Forth of the greenwood are they gone,
Yea, all courageously,
Resolving to bring Stutely home,
Or every man to die.
The next day dawned bright and sunny. The whole face of nature seemed gay as if in despite of the tragedy which was soon to take place in the walls of Nottingham town. The gates were not opened upon this day, for the Sheriff was determined to carry through the hanging of Will Stutely undisturbed. No man, therefore, was to be allowed entrance from without, all that morning and until after the fatal hour of noon, when Will’s soul was to be launched into eternity.
Early in the day Robin had drawn his men to a point, as near as he dared, in the wood where he could watch the road leading to the East gate. He himself was clad in a bright scarlet dress, while his men, a goodly array, wore their suits of sober Lincoln green. They were armed with broadswords, and ‘each man carried his bow and a full quiver of new arrows, straightened and sharpened cunningly by Middle, the tinker. Over their greenwood dress, each man had thrown a rough mantle, making him look not unlike a friar.
“I hold it good, comrades,” then said Robin Hood, “to tarry here in hiding for a season while we sent some one forth to obtain tidings. For, in sooth, ‘twill work no good to march upon the gates if they be closed.”
“Look, master,” quoth one of the widow’s sons. “There comes a palmer along the road from the town. Belike he can tell us how the land ties, and if Stutely be really in jeopardy. Shall I go out and engage him in speech?”
“Go,” answered Robin.
So Stout Will went out from the band while the others hid themselves and waited. When he had come close to the palmer, who seemed a slight, youngish man, he doffed his hat full courteously and said,
“I crave your pardon, holy man, but can you tell me tidings of Nottingham town? Do they intend to put an outlaw to death this day?”
“Yea,” answered the palmer sadly. “‘Tis true enough, sorry be the day. I have passed the very spot where the gallows-tree is going up. ‘Tis out upon the roadway near the Sheriff’s castle. One, Will Stutely, is to be hung thereon at noon, and I could not bear the sight, so came away.”
The palmer spoke in a muffled voice; and as his hood was pulled well over his head, Stout Will could not discern what manner of man he was. Over his shoulder he carried a long staff, with the fashion of a little cross at one end; and he had sandaled feet like any monk. Stout Will notice idly that the feet were very small and white, but gave no second thought to the matter.
“Who will shrive the poor wretch, if you have come away from him?” he asked reproachfully.
The question seemed to put a new idea into the palmer’s head. He turned so quickly that he almost dropped his hood.
“Do you think that I should undertake this holy office?”
“By Saint Peter and the Blessed Virgin, I do indeed! Else, who will do it? The Bishop and all his whining clerks may be there, but not one would say a prayer for his soul.”
“But I am only a poor palmer,” the other began hesitatingly.
“Nathless, your prayers are as good as any and better than some,” replied Will.
“Right gladly would I go,” then said the palmer; “but I fear me I cannot get into the city. You may know that the gates are fast locked, for this morning, to all who would come in, although they let any pass out who will.”
“Come with me,” said Stout Will, “and my master will see that you pass through the gates.”
So the palmer pulled his cloak still closer about him and was brought before Robin Hood, to whom he told all he knew of the situation. He ended with,
“If I may make so bold, I would not try to enter the city from this gate, as ‘tis closely guarded since yesterday. But on the far side, no attack is looked for.”
“My thanks, gentle palmer,” quoth Robin, “your suggestion is good, and we will deploy to the gate upon the far side.”
So the men marched silently but quickly until they were near to the western gate. Then Arthur-a-Bland asked leave to go ahead as a scout, and quietly made his way to a point under the tower by the gate. The moat was dry on this side, as these were times of peace, and Arthur was further favored by a stout ivy vine which grew out from an upper window.
Swinging himself up boldly by means of this friendly vine, he crept through the window and in a moment more had sprung upon the warder from behind and gripped him hard about the throat. The warder had no chance to utter the slightest sound, and soon lay bound and gagged upon the floor; while Arthur-a-Bland slipped himself into his uniform and got hold of his keys.
‘Twas the work of but a few moments more to open the gates, let down the bridge, and admit the rest of the band; and they lot inside the town so quietly that none knew of their coming. Fortune also favored them in the fact that just at this moment the prison doors had been opened for the march of the condemned man, and every soldier and idle lout in the market-lace had trooped thither to see him pass along.
Presently out came Will Stutely with firm step but dejected air. He looked eagerly to the right hand and to the left, but saw none of the band. And though more than one curious face betrayed friendship in it, he knew there could be no aid from such source.
