But Robin Hood, he himself had disguis’d,
And Marian was strangely attir’d,
That they proved foes, and so fell to blows,
Whose valor bold Robin admir’d.
And when he came at London’s court,
He fell down on his knee.
“Thou art welcome, Lockesley,” said the Queen,
“And all thy good yeomandree.”
Now it fell out that one day not long thereafter, Robin was minded to try his skill at hunting. And not knowing whom he might meet in his rambles, he stained his face and put on a sorry-looking jacket and a long cloak before he sallied forth. As he walked, the peacefulness of the morning came upon him, and brought back to his memory the early days so long ago when he had roamed these same glades with Marian. How sweet they seemed to him now, and how far away! Marian, too, the dainty friend of his youth—would he ever see her again? He had thought of her very often of late, and each time with increasing desire to hear her clear voice and musical laugh, and see her eyes light up at his coming.
Perhaps the happiness of Allen-a-Dale and his lady had caused Robin’s heart-strings to vibrate more strongly; perhaps, too, the coming of Will Scarlet. But, certes, Robin was anything but a hunter this bright morning as he walked along with head drooping in a most love-lorn way.
Presently a hart entered the glade in full view of him, grazing peacefully, and instantly the man of action awoke. His bow was drawn and a shaft all but loosed, when the beast fell suddenly, pierced by a clever arrow from the far side of the glade.
Then a handsome little page sprang gleefully from the covert and ran toward the dying animal. This was plainly the archer, for he flourished his bow aloft, and likewise bore a sword at his side, though for all that he looked a mere lad.
Robin approached the hart from the other side.
“How dare you shoot the King’s beasts, stripling?” he asked severely.
“I have as much right to shoot them as the King himself,” answered the page haughtily. “How dare you question me?”
The voice stirred Robin strongly. It seemed to chime into his memories of the old days. He looked at the page sharply, and the other returned the glance, straight and unafraid.
“Who are you, my lad?” Robin said more civilly.
“No lad of yours, and my name’s my own,” retorted the other with spirit.
“Softly! Fair and softly, sweet page, or we of the forest will have to teach you manners!” said Robin.
“Not if you stand for the forest!” cried the page, whipping out his sword. “Come, draw, and defend yourself!”
He swung his blade valiantly; and Robin saw nothing for it but to draw likewise. The page thereupon engaged him quite fiercely, and Robin found that he had many pretty little tricks at fencing.
Nathless, Robin contented himself with parrying, and was loth to exert all his superior strength upon the lad. So the fight lasted for above a quarter of an hour, at the end of which time the page was almost spent and the hot blood flushed his cheeks in a most charming manner.
The outlaw saw his distress, and to end the fight allowed himself to be pricked slightly on the wrist.
“Are you satisfied, fellow?” asked the page, wincing a little at sight of the blood.
“Aye, honestly,” replied Robin; “and now perhaps you will grant me the honor of knowing to whom I owe this scratch?”
“I am Richard Partington, page to Her Majesty, Queen Eleanor,” answered the lad with dignity; and again the sound of his voice troubled Robin sorely.
“Why come you to the greenwood alone, Master Partington?”
The lad considered his answer while wiping his sword with a small lace kerchief. The action brought a dim confused memory to Robin. The lad finally looked him again in the eye.
“Forester, whether or no you be a King’s man, know that I seek one Robin Hood, an outlaw, to whom I bring amnesty from the Queen. Can you tell me aught of him?” And while awaiting his answer, he replaced the kerchief in his shirt. As he did so, the gleam of a golden trophy caught the outlaw’s eye.
Robin started forward with a joyful cry.
“Ah! I know you now! By the sight of yon golden arrow won at the Sheriff’s tourney, you are she on whom I bestowed it, and none other than Maid Marian!”
“You—are—?” gasped Marian, for it was she; “not Robin!”
“Robin’s self!” said he gaily; and forthwith, clad as he was in rags, and stained of face, he clasped the dainty page close to his breast, and she forsooth yielded right willingly.
“But Robin!” she exclaimed presently, “I knew you not, and was rude, and wounded you!”
“‘Twas nothing,” he replied laughingly, “so long as it brought me you.”
But she made more ado over the sore wrist than Robin had received for all his former hurts put together. And she bound it with the little kerchief, and said, “Now ‘twill get well!” and Robin was convinced she spoke the truth, for he never felt better in all his life. The whole woods seemed tinged with a roseate hue, since Marian had come again.
But she, while happy also, was ill at ease; and Robin with a man’s slow discernment at last saw that it was because of her boy’s attire. He thought bluntly that there was naught to be ashamed of, yet smilingly handed her his tattered long cloak, which she blushingly put on, and forthwith recovered her spirits directly.
Then they began to talk of each other’s varied fortunes, and of the many things which had parted them; and so much did they find to tell that the sun had begun to decline well into the afternoon before they realized how the hours sped.
“I am but a sorry host!” exclaimed Robin, springing to his feet. “I have not once invited you to my wild roof.”
“And I am but a sorry page,” replied Marian; “for I had clean forgot that I was Richard Partington, and really did bring you a message from Queen Eleanor!”
“Tell me on our way home, and there you shall be entrusted to Mistress Dale. While the first of my men we meet will I send back for your deer.”
So she told him, as they walked back through the glade, how that the fame of his prowess had reached Queen Eleanor’s ears, in London town. And the Queen had said, “Fain would I see this bold yeoman, and behold his skill at the long-bow.” And the Queen had promised him amnesty if he and four of his archers would repair to London against the next tournament the week following, there to shoot against King Henry’s picked men, of whom the King was right vain. All this Marian told in detail, and added:
“When I heard Her Majesty say she desired to see you, I asked leave to go in search of you, saying I had known you once. And the Queen was right glad, and bade me go, and sent this gold ring to you from off her finger, in token of her faith.”
Then Robin took the ring and bowed his head and kissed it loyally. “By this token will I go to London town,” quoth he, “and ere I part with the Queen’s pledge, may the hand that bears it be stricken off at the wrist!” By this time they were come to the grove before the cave, and Robin presented Maid Marian to the band, who treated her with the greatest respect. Will Scarlet was especially delighted to greet again his old time friend, while Allan-a-Dale and his good wife bustled about to make her welcome in their tiny thatched cottage.
