The baron got out of his saddle. He snapped at the nun. “Why are you dawdling?” Startled, the gatekeeper scurried away.
Sir Roger waited. Before him, the fruit trees were in full bloom. In long beds, carefully bordered with white pebbles, colorful spring flowers bloomed. The vegetable field was divided into small rectangles. Bent-over novices were weeding between the young bean and pea plants.
Nearby, a solid brick tower rose. It had been a gift from the baron. Behind its narrow windows, patients were treated and cared for. All the way up at the top, there was a single sickroom above the others. The convent’s service buildings extended farther back. All was order and care. There was nothing to be seen of the decay, of the hunger outside the high walls. “And all this I get with my money.” Sir Roger crossed his arms. “My salvation and health, both of which cost a lot.”
He looked over to the whitewashed building just to the left of the church. The prioress emerged from the nuns’ dormitory. As quickly as her old age allowed, she hurried along the raked paths, turning through the angles of the flower garden’s layout. As she arrived in front of her guest, she greeted him breathlessly. “What a joy, Lord. Peace be with you!”
“And also with you, Mother Prioress, with you too.”
“Did you have a good—”
“I am in a hurry. Bring me Sister Mathilda. I wish to speak to her.”
Kindness and compassion radiated from the wrinkled face. Regretfully, the nun pointed to the infirmary tower. “She is treating a new patient. A dying squire. Wait until she has bled him. Come with me to the refectory. A cool welcome drink will—”
“Silence. Go, Reverend Mother, and send her to me!” The harsh tone made the prioress retreat.
“God bless you,” she murmured as she hurried to the infirmary.
A little later, she returned with sister Mathilda—a tall figure, and under the starched veil, a narrow, smooth face, tightly framed by the white cloth of her wimple. She greeted the guest, holding her hands folded in front of her chest.
Sir Roger wanted to speak to her alone. “I will report to you later, Reverend Mother,” Sister Mathilda assured her. No sooner had the prioress left than Sister Mathilda lost her humble look. With no hint of shyness, the dark eyes searched the baron’s features. “You have complaints, Lord? A stone in your bladder tormenting you again? Is that it? I will give you . . .”
“Later. My health can wait.” The baron barely opened his lips. “You know why I came here.”
Looking at the busily working novices, Mathilda whispered: “Not here.”
She hurried ahead, invited the guest into her herb garden, and locked the gate. “Curiosity sharpens the ear,” she said. “It cures deafness even better than my drops of mother’s milk and houseleek.”
“To the point.” Sir Roger tapped his fingertips together. “Have you thought about my plan? Will you give me your nephew?”
She didn’t acknowledge the question. “Apart from this garden, there is no place in all the convent where my fellow sisters’ curiosity does not extend.”
“Par tous les diables!”
The look on her white-framed face became cooled even more. “Why so irritable? It only makes your bladder tense.” Before Sir Roger lost his temper, she placated: “Yes, I’ve been thinking about it. However, I’m not satisfied with your terms yet.”
“Don’t overestimate yourself. My patronage has made all this possible for you so far. But the step from doctor to witch is a small one.”
Mathilda lowered her head. Under the protection of her veil, she said in a falsely humble tone: “Forgive me. My family is dead except for my two nephews. The one is Robert Loxley, the son of my older brother. I do not care much for him, except that I make very good money from Robin Hood and his band of men. It’s different with my nephew Gamwell. He’s my favorite brother’s child. I raised him. He’s a part of me.”
Sir Roger narrowed his eyes. “Then what is your concern? Out of sheer generosity, I shall take your Gamwell into my castle. There, he will live like my son. We already negotiated that in January. No—your hesitation does not stem from that sort of concern. I have known you too long not to know your greed. What do you want?”
Mathilda remained in her submissive posture. “First, the truth. I, too, have known you too long. I lie awake and wonder why the wealthy and powerful Sir Roger chose my nephew, of all people. Well, yes, he is handsome, knows how to behave—but, with respect, as your servant and doctor, I know about your physical ailments. You are certainly not looking for a . . . companion.”
Sir Roger clenched his fists. “One more word, and you will see yourself burned at the stake!”
