Robin Hood

by Roehrig Tilman

  Robin ducked, breathlessness and exhaustion taking away his voice. With a last burst of strength, he ducked under the blow. His head crashed against the man’s stomach. His opponent tumbled over Robin. He lost his shield as he fell. But his back barely touched the grass before he sprang again to his feet with wild laughter. “He’ll pay forty for your head, and that’s enough for me.” The man pulled the flail with the spiked iron ball from his belt. In his left hand, he swung the ball. In his right he held the sword, ready to strike. Prancing back and forth, he approached Robin.

  Robin’s eyes flicked from one weapon to another, looking for an opening to attack. “In the name of the Holy Virgin!” roared Robin, swinging the sword, striking blade against blade. He swung the sword again, and the flail’s chain wrapped around the blade with a tremendous jolt. But Robin held his weapon tightly. He was jerked forward, and crashed to the ground.

  A hoarse howl of victory rose up. The horse-man dropped the flail, threw the sword aside. With both hands, he plucked the long daggers from his belt. Robin rolled onto his back. The horse-man threw himself onto his opponent with a mighty leap. Desperately, Robin threw up his sword—

  His enemy fell onto the blade, pierced through the neck on the point of the sword. His arms whipped about wildly as, gasping, he tried to stab at Robin with the daggers. Robin heaved him aside. The horse-man toppled to his knees in the grass. A dagger slashed Robin’s sleeve. Robin also scrambled to get to his knees. And still, the mortally wounded man tried to thrust at him. Robin grabbed the sword with both hands, and swung the weapon back over his right shoulder, and brought it crashing down. The tremendous blow separated the horse’s head from its torso. Robin’s arms went limp. He let himself fall forward, dropping face down into the grass.

  A horn called out. Robin raised his head. Another. One long note, two quick blasts, another long, drawn-out note. One of his brothers was calling for help! Again and again to signal sounded. Robin groaned. “Holy Virgin, don’t abandon us!” He dragged his horn to his lips. Only on the third try did he succeed in answering the call. When his breathing was calmer, Robin struggled to stand up. There beside him lay the bleeding torso, beside that the horse’s head. “Guy of Gisborne. You—”

  “Robin!”

  He turned. Much came rushing out of the forest, hurrying across the meadow. “Raid! The . . . the camp. Come! The . . . the sheriff has . . . has . . .”

  Barely able to calm the boy, Robin shook Much by the shoulders. “Damn it. Get it out.” The boy had been sleeping with Tom Toad and some of the others. Suddenly they heard noises, cries of battle from the Great Oak. “Tom sent me running. I ran. Then I saw the sheriff’s men. They were climbing the trees at the edge of the thicket. And inside, at the camp, our people were yelling, louder and louder. I hid. And then . . .” Much faltered, weeping.

  “Then what?”

  “Then, John came.” He sobbed. “Nets. They used nets to catch John.”

  “John!” Robin clenched his fists.

  “They dragged him to the oak tree to the lord sheriff. And . . . and I went back to the caves. Tom told me to find you and Scarlet. So . . . he’s waiting. Because there are too many of them.”

  Robin Hood wiped his sweat-stained face. His expression hardened into stone. “All right, boy. Run back to Tom. Tell him to sneak up as close as he can with his men. Tell him to keep watch, not to attack.” Coldness glittered in his eyes. “I have to try this alone. It’s the only chance John, Friar Tuck and the others have—if they’re still alive. But if it doesn’t work, then Tom must strike at once!”

  Much nodded, turning.

  “Hold it!” Robin gave another command. “After that, run to the road. Stop Scarlet! He’s alone. Bring him back!” The boy rushed off.

  Determined, Robin bent down to the horse-man’s torso, turned him on his side, and loosened the straps that closed the horsehide coat.

  Little John was tied naked to the Great Oak. His hands were bound. Thick ropes pressed his neck, chest, and legs to the mighty trunk. In front of him, the lord sheriff, in a shining breastplate, strutted up and down like a fighting cock, poking him repeatedly in the stomach with a club. “Sacre Dieu. Who are you?” He thumped John on the head. “I’ve seen you before. Where? Open your mouth!”

  The giant didn’t answer. Just strike me dead, John thought. Out of swollen eyes, he looked across the clearing. His friends lay tied together on the ground.