That evening after they had supped royally upon the very hart that Marian had slain, Allan sang sweet songs of Northern minstrelsy to the fair guest as she sat by Robin’s side, the golden arrow gleaming in her dark hair. The others all joined in the chorus, from Will Scarlet’s baritone to Friar Tuck’s heavy bass. Even Little John essayed to sing, although looked at threateningly by Much the miller’s son.
Then Robin bade Marian repeat her message from the Queen, which Marian did in a way befitting the dignity of her royal mistress. After which the yeomen gave three cheers for the Queen and three more for her page, and drank toasts to them both, rising to their feet.
“Ye have heard,” quoth Robin standing forth, “how that Her Majesty—whom God preserve!—wishes but four men to go with me. Wherefore, I choose Little John and Will Stutely, my two lieutenants, Will Scarlet, my cousin, and Allan-a-Dale, my minstrel. Mistress Dale, also, can go with her husband and be company for the Queen’s page. We will depart with early morning, decked in our finest. So stir ye, my lads! and see that not only your tunics are fresh, but your swords bright and your bows and arrows fit. For we must be a credit to the Queen as well as the good greenwood. You, Much, with Stout Will, Lester, and John, the widow’s three sons, shall have command of the band while we are away; and Friar Tuck shall preside over the needs of your souls and stomachs.”
The orders were received with shouts of approval, and toasts all around were drunk again in nut-brown ale, ere the company dispersed to rest after making ready for the journey.
The next morning was as fine a summer’s day as ever you want to see, and the green leaves of the forest made a pleasing background for the gay picture of the yeomen setting forth. Says the old ballad—it was a seemly sight to see how Robin Hood himself had dressed, and all his yeomanry. He clothed his men in Lincoln green, and himself in scarlet red, with hats of black and feathers white to bravely deck each head. Nor were the two ladies behind-hand, I ween, at the bedecking.
Thus the chosen party of seven sallied forth being accompanied to the edge of the wood by the whole band, who gave them a merry parting and Godspeed!
The journey to London town was made without incident. The party proceeded boldly along the King’s highroad, and no man met them who was disposed to say them nay. Besides, the good Queen’s warrant and ring would have answered for them, as indeed it did at the gates of London. So on they sped and in due course came to the palace itself and awaited audience with the Queen.
Now the King had gone that day to Finsbury Field, where the tourney was soon to be held, in order to look over the lists and see some of his picked men whom he expected to win against all comers. So much had he boasted of these men, that the Queen had secretly resolved to win a wager of him. She had heard of the fame of Robin Hood and his yeomen, as Marian had said; and Marian on her part had been overjoyed to be able to add a word in their favor and to set out in search of them.
To-day the Queen sat in her private audience-room chatting pleasantly with her ladies, when in came Mistress Marian Fitzwalter attired again as befitted her rank of lady-in-waiting. She courtesied low to the Queen and awaited permission to speak.
“How now!” said the Queen smiling; “is this my lady Marian, or the page, Richard Partington?”
“Both, an it please Your Majesty. Richard found the man you sought, while Marian brought him to you.”
“Where is he?” asked Queen Eleanor eagerly.
“Awaiting your audience—he and four of his men, likewise a lady of whose wooing and wedding I can tell you a pretty story at another time.”
“Have them admitted.”
So Marian gave orders to a herald, and presently Robin Hood and his little party entered the room.
Now the Queen had half-expected the men to be rude and uncouth in appearance, because of their wild life in the forest; but she was delightfully disappointed. Indeed she started back in surprise and almost clapped her hands. For, sooth to say, the yeomen made a brave sight, and in all the court no more gallant men could be found. Marian felt her cheeks glow with pride, at sight of the half-hidden looks of admiration sent forth by the other ladies-in-waiting.
Robin had not forgot the gentle arts taught by his mother, and he wore his fine red velvet tunic and breeches with the grace of a courtier. We have seen, before, what a dandified gentleman Will Scarlet was; and Allan-a-Dale, the minstrel, was scarcely less goodly to look upon. While the giant Little John and broad-shouldered Will Stutely made up in stature what little they lacked in outward polish. Mistress Dale, on her part, looked even more charming, if possible, than on the momentous day when she went to Plympton Church to marry one man and found another.
Thus came the people of the greenwood before Queen Eleanor, in her own private audience room. And Robin advanced and knelt down before her, and said:
“Here I am, Robin Hood—I and my chosen men! At Your Majesty’s bidding am I come, bearing the ring of amnesty which I will protect—as I would protect Your Majesty’s honor—with my life!”
“Thou art welcome, Lockesley,” said the Queen smiling graciously.
“Thou art come in good time, thou and all thy brave yeomanry.”
Then Robin presented each of his men in turn, and each fell on his knee and was greeted with most kindly words. And the Queen kissed fair Mistress Dale upon the cheek, and bade her remain in the palace with her ladies while she was in the city. And she made all the party be seated to rest themselves after their long journey. Fine wines were brought, and cake, and rich food, for their refreshment. And as they ate and drank, the Queen told them further of the tourney to be held at Finsbury Field, and of how she desired them to wear her colors and shoot for her. Meantime, she concluded, they were to lie by quietly and be known of no man.
To do all this, Robin and his men pledged themselves full heartily. Then at the Queen’s request, they related to her and her ladies some of their merry adventures; whereat the listeners were vastly entertained, and laughed heartily. Then Marian, who had heard of the wedding at Plympton Church, told it so drolly that tears stood in the Queen’s eyes from merriment.
“My lord Bishop of Hereford!” she said, “‘Twas indeed a comical business for him! I shall keep that to twit his bones, I promise you! So this is our minstrel?” she added presently, turning to Allan-a-Dale. “Methinks I have already heard of him. Will he not harp awhile for us to-day?”
Allan bowed low, and took a harp which was brought to him, and he thrummed the strings and sang full sweetly the border songs of the North Countree. And the Queen and all her ladies listened in rapt silence till all the songs were ended.
