“Who?” Robin demanded sharply. “Speak up!”
In a tired voice, the boy reported, “Between the lakes. I’d just finished at Carburton. My last village.”
John nodded to Robin. “That’s where the river narrows for a good two miles. That’s the only place you can get across.”
At the ford, armed riders from the lord sheriff had spotted the lad. When they called to him, he had not stopped. The patrol set one of their dogs after him. “At first, I thought I could make it. But the dog was faster than me.” The memory lifted Much above the fatigue. “There was brush. All the way down the slope. Blackberries. I ran, jumped and pushed off with my staff, and landed in the middle of it. The dog jumped, too. He got stuck in the thorns right in front of my face. He kept barking, giving away where I was. I stuck the knife in his neck. That shut him up.”
By the time Much heard the soldiers shouting and searching close by, he had already cut his way farther down the thorny slope. “That took time to get through. Else I would have been here sooner.”
“You’re a good man,” Robin said gravely. “Nobody but you could have done it.”
“Now I’m tired.” He closed his eyes. The proud smile remained even after Much had fallen asleep.
“If it gets cold, he’ll stiffen up and hardly be able to move tomorrow.” While John wrapped the exhausted youth in his coat, Gabriel smoothed out a place on the warm charcoal bed. Together they covered Much up to the neck with the still-warm chunks of coal.
“This is going to be some journey back.” Robin grinned. “Two bruised and battered, one scratched to bits.”
“That’s right,” John agreed grimly. “Lucky us.”
XV
The latest dispatch from the Crusade: Jerusalem is not conquered! And yet, against the will of Richard the Lionheart, the army commanders have elected the ambitious Conrad of Montferrat as king of the Holy City. The news is brought to Conrad in Tyros. A few days later, on the evening of April 28, 1192, Conrad is stabbed to death by two hired assassins. Murder! Who gave the order? Was it Richard the Lionheart? Suspicion is stirred up by his opponents in Palestine and in Europe.
YORKSHIRE. WINTER CAMP AT BARNSDALE.
What a summer! Grain. Peas and beans. Fruit! The farmers had reaped bountiful harvests. At the end of September, there were already more than enough winter provisions stored in the barns and cellars of Barnsdale Top.
What a summer! Without any losses, the band of outlaws had brought the lord sheriff’s gold safely to their camp. Never had the raids in Sherwood been so profitable. In no previous year had the hoard buried under Robin’s hut been so full.
There was enough money, to be used for the care of the severely wounded. For at Kirklees Abbey, Sister Matilda charged dearly for her treatments and her silence.
The early return from the Sherwood gave them extra time. Roofs were repaired down in the main camp, the bed sacks stuffed with fresh hay and straw. Robin had a new, spacious hut built right next to his own quarters. The men speculated, asked outright. He shrugged. “Whoever figures out what it’s for shall have a gold piece.” Smirking, he enjoyed the guessing games. Only Little John was given the secret: “For the monk. Remember? I want a priest just for us.” He lifted his chin. “We have plenty of time to prepare this year. First, let’s get his hut ready. And then we’ll find one. Well, what do you say?”
John had barely been paying attention. Scowling, he grumbled, “That’s all right.”
“Hey?” Robin tapped his fist against John’s broad chest. “Did you swallow a toad?”
“I’m fine,” the giant assured him and stomped off. Shaking his head, Robin watched him go.
Everyone seemed happy—the peasants in the village, the men in camp. Only John was not. His wandering path led him over to Much’s hut. Much was not there. “By Dunstan!” Though John had assigned him to the night watch, the boy would not rest. The scar in his braided beard flushed red. That lout! All right, he can do what he wants on his rest time. But he should leave the girl alone!
It had been going on for weeks. In the beginning, John had thought nothing of it. Much had come back from Sherwood so scratched up. Anyone would have wanted to take care of him. Why not Marian, too? But when the wounds had long since healed, and the two were still crouched together, a gnawing feeling stirred in John. He had watched them out of sheer concern. Very quickly, it had become clear to him why the young fellow had jostled for day duty up at the village, of all places. And every time the giant checked the guard posts, he found his Marian with Much.