Will’s hands were tied behind his back. He marched between rows of soldiery, and the Sheriff and the Bishop brought up the rear on horses, looking mightily puffed up and important over the whole proceeding. He would show these sturdy rebels—would the Sheriff—whose word was law! He knew that the gates were tightly fastened; and further he believed that the outlaws would hardly venture again within the walls, even if the gates were open. And as he looked around at the fivescore archers and pikemen who lined the way to the gallows, he smiled with grim satisfaction.
Seeing that no help was nigh, the prisoner paused at the foot of the scaffold and spoke in a firm tone to the Sheriff.
“My lord Sheriff,” quoth he, “since I must needs die, grant me one boon; for my noble master ne’er yet had a man that was hanged on a tree:
Give me a sword all in my hand,
And let me be unbound,
And with thee and thy men will I fight
Till I lie dead on the ground.”
But the Sheriff would by no means listen to his request; but swore that he should be hanged a shameful death, and not die by the sword valiantly.
“O no, no, no,” the Sheriff said,
“Thou shalt on the gallows die,
Aye, and so shall they master too,
If ever it in me lie.”
“O dastard coward!” Stutely cried,
“Faint-hearted peasant slave!
If ever my master do thee meet,
Thou shalt thy payment have!”
“My noble master thee doth scorn,
And all thy cowardly crew,
Such silly imps unable are
Bold Robin to subdue.”
This brave speech was not calculated to soothe the Sheriff. “To the gallows with him!” he roared, giving a sign to the hangman; and Stutely was pushed into the rude cart which was to bear him under the gallows until his neck was leashed. Then the cart would be drawn roughly away and the unhappy man would swing out over the tail of it into another world.
But at this moment came a slight interruption. A boyish-looking palmer stepped forth, and said:
“Your Excellency, let me at least shrive this poor wretch’s soul ere it be hurled into eternity.”
“No!” shouted the Sheriff, “let him die a dog’s death!”
“Then his damnation will rest upon you,” said the monk firmly. “You, my lord Bishop, cannot stand by and see this wrong done.”
The Bishop hesitated. Like the Sheriff, he wanted no delay; but the people were beginning to mutter among themselves and move about uneasily. He said a few words to the Sheriff, and the latter nodded to the monk ungraciously.
“Perform your duty, Sir Priest,” quoth he, “and be quick about it!” Then turning to his soldiers. “Watch this palmer narrowly,” he commanded. “Belike he is in league with those rascally outlaws.”
But the palmer paid no heed to his last words. He began to tell his beads quickly, and to speak in a low voice to the condemned man. But he did not touch his bonds.
Then came another stir in the crowd, and one came pushing through the press of people and soldiery to come near to the scaffold.
“I pray you, Will, before you die, take leave of all your friends!” cried out the well-known voice of Much, the miller’s son.
At the word the palmer stepped back suddenly and looked to one side. The Sheriff also knew the speaker.
“Seize him!” he shouted. “‘Tis another of the crew. He is the villain cook who once did rob me of my silver plate. We’ll make a double hanging of this!”
“Not so fast, good master Sheriff,” retorted Much. “First catch your man and then hang him. But meanwhile I would like to borrow my friend of you awhile.”
And with one stroke of his keen hunting-knife he cut the bonds which fastened the prisoner’s arms, and Stutely leaped lightly from the cart.
“Treason!” screamed the Sheriff, getting black with rage. “Catch the varlets!”
So saying he spurred his horse fiercely forward, and rising in his stirrups brought down his sword with might and main at Much’s head. But his former cook dodged nimbly underneath the horse and came up on the other side, while the weapon whistled harmlessly in the air.
“Nay, Sir Sheriff!” he cried, “I must e’en borrow your sword for the friend I have borrowed.”
Thereupon he snatched the weapon deftly from the Sheriff’s hand.
“Here, Stutely!” said he, “the Sheriff has lent you his own sword. Back to back with me, man, and we’ll teach these knaves a trick or two!”
Meanwhile the soldiers had recovered from their momentary surprise and had flung themselves into the fray. A clear bugle-note had also sounded the same which the soldiers had learned to dread. ‘Twas the rallying note of the green wood men.
Cloth yard shafts began to hurtle through the air, and Robin and his men cast aside their cloaks and sprang forward crying:
“Lockesley! Lockesley! a rescue! a rescue!”
