Robin Hood

by Roehrig Tilman

  John sighed softly. Oh, my friend, eventually, that wound will heal properly. Just you wait and see. Sometimes Robin was free of the pain, moving as swiftly and smoothly as ever. But from one week to another, his thigh swelled, the flesh became hard, the wounds burst open. “Aunt Mathilda will be pleased,” Robin would remark, as John took the sick man to Kirklees. Only bloodletting gave him relief. They willingly paid the enterprising prioress for new ointments and herbs.

  “Per Dominum nostrum!” Friar Tuck ended the service.

  YORKSHIRE. BARNSDALE.

  The base had become a fortified estate. In spring of the fourth year, John accompanied his friend down to the main camp. Flowers bloomed around the big linden tree. They checked the huts, noted any damage to the roofs. “Got something to tell you,” the giant growled, hesitant.

  “Come on, talk!” The corners of Robin’s mouth twitched. “Is it about our little condition?” He leaned against the trunk of the linden tree expectantly. “Is there finally someone she wants?”

  “What?” John winced. “No, she’s headstrong. Nothing’s wrong with Marian.” He rubbed the scar in the tangle of his beard. “You know, I’ve already talked to Tom and the others. We want to leave this place.”

  Robin was silent, slowly brushing back his hair. “So. that’s the way it is.”

  Irritated, John fought back. “No, not like that. Just to earn some money. That’s all.” And he explained: with Toad, Much and Threefinger, they were going to offer themselves as escorts for wagons. “Offer our services to Solomon. He’ll be glad to have us, I’m sure. Given our experience with ambushes.” The giant didn’t dare look at his friend. “It would be only one trip in the summer.”

  “Nice.” Robin’s voice remained even. “What about me?”

  “I know.” John shrugged. “If you think we should stay here, we’ll stay.”

  After a while, Robin said quietly, “That’s all right, my friend,” and he added, “Tomorrow we start training.”

  “We?”

  “Sir Robert of Loxley does not ride as the escort of a wagon train. That would not be proper. But I’m still the best at archery.” Robin clapped his hands. “And each of you can still learn a little something from me.” He laughed.

  FRANCE. CHALUS FORTRESS.

  For months Count Adomar refused to obey his king. More than that, a suspicion became a certainty: The rebellious count was in negotiation with Philip of France.

  “We will bring him to reason.” Coldness set in the king’s gray eyes. “We will take away his fortress at Chalus.”

  In the fifth year after his second coronation, in March 1199, Richard’s troops closed in on the castle. An unceasing hail of arrows pushed the defenders from the battlements. “Dig a tunnel. Undercut the walls!”

  Late in the afternoon of March twenty-sixth, Lionheart, accompanied by his sergeant, inspected the progress of the tunnel work. High up among the battlements, a bowman stepped out from cover. He raised his crossbow. The bolt struck the king’s neck, penetrating deep into his shoulder.

  Richard staggered a few steps, then told the horrified sergeant calmly, “No fuss, monsieur. Lead me back!”

  In his pavilion, the king tried to yank the bolt out with a single hard jerk. The shaft broke off. The iron point remained deep in his flesh. His personal physician cut open the shoulder, dug with a knife, finally succeeded in removing the bolt from the cartilage of the spine. After only two days, the wound became gangrenous. Richard was feverish. He knew death was near. He sent for his mother. On the early morning of April 6, the old woman kept vigil at the king’s camp. Before the chaplain, he confessed his sins and received the last rites. Toward evening, Queen Eleanor closed the eyes of her beloved son.

  “The king is dead!”

  ENGLAND. LONDON.

  “Long live the king!”

  Barons, earls, bishops, the noblest of the land led the coronation procession. There were no cheers. The citizens silently craned their necks. Fear marked their faces. “Line the road between St. Paul’s Cathedral and Westminster!” they had been commanded. Only under threat of punishment had many of them heeded the call. “Greet your king!”

  In the crowd, the tinker scratched his beard. “Now what?” he grumbled. Ever since King Richard’s coronation, he had kept postponing his return to Nottingham. Life was good here in the big city of London, and there was plenty of work. But he had never given up his desire to return home.