The King is into Finsbury Field
Marching in battle ‘ray,
And after follows bold Robin Hood,
And all his yeomen gay.
The morning of the great archery contest dawned fair and bright, bringing with it a fever of impatience to every citizen of London town, from the proudest courtier to the lowest kitchen wench. Aye, and all the surrounding country was early awake, too, and began to wend their way to Finsbury Field, a fine broad stretch of practice ground near Moorfields. Around three sides of the Field were erected tier upon tier of seats, for the spectators, with the royal boxes and booths for the nobility and gentry in the center. Down along one end were pitched gaily colored tents for the different bands of King’s archers. There were ten of these bands, each containing a score of men headed by a captain of great renown; so to-day there were ten of the pavilions, each bearing aloft the Royal Arms and vari-colored pennants which fluttered lightly in the fresh morning breeze.
Each captain’s flag was of peculiar color and device. First came the royal purple streamer of Tepus, own bow-bearer to the King, and esteemed the finest archer in all the land. Then came the yellow of Clifton of Buckinghamshire; and the blue of Gilbert of the White Hand—he who was renowned in Nottinghamshire; and the green of Elwyn the Welshman; and the White of Robert of Cloudesdale; and, after them, five other captains of bands, each a man of proved prowess. As the Queen had said aforetime, the King was mightily proud of his archers, and now held this tourney to show their skill and, mayhap, to recruit their forces.
The uprising tiers of seats filled early, upon this summer morning, and the merry chatter of the people went abroad like the hum of bees in a hive. The royal party had not yet put in an appearance, nor were any of the King’s archers visible. So the crowd was content to hide its impatience by laughing jibes passed from one section to another, and crying the colors of their favorite archers. In and out among the seats went hawkers, their arms laden with small pennants to correspond with the rival tents. Other vendors of pie and small cakes and cider also did a thrifty business, for so eager had some of the people been to get good seats, that they had rushed away from home without their breakfast.
Suddenly the gates at the far end, next the tents, opened wide, and a courier in scarlet and gold, mounted upon a white horse, rode in blowing lustily upon the trumpet at his lips; and behind him came six standard-bearers riding abreast. The populace arose with a mighty cheer. King Harry had entered the arena. He bestrode a fine white charger and was clad in a rich dark suit of slashed velvet with satin and gold facings. His hat bore a long curling ostrich plume of pure white and he doffed it graciously in answer to the shouts of the people. By his side rode Queen Eleanor, looking regal and charming in her long brocade riding-habit; while immediately behind them came Prince Richard and Prince John, each attired in knightly coats of mail and helmets. Lords and ladies of the realm followed; and finally, the ten companies of archers, whose progress round the field was greeted with hardly less applause than that given the King himself.
The King and Queen dismounted from their steeds, ascended the steps of the royal box, and seated themselves upon two thrones, decked with purple and gold trapping, upon a dais sheltered by striped canvas. In the booths at each side the members of the Court took their places; while comely pages ran hither and thither bearing the royal commands. ‘Twas a lordly sight, I ween, this shifting of proud courtiers, flashing of jeweled fans, and commingling of bright colors with costly gems!
Now the herald arose to command peace, and soon the clear note of his bugle rose above the roar of the crowd and hushed it to silence. The tenscore archers ranged themselves in two long rows on each side of the lists—a gallant array—while their captains, as a special mark of favor, stood near the royal box.
“Come hither, Tepus,” said the King to his bow-bearer. “Come, measure me out this line, how long our mark must be.”
“What is the reward?” then asked the Queen.
“That will the herald presently proclaim,” answered the King. “For first prize we have offered a purse containing twoscore golden pounds; for second, a purse containing twoscore silver pennies; and for third a silver bugle, inlaid with gold. Moreover, if the King’s companies keep these prizes, the winning companies shall have, first, two tuns of Rhenish wine; second, two tuns of English beer; and, third, five of the fattest harts that run on Dallom Lea. Methinks that is a princely wager,” added King Harry laughingly.
Up spake bold Clifton, secure in the King’s favor. “Measure no marks for us, most sovereign liege,” quoth he; “for such largess as that, we’ll shoot at the sun and the moon.”
“‘Twill not be so far as that,” said the King. “But get a line of good length, Tepus, and set up the targets at tenscore paces.”
Forthwith, Tepus bowed low, and set up ten targets, each bearing the pennant of a different company, while the herald stood forth again and proclaimed the rules and prizes. The entries were open to all comers. Each man, also, of the King’s archers should shoot three arrows at the target bearing the colors of his band, until the best bowman in each band should be chosen. These ten chosen archers should then enter a contest for an open target—three shots apiece—and here any other bowman whatsoever was asked to try his skill. The result at the open targets should decide the tourney.
Then all the people shouted again, in token that the terms of the contest pleased them; and the archers waved their bows aloft, and wheeled into position facing their respective targets.
The shooting now began, upon all the targets at once, and the multitude had so much ado to watch them, that they forgot to shout. Besides, silence was commanded during the shooting. Of all the fine shooting that morning, I have not now space to tell you. The full score of men shot three times at each target, and then three times again to decide a tie. For, more than once, the arrow shot by one man would be split wide open by his successor. Every man’s shaft bore his number to ease the counting; and so close would they stick at the end of a round, that the target looked like a big bristle hairbrush. Then must the spectators relieve their tense spirits by great cheering; while the King looked mighty proud of his skilled bowmen.
At last the company targets were decided, and Tepus, as was expected, led the score, having made six exact centers in succession. Gilbert of the White Hand followed with five, and Clifton with four. Two other captains had touched their center four times, but not roundly. While in the other companies it so chanced that the captains had been out-shot by some of the men under them.
The winners then saluted the King and Queen, and withdrew for a space to rest and renew their bow-strings for the keenest contest of all; while the lists were cleared and a new target—the open one—was set up at twelvescore paces. At the bidding of the King, the herald announced that the open target was to be shot at, to decide the title of the best archer in all England; and any man there present was privileged to try for it. But so keen had been the previous shooting, that many yeomen who had come to enter the lists now would not do so; and only a dozen men stepped forth to give in their names.