On the instant, a terrible scene of hand to hand fighting followed. The Sheriff’s men, though once more taken by surprise, were determined to sell this rescue dearly. They packed in closely and stubbornly about the condemned man and Much and the palmer, and it was only by desperate rushes that the foresters made an opening in the square. Ugly cuts and bruises were exchanged freely; and lucky was the man who escaped with only these. Many of the onlookers, who had long hated the Sheriff and felt sympathy for Robin’s men, also plunged into the conflict—although they could not well keep out of it, in sooth!—and aided the rescuers no little.
At last with a mighty onrush, Robin cleaved a way through the press to the scaffold itself, and not a second too soon; for two men with pikes had leaped upon the cart, and were in the act of thrusting down upon the palmer and Will Stutely. A mighty upward blow from Robin’s good blade sent the pike flying from the hand of one, while a well-directed arrow from the outskirt pierced the other fellow’s throat.
“God save you, master!” cried Will Stutely joyfully. “I had begun to fear that I would never see your face again.”
“A rescue!” shouted the outlaws afresh, and the soldiery became fainthearted and ‘gan to give back. But the field was not yet won, for they retreated in close order toward the East gate, resolved to hem the attackers within the city walls. Here again, however, they were in error, since the outlaws did not go out by their nearest gate. They made a sally in that direction, in order to mislead the soldiery, then abruptly turned and headed for the West gate, which was still guarded by Arthur-a-Bland.
The Sheriff’s men raised an exultant shout at this, thinking they had the enemy trapped. Down they charged after them, but the outlaws made good their lead, and soon got through the gate and over the bridge which had been let down by Arthur-a-Bland.
Close upon their heels came the soldiers—so close, that Arthur had no time to close the gate again or raise the bridge. So he threw away his key and fell in with the yeomen, who now began their retreat up the long hill to the woods.
On this side the town, the road leading to the forest was long and almost unprotected. The greenwood men were therefore in some distress, for the archers shot at them from loop-holes in the walls, and the pikemen were reinforced by a company of mounted men from the castle. But the outlaws retreated stubbornly and now and again turned to hold their pursuers at bay by a volley of arrows. Stutely was in their midst, fighting with the energy of two; and the little palmer was there also, but took no part save to keep close to Robin’s side and mutter silent words as though in prayer.
Robin put his horn to his lips to sound a rally, when a flying arrow from the enemy pierced his hand. The palmer gave a little cry and sprang forward. The Sheriff, who followed close with the men on horseback, also saw the wound and gave a great huzza.
“Ha! you will shoot no more bows for a season, master outlaw!” he shouted.
“You lie!” retorted Robin fiercely, wrenching the shaft from his hand despite the streaming blood; “I have saved one shot for you all this day. Here take it!”
And he fitted the same arrow, which had wounded him, upon the string of his bow and let it fly toward the Sheriff’s head. The Sheriff fell forward upon his horse in mortal terror, but not so quickly as to escape unhurt. The sharp point laid bare a deep gash upon his scalp and must certainly have killed him if it had come closer.
The fall of the Sheriff discomfited his followers for the moment, and Robin’s men took this chance to speed on up the hill. The palmer had whipped out a small white handkerchief and tried to staunch Robin’s wound as they went. At sight of the palmer’s hand, Robin turned with a start, and pushed back the other’s hood.
“Marian!” he exclaimed, “you here!”
It was indeed Maid Marian, who had helped save Will, and been in the stress of battle from the first. Now she hung her head as though caught in wrong.
“I had to come, Robin,” she said simply, “and I knew you would not let me come, else.”
Their further talk was interrupted by an exclamation from Will Scarlet.
“By the saints, we are trapped!” he said, and pointed to the top of the hill, toward which they were pressing.
There from out a gray castle poured a troop of men, armed with pikes and axes, who shouted and came running down upon them. At the same instant, the Sheriff’s men also renewed the pursuit.
“Alas!” cried poor Marian, “we are undone! There is no way of escape!”
“Courage, dear heart!” said Robin, drawing her close to him. But his own spirit sank as he looked about for some outlet.
Then—oh, joyful sight!—he recognized among the foremost of those coming from the castle the once doleful knight, Sir Richard of the Lea. He was smiling now, and greatly excited.
“A Hood! a Hood!” he cried; “a rescue! a rescue!” Never were there more welcome sights and sounds than these. With a great cheer the outlaws raced up the hill to meet their new friends; and soon the whole force had gained the shelter of the castle. Bang! went the bridge as it swung back, with great clanking of chains. Clash! went one great door upon the other, as they shut in the outlaw band, and shut out the Sheriff, who dashed up at the head of his men, his bandaged face streaked with blood and inflamed with rage.