  King John strode under a silk canopy. The purple coronation mantle hung from his angular shoulders. He held his small head high. His eyes twitched to the right and left. Whoever was met by that cold gaze turned away in fright.

  “Long live the king!” John’s followers mingled with the people, pushing and kicking the citizens. “Open your mouths!”

  “Long live the king!”

  The tinker also obeyed. “Long live the king!” But it sounded like a curse.

  After the solemn coronation, John received his barons and lord sheriffs, his closest confidants. “Despite my brother’s rule, you have remained loyal to me all these years. Now you may raise your heads again. Now, mes amis, I will reward you. For the throne is mine. I own England!”

  Ale and roast were shared with the people! Gradually the mood in the streets of London improved. Late in the evening, the tinker returned to his dwelling. “I suppose I will stay on,” he mused as he curled up drunkenly on his bed. “It isn’t be as bad here as at home.”

  XXII

  NOTTINGHAM SHIRE. SHERWOOD FOREST.

  He pushed through the thicket. He quickly estimated the position of the sun among the green treetops. Roderick nodded with satisfaction. He carried his quiver tied high, diagonally across his right shoulder, the arrows ready to hand beside his thick blond hair. He reached for his belt. The dagger was secure yet loose enough in its leather sheath. Roderick straightened the bow at his left shoulder with a practiced grip, then slid his thumb under the string and let it snap against his chest. He laughed. “No question about it. I’ll win.”

  Light-footed, he continued on his way. He wanted to be in Edwinstowe by noon and at the gates of Nottingham by evening. And tomorrow! Tomorrow was the day. The lord sheriff had organized an archery contest. Even King John and his court would be present. Prizes beckoned. Money. Lots of money. “If I win, I’ll buy us a cow,” Roderick had promised the village elder.

  Laughter—loud roaring! And not far ahead of him. Roderick deftly used the cover of the broad beeches and reached the edge of the clearing. Leather tunics! The silver badge flashed on the black cap of one of the men. “Ten,” Roderick counted hastily. “Ten rangers and a forester.” They squatted in a semicircle in front of a tree in the middle of the meadow, drinking and toasting to the sky. Above them, a naked man trembled, tottered, in supreme agony balancing himself with his left foot on the end of a thin staff, his right leg rowing in the air. A noose was looped around his neck, the rope lashed to the branch above his head.

  The rangers were waiting. When the desperate man seemed to regain his balance, they slapped his thighs.

  “Those damn dogs.” Without another though, Roderick stepped out into the clearing. Jaw tight, he strode directly toward the howling horde.

  “Who’s that coming?” The royal forester grabbed his bow and jumped up. “Who are you?”

  Undaunted, Roderick walked on.

  The woodsmen stood beside their master, ready to fight—eleven arrows aimed at the stranger’s chest.

  “Stand still!”

  Roderick obeyed. Behind the woodsmen, the eyes of the tortured man stared pleadingly at him. Roderick stretched his empty hands out. “What do you want from me?”

  “Shut up!” roared the forester. “I ask the questions here!” He ordered his men, “Don’t let this smooth-faced boy out of your sight!” He lowered his bow and eyed the young man. “So, you’re out hunting.”

  “Why, no, sir. I’m on my way to Nottingham.” Roderick smiled thinly. “I plan to win the competition.”


  “Are you that good?”

  “The best.”

  There was a glint in the forester’s eye. “Milksop, you’re in luck. We have a competition for you right now.” He pulled a rabbit from his hunting bag, held it up. “Here is your target. We took this off the poacher up there. If you hit it, it’s yours.” He grinned slyly. “And if you don’t, we’ll even give you a second chance.” He gestured to the branch. “And if you still miss . . . there’s plenty of room next to that swineherd from Edwinstowe.”

  Roderick pressed his lips together.

  “The little boy is scared.” One of the rangers stepped closer and spat in his face. The others grinned broadly.

  Roderick wiped away the spittle with his sleeve. “I’m ready.” He pointed to the rabbit. “But he’s already dead, isn’t he?”

