“I know. Pretty sure that’s going to be a grim task.”
In the late afternoon, they reached the turnoff to Fountains Abbey. Leaving the main road, they followed the cart path into a narrow valley. The deep ruts were frozen. For a while longer, they rode one behind the other. Above them, the bare branches of the trees clawed at each other. The sky shimmered pale. Then it became too dangerous for the horses to be ridden. Leading them by the halter, John and Robin guided their animals deeper into the valley.
“I wouldn’t think there’s a monastery here in the wilderness,” John said.
“Wait and see!”
The plan was simple. As soon as the buildings appeared before them, they would take off their robes. No stray travelers would be turned away at any monastery gate. Especially not if they were paying for the night’s lodging. “We’ll quickly find out where Friar Tuck is. We need only keep our ears open.” Robin was quite sure. “Either he’s still lodging with his brothers after all, or they really have banished him from the house. It doesn’t matter. Somehow we’ll be able to talk to him alone tomorrow.”
The forest grew lighter, and echoed with distant singing. The two travelers stayed under cover. Below them, the valley widened into fields, meadows, and scattered woods. To the west, rooftops peeked out from behind monastery walls, overlooked by the mighty abbey church.
“I like this.” Robin stroked his chin. “As hidden as our main camp.”
“They’ve got guards, too.” John pointed. “Singing guards.” Just ahead of them, the path dropped and ended at a wide stream. On the opposite side stood a cottage fashioned of stout logs. White smoke rose from the opening of the moss roof. “Look at that good-for-nothing.”
From the opposite bank, a rotund monk worked his way step by step through the frozen stream. His robe was gathered up to his waist, his legs were in high, water-soaked boots. In a steady rhythm, he swung a massive club and let it crash onto the ice, then pushed the broken floes aside. As he did so, he sang the Gloria at the top of his lungs.
“You wait here.” Robin’s eyes glittered. “But promise me, you won’t come until I call you.”
“Are you going down there like that? In a monk’s robes?”
“That big little man is wearing it, too, isn’t he?”
“But he belongs in it.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, since he sings like that. Weren’t we going to be travelers?”
“Later. When we go to the monastery. Give me a little time!”
Robin slung the shield over his shoulder, winked at John, and, humming along with the song of praise, strode down the path to the stream, his hood low on his face. As a precaution, John pulled the short bow and two arrows from his pack. “Better safe than,” he grumbled.
The monk had already cut his channel past the middle of the stream. He did not notice the stranger. Too fiercely did he slam the club on the ice. Too vigorously did he chant the Gloria. He stretched out the O, letting it rise and fall in long loops.
Only when the monk had waded to the shore on the other side did he see the strange brother. His song broke off. He braced the club on the ground in front of him.
Robin bowed his head. “Pax tecum.”
“Et cum spiritu tuo.” A firm, round face, freshly flushed from exertion, watched him from wide-set, dark eyes. Surprised, he eyed the stranger. “I did not hear you approach.” He rubbed the shaved tonsure on the back of his head with the flat of his hand.
“Nor could you have. The way you praised the Lord.”
“My abbot has given me the unfortunate duty of keeping this ford in repair. In summer, I watch for loose pebbles at the bottom. In frost, I see to it that it remains ice-free. A cold task. Only singing warms me.” He didn’t take his eyes off the stranger for a moment. “I see we wear the dress of the same order. Where are you from, brother?”
“From Canterbury. I have to deliver a message from my prior to your father abbot.”
“From so far? And on foot?”
Robin sighed. “Yes. Humility often demands arduous undertakings from us.”
The monk pursed his lips. “If it is from the heart, then I gladly agree with you.”
Sighing deeper, Robin showed off his soft leather boots, pointing to the far shore. “You, dear brother, are already wet. I beseech you, for the sake of St. Christopher, carry me across!”
The monk closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his expression was cold. But his voice remained gracious. More than that, his tone had become submissive. “Gladly. I am used to serving.” He tucked the club under his arm. “Give me your sword while you ride! It will be easier for you to mount that way.”