  They had not even had time to get out of their blankets. Next to Whitehand, Brother Tuck sat tied under a net. His four dogs lay dead around him, slashed open like hunted boars. John turned his head with an effort, looking over at the pile of corpses: seven brave men, and Pete Smiling was one of them. One of the armed men, guffawing, had reopened the dead man’s scar with a knife. “He’s really laughing now.” The sheriff’s men had had their fun.

  The sheriff had accomplished his raid with only twelve of his iron puppets. Only twelve! Ah, Robin, my friend, I tried to be a good right hand to you. And let myself be caught like a fool.

  “Guy of Gisborne!” an armed man announced. Thom de Fitz lowered the cudgel. “Maudit bustarin!” he threatened the giant. “I am far from finished with you.” He turned, staring expectantly at the edge of the small clearing.

  A horse-man stepped out of the thicket. The men-at-arms fell silent, fearfully stepping aside. Slowly the sinister man strode to the oak tree. He had one bow on his shoulder, another in his fist. A head was impaled on the curved end of the bow, so crisscrossed with slashes and wounds its face was no longer recognizable. Proudly, the horse-man stood before the sheriff.

  “Mon ami.” Excited, Thom de Fitz dabbed his handkerchief around the stump of his nose, “Is it . . .?”

  “Robin Hood,” replied a hoarse, hollow voice. The frightful figure held up Robin’s horn, and shook the bow and severed head. “You’ll find his green remains in the valley, scarcely three miles from here.”

  “Magnifique. Quel jour. Magnifique!” Then, mock regret poured from his voice. as Thom de Fitz lifted his hands theatrically. “Quel dommage, mon ami. I would have liked to put the noose around that bastard’s neck myself. But if there is no neck . . .” He broke off to laugh at his joke. Taking a deep breath, the sheriff said, “This day is my day. I, Thom de Fitz, Lord Sheriff of Nottingham, have brought down the band of outlaws with a single blow. What a triumph! And Prince John will sweeten this for me with honor and gold.” He called to his men: “Your work is done. I will reward your bravery with ale and gold tonight in Nottingham. But now rest yourselves for a while!”

  Enthusiastically, the men laid aside their heavy crossbows, swords, and shields; chattering, they squatted down on the grass beside their prisoners.

  “Now that we will be undisturbed, mon ami . . .” Smiling, the sheriff took a step toward the horse-man. “To our business. Forty pounds in gold you have earned for the head. But I offer you eighty for a small favor more.”

  Just a nod in reply.

  The sheriff took another step closer. He lowered his voice. “Eighty pounds for your silence. Let me have the glory.”

  No reply at all.

  “Sacre Dieu. Your business is hunting people. Mine is politics. Prince John will soon be king of England.” He pointed to the head’s bloody grimace. “With this head, I will stand high in his favor. But there are still many enemies to eliminate. Without a fuss. I will not forget you and your talents, mon ami. Therefore, take the gold and stay silent!”

  “A good deal,” came the hollow voice from the horse’s head. “But I don’t want your gold.”

  The sheriff’s face turned red. Before he could utter a curse, the horse-man added, “I’ll let you have the head and the glory. In return, want that fellow there.” The hairy hand pointed to the trunk of the Great Oak. “That’s all. I killed the master. Now I want his servant too.”

  “You know this one?”

  “Ever since you gave me the task, I’ve been watching this band of men. This is the right hand of Rob
in Hood.” The man’s hollow croak grew louder. “As a reward, I demand the runt!”

  John perked up. Robin! New courage rose in him.

  “Runt? That giant?” Surprise and greed alternated on the sheriff’s face. He rubbed his hands together. “Bien. Bien. If you’re satisfied with just him.” He yanked the bloody head from the bow by the hair and cradled it in his hands. “Voilà! In return, this maudit bustarin is yours.”

  The horse head nodded. “But you will not interfere with what I do to him. Your people will stay where they are. No pity! No matter how I choose to deal with him. No matter how loud the shouting gets.”

  “On the contrary, mon ami. I will watch from here. Hang him, slaughter him like a pig, whatever you want. Par tous les diables. I’d love to watch you work.” He ordered his men to remain where they were. He could not, though, stop the pleading and entreaties of Brother Tuck and the other prisoners.