“By my halidom!” said the King, “these must be hardy men to pit themselves against my archers!”
“Think you that your ten chosen fellows are the best bowmen in all England?” asked the Queen.
“Aye, and in all the world beside,” answered the King; “and thereunto I would stake five hundred pounds.”
“I am minded to take your wager,” said the Queen musingly, “and will e’en do so if you grant me a boon.”
“What is it?” asked the King.
“If I produce five archers who can out-shoot your ten, will you grant my men full grace and amnesty?”
“Assuredly!” quoth the King in right good humor. “Nathless, I tell you now, your wager is in jeopardy, for there never were such bowmen as Tepus and Clifton and Gilbert!”
“Hum!” said the Queen puckering her brow, still as though lost in thought. “I must see if there be none present to aid me in my wager. Boy, call hither Sir Richard of the Lea and my lord Bishop of Hereford!”
The two summoned ones, who had been witnessing the sport, came forward.
“Sir Richard,” said she, “thou art a full knight and good. Would’st advise me to meet a wager of the King’s, that I can produce other archers as good as Tepus and Gilbert and Clifton?”
“Nay, Your Majesty,” he said, bending his knee. “There be none present that can match them. Howbeit,”—he added dropping his voice—“I have heard of some who lie hid in Sherwood Forest who could show them strange targets.”
The Queen smiled and dismissed him.
“Come hither, my lord Bishop of Hereford,” quoth she, “would’st thou advance a sum to support my wager ‘gainst the King?”
“Nay, Your Majesty,” said the fat Bishop, “an you pardon me, I’d not lay down a penny on such a bet. For by my silver mitre, the King’s archers are men who have no peers.”
“But suppose I found men whom thou knewest to be masters at the bow,” she insisted roguishly, “would’st thou not back them? Belike, I have heard that there be men round about Nottingham and Plympton who carry such matters with a high hand!”
The Bishop glanced nervously around, as if half expecting to see Robin Hood’s men standing near; then turned to find the Queen looking at him with much amusement lurking in her eyes.
“Odds bodikins! The story of my misadventure must have preceded me!” he thought, ruefully. Aloud he said, resolved to face it out,
“Your Majesty, such tales are idle and exaggerated. An you pardon me, I would add to the King’s wager that his men are invincible.”
“As it pleases thee,” replied the Queen imperturbably. “How much?”
“Here is my purse,” said the Bishop uneasily. “It contains fifteen score nobles, or near a hundred pounds.”
“I’ll take it at even money,” she said, dismissing him; “and Your Majesty”—turning to the King who had been conversing with the two princes and certain of the nobles—“I accept your wager of five hundred pounds.”
“Very good,” said the King, laughing as though it were a great jest. “But what had minded you to take such interest in the sport, of a sudden?”
“It is as I have said. I have found five men whom I will pit against any you may produce.”
“Then we will try their skill speedily,” quoth the King. “How say you, if first we decide this open target and then match the five best thereat against your unknown champions?”
“Agreed,” said the Queen. Thereupon she signed to Maid Marian to step forward, from a near-by booth where she sat with other ladies-in-waiting, and whispered something in her ear. Marian courtesied and withdrew.
Now the ten chosen archers from the King’s bands came forth again and took their stand; and with them stood forth the twelve untried men from the open lists. Again the crowd was stilled, and every eye hung upon the speeding of the shafts. Slowly but skilfully each man shot, and as his shaft struck within the inner ring a deep breath broke from the multitude like the sound of the wind upon the seashore. And now Gilbert of the White Hand led the shooting, and ‘twas only by the space of a hairsbreadth upon the line that Tepus tied his score. Stout Elwyn, the Welshman, took third place; one of the private archers, named Geoffrey, come fourth; while Clifton must needs content himself with fifth.
The men from the open lists shot fairly true, but nervousness and fear of ridicule wrought their undoing.
The herald then came forward again, and, instead of announcing the prize-winners, proclaimed that there was to be a final contest. Two men had tied for first place, declared His Majesty the King, and three others were entitled to honors. Now all these five were to shoot again, and they were to be pitted against five other of the Queen’s choosing—men who had not yet shot upon that day.
A thrill of astonishment and excitement swept around the arena. “Who were these men of the Queen’s choosing?” was upon every lip. The hubbub of eager voices grew intense; and in the midst of it all, the gate at the far end of the field opened and five men entered and escorted a lady upon horseback across the arena to the royal box. The lady was instantly recognized as Mistress Marian of the Queen’s household, but no one seemed to know the faces of her escort. Four were clad in Lincoln green, while the fifth, who seemed to be the leader, was dressed in a brave suit of scarlet red. Each man wore a close fitting cap of black, decked with a curling white feather. For arms, they carried simply a stout bow, a sheaf of new arrows, and a short hunting-knife.
When the little party came before the dais on which the King and Queen sat, the yeomen doffed their caps humbly, while Maid Marian was assisted to dismount.
“Your Gracious Majesty,” she said, addressing the Queen, “these be the men for whom you sent me, and who are now come to wear your colors and service you in the tourney.”
The Queen leaned forward and handed them each a scarf of green and gold.
“Lockesley,” she said in a clear voice, “I thank thee and thy men for this service. Know that I have laid a wager with the King that ye can outshoot the best five whom he has found in all his bowmen.” The five men pressed the scarfs to their lips in token of fealty.
The King turned to the Queen inquiringly.
“Who are these men you have brought before us?” asked he.
Up came the worthy Bishop of Hereford, growing red and pale by turns.
“Your pardon, my liege lord!” cried he; “But I must denounce these fellows as outlaws. Yon man in scarlet is none other than Robin Hood himself. The others are Little John and Will Stutely and Will Scarlet and Allan-a-Dale—all famous in the North Countree for their deeds of violence.”
“As my lord Bishop personally knows!” added the Queen significantly.
The King’s brows grew dark. The name of Robin Hood was well known to him, as to every man there present.
“Is this true?” he demanded sternly.
