Then answered him the gentle knight
With words both fair and thee:
“God save thee, my good Robin,
And all thy company!”
Now you must know that some months passed by. The winter dragged its weary length through Sherwood Forest, and Robin Hood and his merry men found what cheer they could in the big crackling fires before their woodland cave. Friar Tuck had built him a little hermitage not far away, where he lived comfortably with his numerous dogs.
The winter, I say, reached an end at last, and the blessed spring came and went. Another summer passed on apace, and still neither King nor Sheriff nor Bishop could catch the outlaws, who, meanwhile, thrived and prospered mightily in their outlawry. The band had been increased from time to time by picked men such as Arthur-a-Bland and David of Doncaster—he who was the jolliest cobbler for miles around—until it now numbered a full sevenscore of men; seven companies each with its stout lieutenant serving under Robin Hood. And still they relieved the purses of the rich, and aided the poor, and feasted upon King’s deer until the lank Sheriff of Nottingham was well-nigh distracted.
Indeed, that official would probable have lost his office entirely, had it not been for the fact of the King’s death. Henry passed away, as all Kings will, in common with ordinary men, and Richard of the Lion Heart was proclaimed as his successor.
Then Robin and his men, after earnest debate, resolved to throw themselves upon the mercy of the new King, swear allegiance, and ask to be organized into Royal Foresters. So Will Scarlet and Will Stutely and Little John were sent to London with this message, which they were first to entrust privately to Maid Marian. But they soon returned with bad tidings. The new King had formerly set forth upon a crusade to the Holy Land, and Prince John, his brother, was impossible to deal with—being crafty, cruel and treacherous. He was laying his hands upon all the property which could easily be seized; among other estates, that of the Earl of Huntingdon, Robin’s old enemy and Marian’s father, who had lately died.
Marian herself was in sore straits. Not only had her estates been taken away, and the maid been deprived of the former protection of the Queen, but the evil Prince John had persecuted her with his attentions. He thought that since the maid was defenseless he could carry her away to one of his castles and none could gainsay him.
No word of this peril reached Robin’s ears, although his men brought him word of the seizure of the Huntingdon lands. Nathless he was greatly alarmed for the safety of Maid Marian, and his heart cried out for her strongly. She had been continually in his thoughts ever since the memorable shooting at London town.
One morning in early autumn when the leaves were beginning to turn gold at the edges, the chestnut-pods to swell with promise of fatness, and the whole wide woodland was redolent with the ripe fragrance of fruit and flower, Robin was walking along the edge of a small open glade busy with his thoughts. The peace of the woods was upon him, despite his broodings of Marian and he paid little heed to a group of does quietly feeding among the trees at the far edge of the glade.
But presently this sylvan picture was rudely disturbed for him. A stag, wild and furious, dashed suddenly forth from among the trees, scattering the does in swift alarm. The vicious beast eyed the green-and-gold tunic of Robin, and, lowering it head, charged at him impetuously. So sudden was its attack that Robin had no time to bend his bow. He sprang behind a tree while he seized his weapon.
A moment later the wild stag crashed blindly into the tree-trunk with a shock which sent the beast reeling backward, while the dislodged leaves from the shivering tree fell in a small shower over Robin’s head.
“By my halidom, I am glad it was not me you struck, my gentle friend!” quoth Robin, fixing an arrow upon the string. “Sorry indeed would be any one’s plight who should encounter you in this black humor.”
Scarcely had he spoken when he saw the stag veer about and fix its glances rigidly on the bushes to the left side of the glade. These were parted by a delicate hand, and through the opening appeared the slight figure of a page. It was Maid Marian, come back again to the greenwood!
She advanced, unconscious alike of Robin’s horrified gaze and the evil fury of the stag.
She was directly in line with the animal, so Robin dared not launch an arrow. Her own bow was slung across her shoulder, and her small sword would be useless against the beast’s charge. But now as she caught sight of the stag she pursed her lips as though she would whistle to it.
“For the love of God, dear lady!” cried Robin; and then the words died in his throat.
With a savage snort of rage, the beast rushed at this new and inviting target—rushed so swiftly and from so short a distance that she could not defend herself. She sprang to one side as it charged down upon her, but a side blow from its antlers stretched her upon the ground. The stag stopped, turned, and lowered its head preparing to gore her to death.
Already its cruel horns were coming straight for her, while she, white of face and bewildered by the sudden attack, was struggling to rise and draw her sword. A moment more and the end would come. But the sharp voice of Robin and already spoken.
“Down, Marian!” he cried, and the girl instinctively obeyed, just as the shaft from Robin’s bow went whizzing close above her head and struck with terrific force full in the center of the stag’s forehead.
The beast stumbled in its charge and fell dead, across the body of the fainting maid.
Robin was quickly by her side, and dragged the beast from off the girl.
Picking her up in his strong arms, he bore her swiftly to the side of one of the many brooks which watered the vale.
He dashed cool water upon her face, roughly almost, in his agony of fear that the she was already dead, and he could have shed tears of joy to see those poor, closed eyelids tremble. He redoubled his efforts; and presently she gave a little gasp.
“Where am I? What is’t?”
“You are in Sherwood, dear maid, tho’, i’ faith, we gave you a rude reception!”
She opened her eyes and sat up. “Methinks you have rescued me from sudden danger, sir,” she said.
Then she recognized Robin for the first time, and a radiant smile came over her face, together with the rare blush of returned vitality, and her head sank upon his shoulder with a little tremble and sigh of relief.
“Oh, Robin, it is you!” she murmured.