Angrily, he had confronted Beth. “I don’t want this.”
“Leave the princess be!” the seamstress scolded. “She thinks it’s nothing.”
“But the boy—”
“Don’t be a giant wet nurse! Our princess will soon be thirteen winters old. You can’t tie her up forever.”
Not a word had John said to Marian so far. But now his patience was at an end! For the third times this week Much had foregone sleep and disappeared from camp.
John sat down in the meadow under the big linden tree. It was a warm September afternoon. He leaned his back against the trunk, half closing his eyelids. Anyone passing by would have believed that he was having a comfortable nap. The giant was waiting.
Marian’s bright voice! Chattering loudly and laughing, the boy and girl left the tunnel through the rocks. John rose to his feet. Exuberantly, Marian ran toward him. She showed him a large trout. “Look, I’m taking this to Beth,” she exclaimed. “Much caught it—by hand.”
“I learned that from my father,” the boy said proudly.
John looked at Marian. Her frock was completely soaked, sticking to her body. Her small chest, her hips, and her bottom stood out clearly under the fabric.
John swallowed to calm himself. “Look at you.”
“Well, I tried catch one too.” Unconcerned, Marian laughed. “It’s not that easy. I fell in the water, and the fish was gone.”
“So, that’s all what happened,” John growled.
The two seemed oblivious to his irritation. Much tapped the girl on the shoulder. “There’s still time before the watch. I’ll take you up to the village.”
“You stay where you are!” ordered John.
“But . . . but I . . .” Much began.
“Much Miller’s-son! Let it be, or else . . .” the giant threatened. “Get out of here!”
Immediately the boy obeyed. Without a word, he ran over to his hut.
“Why did you do that?” Marian demanded indignantly. “What did he ever do to you?”
“Not here,” John snarled. “Come along now, child! I’ll take you to Beth.”
Silently John climbed up the footpath behind the girl. On the way through the woods, he cleared his throat long and awkwardly, finally saying, “I don’t want this, little one.” Puzzled, Marian looked up at him.
“Well. The boy’s fine.” John searched for words. “You’re still young, though. I mean, too young for this.”
“I don’t understand.” Marian brushed back her half-dried curls.
“What I mean is, there are only men around, in the camp, and . . .”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“Much is a man, too, that’s what I meant to say.”
Marian stopped and stood in his way. Her blue eyes darkened, full of anger. “I don’t want anything from Much! I feel sorry for him. About his parents. Because I know how he feels.”
“Then why, by Dunstan, are you going with him into the water, with your dress all . . . wet?”
She held the trout up to his face. “Because we were catching fish. What do you think of me?”
“It’s all right, little girl. It’s all right,” John relented. “Believe me, I only want what’s best for you.”
Marian wasn’t listening anymore. She shoved the fish into his hands, “Maybe I don’t want the same things anymore!” She ran away from him. But just as suddenly, she stopped and came back. “Don’t be angr
y! Please. I was just angry. Because I don’t like men at all. Except for you. Because you’re the best. Even Beth agrees.”
John smiled. They walked side by side in silence. After a while, he mused aloud, “I’ll manage something. I’d like you to wear fine clothes someday. And live in a nice house. You know, my lamb, much nicer than our huts here.”
“I hope that doesn’t happen,” Marian blurted out. Quickly she crossed her fingers behind her back. “Yes, that would be nice.” She winked at him. “And later, I’ll find myself a husband. But only if I feel like it.”
The leaves of the linden tree turned yellow. The outlaws had long since exchanged their green summer garb for the brown-black winter garments again. On the last Monday in October, Robin summoned his lieutenants and the two cooks to his hut. “The day after tomorrow, midweek, the knight’s year ends. And by his guarantor, the Blessed Virgin, Richard at the Lea will keep his word.”
They were to move up to the other camp that same day. “Maybe he’ll come sooner, maybe a little later,” Robin allowed. Herbghost and Storyteller were instructed to prepare a delicious meal for each evening of that week.
Little John patted his stomach. “If he doesn’t come until Saturday, that would be fine with me.”