“We need each other, sir. And you know it.” Fearlessly, Mathilda continued: “There are many poor squires from the old families, are there not? So why a boy who has no connections but an aunt?” The nun raised her head just enough to look the baron in the eyes. “What makes my Gamwell so precious to you?”
Sir Roger pressed his lips together and restlessly paced back and forth. The bad news from Nottingham had alarmed him, had driven him here. He alone knew how this Robin Hood could finally be brought down. But for his plan to succeed, he needed the nun’s nephew, the cousin of that wretched bastard.
“To tell the truth. If I accept Gamwell, I expect a small service from him.”
Sister Mathilda smiled soberly. “At last. What is it?”
Sir Roger smiled just as coolly. “A secret matter in the service of England. I am not allowed to say any more. Only this much: Gamwell must be thoroughly and properly briefed by me. This will take time. If he fulfills his task, our esteemed Prince John will personally elevate him to noble rank. I guarantee it.”
“Good. I will help you.” Sister Mathilda promised to send her nephew to Doncaster within the week. “However . . .” She hesitated. Finally, she continued: “When one hand gives, the other should be filled. This is how I see it. And not only with my patients. So, forgive me, I too ask a small favor.”
Sir Roger did not want to jeopardize the plan when he was so close. “What is it?”
“Our abbey owes you much. but it could flourish even more.”
“Your greed knows no limits.”
“You have me wrong. I expect less, not more, from you. How easy it could be for more well-paying patients to be admitted here, and you would save the cost of our maintenance. Kirklees could almost sustain itself, if it weren’t for the good Mother Prioress being so simple and humble. Day after day, she compels me to treat some among the sick outside the gate. For free, even! Oh, she is old and doesn’t know how the world is now. But if I, if I could take her place, then . . .”
The baron fully understood her. “D’accord. Before the year is out. Only it would be easier to propose such a change to the abbot of your order if the Mother Prioress were bedridden with infirmity.”
“Put your trust in the power of my herbs.”
They looked eye to eye at each other for a long time. Neither lowered their gaze.
As a farewell gift, Sister Mathilda presented her guest with a large bottle in the presence of the prioress. “Take a few sips of this every morning. But warm the liquid beforehand. Iris root, crushed in wine, will soon dissolve your annoying stone.”
Protected by his escort, Sir Roger left the convent of Kirklees. He smiled.
On the wayside, the boy stood next to his mother, his face still bloodied. “A shilling, sir!”
Sir Roger opened his bag and threw a handful of silver coins at him. “Take it, you greedy toad.”
The little one didn’t move. Only when the escort was far enough away did he pick up the silver pennies. He counted aloud, counted again. “Only half a shilling short. Don’t worry, Mother. I can do it. I’ll do it tomorrow for sure!”
XIII
YORKSHIRE. BARNSDALE TOP.
Marian had been waiting for Little John, and she was still waiting. He hadn’t come to Barnsdale Top for months.
Much later than agreed, not
until late April, Tom Toad and some men had taken over the second summer watch in the village and the two encampments. “He is well,” they told her. “He sends his love.”
After only a fortnight, Gilbert Whitehand had returned to the base above the main camp for a month. “Robin won’t let the little man go,” he reported back. “He needs him. But I’m sure he’ll come up for a day or two when they next relieve the guard.”
But even when June came, Pete Smiling could only bare his teeth. “Don’t look at me so sad,” he said cheerfully. “It’s been raining day and night for weeks. It’s bad enough for our people down there in Sherwood. Nevertheless, we’ve gotten good loot. Believe me, little one! Nobody’s ever even touched a hair on your John’s head. Well, a few bumps and bruises . . . but everybody’s got those now.” The lieutenant had also brought two seriously injured people on stretchers into the camp. One with a deep flesh wound over his belly, the other with a splinted leg. “John’s better off than those poor devils there. They’ll have to go to Mathilda at Kirklees sometime during the night.”
The girl clenched her fist. “He promised me.”
“Well, you’ll just have to wait some more.”