  Wordlessly, the horse-man approached the oak. John groaned, “Mercy. Mercy.”

  “Come up with something else!” whispered Robin. “Scream a little!”

  John screamed. With languid slowness, the horse-man leaned the second bow and quiver against the trunk. In a flash, he drew both long daggers from his belt. He let the blades whirl in his hands, prancing back and forth in front of his naked victim, leaping forward, making quick cuts, prancing back, darting forward again, more quick cuts. “Louder, damn it!”

  John roared like a stuck boar. The huddled prisoners screamed in sympathy and cursed.

  At his safe distance, Thom de Fitz laughed, enjoying the spectacle.

  The monster struck the bound man again. This time he slashed his blades crisscross across the broad chest. The howls of pain were awful.

  “All the ropes are cut.” The blades made a show of slicing up and down over the giant’s legs. “Bow and quiver just to your left. By the Blessed Virgin, here we go.”

  John roared on.

  The horse-man stepped back. The daggers were back in their scabbards. His right hand sprang up, grasped an arrow. A shrug of his shoulder and the bow was in his left hand. He pulled back the arrow on the string.

  “Bravo!” exclaimed Thom de Fitz. “You are a true artist.”

  The arrow strained on the string, aimed at the naked prisoner. “Only the Blessed Virgin can still help you.”

  The ropes burst. The giant reached for the bow. An arrow hissed from John’s string and hit the sheriff’s face, piercing his head all the way to the feathered shaft. Robin’s arrow pierced the breastplate. Thom de Fitz hit the ground backward, the head of Guy of Gisborne rolling away.

  The surprise and horror gave them a moment more. John flung the quiver over his shoulder. With his bow cocked, he threatened the iron soldiers. “One move, and you’re over!”

  Robin pulled the horse mask from his head. He sounded the horn. At once there was a response from outside the clearing. All around the in the brush and trees, horn calls rang out.

  Abruptly one of the soldiers reached for his crossbow. John’s arrow pierced him through the heart. “Don’t any of you dare!” the giant shouted. But all the men-at-arms sprang to their feet. One found his sword, another his lance, a third had nothing, but all of them fled.

  Robin caught hold of his friend’s bow arm. “Let them run!”

  The men rushed from the clearing and plunged into the thicket, out of range.

  “By Dunstan!” cursed John. “Why did you stop me?”

  Robin stayed silent until death cries rang out and then cut off.

  “Tom Toad and the others were waiting.” His grim face was smeared with dirt and sweat. “It’s over.”

  He tore the horse’s hide from his body. Thick black blood caked his shoulder wound, as black as on the scars on his back. He sat down and propped his forehead in his hands. “But what about Scarlet?”

  “Much is missing, too,” John muttered. His blazing rage had faded. The iron puppets had not stood a chance. Good, our people didn’t have a chance this morning either. In vain, he tried to choke down the stale bile rising in his mouth. All at once, he felt the pain. Every kick, every blow. Face, chest, stomach. Exhausted, he sank into the grass beside his friend. “A disaster. A damn disaster,” he muttered.

  They left the freeing of the prisoners to Tom and the others.

  Herbghost had made dressings for the wounds. At dusk, the men trudged together deeper into Sherwood. Two pits had been dug at the edge of a swamp. “Requiescant in pace,” Friar Tuck chanted and prayed for their seven dead. He stood silently by the grave of his dogs.

  Thom de Fitz and the guards, they tossed in the swamp. The prayer was short.

  Later, the first fires flickered under the Great Oak. In grief and perplexed anger, again and again, one asked the other: Why had no sentry heard attackers’ approach? How did the sheriff know the way to the camp? And then again, they wept for their lost friends. Tom Toad, Whitehand, and Brother Tuck sat together, the truth of it heavy between them: Pete was dead. Each held on silently to his thoughts.

  Away from the men, Robin and John stared into the flames. At last, Robin said, “If your bow had not broken . . .”

  Abruptly John straightened.

  Robin waved it off. “I don’t mean it that way.”

  A memory was back. The bow! Someone had nicked the wood above the handle. “I’ve got to tell you—” John began.

  “No, leave it.” Robin sighed.