  “You only think it is, my boy.” The forester shook the prey. “Don’t you see how he’s still wriggling?” Laughing, he tossed the rabbit to one of his men. “Go on!” He pointed to a beech trunk at the edge of the clearing. “Pin it with your bow.”

  The target was a good seventy paces away.

  “One false move,” the ranger warned, “and my men will spit you like a roast. Because you are the best, you will now show us how you nail this rabbit’s right ear to the trunk.”

  Roderick positioned himself sideways to the target, slightly spreading his legs. A flick of his shoulder, the bow jumped into his hand, he reached for the quiver, and the arrow was on the string.

  Such speed! Amazed, one leather-clad man after the other lowered his weapon.

  With great calm, the archer tilted the bow, drew, lowered the arrow toward the target. The arrow whirred away, pierced the hare’s right ear, and stuck in the trunk.

  The men stared over at the beech tree.

  “I want another prize,” Roderick said into the silence. He still held his bow outstretched in his left hand. “I want the naked man up there.” He tensed his arm.

  “You’ll get nothing at all,” the ranger behind him sneered. “You just hunted royal game. You stole a hare from our king. The penalty for that is death.”

  His hand whipped to the quiver. The arrow sped away, severing the rope just below the branch. The swineherd crashed to the ground. Roderick ducked, his knife flashing in his right fist. He jumped at the first ranger. A slash, and blood shot from the man’s neck. Roderick whirled around, stabbing the second man in the chest. His blade tore into the throat of the next. Around him, three men sank to the ground. But they still pressed close. Danger loomed from all sides. Dagger ready to thrust, Roderick pranced in a circle. “Who else? Come on!”

  The men backed away. “Robin Hood,” one whispered, dropping his bow. “I-I knew it.” He waved his arms wildly. “Only Robin Hood fights like that!” He ran from one to the other. “Run! Before it’s too late.” He tugged them by their leather tunics. “His men will be here any moment!” Screaming, he fled. The name was a signal. A second man, then a third stammered, “Robin Hood!”

  Roderick took advantage of the confusion. In mighty leaps, he put distance between himself and them. The next arrow was on the string. “Get out of here! All of you!”

  “Shoot him!” the forester commanded, looking around at his men. “You cowards! This fellow is alone! Go ahead and shoot!” They threw down their weapons. In a blind panic, they rushed across the clearing.

  “Cowards! You bastards!” Hatred blazed in the eyes beneath the black leather cap. “Then I’ll show you how.” He yanked up his bow.

  Roderick’s arrow nailed the silver badge to the man’s forehead. The ranger dropped backward into the grass.

  Cries of “Robin Hood!” rang out from the edge of the clearing.

  “He’s killed our master!” And again, now farther away, “Robin Hood is back!”

  Roderick did not pursue them. He ran to the tree and knelt beside the motionless swineherd. “Hey? You still alive?”

  The eyes in the dirtied face blinked. “Are they gone?” A deep voice.

  “No question.”

  “And my rabbit?”

  Roderick held his bare shoulders. “What?”

  “Tell me!”

  “By the Virgin! It’s hanging from the tree by its ear.”

  The swineherd sat up swiftly. “All good, then.” A grin. “Thanks! That was close.” He loosened the noose and slipped it off over his head. He regarded the cut end thoughtfully. “Damn good shot. The only other man I know who could—”

  “Hold on!” Roderick frowned. “That’s it for both of us! Do you understand? No competition. No more pig herding!” His dark blue eyes glared at the naked man. “Damn it. Don’t just sit there. Come on, move it! We’ve got to go.” He hurried over to the dead bodies.

  Abruptly, the swineherd understood. “They’re going to hunt us down.” He jumped up. He found his tunic under the tree trunk, slipped it on, grabbed his walking stick. “What’s your name?”

  “Roderick of Crossway. Come here!” Roderick had gathered as many arrows as he could and stuffed the bundles into three quivers; two he handed to the swineherd, the third he slung over his own shoulder. “And what is your name?”

  “Malcolm. Up from—”

  “Edwinstowe. I know.” Roderick checked the ranger’s bow. “Here. That’s the best one.”