“I don’t . . .” Robin quickly checked himself. “You are prudent, dear brother.” With that, he handed over belt and weapon.
The monk bent over, and Robin Hood sat astride the broad back.
From up high, Little John watched as Robin allowed himself to be carried through the barely knee-deep ford. “Another one of those games. Sitting there like a gray frog on a toad.” He lowered his bow.
The monk reached the other bank with his load. Abruptly he stretched, shook himself, and let out a wild cry. Robin flew through the air, landing hard on the ground. The monk stood over him, club in his left hand, the drawn sword in his right, the tip aimed at Robin’s heart. “Pax tecum, you scoundrel!” All submissiveness was gone. “You are anything but a man of the church.”
“But you are, father.” Robin laughed miserably. “Spare me! I am defenseless.”
Up in the cover of the trees, John had drawn back the arrow on its the string again. He grimaced. “Told him so.”
The monk kicked the fake brother in the side. “No, I’m not going to kill you, even though, sincerely, I’d enjoy confessing that. Come on, get up. Now you play Christophorus. Carry me over, and then get on your way! As punishment, I’ll let you freeze your toes off.” He lowered his club and crouched on Robin’s back, holding the sword blade at Robin’s side, driving him through the water.
“Serves him right,” John grumbled in amusement. He was still grinning when the rider dismounted. But then his breath caught. As if of its own accord, a dagger leaped from Robin’s sleeve into his hand. Quick as a cat, the outlaw was behind the monk, choking him with his left arm. The dagger’s point sat against the man’s stocky neck. “So swiftly heaven and hell change place, venerable father. Away with the sword!” The monk obeyed. “Before you do me the kindness to take me across again, tell me: What did I get wrong?”
The monk showed no fear, not even anger. “Everything, you charlatan. I have not yet met a brother who wears such good boots and then speaks of humility. Besides, you claim to have come here on foot? Show me a single brother in England from our rich order who still walks. And even more: There is no Cistercian monastery in Canterbury. I have visited the tomb of the pious Thomas Becket. He was an Augustinian, and the monastery—”
“Enough,” Robin interrupted him. “My game was poorly prepared.”
“A game?! May Hell devour thee!”
“That’s enough. Carry me over, you fat knave! I haven’t got all day.”
Halfway across, the monk stood straight up then dropped to his side. Both of them, Robin on the bottom and the monk above him, broke through the ice. The monk got to his feet faster. He grabbed the fake brother, dunked him under, yanked him up, dunked him again. Robin gasped, yelled, “John!” His head disappeared again.
“Ask for mercy! Ask for mercy!” the monk roared. “For mercy!”
Little John was swiftly approaching in great leaps, stomping through the water. He seized the monk from behind, lifted him, and tossed him aside. The ice cracked. The monk sat in the floes.
“By Dunstan, now, that’s really enough!” John helped his friend up. The monk seized the moment. As he scrambled to his feet, he put a small silver flute to his lips and whistled twice.
Bellowing rang out from behind the cottage. Barks! A pack of dogs raced into the
water—five long-legged, shaggy gray dogs.
“O Sancta Catherina!” the monk called out to them. The pack split. Two rushed at Robin. Three rushed toward John. Water splashed. Crouching, the giant braced himself for them. He grabbed the first by the scruff of the neck, yanked it up, and shook the animal. The next two were already circling, barking, baring their teeth. The other two dogs jumped and snarled at Robin, too, cornering him like a deer.
“Call them off!” shouted John. The greyhound in his fist struggled, its tongue hanging out of its mouth. “Or I’ll crush his neck.”
“O Sancta Dorothea!” Immediately, the beasts backed away a little. They lay in wait. Slowly, John put the dog down in the water. It staggered off to join the rest.
Robin glared at the pack, glared at the monk. “By the Blessed Virgin. I’ve never met such a priest.”
“Silence!” the monk ordered him. “Just one command and they’ll tear you apart.” He warned John, “Even if you kill one, before you can grab the second . . .”