Marian stayed on with Beth. Day after day, she helped at the sewing table, obediently but without enthusiasm. Now, in early July, the weather had improved. When the sun shone outside, Marian moaned, complaining of pain in her back. Sometimes she stabbed herself in the fingertip on purpose, then showed Beth the thick drop of blood. “I’d stain the good fabric.”
Toad’s wife played along. “That would be a pity, princess. So suck it clean and run along! But you be back before dark.” In no time, Marian had taken off her light-colored, clean gown, put on the old, dirty one, stuck her dagger in her rope belt, and was out the door. She ran through the forest. In the kitchen at the hideout, Storyteller had old crusts of bread ready for her, just like every day. Behind the horse stable, the girl climbed onto the paddock fence and whistled on two fingers. Whinnying, one of the two white stallions answered, trotted up, snorted, ate the bread, and let Marian clamber up on his back. “My Lancelot! Run!” She rode him bareback.
In the evening, her hair hung tangled and disheveled around her head. “You’re not a prince, princess.” Beth sighed as she tackled the tangles with her wooden comb. “When you become a young woman, then—”
The blood flushed Marian’s face. “Don’t say that!”
“Well, just you wait. You’ll be a woman whether you like it or not.” Beth let the combed-out curls slip through her hand. “And then? Then I’ll be alone again.”
The next day, from early morning till about noon, Toad’s wife seemed not to notice all the groaning and sighing. At last, she put the girl out of her misery. “Go on, run along!”
Not until the camp kitchen did Marian stop to catch her breath. The bowl with the leftover bread was empty. “Where is it?”
Paul Storyteller waved a hand, vigilantly stirring the ladle in the pot.
“Don’t you have any crusts?”
The old man slurped the hot soup, his eyes gleaming. “Taste this, little one!”
“Where have you hidden them?”
“Try this first.”
Marian sipped from the ladle. She frowned in surprise. “Tastes better than usual.”
“I should think so.” Storyteller tapped a step forward on his wooden leg. “There’s no bread for your Lancelot today.” He returned to the table, where he started chopping parsley. He glanced slyly at the girl and then returned his attention to the knife. Casually, he mentioned: “You see, Smiling took it all. He left last night.”
Marian lowered the ladle. “They changed the guard?” She turned pale, bravely shook her head. “I knew that.”
“Yes, our bald friend will be here through July.”
“Paul!” Marian couldn’t stand it any longer. “Please, Paul. Tell me!”
“Toad and his men stashed the loot in the caves. Now they’ve all gone to sleep.” The old man continued to act all mysterious. “But, now, over there, from the shack next to the stables . . . I heard something, girl. Something terrible. Like a bear.”
Marian had thrown the ladle aside and was already on her way out of the kitchen. She could hear the deep snoring from outside. Carefully, she entered the half-dark hut. Little John lay on his back. The mighty chest rose and fell.
Marian crept closer. She watched the giant. Soon her smile disappeared, her gaze turned angry. Marian grabbed the empty ale jug next to him and slammed it on the table. John jumped up from his sleep, knife in hand. He hit his head against the ceiling beams, knocked wide awake. “Little one.”
“You remember who I am?”
“Little one,” muttered John. He put the dagger down. I’m home! The thought warmed him. He bent down, wanted to squeeze her in a bear hug, reconsidered, and instead stroked her curls gently. “It took a while to get back. But I couldn’t come any sooner.”
“I’m doing just fine here. I’m helping Beth, and all.” Marian took his big hand and held it with both or hers.
“Come outside with me! I want a good look at you.”
“And I’ll introduce you to my friend.”
Marian ran ahead of him to the paddock. Little John grinned. Her movements, her laughter! She’s going to be like her mother someday. When he heard her loud, sharp whistle on two fingers, he stopped in surprise. But when Marian threw herself off the fence and onto the stallion’s back, and when she galloped off across the pasture, whooping, it almost took his breath away. Mixed in with the initial pride was fatherly concern. Finally, John frowned. “No lady rides like that. And whistles like an ox driver, too. Acts like a boy!” He scratched the scar in his beard. “No, I don’t want any of that.” John took it upon himself to have a serious word with Beth.
He made no comment to her about her horsemanship, not even his typical “It’s all right.” Marian didn’t notice.