The proud Sheriff loud ‘gan cry
And said, “Thou traitor knight,
Thou keepest here the king’s enemy
Against the laws and right.”
“Open the gate!” shouted the Sheriff hoarsely, to the sentinel upon the walls. “Open, I say, in the king’s name!”
“Why who are you to come thus brawling upon my premises?” asked a haughty voice; and Sir Richard himself stepped forth upon the turret.
“You know me well, traitor knight!” said the Sheriff, “now give up into my hands the enemy of the King whom you have sheltered against the laws and right.”
“Fair and softly, sir,” quoth the knight smoothly. “I well avow that I have done certain deeds this day. But I have done them upon mine own land, which you now trespass upon; and I shall answer only to the King—whom God preserve!—for my actions.”
“Thou soft-spoken villain!” said the Sheriff, still in a towering passion. “I, also, serve the King; and if these outlaws are not given up to me at once, I shall lay siege to the castle and burn it with fire.”
“First show me your warrants,” said Sir Richard curtly.
“My word is enough! Am I not Sheriff of Nottingham?”
“If you are, in sooth,” retorted the knight, “you should know that you have no authority within my lands unless you bear the King’s order. In the meantime, go mend your manners, lording.”
And Sir Richard snapped his fingers and disappeared from the walls. The Sheriff, after lingering a few moments longer in hope of further parley, was forced to withdraw, swearing fiercely.
“The King’s order!” muttered he. “That shall I have without delay, as well as this upstart knight’s estates; for King Richard is lately returned, I hear, from the Holy Land.”
Meanwhile the knight had gone back to Robin Hood, and the two men greeted each other right gladly. “Well met, bold Robin!” cried he, taking him in his arms. “Well met, indeed! The Lord has lately prospered me, and I was minded this day to ride forth and repay my debt to you.”
“And so you have,” answered Robin gaily.
“Nay, ‘twas nothing—this small service!” said the knight. “I meant the moneys coming to you.”
“They have all been repaid,” said Robin; “my lord of Hereford himself gave them to me.”
“The exact sum?” asked the knight.
“The exact sum,” answered Robin, winking solemnly.
Sir Richard smiled, but said no more at the time. Robin was made to rest until dinner should be served. Meanwhile a leech bound up his hand with ointment, promising him that he should soon have its use again. Some halfscore others of the yeomen had been hurt in the fight, but luckily none of grave moment. They were all bandaged and made happy by bumpers of ale.
At dinner Sir Richard presented Robin to his wife and son. The lady was stately and gracious, and made much of Marian, whom she had known as a little girl and who was now clothed more seemly for a dinner than in monkish garments. The young esquire was a goodly youth and bade fair to make as stout a knight as his father.
The feast was a joyous event. There were two long tables, and two hundred men sat down at them, and ate and drank and afterward sang songs. An hundred and forty of these men wore Lincoln green and called Robin Hood their chief. Never, I ween, had there been a more gallant company at table in Lea Castle!
That night the foresters tarried within the friendly walls, and the next day took leave; though Sir Richard protested that they should have made a longer stay. And he took Robin aside to his strong room and pressed him again to take the four hundred golden pounds. But his guest was firm.
“Keep the money, for it is your own,” said Robin; “I have but made the Bishop return that which he extorted unjustly.”
Sir Richard thanked him in a few earnest words, and asked him and all his men to visit the armory, before they departed. And therein they saw, placed apart, an hundred and forty stout yew bows of cunning make, with fine waxen silk strings; and an hundred and forty sheaves of arrows. Every shaft was a just ell long, set with peacock’s feathers, and notched with silver. And Sir Richard’s fair lady came forward and with her own hands gave each yeoman a bow and a sheaf.
“In sooth, these are poor presents we have made you, good Robin Hood,” said Sir Richard; “but they carry with them a thousand times their weight in gratitude.”
The Sheriff made good his threat to inform the King. Forth rode he to London town upon the week following, his scalp wound having healed sufficiently to permit him to travel. This time he did not seek out Prince John, but asked audience with King Richard of the Lion Heart himself. His Majesty had but lately returned from the crusades, and was just then looking into the state of his kingdom. So the Sheriff found ready audience.
Then to him the Sheriff spoke at length concerning Robin Hood; how that for many months the outlaws had defied the King, and slain the King’s deer; how Robin had gathered about him the best archers in all the countryside; and, finally, how the traitorous knight Sir Richard of the Lea had rescued the band when capture seemed certain, and refused to deliver them up to justice.