“Fair enough.” John folded his arms in front of his chest. Reproachfully, he looked over at Robin. “I’m tired of this.”
Robin shivered with cold. “But this game was a good one. We’re not searching any further. We found a better one. What do you say?”
It took a moment to understand him, then John nodded. “Fine.”
Robin managed a stiff bow. “I beg mercy, reverend father, please deliver us from this damned ice water! And I pray, warm your heart. Let us talk together by the fire.” He held out his hand. “Pax tecum.”
Suspiciously, the monk looked from one to the other.
“He means it, this time,” John assured him.
“All right, peace.” The monk rubbed the tonsure at the back of his head. “But only because I’m cold too.” He commanded his pack, “O Sancta Martha!” Immediately the dogs ran across the stream to the house.
“Follow me!” The monk waded ahead.
Warmth! Not from the hearth fire alone. The monk lived his pious life with his dogs and four sheep under one roof. There was storage for hay and wood, and a wide gate showed that the rear part of the house was intended as a stable. The rest of the living space was open. Except for the circle around the cooking place, the tamped-down floor was covered with straw. The sheep camped close together, right next to the monk’s sleeping mat, exhaling warm, comforting breaths.
“This is what I call an inn.” Robin Hood crouched close to the hearth embers. “So, father, I will give you—”
“Silence!” Panting, the monk freed himself from his high boots. “Take off your robes, both of you. Only when I see you without these disguises will I know who you are. But you had better be careful. Just one false move, and I won’t call off my dogs this time.”
John had stopped near the entrance. “There’s plenty of room in here.”
“What are you standing there for?” the monk snapped at him.
John pointed to the sheep, to the dogs. “We’ve got three more, too.”
“Off with your robe!”
“I’m trying to say, we’ve got three horses. Up in the bushes.”
The monk looked up at the giant. “Good. Bring them here!” he ordered. “Where there’ s shelter for two scoundrels, there’s indeed room enough for God’s innocent creatures.”
As John led the packhorse in through the stable gate, the dogs growled.
“O Sancta Clara!” They fell silent.
A little later, the horses were standing close together in the rear of the hut. “With you three, my ark is filled to capacity,” their host told them as he fed them hay and water.
John grinned. The monk had taken off his habit and wrapped in a blanket, a hemp rope holding it up on his belly. In only his undertunic, Robin sat by the hearth fire, silent, his eyelids half closed. Water dripped from two light gray robes hanging from the ceiling beams. “Hang yours next to them!” the monk ordered. “Well, get on with it!”
Strictly guarding the giant’s every move, he had him hand over his dagger, pommel first. He accompanied him to the packhorse. “Don’t touch the weapons!”
“It’s all right. It’s all right.” Deliberately slow, John pulled the blankets he had brought with him out of the pack.
John squatted beside Robin as the monk stood by the fire. “Now then,” began the monk. “Who are you? What do you want in Fountains Abbey?”
Robin looked up. “I’m Robert Loxley. This is Little John.” Cautiously, he added, “Perhaps you know me better by the name Robin Hood.”
The monk took a step back. “Not another word.” He clenched his fists. “Never! You churls will not rob Fountains Abbey.” He was reached for the silver whistle.
“Wait!” begged Robin. “Pray, wait.”
Hesitantly, the monk returned to the fire. “What are you planning to do here?”
“Not a raid,” John grumbled. “Though it looked like we might, earlier.”
“Prove it.”
Robin showed his open hands. “Simple: There are only two of us. I would have come with an army. Enough of that! We came to find one of your brothers, Friar Tuck. But now . . .”
“I . . .” The monk broke off. Almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth twitched. He moved a stool to the fire. “All right, then. I am Brother Jerome. What do you want from Friar Tuck?”
“Nothing, anymore, from that drunkard,” John grinned broadly. “Just—”
“Drunkard!”
“Well, that’s why they chased him out of the monastery, isn’t it. Now he’s got to live out here somewhere.”