No stranger found his way to the hideout on his own—it was too well camouflaged. And neither could Richard at the Lea. So, one of the men was put on the lookout for him along the main road. “You take turns,” Robin ordered. “John, it’s your turn today. Take Much and Threefinger with you. Wait above the bridge in the same spot as last year. But please, do kindly welcome the knight. Don’t ambush him.”
“It’s fine,” John replied. “He’ll be glad to see his squire again.”
Smiling offered to get the green and yellow-striped cloak for John. “So he won’t mistake you for someone else.”
“Don’t even move!” the giant threatened, struggling to stay serious. “Or there’ll be no more grinning.”
That evening they returned without the knight. “Such a shame,” John said with mock regret. “We’ll just have to eat alone, then.”
Gilbert Whitehand also waited in vain above the River Went. No one was angry with the knight. On the contrary. “Such a shame,” remarked John.
Late Wednesday afternoon, the guard post’s horn sounded: Long. Short. Short. Each note in the signal stayed at the same pitch. No danger, but: Strangers had arrived!
“Toad will bring him.” Robin laughed. “Nice. Our debtor is punctual to the day.”
But when the men reached camp, Robin’s expression darkened. Yes, Tom was bringing a guest. But the guest was sitting on a mule, wearing a plain black robe. His eyes were blindfolded.
“Our knight seems to have joined a monastery.” Smiling bared his teeth.
Whitehand grinned, “And ate all the other monks.”
John didn’t join in the laughter. He stared at the monk. Where had he seen him before? I know that holy man from somewhere.
Robin confronted Tom. “Hey, toad head, are you missing more up there besides hair?” He pointed a thumb at the prisoner. “That’s not him.”
“I know. But I just couldn’t resist. All day we were staring south and waiting. Nothing. Then I turn around, and this one’s coming up the road. I would have let him ride on, only he had two guards with him. So, I thought . . .” Tom snapped his fist shut “. . . where there are guards, there’s bound to be something to guard. We tied the two iron men together and left them right by the road.”
John took another look at the bulging neck, the large, round head “By Dunstan!” He pulled Robin aside. “I know that bastard,” he murmured. “He’s the cellar master at St. Mary’s Abbey in York. He was there last year when our knight paid back the money. I could gladly still wring his neck today.”
“Don’t say anything for now!” Robin rubbed his hands together. “Can’t wait to see what kind of game this is going to be.” He stood, stance wide, hands on hips, beside his lieutenants. “Help our guest off the mule, and take off his blindfold!”
When the cellar master was freed, Robin smiled obligingly. “Forgive the unkindness, father. My men can be a bit rough. It was supposed to be an invitation.”
“Invitation?”
“Is that not what they told you? How unfortunate. Very well. Let me introduce myself: You are the guests of Robin Hood.”
“Murderer,” groaned the monk. “You bandit. Vile thief . . .” As he continued to sputter and curse, his eyes wandered back and forth, searching for an escape route. “You spawn of hell. You and your henchmen, you should be—”
“Enough flattery,” Robin interrupted him coolly. “As I’m sure you’ve concluded, there is no escape. But don’t worry, it won’t cost you your life today. And so, the truth, if you please: Who are you?”
“I am . . .” The cellar master covered his eyes. When he lowered his hand, his expression had changed: so pitiful! From one breath to another, the voice became plaintive. “I am an unworthy servant of the Church. A sinner. With a stain of shame. I come from Fountains Abbey, far up north. They call me Friar Tuck . . .” he swallowed, and whispered in shame “. . . the drunkard.”
Whitehand marveled, “We’ve heard of him.” He poked Robin in the side. “Back when we were transporting wine . . .”
“Hush!” Robin hissed. Frowning, he asked their guest, “A drunk? Why is a drunk traveling through our beautiful countryside with two armed men?”
“Because . . . because . . .” The cellar master pursed his lips, sorrowfully lowering his gaze. “First, Father Abbot banished me from the dormitory of my brethren. To the remotest corner of the monastery grounds! There I had to live alone in a hut. But despite all my prayers, wine and ale rule me like Furies.” He uttered a long sigh. “The two guards were escorting me to London. There I must answer for my wicked vice before the superiors of my order. A harsh errand.” He wrung his hands. “Therefore, I ask: Let me move on!”
