blidworth. They looked around. No one. Nothing moved in front of the dozen or so huts. “Come out!” cried the horsemen’s leader. “It’s me, your friend Robin Hood. So show yourself!”

  Only the dogs answered, barking more wildly.

  “The people are scared,” said one of the horsemen, excessively loudly.

  “Oh, not at all,” said another, just as loud. “They’re still scrubbing their teeth and rinsing their mouths to greet us pleasantly.”

  All four laughed uproariously. In the weak morning light, the strangers could now be made out. They wore voluminous cloaks, the hoods pulled up, hiding their faces. The cloth was a deep green.

  “By order of Robin Hood,” cried the leader over the flat rooftops. “Shut those mutts’ mouths!”

  Immediately three men dismounted, stormed over to the dogs, and shoved blazing torches down their throats. The howls choked off into silence.

  “For the last time: Come out!” The leader of the gang of horsemen waited no longer. “As you wish. Then we’ll come and get you. We’ll burn the huts over your heads.”

  “Have mercy. Have mercy!” A man stepped into the street, waving his arms frantically. “We’re coming!” One by one, every door in Blidworth opened. In gray dresses, headscarves, and gray tunics, men and women stumbled outside. But only a few steps; each stayed close to their homes.

  “Why didn’t you just come out when we asked nicely?” Satisfied, the leader laughed. He blew a sharp whistle. Around Blidworth, his horsemen moved even closer to the huts. Escape was impossible. “Bring the packhorses!”

  Everything seemed carefully practiced. Step by step, a cruel game. The leader ordered all the men in the village to come to him. Soon the peasants stood like lambs before their butcher, silent, head and shoulders deeply bowed. The man barely paid attention to them. He urged the others to hurry: The women were to bring the supplies, the seed, the sheepskins, ropes, simply everything they possessed. It was not much. There was no grain seed.

  “You!” The leader chose one among them. “Come here!” The woman obeyed. “What are you hiding from us?” Humbly, face pointed firmly to the ground, she shook her head.

  “Dismount!” he ordered his men. “Take a look! Search every hut!” The men spread out. “If they find anything else,” he warned, “I’ll cut off your ears. First you, then every woman here.”

  One of his men came running back. “Hey, Robin.” He smirked and put a honeypot on the floor. “Look at what we have here.”

  The leader gave another sharp whistle. He waited until his men had closed their ranks around the gathered inhabitants of Blidworth. Now he threatened the men of the village. “If anyone tries to fight back, I’ll smash his head in!” No one dared to move even a hand.

  Slowly he got down from the horse, pulled the green hood even further over his forehead, and pulled out his knife. In a leisurely way, he approached the woman. She stood, her chin on her chest, hunched forward. “As for you, little pigeon. You have lied to Robin Hood. He doesn’t like that.” He yanked off her headscarf. She was almost bald, only a long braid dangling from the back of her head. The leader grinned broadly. “What an ugly witch you are!” He patted her shriveled scalp her grabbed her ear. With his other hand he set he set his blade against it.

  The woman’s fist suddenly flew up. A dagger blade sank deep into the man’s right arm. He cried out in horror.

  In the same moment, the villagers awoke. The men pulled out swords from under their long tunics. A horn sounded. More horns answered from the sheep pastures beyond. All the women raised their heads to reveal wild, bearded faces. Their skirts were slit up to the hips. They pulled the cloth aside, drew the swords from their belts. Steel flashed. The intruders understood too slowly. Much too late, they drew their weapons.

  Despite the howling and cursing, despite the noise of battle around him, their leader simply stood where he was, staring at his bleeding wound in disbelief. Then he stared at the bald creature, stammering. “Spirits. Devils and witches!”

  The creature set the dagger to the man’s throat. “Devil? I don’t like that at all,” came a deep, husky voice. “Move, and you’re dead!”

  “A trap,” gasped the leader.

  “By Willick. You figured it out.” Tom Toad grinned. He took a quick glance to the side. Some of the intruders lay dead nearby. Men dressed as farmers drove the rest of the horde like rabbits before them. At both ends of the village, the runaways were being picked off by archers. The battle was over.

  “Now as for you, my green pigeon . . .” Tom Toad imitated the voice of the leader. “There’s no one left to help you.” He flicked the man’s hood back—to reveal a helmet. Tom Toad grabbed the green cloak and tore it from him with a single yank. “Well, well, well. An iron puppet of the sheriff.”

  Imperceptibly, the soldier’s left hand slipped down to the pommel of his sword. He had already half pulled the weapon out of its sheath before Tom Toad noticed it. Tom’s knee jerked up and caught the man between his thighs. Groaning, the man writhed, bent over. Tom’s composure was gone. Hatred
blazed in his face. He tore off the helmet from the gasping man, pulled off the chain mail hood, tugged his head up by his hair, and placed the tip of the dagger deep into one nostril. “What do you prefer? This one? The other? An ear?”

  “I was only joking. Only joking. I just wanted to scare you.”

  “Shut up,” cried Tom. His hand jerked, and the tip of the blade nicked the man’s nostril. Blood poured from the cut. The man writhed more, in pain. Relentlessly, Tom held on to the shock of hair. “A joke? You shall have a fun little joke.” He bent the man’s head all the way to the side. An ear was exposed.

  “Enough!” At the sharp command, Tom paused and looked over his shoulder. Robin Hood. The gray eyes looked coldly at him. Tom glanced around, at all his friends staring at him. Their faces were flushed from the fight. A few prisoners crouched on the ground.

  “It’s all right, Tom.” Little John clasped his companion’s knife hand tightly. “Let him go now.”

  Tom obeyed. He rubbed his eyes, stroking his shriveled scalp. “By St. William!” The smile returned. “That was close, friends. I almost soiled myself with this pig.”

  “I understand,” growled John. “Not only you. I think there’s such anger in all of us.”

  Robin Hood disarmed the leader of the mob. “Who are you?”

  Blood ran from the man’s nose wound, stained his mouth, soaked his beard. Blood ran from the right sleeve of his chain mail shirt, dripping from his fingertips. He remained silent.

  “The game is over, you rat. Answer me, or I’ll leave you to this one!” Robin pointed at Tom Toad.

  His eyes widened in horror. “Sergeant Baldwin,” he spat out. “Sergeant of Nottingham Castle Guard. We passed this way by chance.”

  No sooner had he spoken than Gilbert Whitehand jumped at him. “Coincidence? Robin Hood does not like to be lied to.” His clawed right hand slowly approached the sergeant’s face. “Remember this?”