“Convenient lies.” The monk glanced quickly from one to the other. “Rumors are always easier than the truth. Yes, Brother Tuck is shunned by his monastery. Because he admonishes, because he criticizes. And if he indulges in wine, it is not for drunkenness, but merely a desire to forget his lot for a while.”
Robin frowned. “Forgive me, father. You are defending Friar Tuck? So, he has a friend. There are two of you.”
The monk laughed boomingly, slapping his thighs. He laughed until tears ran down his cheeks.
Stunned, the companions stared at each other. All at once, the monk stopped. “Now I do believe that you and this giant have come here with peaceful intentions.” He folded his hands over his belly. “The solution is simple: There are not two of me. My name may be Jerome—Father Jerome—but everyone calls me Friar Tuck.”
He gave his guests no time to let that settle in. “So here I am. What do you want?”
John rubbed the scar in his beard. He knows a game or two himself. That’s all right. A priest like that could be really good for us.
Robin quickly composed himself. “By the Blessed Virgin.” He pressed the heels of his hands against each other, lightly tapped his fingertips, and started telling Friar Tuck about the life of the outlaws in Barnsdale, about the struggle against injustice and humiliation, about the raids. He left nothing out. “We, too, are a brotherhood. But we wear only the green or brown battle garb, and use the sword and bow. We lack someone who wears God’s tunics.”
Sitting up straight, staring into the flames, the monk remained silent.
After clearing his throat a bit, John added, “There’s a hut. There’s plenty of food. And we plan to build a chapel in the village. Someday.”
Silence. Friar Tuck rose. He took a jug from the niche in the wall, drank, and handed the wine to John. “The most beautiful rule of my order is ora et labora. Pray and work. The first Cistercians cultivated this valley with their own hands. Farming and sheep breeding. But what about today? Like Norman barons, we too have servants tilling the field, shearing the sheep.” He passed the wine to Robin. “I want to go back to the ora et labora.”
Robin set down the jug. “Does that mean . . . ?”
“Yes. I’m ready.” He grinned. “You offer me life in a wild field with unshorn sheep carrying bows and arrows.”
“Thank the Blessed Virgin!” Robin jumped up.
John slapped Friar Tuck�
�s shoulder in exuberance. The monk flinched in pain. Then laughed. “Well, just wait until you feel my punch.”
From a storage pit, he took out three wineskins. They drank and planned their departure.
When? First thing in the morning. Farewell? No, no goodbyes for the holy brethren. “I will drive my sheep to the monastery flock. That way, they’ll know I’ve gone. The abbot will breathe a sigh of relief.”
They camped down around the hearth fire. Friar Tuck wanted to take his dogs with him. John propped his head up, “How does that work, with the saints?”
“The abbot wanted to charge me with poaching. In the royal forester’s presence, he even brought a hare and released it in front of the pack. Whatever he ordered them to do, the dogs didn’t budge.” The monk folded his hands. “But every now and then, when I wander through the forest and speak to them in the name of the saints, some venison is miraculously brought to me.”
“Nice,” Robin murmured, half asleep.
“All right.” John lay back. “Only a monk would think of such a thing, and only our new Friar Tuck.”
They rode south on the trade route as simple Cistercians, their light gray hoods pulled up to shield their faces. It was cold. A squad of armed men approached them. The red crest of the Baron of Doncaster shone on their shields and mantles. A silent salute was exchanged. Nothing more. None of the men-at-arms wondered at the strangely bulky baggage the pious gentlemen had strapped behind their saddles; none noticed the dogs that silently accompanied the monks in the undergrowth.
The road dropped steeply down to the River Went. They could already make out the roof of the bridge tavern. John straightened his back. “There. By Dunstan!” Below them, in the middle of the road: scarlet red. “There’s that fellow again.”
“A fox on hind legs.” Friar Tuck grinned. “You don’t see that often.”
“We do,” John growled. He reached behind him.
Robin Hood Page 25