“Aye, my lord,” responded the Queen demurely. “But, bethink you—I have your royal promise of grace and amnesty.”
“That will I keep,” said the King, holding in check his ire by a mighty effort. “But, look you! Only forty days do I grant of respite. When this time has elapsed, let these bold outlaws look to their safety!”
Then turning to his five victorious archers, who had drawn near, he added, “Ye have heard, my men, how that I have a wager with the Queen upon your prowess. Now here be men of her choosing—certain free shafts of Sherwood and Barnesdale. Wherefore look well to it, Gilbert and Tepus and Geoffrey and Elwyn and Clifton! If ye outshoot these knaves, I will fill your caps with silver pennies—aye, and knight the man who stands first. But if ye lose, I give the prizes, for which ye have just striven, to Robin Hood and his men, according to my royal word.”
“Robin Hood and his men!” the saying flew round the arena with the speed of wild-fire, and every neck craned forward to see the famous fellows who had dared to brave the King’s anger, because of the Queen.
Another target was now set up, at the same distance as the last, and it was decided that the ten archers should shoot three arrows in turn. Gilbert and Robin tossed up a penny for the lead, and it fell to the King’s men. So Clifton was bidden to shoot first.
Forth he stood, planting his feet firmly, and wetting his fingers before plucking the string. For he was resolved to better his losing score of that day. And in truth he did so, for the shaft he loosed sped true, and landed on the black bull’s-eye, though not in the exact center. Again he shot, and again he hit the black, on the opposite rim. The third shaft swerved downward and came within the second ring, some two fingers’ breadths away. Nathless, a general cry went up, as this was the best shooting Clifton had done that day.
Will Scarlet was chosen to follow him, and now took his place and carefully chose three round and full-feathered arrows.
“Careful, my sweet coz!” quoth Robin in a low tone. “The knave has left wide space at the center for all of your darts.”
But Robin gave Will the wrong caution, for over-much care spoiled his aim. His first shaft flew wide and lodged in the second ring even further away than the worst shot of Clifton.
“Your pardon, coz!” quoth Robin hastily. “Bid care go to the bottom of the sea, and do you loose your string before it sticks to your fingers!”
And Will profited by this hint, and loosed his next two shafts as freely as though they flew along a Sherwood glade. Each struck upon the bull’s-eye, and one even nearer the center than his rival’s mark. Yet the total score was adjudged in favor of Clifton. At this Will Scarlet bit his lip, but said no word, while the crowd shouted and waved yellow flags for very joy that the King’s man had overcome the outlaw. They knew, also, that this demonstration would please the King.
The target was now cleared for the next two contestants—Geoffrey and Allan-a-Dale. Whereat, it was noticed that many ladies in the Queen’s booths boldly flaunted Allan’s colors, much to the honest pride which glowed in the cheeks of one who sat in their midst.
“In good truth,” said more than one lady to Mistress Dale, “if thy husband can handle the longbow as skilfully as the harp, his rival has little show of winning!”
The saying augured well. Geoffrey had shot many good shafts that day; and indeed had risen from the ranks by virtue of them. But now each of his three shots, though well placed in triangular fashion around the rim of the bull’s-eye, yet allowed an easy space for Allan to graze within. His shooting, moreover, was so prettily done, that he was right heartily applauded—the ladies and their gallants leading in the hand-clapping.
Now you must know that there had long been a friendly rivalry in Robin Hood’s band as to who was the best shot, next after Robin himself. He and Will Stutely had lately decided their marksmanship, and Will had found that Robin’s skill was now so great as to place the leader at the head of all good bowmen in the forest. But the second place lay between Little John and Stutely, and neither wished to yield to the other. So to-day they looked narrowly at their leader to see who should shoot third. Robin read their faces at a glance, and laughing merrily, broke off two straws and held them out.
“The long straw goes next!” he decided; and it fell to Stutely.
Elwyn the Welshman was to precede him; and his score was no whit better than Geoffrey’s. But Stutely failed to profit by it. His besetting sin at archery had ever been an undue haste and carelessness. To-day these were increased by a certain moodiness, that Little John had outranked him. So his first two shafts flew swiftly, one after the other, to lodging places outside the Welshman’s mark.
“Man! man!” cried Robin entreatingly, “you do forget the honor of the Queen, and the credit of Sherwood!”
“I ask your pardon, master!” quoth Will humbly enough, and loosing as he spoke his last shaft. It whistled down the course unerringly and struck in the exact center—the best shot yet made.
Now some shouted for Stutely and some shouted for Elwyn; but Elwyn’s total mark was declared the better. Whereupon the King turned to the Queen. “What say you now?” quoth he in some triumph. “Two out of the three first rounds have gone to my men. Your outlaws will have to shoot better than that in order to save your wager!”
The Queen smiled gently.
“Yea, my lord,” she said. “But the twain who are left are able to do the shooting. You forget that I still have Little John and Robin Hood.”
“And you forget, my lady, that I still have Tepus and Gilbert.”
So each turned again to the lists and awaited the next rounds in silent eagerness. I ween that King Harry had never watched the invasion of an enemy with more anxiety than he now felt.
Tepus was chosen to go next and he fell into the same error with Will Scarlet. He held the string a moment too long, and both his first and second arrows came to grief. One of them, however, came within the black rim, and he followed it up by placing his third in the full center, just as Stutely had done in his last. These two centers were the fairest shots that had been made that day; and loud was the applause which greeted this second one. But the shouting was as nothing to the uproar which followed Little John’s shooting. That good-natured giant seemed determined to outdo Tepus by a tiny margin in each separate shot; for the first and the second shafts grazed his rival’s on the inner side, while for the third Little John did the old trick of the forest: he shot his own arrow in a graceful curve which descended from above upon Tepus’s final center shaft with a glancing blow that drove the other out and left the outlaw’s in its place.
The King could scarce believe his eyes. “By my halidom!” quoth he, “that fellow deserves either a dukedom or a hanging! He must be in league with Satan himself! Never saw I such shooting.”
“The score is tied, my lord,” said the Queen; “we have still to see Gilbert and Robin Hood.”