  Where to now? They glanced at each other. Deeper into Sherwood? To Crossway? Malcolm rejected that idea. “They’ll come with weapons and dogs. If they follow our tracks to your village, they’ll kill everyone. No, we have to get out. Out of the shire.” The swineherd clenched his fists. “North.” Grimly, he added, “And I know where to go, too. To Barnsdale!”

  Roderick shrugged. “Fine by me. Let’s go, then!”

  After just a few steps. Malcolm halted. “Wait!” He ran to the beech, returned with the rabbit. “For the road. We have far to go.”

  They ran cross-country through Sherwood. Soon they had reached the old path and made faster progress. After a while, Roderick asked, “You know anyone up there in Barnsdale?”

  Malcolm laughed. He called over his shoulder, “Sure do. A real sir, even, and his name is Robert of Loxley. But before that, he was . . .”

  Impatiently, Roderick urged, “Well, tell me!”

  “Why, Robin Hood, you milksop. Who else?”

  XXIII

  YORKSHIRE. KIRKLEES ABBEY.

  The lad awaited the carriage far below the abbey. Two servants led the horse by the halter. Quietly the young man inquired, “A sir or a lady?”

  “We are taking our mistress to Mother Matilda.”

  He walked beside the carriage. “Lady!” And again. “Lady!”

  The curtain was pushed aside a crack. “What do you want?”

  “To make you well, lady.” With practiced skill, the lad opened the sack at his side; he pulled out three linen pouches one by one. “Bitter clover for fever? St. John’s wort for a cough? Bloodroot for the sick stomach? Whatever you need, lady. Each medicine costs but a tuppence.” He had a narrow face, a deep scar across his forehead. He urged, “Don’t pass it by, my lady. Up there in the abbey, herbs will cost you three times as much.”

  “You can’t help me.” Slowly the curtain closed.

  “Too bad.” As the cart rolled on, the lad stayed behind. “But next time for sure.”

  Horsemen! Armed men in dark blue cloaks. A red coat of arms was emblazoned on their shields. They rode three abreast, and behind them another three. The lad knew only too well the noble lord who was being protected by these men-at-arms. A soft plume of feathers adorned the man’s hat, and he wore a dark traveling cloak. Before the escort approached, the young man jumped away, hiding among the flowering bushes. Only after the abbey gate had closed behind the Baron of Doncaster did the boy return to the wayside.

  Full of impatience, Sir Roger stared across the heavily laden fruit trees to the whitewashed building just to the left of the church. “Par tous les diables!” He stretched his thin lips into a smile. “No matter how long it take
s. No quarry escapes my nets.”

  Mother Mathilda left the nuns’ residence. With a firm step, the tall figure followed the raked path between the flower beds.

  Sir Roger straightened. Regret, even slight compassion now dominated his countenance.

  “Peace be with you, sir!”

  He gave a nod. “I must speak with you, Reverend Mother.”

  Boldly, her dark eyes searched the Baron’s features. “You seem free of complaint to me today.” She raised her brows. “And yet you seem changed.”

  “Not speak with the healer, not with the prioress. Today I want to speak with my dear friend Mathilda.”

  The nun understood. “Then follow me, sir!”

  In silence, she led her visitor past the infirmary tower into the herb garden and locked the gate. She smiled. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  Sir Roger folded his arms. “You are a strong woman, Reverend Mother. Under your leadership, the abbey has continued to flourish. Indeed, its success exceeds my boldest hopes.”

  “Your praise shames me.” She lowered her head. From cover of her veil, she surveyed the baron. Her tone remained humble. “Is that the only reason for this secretive conversation? I would have gladly received such praise in the refectory before all ears.”

  Sir Roger clasped his hands in front of his dark velvet tunic. “You may wish to sit down for this, Holy Mother!”

  “I am always prepared.”

  “Your nephew.” Carefully, the baron loosed the first sting. “He failed. Gamwell did not live up to my high expectations.”

  Mathilda gave no reaction. Calmly, she said, “I am astonished at that. True, you have never spoken of his secret mission. But in all these years, even on your last visit, you’ve been full of praise.”