On the way back to the village, she was bubbling with happiness, showing him every tree she had climbed, boisterously recounting her shooting skills with her little bow.
I shouldn’t have given you that, John thought. I want something better for you than an outlaw’s life. So preoccupied was he with his thoughts that he had missed Marian’s question. “What?”
“I said: When do you have to leave again, John?”
“Tomorrow, little one.”
All joy died in her gaze. “So soon?”
“It has to be. July is the most important time, Robin says.”
Marian swallowed hard. She didn’t want to cry. She bravely lifted her chin. “Robin Hood? He’s your friend.”
“Yes.”
Marian walked in silence beside the giant. Her hand slipped into his. “You’ll be back, won’t you?”
“You bet I will, little one!” John laughed. “But I’m still here now. And tonight, we’ll celebrate.”
Clouds had rolled in. Then in the late afternoon, the wind died down. The gray blanket of clouds hung heavy over the highlands and Barnsdale Top. The day’s heat did not cool.
Candles flickered on the table outside the cobbler’s tavern. Bowmakers and ropemakers, the blacksmith, the dyers, and the hemp weaver, whoever in the village felt like it, all had come for a drink. John and Tom kept the guests happy and full. For once, Marian was allowed to join in, much to the envy of the village’s other children and half-grown youths. She sat next to Beth and a pitcher of sweet cider made from apples. The girl pushed a cup over to her. “May I? Please?”
“But don’t be in such a hurry, princess,” Beth admonished with a smile, as she poured. She wore a new dress to celebrate her husband’s return, the loose, wide collar of her shift slipping down over her shoulders. It had been a long time since the girl had seen her so happy. Marian sipped the cider, enjoying the tingle on her tongue, and leaned her head against Beth’s shoulder.
The conversation roamed around the day, the weather, and the worry of whether there would be a good harvest. The ale tasted g
ood in the muggy evening air. Each sip helped those present forget trouble and toil. They joked and laughed. Only one thing was missing. “Tell us a story!”
As usual, Storyteller waited before beginning. He wanted to be asked, and not just once. He wasn’t ready to entertain yet.
Marian brushed the curls from her forehead. Her eyes sparkled from the sweet apple cider. “Tell us about Sherwood!” Beth quickly tried to cover her mouth, but Marian pushed her hand away. “What did you do there? Tell me, John!”
The table fell silent. Little John put his ale mug down. “We . . . I . . .” He hesitated.
Tom Toad came to the rescue. “Well, we’re having fun. All day. There are only fun times with Robin. Everyone here knows that.”
What was he talking about? The giant peered at Tom, and his friend winked back at him. John caught on. “Right. That’s exactly how it is, little one. We’re having so much fun.”
The merrymakers at the table breathed a sigh of relief. Nobody was allowed to ask the freemen such a question; nobody talked about what the outlaws truly did in the forest, nor did they want to know. In their hearts, Robin Hood was a hero, full of wit and cunning. He led the fight on their behalf. His gilded image was built from dreams and stories throughout the shire, even among the villagers in Barnsdale Top, and nothing was allowed to tarnish it.
Storyteller demanded their silence.
“I remember how, once, Robin met a deceitful beggar—”
No. They had heard that story too many times.
“All right. How about the cobbler from Wakefield? The churl demanded a toll from everyone who wished to pass armed through town. Whoever didn’t pay, he thrashed. Then one day, Robin—”
The audience waved that one off. Storyteller glared at them angrily. “Then . . . the beautiful wedding. Who remembers that one: how Robin came across the poor vagabond Alan-a-Dale in the woods? Oh, how the ragged minstrel wept, because his lady love was promised to a rich old knight?”
Everyone except Marian and John knew what had happened. But the memory of it made his listeners smile. Paul took advantage of the silence and quickly carried on, embellishing the most important details. He showed them Robin Hood, disguised as a lute player, sneaking into St. James’s Church near Papplewick. At the altar, the bishop was just about to bind the mismatched bride and groom together. Robin shouted, “This marriage must not take place. The bride’s heart belongs to someone else.” What a fight followed! And at the end of the day, the minstrel Alan-a-Dale won the hand of his beloved.
Robin Hood Page 18