Gilbert now took his stand and slowly shot his arrows, one after another, into the bull’s-eye. ‘Twas the best shooting he had yet done, but there was still the smallest of spaces left—if you looked closely—at the very center.
“Well done, Gilbert!” spoke up Robin Hood. “You are a foeman worthy of being shot against.” He took his own place as he spoke. “Now if you had placed one of your shafts there”—loosing one of his own—“and another there”—out sped the second—“and another there”—the third was launched—“mayhap the King would have declared you the best bowman in all England!”
But the last part of his merry speech was drowned in the wild tumult of applause which followed his exploit. His first two shafts had packed themselves into the small space left at the bull’s-eye; while his third had split down between them, taking half of each, and making all three appear from a distance, as one immense arrow.
Up rose the King in amazement and anger.
“Gilbert is not yet beaten!” he cried. “Did he not shoot within the mark thrice? And that is allowed a best in all the rules of archery.”
Robin bowed low.
“As it please Your Majesty!” quoth he. “But may I be allowed to place the mark for the second shooting?”
The King waved his hand sullenly.. Thereupon Robin prepared another old trick of the greenwood, and got him a light, peeled willow wand which he set in the ground in place of the target.
“There, friend Gilbert,” called he gaily; “belike you can hit that!”
“I can scarce see it from here,” said Gilbert, “much less hit it. Nathless, for the King’s honor, I will try.”
But this final shot proved his undoing, and his shaft flew harmlessly by the thin white streak. Then came Robin to his stand again, and picked his arrow with exceeding care, and tried his string. Amid a breathless pause he drew the good yew bow back to his ear, glanced along the shaft, and let the feathered missile fly. Straight it sped, singing a keen note of triumph as it went. The willow wand was split in twain, as though it had met a hunter’s knife.
“Verily, I think your bow is armed with witchcraft!” cried Gilbert. “For I did not believe such shooting possible.”
“You should come to see our merry lads in the greenwood,” retorted Robin lightly. “For willow wands do not grow upon the cobblestones of London town.”
Meanwhile the King in great wrath had risen to depart, first signing the judges to distribute the prizes. Never a word said he, of good or ill, to the Queen, but mounted his horse and, followed by his sons and knights, rode off the field. The archers dropped upon one knee as he passed, but he gave them a single baleful look and was gone.
Then the Queen beckoned the outlaws to approach, and they did so and knelt at her feet.
“Right well have ye served me,” she said, “and sorry am I that the King’s anger is aroused thereby. But fear ye not. His word and grace hold true. As to these prizes ye have gained, I add others of mine own—the wagers I have won from His Majesty the King and from the lord Bishop of Hereford. Buy with some of these moneys the best swords ye can find in London, for all your band, and call them the swords of the Queen. And swear with them to protect all the poor and the helpless and the women—kind who come your way.”
“We swear,” said the five yeomen solemnly.
Then the Queen gave each of them her hand to kiss, and arose and departed with all her ladies. And after they were gone, the King’s archers came crowding around Robin and his men, eager to get a glimpse of the fellows about whom they had heard so much. And back of them came a great crowd of the spectators pushing and jostling in their efforts to come nearer.
“Verily!” laughed Little John, “they must take us for a Merry Andrew show!”
Now the judges came up, and announced each man his prize, according to the King’s command. To Robin was give the purse containing twoscore golden pounds; to Little John the twoscore silver pennies; and to Allan-a-Dale the fine inlaid bugle, much to his delight, for he was skilled at blowing sweet tunes upon the horn hardly less than handling the harp strings. But when the Rhenish wine and English beer and harts of Dallom Lea were spoken of, Robin said:
“Nay, what need we of wine or beer, so far from the greenwood? And ‘twould be like carrying coals to Newcastle, to drive those harts to Sherwood! Now Gilbert and Tepus and their men have shot passing well. Wherefore, the meat and drink must go to them, an they will accept it of us.”
“Right gladly,” replied Gilbert grasping his hand. “Ye are good men all, and we will toast you every one, in memory of the greatest day at archery that England has ever seen, or ever will see!”
Thus said all the King’s archers, and the hand of good-fellowship was given amid much shouting and clapping on the shoulder-blades.
And so ended King Harry’s tourney, whose story has been handed down from sire to son, even unto the present day.
And while the tinker fell asleep,
Robin made haste away,
And left the tinker in the lurch,
For the great shot to pay.
King Henry was as good as his word. Robin Hood and his party were suffered to depart from London—the parting bringing keen sorrow to Marian—and for forty days no hand was raised against them. But at the end of that time, the royal word was sent to the worthy Sheriff at Nottingham that he must lay hold upon the outlaws without further delay, as he valued his office.
Indeed, the exploits of Robin and his band, ending with the great tourney in Finsbury Field, had made a mighty stir through all England, and many there were to laugh boldly at the Nottingham official for his failures to capture the outlaws.
The Sheriff thereupon planned three new expeditions into the greenwood, and was even brave enough to lead them, since he had fifteen-score men at his beck and call each time. But never the shadow of an outlaw did he see, for Robin’s men lay close, and the Sheriff’s men knew not how to come at their chief hiding-place in the cove before the cavern.
Now the Sheriff’s daughter had hated Robin Hood bitterly in her heart ever since the day he refused to bestow upon her the golden arrow, and shamed her before all the company. His tricks, also, upon her father were not calculated to lessen her hatred, and so she sought about for means to aid the Sheriff in catching the enemy.
“There is no need to go against this man with force of arms,” she said. “We must meet his tricks with other tricks of our own.”
“Would that we could!” groaned the Sheriff. “The fellow is becoming a nightmare unto me.”
“Let me plan a while,” she replied. “Belike I can cook up some scheme for his undoing.”
“Agreed,” said the Sheriff, “and if anything comes of your planning, I will e’en give you an hundred silver pennies for a new gown, and a double reward to the man who catches the outlaws.”
Now upon that same day, while the Sheriff’s daughter was racking her brains for a scheme, there came to the Mansion House a strolling tinker named Middle, a great gossip and braggart. And as he pounded away upon some pots and pans in the scullery, he talked loudly about what he would do, if he once came within reach of that rascal Robin Hood.