The King heard him through with attention and quoth he:
“Meseems I have heard of this same Robin Hood, and his men, and also seen somewhat of their prowess. Did not these same outlaws shoot in a royal Tourney at Finsbury field?”
“They did, Your Majesty, under a royal amnesty.”
In this speech the Sheriff erred, for the King asked quickly,
“How came they last to the Fair at Nottingham—by stealth?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Did you forbid them to come?”
“No, Your Majesty. That is—”
“Speak out!”
“For the good of the shire,” began the Sheriff again, falteringly, “we did proclaim an amnesty; but ‘twas because these men had proved a menace—”
“Now by my halidom!” quoth the King, while his brow grew black. “Such treachery would be unknown in the camp of the Saracen; and yet we call ourselves a Christian people!”
The Sheriff kept silence through very fear and shame; then the King began speech again:
“Nathless, my lord Sheriff, we promise to look into this matter. Those outlaws must be taught that there is but one King in England, and that he stands for the law.”
So the Sheriff was dismissed, with very mixed feelings, and went his way home to Nottingham town. A fortnight later the King began to make good his word, by riding with a small party of knights to Lea Castle. Sir Richard was advised of the cavalcade’s approach, and quickly recognized his royal master in the tall knight who rode in advance. Hasting to open wide his castle gates he went forth to meet the King and fell on one knee and kissed his stirrup. For Sir Richard, also, had been with the King to the Holy Land, and they had gone on many adventurous quests together.
The King bade him rise, and dismounted from his own horse to greet him as a brother in arms; and arm-in-arm they went into the castle, while bugles and trumpets sounded forth joyous welcome in honor of the great occasion.
After the King had rested and supped, he turned upon the knight and with grave face inquired:
“What is this I hear about your castle’s becoming a nest and harbor for outlaws?”
The Sir Richard of the Lea, divining that the Sheriff had been at the King’s ear with his story, made a clean breast of all he knew; how that the outlaws had befriended him in sore need—as they had befriended others—and how that he had given them only knightly protection in return.
The King liked the story well, for his own soul was one of chivalry. And he asked other questions about Robin Hood, and heard of the ancient wrong done his father before him, and of Robin’s own enemies, and of his manner of living.
“In sooth,” cried King Richard, springing up, “I must see this bold fellow for myself! An you will entertain my little company, and be ready to sally forth, upon the second day, in quest of me if need were, I shall e’en fare alone into the greenwood to seek an adventure with him.”
But of this adventure you shall be told in the next tale; for I have already shown you how Sir Richard of the Lea repaid his debt, with interest.
King Richard hearing of the pranks
Of Robin Hood and his men,
He much admired and more desired
To see both him and them.
Then Robin takes a can of ale:
“Come let us now begin;
And every man shall have his can;
Here’s a health unto the King!”
Friar Tuck had nursed Little John’s wounded knee so skilfully that it was now healed. In sooth, the last part of the nursing depended more upon strength than skill; for it consisted chiefly of holding down the patient, by main force, to his cot. Little John had felt so well that he had insisted upon getting up before the wound was healed; and he would have done so, if the friar had not piled some holy books upon his legs and sat upon his stomach.
Under this vigorous treatment Little John was constrained to lie quiet until the friar gave him leave to get up. At last he had this leave, and he and the friar went forth to join the rest of the band, who were right glad to see them, you may be sure. They sat around a big fire, for ‘twas a chilly evening, and they feasted and made merry, in great content.
A cold rain set in, later, but the friar wended his way back, nathless, to his little hermitage. There he made himself a cheerful blaze, and changed his dripping robe, and had sat himself down, with a sigh of satisfaction, before a tankard of hot mulled wine and a pasty, when suddenly a voice was heard on the outside, demanding admission. His kennel of dogs set up furious uproar, on the instant, by way of proving the fact of a stranger’s presence.
“Now by Saint Peter!” growled the friar, “who comes here at this unseemly hour? Does he take this for a hostelry? Move on, friend, else my mulled wine will get cold!”
So saying he put the tankard to his lips, when a thundering rap sounded upon the door-panel, making it to quiver, and causing Tuck almost to drop his tankard; while an angry voice shouted, “Ho! Within there! Open, I say!”
“Go your way in peace!” roared back the friar; “I can do nothing for you. ‘Tis but a few miles to Gamewell, if you know the road.”
“But I do not know the road, and if I did I would not budge another foot. ‘Tis wet without and dry within. So open, without further parley!”