John was speechless. That plumped up, deceitful priest. If I didn’t know better, I’d believe him. Warningly, he gave Robin a sign. Robin winked quickly and turned back to the cellar master.
“Poor Friar Tuck. We don’t want to keep you from your penitential pilgrimage. But be my guest and dine with me. Enjoy some peace of mind. Who knows what torment awaits you ahead.”
They took their seats on wooden benches in front of the horse stable. Robin clapped his hands. When Storyteller appeared at the door of the kitchen shed, he ordered, “Serve us two fried chicken legs!”
John sighed with relief. The good food would have been wasted on this liar.
The cellar master hastily refused a sip of Malvasia.
“A brave decision,” Robin said with a serious face. “Nice.”
“I am . . .” The monk searched for an explanation. “I am striving to conquer the devil within me.”
Robin pointed to the man’s half-gnawed chicken bone. “After this excellent roast, I ask you, venerable father: Pay me for the hospitality shown. Then you may move on.”
“How?” The monk was aghast. “I-I don’t carry anything with me. But Heaven . . .”
“Enough!” Robin barked at him. “I hate being lied to. You want to be Friar Tuck? From Fountains Abbey? Well, we’ll see.” He signaled John.
The giant stomped toward the cellar master and wordlessly plucked the chicken bone from the friar’s fingers. “Put your hand on the middle of that beautiful silver plate!”
Reluctantly, the monk obeyed.
“Don’t you remember me anymore?”
The monk shook his head.
“Just as well.” John drew his dagger and scraped the blade across the back of the cellar master’s hand. “But I know who you are. Like to play with knives, eh? A year ago, you were torturing that little prior at your monastery. You know, the one with the hump.”
The monk’s jaw dropped. “You were with . . . you’re the squire.”
Sneering, John nodded. “Thought you wouldn’t remember me, since I’m not
wearing my nice colorful cloak today.” And very casually, he pressed the sharp edge into the man’s skin.
“By all the saints! Wait!” Beads of sweat sprang to the monk’s forehead. “I am not Friar Tuck. I’m the cellar master from St. Mary’s Monastery in York. Yes, I lied out of fear. Everyone here can understand that, can’t they? Can’t you?” He glanced around the group. “Right?” None of the men so much as blinked.
“Then at least tell us the truth now.” Robin’s voice was dangerously soft. “How much money do you have on you?”
“Not much to speak of. Twenty marks in silver. That’s all.”
“Not worth mentioning? A farmhand toils all year in your monastery’s fields for far less. And all so you can stuff your belly.” Robin signaled again. Smiling and Whitehand walked over to the mule.
“Not there,” the cellar master blurted out. “Not in the baskets.” He drew a pouch of money from his robes. “I carry all my coins—” Before he had finished speaking, the bulging leather sack was already in the giant’s hand.
Again Robin signaled.
“Don’t . . .” the monk pleaded.
“Shut up,” John growled.
To the right and left of the mule hung tightly woven travel baskets. Smiling and Toad dug their hands into them. Provisions. Laced sandals, a crucifix. Suddenly Smiling bared his teeth. Whitehand laughed. They each lifted a gold bar from the depths of the basket and held them up. “And there are many more,” Smiling announced.
“Again, you lied to me,” Robin said coldly. “Now that chicken bone will cost you everything you carry.”
The cellar master blanched. “Not the gold. That’s my monastery’s annual tax debt. Eight hundred pounds. I must take it to London.”
Only when he stood naked, save for his much too short undertunic, before the outlaws, did any color return to his round face. Red with anger, the cellar master shouted, “Satan shall take you. And, Robin Hood, when you are finally in chains, I will be there. I will cut out your tongue, your nethers, cut off your hands . . .”
John grabbed at the monk’s face, squeezing his lips between his fingers, twisting them. “One more word, and I’ll rip them off!” He held him like that until Toad put the blindfold back on the man.
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