“It might be that this simple fellow could do something through his very simplicity,” mused the Sheriff’s daughter, overhearing his prattle. “Odds bodikins! ‘twill do no harm to try his service, while I bethink myself of some better plan.”
And she called him to her, and looked him over—a big brawny fellow enough, with an honest look about the eye, and a countenance so open that when he smiled his mouth seemed the only country on the map.
“I am minded to try your skill at outlaw catching,” she said, “and will add goodly measure to the stated reward if you succeed. Do you wish to make good your boasted prowess?”
The tinker grinned broadly.
“Yes, your ladyship,” he said.
“Then here is a warrant made out this morning by the Sheriff himself. See that you keep it safely and use it to good advantage.”
And she dismissed him.
Middle departed from the house mightily pleased with himself, and proud of his commission. He swung his crab-tree-staff recklessly in his glee—so recklessly that he imperiled the shins of more than one angry passer-by—and vowed he’d crack the ribs of Robin Hood with it, though he was surrounded by every outlaw in the whole greenwood.
Spurred on by the thoughts of his own coming bravery, he left the town and proceeded toward Barnesdale. The day was hot and dusty, and at noontime he paused at a wayside inn to refresh himself. He began by eating and drinking and dozing, in turn, then sought to do all at once.
Mine host of the “Seven Does” stood by, discussing the eternal Robin with a drover.
“Folk do say that my lord Sheriff has sent into Lincoln for more men-at-arms and horses, and that when he has these behind him, he’ll soon rid the forest of these fellows.”
“Of whom speak you?” asked the tinker sitting up.
“Of Robin Hood and his men,” said the host; “but go to sleep again. You will never get the reward!”
“And why not?” asked the tinker, rising with great show of dignity.
“Where our Sheriff has failed, and the stout Guy of Gisborne, and many more beside, it behoves not a mere tinker to succeed.”
The tinker laid a heavy hand upon the innkeeper’s fat shoulder, and tried to look impressive.
“There is your reckoning, host, upon the table. I must e’en go upon my way, because I have more important business than to stand here gossiping with you. But be not surprised, if, the next time you see me, I shall have with me no less person than Robin Hood himself!”
And he strode loftily out the door and walked up the hot white road toward Barnesdale.
He had not gone above a quarter of a mile when he met a young man with curling brown hair and merry eyes. The young man carried his light cloak over his arm, because of the heat, and was unarmed save for a light sword at his side. The newcomer eyed the perspiring tinker in a friendly way, and seeing he was a stout fellow accosted him.
“Good-day to you!” said he.
“Good-day to you!” said the tinker; “and a morrow less heating.”
“Aye,” laughed the other. “Whence come you? And know you the news?”
“What is the news?” said the gossipy tinker, pricking up his ear; “I am a tinker by trade, Middle by name, and come from over against Banbury.”
“Why as for the news,” laughed the stranger, “I hear that two tinkers were set i’ the stocks for drinking too much ale and beer.”
“If that be all your news,” retorted Middle, “I can beat you clear to the end of the lane.”
“What news have you? Seeing that you go from town to town, I ween you can outdo a poor country yokel at tidings.”
“All I have to tell,” said the other, “is that I am especially commissioned”—he felt mightily proud of these big words—“especially commissioned to seek a bold outlaw which they call Robin Hood.”
“So?” said the other arching his brows. “How ‘especially commissioned’?”
“I have a warrant from the Sheriff, sealed with the King’s own seal, to take him where I can; and if you can tell me where he is, I will e’en make a man of you.”
“Let me see the warrant,” said the other, “to satisfy myself if it be right; and I will do the best I can to bring him to you.”
“That will I not,” replied the tinker; “I will trust none with it. And if you’ll not help me to come at him I must forsooth catch him by myself.”
And he made his crab-tree-staff whistle shrill circles in the air.
The other smiled at the tinker’s simplicity, and said:
“The middle of the road on a hot July day is not a good place to talk things over. Now if you’re the man for me and I’m the man for you, let’s go back to the inn, just beyond the bend of road, and quench our thirst and cool our heads for thinking.”
“Marry come up!” quoth the tinker. “That will I! For though I’ve just come from there, my thirst rises mightily at the sound of your voice.”
So back he turned with the stranger and proceeded to the “Seven Does.”
The landlord arched his eyebrows silently when he saw the two come in, but served them willingly.
The tinker asked for wine, and Robin for ale. The wine was not the most cooling drink in the cellar, nor the clearest headed. Nathless, the tinker asked for it, since it was expensive and the other man had invited him to drink. They lingered long over their cups, Master Middle emptying one after another while the stranger expounded at great length on the best plans for coming at and capturing Robin Hood.
In the end the tinker fell sound asleep while in the act of trying to get a tankard to his lips. Then the stranger deftly opened the snoring man’s pouch, took out the warrant, read it, and put it in his own wallet. Calling mine host to him, he winked at him with a half smile and told him that the tinker would pay the whole score when he awoke. Thus was Master Middle left in the lurch “for the great shot to pay.”
Nathless, the stranger seemed in no great hurry. He had the whim to stay awhile and see what the droll tinker might do when he awoke. So he hid behind a window shutter, on the outside, and awaited events.
Presently the tinker came to himself with a prodigious yawn, and reached at once for another drink.
“What were you saying, friend, about the best plan (ya-a-a-ah!) for catching this fellow?—Hello!—where’s the man gone?”
He had looked around and saw no one with him at the table.
“Host! host!” he shouted, “where is that fellow who was to pay my reckoning?”
“I know not,” answered the landlord sharply. “Mayhap he left the money in your purse.”
“No he didn’t!” roared Middle, looking therein. “Help! Help! I’ve been robbed! Look you, host, you are liable to arrest for high treason! I am here upon the King’s business, as I told you earlier in the day. And yet while I did rest under your roof, thinking you were an honest man (hic!) and one loving of the King, my pouch has been opened and many matters of state taken from it.”