“A murrain seize you for disturbing a holy man in his prayers!” muttered Tuck savagely. Nathless, he was fain to unbar the door in order to keep it from being battered down. Then lighting a torch at his fire and whistling for one of his dogs, he strode forth to see who his visitor might be.
The figure of a tall knight clad in a black coat of mail, with plumed helmet, stood before him. By his side stood his horse, also caparisoned in rich armor.
“Have you no supper, brother?” asked the Black Knight curtly. “I must beg of you a bed and a bit of roof, for this night, and fain would refresh my body ere I sleep.”
“I have no room that even your steed would deign to accept, Sir Knight; and naught save a crust of bread and pitcher of water.”
“I’ faith, I can smell better fare than that, brother, and must e’en force my company upon you, though I shall recompense it for gold in the name of the church. As for my horse, let him but be blanketed and put on the sheltered side of the house.”
And without further parley the knight boldly strode past Tuck and his dog and entered the hermitage. Something about his masterful air pleased Tuck, in spite of his churlishness.
“Sit you down, Sir Knight,” quoth he, “and I will fasten up up your steed, and find him somewhat in the shape of grain. Half, also, of my bed and board is yours, this night; but we shall see later who is the better man, and is to give the orders!”
“With all my soul!” said the knight, laughing. “I can pay my keeping in blows or gold as you prefer.”
The friar presently returned and drew up a small table near the fire.
“Now, Sir Knight,” quoth he, “put off your sword and helm and such other war-gear as it pleases you, and help me lay this table, for I am passing hungry.”
The knight did as he was told, and put aside the visor which had hid his face. He was a bronzed and bearded man with blue eyes, and hair shot with gold, haughty but handsome withal.
Then once again the priest sat him down to his pasty and mulled wine, right hopefully. He spoke his grace with some haste, and was surprised to hear his guest respond fittingly in the Latin tongue. Then they attacked the wine and pasty valiantly, and the Black Knight made good his word of being in need of refreshment. Tuck looked ruefully at the rapidly disappearing food, but came to grudge it not, by reason of the stories with which his guest enlivened the meal. The wine and warmth of the room had cheered them both, and they were soon laughing uproariously as the best of comrades in the world. The Black Knight, it seemed, had traveled everywhere. He had been on crusades, had fought the courteous Saladin, had been in prison, and often in peril. But now he spoke of it lightly, and laughed it off, and made himself so friendly that Friar Tuck was like to choke with merriment. So passed the time till late; and the two fell asleep together, one on each side of the table which had been cleared to the platters.
In the morning Friar Tuck awoke disposed to be surly, but was speedily mollified by the sight of the Black Knight, who had already risen gay as a lark, washed his face and hands, and was now stirring a hot gruel over the fire.
“By my faith, I make a sorry host!” cried Tuck springing to his feet. And later as they sat at breakfast, he added, “I want not your gold, of which you spoke last night; but instead I will do what I can to speed you on your way whenever you wish to depart.”
“Then tell me,” said the knight, “how I may find Robin Hood the outlaw; for I have a message to him from the King. All day yesterday I sought him, but found him not.”
Friar Tuck lifted up his hands in holy horror. “I am a lover of peace, Sir Knight, and do not consort with Robin’s bold fellows.”
“Nay, I think no harm of Master Hood,” said the knight; “but much I yearn to have speed with him in mine own person.”
“If that be all, mayhap I can guide you to his haunts,” said Tuck, who foresaw in this knight a possible gold-bag for Robin. “In sooth, I could not well live in these woods without hearing somewhat of the outlaws; but matters of religion are my chief joy and occupation.”
“I will go with you, brother,” said the Black Knight.
So without more ado they went their way into the forest, the knight riding upon his charger, and Tuck pacing along demurely by his side.
The day had dawned clear and bright, and now with the sun a good three hours high a sweet autumn fragrance was in the air. The wind had just that touch of coolness in it which sets the hunter’s blood to tingling; and every creature of nature seemed bounding with joyous life.
The knight sniffed the fresh air in delight.
“By my halidom!” quoth he; “but the good greenwood is the best place to live in, after all! What court or capital can equal this, for full-blooded men?”
“None of this earth,” replied Tuck smilingly. And once more his heart warmed toward the courteous stranger.
They had not proceeded more than three or four miles along the way from Fountain Abbey to Barnesdale, when of a sudden the bushes just ahead of them parted and a well-knit man with curling brown hair stepped into the road and laid his hand upon the knight’s bridle.
It was Robin Hood. He had seen Friar Tuck, a little way back, and shrewdly suspected his plan. Tuck, however, feigned not to know him at all.