  John rubbed his swollen lips. Where were the two pieces? Where they netted me. They must still be there. I’ll get them first thing tomorrow. Then let Robin see for himself.

  The sentry signaled. Low and long. High and short. Almost simultaneously, John and Robin sighed and said, “Here they come.”

  Much rushed into the clearing first. “Where’s Bill Threefinger?”

  “Here I am.”

  Much hugged his friend fiercely. “The guard told . . . told us everything. But . . . but the fool didn’t know if you were alive.”

  With a serious face, Scarlet set an ornate box down in front of his leader and John. “Here. A little comfort.” He crouched down with them. Quietly, he said, “First, I stopped the priest and his squadron with my poor injured leg. Then Much came along. The stupid boy just came running down the middle of the road.” He patted his sword. “What else could I do? I took care of it on my own. Short and quick.”

  Robin opened the lid. Over the dull shimmering pearls, brooches, and jewels, he quietly looked into his cousin’s eyes.

  John felt that tug at the back of his neck, fiercely. He shook his head. “Four mercenaries. The priest. You alone?”

  “They fought back. But I was better.”

  A smile creased Robin’s face. “I know you are. Thank you, cousin. I am very glad we have you.” Robin touched the giant’s arm. “There’s never been worse than today. But you’ll see, my friend: We’ll go on.” He raised his chin. “Even if our hearts are bleeding. You and I must be the first to lift our heads again, John. The men expect courage from us now. Therefore, that’s the end of it. This day is over. Tomorrow we break camp. We’ll retreat slowly to the north. Well, what do you say?”

  “Probably for the best. Pretty soon soldiers will be looking all over for the sheriff.”

  “And never find him.” Angrily, Robin laughed. “We’ll wait for the Jewish trader beyond Worksop. We can sell him these glittery baubles. And then that’s done for this year. Then we’re going home to winter camp.”

  “What Jew?” Scarlet wanted to know.

  “Tomorrow, my cousin.” Robin lay back and pulled his cloak up under his chin. “I’ll tell you about Solomon tomorrow.”

  Will Scarlet also stretched out beside the fire.

  John rose with difficulty. Every bone in his body ached. “Still thirsty,” he grumbled. Carrying a mug, he shuffled past the mighty trunk of the oak tree. At the edge of the clearing, he sat down under a bush. He had half emptied the mug when Much joined him.

  “May I?”

  “Go ahe
ad and lie down, boy.”

  For a time, they were silent.

  Then Much whispered, “At first, I thought Scarlet knew the priest.”

  “What’s that, now?” John let himself sink back. “Scoot closer, son. What happened?”

  “I didn’t run into the road right away,” Much whispered. “Because Scarlet was drinking wine with the monk and the mercenaries. But I had to let him know, didn’t I? And . . . so I . . .”

  “Just say it!”

  “And no sooner did Scarlet see me than he had his sword in his hand. First, he did in the priest, then the mercenaries. It happened very quickly.” Much stammered, “No one . . . no one had a chance to fight back. And, and he was laughing. Laughing terribly.”

  John propped himself up heavily, leaning over the boy. “Don’t tell anyone about this! And if you see anything else, you tell only me. Do you understand me?”

  “But if . . .”

  “Hush, boy. Scarlet is Robin’s cousin. And—” he hesitated a long moment “—and a good man.”

  For three days, it rained. For three days, they waited near Worksop for the merchant’s caravan. Just John, Robin, Scarlet, Much, and Threefinger.

  A week earlier, the Brotherhood had retreated from Sherwood. When Robin Hood had seen how grief and horror still held the men captive, he’d made up his mind. “We’ll split up.” He sent most of his army ahead to Barnsdale, led by Whitehand and Tom Toad. “Rest up. The Blessed Virgin be your witness, you have earned it. We will follow.”

  Since then, group of five had camped in the abandoned barn near the main road. There was laughter, talk of the ordinary. No difficult questions. No one talked about the terrible day. Anxiously, John made sure that Much always stayed close to him. The boy must not betray himself in any way. Neither with a glance nor with a thoughtless word.

  Until now, John had kept silent in front of Robin. He was always looking for a better chance to talk to his friend alone. But at noon that day, Threefinger had come to the barn with news: “The caravan is already past Edwinstowe. Tomorrow Solomon will pass this way.”