“Cease your bellowing!” said the landlord. “What did you lose?”
“Oh, many weighty matters, I do assure you. I had with me, item, a warrant, granted under the hand of my lord High Sheriff of Nottingham, and sealed with the Kings’s own seal, for the capture (hic!)—and arrest—and overcoming of a notorious rascal, one Robin Hood of Barnesdale. Item, one crust of bread. Item, one lump (hic!) of solder. Item, three pieces of twine. Item, six single keys (hic!), useful withal. Item, twelve silver pennies, the which I earned this week (hic!) in fair labor. Item—”
“Have done with your items!” said the host. “And I marvel greatly to hear you speak in such fashion of your friend, Robin Hood of Barnesdale. For was he not with you in all good-fellowship?”
“Wh-a-at? That Robin Hood?” gasped Middle with staring eyes. “Why did you not tell me?”
“Faith, I saw no need o’ telling you! Did you not tell me the first time you were here to-day, that I need not be surprised if you came back with no less person than Robin Hood himself?”
“Jesu give me pardon!” moaned the tinker. “I see it all now. He got me to drinking, and then took my warrant, and my pennies, and my crust—”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted the host. “I know all about that. But pay me the score for both of you.”
“But I have no money, gossip. Let me go after that vile bag-o’-bones, and I’ll soon get it out of him.”
“Not so,” replied the other. “If I waited for you to collect from Robin Hood, I would soon close up shop.”
“What is the account?” asked Middle.
“Ten shillings, just.”
“Then take here my working-bag and my good hammer too; and if I light upon that knave I will soon come back after them.”
“Give me your leathern coat as well,” said mine host; “the hammer and bag of tools are as naught to me.”
“Gramercy!” cried Master Middle, losing what was left of his temper. “It seems that I have escaped one thief only to fall into the hands of another. If you will but walk with me out into the middle of the road, I’ll give you such a crack as shall drive some honesty into your thick skull.”
“You are wasting your breath and my time,” retorted the landlord.
“Give me your things, and get you gone after your man, speedily.”
Middle thought this to be good advice; so he strode forth from the “Seven Does” in a black mood.
Ere he had gone half a mile, he saw Robin Hood walking demurely among the trees a little in front of him.
“Ho there, you villain!” roared the tinker. “Stay your steps! I am desperately in need of you this day!”
Robin turned about with a surprised face.
“What knave is this?” he asked gently, “who comes shouting after me?”
“No knave! no knave at all!” panted the other, rushing up. “But an honest—man—who would have—that warrant—and the money for drink!”
“Why, as I live, it is our honest tinker who was seeking Robin Hood! Did you find him, gossip?”
“Marry, that did I! and I’m now going to pay him my respects!”
And he plunged at him, making a sweeping stroke with his crab-tree-cudgel.
Robin tried to draw his sword, but could not do it for a moment through dodging the other’s furious blows. When he did get it in hand, the tinker had reached him thrice with resounding thwacks. Then the tables were turned, for he dashed in right manfully with his shining blade and made the tinker give back again.
The greenwood rang with the noise of the fray. ‘Twas steel against wood, and they made a terrible clattering when they came together. Robin thought at first that he could hack the cudgel to pieces, for his blade was one of Toledo—finely tempered steel which the Queen had given him. But the crab-tree-staff had been fired and hardened and seasoned by the tinker’s arts until it was like a bar of iron—no pleasant neighbor for one’s ribs.
Robin presently found this out to his sorrow. The long reach and long stick got to him when ‘twas impossible for him to touch his antagonist. So his sides began to ache sorely.
“Hold your hand, tinker,” he said at length. “I cry a boon of you.”
“Before I do it,” said the tinker, “I’d hang you on this tree.”
But even as he spoke, Robin found the moment’s grace for which he longed; and immediately grasped his horn and blew the three well-known blasts of the greenwood.
“A murrain seize you!” roared the tinker commencing afresh. “Up to your old tricks again, are you? Well, I’ll have time to finish my job, if I hurry.”
But Robin was quite able to hold his own at a pinch, and they had not exchanged many lunges and passes when up came Little John and Will Scarlet and a score of yeomen at their heels. Middle was seized without ceremony, while Robin sat himself down to breathe. “What is the matter?” quoth Little John, “that you should sit so weariedly upon the highway side?”
“Faith, that rascally tinker yonder has paid his score well upon my hide,” answered Robin ruefully.
“That tinker, then,” said Little John, “must be itching for more work. Fain would I try if he can do as much for me.”
“Or me,” said Will Scarlet, who like Little John was always willing to swing a cudgel.
“Nay,” laughed Robin. “Belike I could have done better, an he had given me time to pull a young tree up by the roots. But I hated to spoil the Queen’s blade upon his tough stick or no less tough hide. He had a warrant for my arrest which I stole from him.”
“Also, item, twelve silver pennies,” interposed the tinker, unsubdued; “item, one crust of bread, ‘gainst my supper. Item, one lump of solder. Item, three pieces of twine. Item, six single keys. Item—”
“Yes, I know,” quoth the merry Robin; “I stood outside the landlord’s window and heard you count over your losses. Here they are again; and the silver pennies are turned by magic into gold. Here also, if you will, is my hand.”
“I take it heartily, with the pence!” cried Middle. “By my leathern coat and tools, which I shall presently have out of that sly host, I swear that I never yet met a man I liked as well as you! An you and your men here will take me, I swear I’ll serve you honestly. Do you want a tinker? Nay, but verily you must! Who else can mend and grind your swords and patch your pannikins—and fight, too, when occasion serve? Mend your pots! mend your pa-a-ans!”
And he ended his speech with the sonorous cry of his craft.
By this time the whole band was laughing uproariously at the tinker’s talk.
“What say you, fellows?” asked Robin. “Would not this tinker be a good recruit?”
“That he would!” answered Will Scarlet, clapping the new man on the back. “He will keep Friar Tuck and Much the miller’s son from having the blues.”
So amid great merriment and right good fellowship the outlaws shook Middle by the hand, and he took oath of fealty, and thought no more of the Sheriff’s daughter.
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