“Hold!” cried Robin; “I am in charge of the highway this day, and must exact an accounting from all passersby.”
“Who is it bids me hold?” asked the knight quietly. “I am not i’ the habit of yielding to one man.”
“Then here are others to keep me company,” said Robin clapping his hands. And instantly a half-score other stalwart fellows came out of the bushes and stood beside him.
“We be yeomen of the forest, Sir Knight,” continued Robin, “and live under the greenwood tree. We have no means of support—thanks to the tyranny of our over-lords—other than the aid which fat churchmen and goodly knights like yourselves can give. And as ye have churches and rents, both, and gold in great plenty, we beseech ye for Saint Charity to give us some of your spending.”
“I am but a poor monk, good sir!” said Friar Tuck in a whining voice, “and am on my way to the shrine of Saint Dunstan, if your worshipfulness will permit.”
“Tarry a space with us,” answered Robin, biting back a smile, “and we will speed you on your way.”
The Black Knight now spoke again. “But we are messengers of the King,” quoth he; “His Majesty himself tarries near here and would have speech with Robin Hood.”
“God save the King!” said Robin, doffing his cap loyally; “and all that wish him well! I am Robin Hood, but I say cursed be the man who denies our liege King’s sovereignty!”
“Have a care!” said the knight, “or you shall curse yourself!”
“Nay, not so,” replied Robin curtly; “the King has no more devoted subject than I. Nor have I despoiled aught of his save, mayhap, a few deer for my hunger. My chief war is against the clergy and barons of the land who bear down upon the poor. But I am glad,” he continued, “that I have met you here; and before we end you shall be my friend and taste of our greenwood cheer.”
“But what is the reckoning?” asked the knight. “For I am told that some of your feasts are costly.”
“Nay,” responded Robin waving his hands, “you are from the King. Nathless—how much money is in your purse?”
“I have no more than forty gold pieces, seeing that I have lain a fortnight at Nottingham with the King, and have spent some goodly amounts upon other lordings,” replied the knight.
Robin took the forty pounds and gravely counted it. One half he gave to his men and bade them drink the King’s health with it. The other half he handed back to the knight.
“Sir,” said he courteously, “have this for your spending. If you lie with kings and lordings overmuch, you are like to need it.”
“Gramercy!” replied the other smiling. “And now lead on to your greenwood hostelry.”
So Robin went on the one side of the knight’s steed, and Friar Tuck on the other, and the men went before and behind till they came to the open glade before the caves of Barnesdale. Then Robin drew forth his bugle and winded the three signal blasts of the band. Soon there came a company of yeomen with its leader, and another, and a third, and a fourth, till there were sevenscore yeomen in sight. All were dressed in new livery of Lincoln green, and carried new bows in their hands and bright short swords at their belts. And every man bent his knee to Robin Hood ere taking his place before the board, which was already set.
A handsome dark-haired page stood at Robin’s right hand to pour his wine and that of the knightly guest; while the knight marveled much at all he saw, and said within himself:
“These men of Robin Hood’s give him more obedience than my fellows give to me.”
At the signal from Robin the dinner began. There was venison and fowl and fish and wheaten cake and ale and red wine in great plenty, and ‘twas a goodly sight to see the smiles upon the hungry yeomen’s faces.
First they listened to an unctuous grace from Friar Tuck, and then Robin lifted high a tankard of ale.
“Come, let us now begin,” quoth he, “and every man shall have his can. In honor of our guest who comes with royal word, here’s a health unto the King!”
The guest responded heartily to this toast, and round about the board it went, the men cheering noisily for King Richard!
After the feast was over, Robin turned to his guest and said, “Now you shall see what life we lead, so that you may report faithfully, for good or bad, unto the King.”
So at a signal from him, the men rose up and smartly bent their bows for practice, while the knight was greatly astonished at the smallness of the their targets. A wand was set up, far down the glade, and thereon was balanced a garland of roses. Whosoever failed to speed his shaft through the garland, without knocking it off the wand, was to submit to a buffet from the hand of Friar Tuck.
“Ho, ho!” cried the knight, as his late traveling companion rose up and bared his brawny arm ready for service; “so you, my friend, are Friar Tuck!”
“I have not gainsaid it,” replied Tuck growling at having betrayed himself. “But chastisement is a rule of the church, and I am seeking the good of these stray sheep.”
The knight said no more, though his eyes twinkled; and the shooting began.
David of Doncaster shot first and landed safely through the rose garland. Then came Allan-a-Dale and Little John and Stutely and Scarlet and many of the rest, while the knight held his breath from very amazement. Each fellow shot truly through the garland, until Middle the tinker—not to be outdone—stepped up for a trial. But alas! while he made a fair shot for a townsman, the arrow never came within a hand-breath of the outer rim of the garland.
“Come hither, fellow,” said Little John coaxingly. “The priest would bless thee with his open hand.”
Then because Middle made a wry face, as though he had already received the buffet, and loitered in his steps, Arthur-a-Bland and Will Stutely seized him by the arms and stood him before the friar. Tuck’s big arm flashed through the air—“whoof!” and stopped suddenly against the tinker’s ear; while Middle himself went rolling over and over on the grass. He was stopped by a small bush, and up he sat, thrusting his head through it, rubbing his ear and blinking up at the sky as though the stars had fallen and struck him. The yeomen roared with merriment, and as for the knight, he laughed till the tears came out of his blue eyes and rolled down his face.
After Middle’s mishap, others of the band seemed to lose their balance, and fared in the same fashion. The garland would topple over in a most impish way at every breath, although the arrows went through it. So Middle ‘gan to feel better when he saw this one and that one tumbling on the sward.
At last came Robin’s turn. He shot carefully, but as ill luck would have it the shaft was ill-feathered and swerved sidewise so that it missed the garland by full three fingers. Then a great roar went up from the whole company; for ‘twas rare that they saw their leader miss his mark. Robin flung his bow upon the ground from very vexation.
“A murrain take it!” quoth he. “The arrow was sadly winged. I felt the poor feather upon it as it left my fingers!”
Then suddenly seizing his bow again, he sped three shafts as fast as he could sent them, and every one went clean through the garland.
“By Saint George!” muttered the knight. “Never before saw I such shooting in all Christendom!”
The band cheered heartily at these last shots; but Will Scarlet came up gravely to Robin.
“Pretty shooting, master!” quoth he, “but ‘twill not save you from paying for the bad arrow. So walk up and take your medicine!”
“Nay, that may not be!” protested Robin. “The good friar belongs to my company and has no authority to lift hands against me. But you, Sir Knight, stand as it were for the King. I pray you, serve out my blow.”
“Not so!” said Friar Tuck. “My son, you forget I stand for the church, which is greater even than the King.”
“Not in merry England,” said the knight in a deep voice. Then rising to his feet, he added, “I stand ready to serve you, Master Hood.”
“Now out upon ye for an upstart knight!” cried Friar Tuck. “I told you last night, sirrah, that we should yet see who was the better man! So we will e’en prove it now, and thus settle who is to pay Robin Hood.”
“Good!” said Robin, “for I want not to start a dispute between church and state.”
“Good!” also said the knight. “‘Tis an easy way to end prattling. Come, friar, strike and ye dare. I will give you first blow.”
“You have the advantage of an iron pot on your head and gloves on your hands,” said the friar; “but have at ye! Down you shall go, if you were Goliath of Gath.”
Once more the priest’s brawny arm flashed through the air, and struck with a “whoof!” But to the amazement of all, the knight did not budge from his tracks, though the upper half of his body swerved slightly to ease the force of the blow. A loud shout burst from the yeomen at this, for the friar’s fist was proverbial, and few of those present had not felt the force of it in times past.
“Now ‘tis my turn,” said his antagonist coolly, casting aside his gauntlet. And with one blow of his fist the knight sent the friar spinning to the ground.
If there had been uproar and shouting before, it was as naught to the noise which now broke forth. Every fellow held his sides or rolled upon the ground from laughter; every fellow, save one, and that was Robin Hood.
“Out of the frying-pan into the fire!” thought he. “I wish I had let the friar box my ears, after all!”
Robin’s plight did, indeed, seem a sorry one, before the steel muscles of his stranger. But he was saved from a tumble heels over head by an unlooked-for diversion. A horn winded in the glade, and a party of knights were seen approaching.
“To your arms!” cried Robin, hurriedly seizing his sword and bow.
“‘Tis Sir Richard of the Lea!” cried another, as the troop came nearer.
And so it was. Sir Richard spurred forward his horse and dashed up to the camp while the outlaws stood at stiff attention. When he had come near the spot where the Black Knight stood, he dismounted and knelt before him.
“I trust Your Majesty has not needed our arms before,” he said humbly.
“It is the King!” cried Will Scarlet, falling upon his knees.
“The King!” echoed Robin Hood after a moment of dumb wonderment; and he and all his men bent reverently upon their knees, as one man.
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