“Aye, ‘tis I. Thank heaven, I was at hand to do you service!” Robin’s tones were deep and full of feeling. “I swear, dear Marian, that I will not let you from my care henceforth.”
Not another word was spoken for some moments, while her head still rested confidingly upon his breast. Then recollecting, he suddenly cried:
“Gramercy, I make but a poor nurse! I have not even asked if any of your bones were broken.”
“No, not any,” she answered springing lightly to her feet to show him.
“That foolish dizziness o’ercame me for the nonce, but we can now proceed on our way.”
“Nay, I meant not that,” he protested; “why should we haste? First tell me of the news in London town, and of yourself.”
So she told him how that the Prince had seized upon her father’s lands, and had promised to restore them to her if she would listen to his suit; and how that she knew he meant her no good, for he was even then suing for a Princess’s hand.
“That is all, Robin,” she ended simply; “and that is why I donned again my page’s costume and came to you in the greenwood.”
Robin’s brow had grown fiercely black at the recital of her wrong; and he had laid stern hand upon the hilt of his sword. “By this sword which Queen Eleanor gave me!” he said impetuously; “and which was devoted to the service of all womankind, I take oath that Prince John and all his armies shall not harm you!”
So that is how Maid Marian came to take up her abode in the greenwood, where the whole band of yeomen welcomed her gladly and swore fealty; and where the sweet lady of Allan-a-Dale made her fully at home.
But this was a day of deeds in Sherwood Forest, and we ‘gan to tell you another happening which led to later events.
While Robin and Marian were having their encounter with the stag, Little John, Much the miller’s son, and Will Scarlet had sallied forth to watch the highroad leading to Barnesdale, if perchance they might find some haughty knight or fat priest whose wallet needed lightening.
They had scarcely watched the great road known as Watling Street which runs from Dover in Kent to Chester town—for many minutes, when they espied a knight riding by in a very forlorn and careless manner.
All dreary was his semblance,
And little was his pride,
His one
foot in the stirrup stood,
His other waved beside.
His visor hung down o’er his eyes,
He rode in single array,
A sorrier man than he was one
Rode never in summer’s day.
Little John came up to the knight and bade him stay; for who can judge of a man’s wealth by his looks? The outlaw bent his knee in all courtesy, and prayed him to accept the hospitality of the forest.
“My master expects you to dine with him, to-day,” quoth he, “and indeed has been fasting while awaiting your coming, these three hours.”
“Who is your master?” asked the knight.
“None other than Robin Hood,” replied Little John, laying his hand upon the knight’s bridle.
Seeing the other two outlaws approaching, the knight shrugged his shoulders, and replied indifferently.
“‘Tis clear that your invitation is too urgent to admit of refusal,” quoth he, “and I go with you right willingly, my friends. My purpose was to have dined to-day at Blyth or Doncaster; but nothing matters greatly.”
So in the same lackadaisical fashion which had marked all his actions that day, the knight suffered his horse to be led to the rendezvous of the band in the greenwood.
Marian had not yet had time to change her page’s attire, when the three escorts of the knight hove in sight. She recognized their captive as Sir Richard of the Lea, whom she had often seen at court; and fearing lest he might recognize her, she would have fled. But Robin asked her, with a twinkle, if she would not like to play page that day, and she in roguish mood consented to do so.
“Welcome, Sir Knight,” said Robin, courteously. “You are come in good time, for we were just preparing to sit down to meat.”
“God save and thank you, good master Robin,” returned the knight; “and all your company. It likes me well to break the fast with you.”
So while his horse was cared for, the knight laid aside his own heavy gear, and laved his face and hands, and sat down with Robin and all his men to a most plentiful repast of venison, swans, pheasants, various small birds, cake and ale. And Marian stood behind Robin and filled his cup and that of the guest.
After eating right heartily of the good cheer, the knight brightened up greatly and vowed that he had not enjoyed so good a dinner for nigh three weeks. He also said that if ever Robin and his fellows should come to his domains, he would strive to set them down to as good a dinner on his own behalf.
But this was not exactly the sort of payment which Robin had expected to receive. He thanked the knight, therefore, in set phrase, but reminded him that a yeoman like himself might hardly offer such a dinner to a knight as a gift of charity.
“I have no money, Master Robin,” answered the knight frankly. “I have so little of the world’s goods, in sooth, that I should be ashamed to offer you the whole of it.”
“Money, however little, always jingles merrily in our pockets,” said Robin, smiling. “Pray you tell me what you deem a little sum.”
“I have of my own ten silver pennies,” said the knight. “Here they are, and I wish they were ten times as many.”
He handed Little John his pouch, and Robin nodded carelessly.
“What say you to the total, Little John?” he asked as though in jest.
“‘Tis true enough, as the worthy knight hath said,” responded the big fellow gravely emptying the contents on his cloak.
Robin signed to Marian, who filled a bumper of wine for himself and his guest.
“Pledge me, Sir Knight!” cried the merry outlaw; “and pledge me heartily, for these sorry times. I see that your armor is bent and that your clothes are torn. Yet methinks I saw you at court, once upon a day, and in more prosperous guise. Tell me now, were you a yeoman and made a knight by force? Or, have you been a bad steward to yourself, and wasted your property in lawsuits and the like? Be not bashful with us. We shall not betray your secrets.”
“I am a Saxon knight in my own right; and I have always lived a sober and quiet life,” the sorrowful guest replied. “‘Tis true you have seen me at court, mayhap, for I was an excited witness of your shooting before King Harry—God rest his bones! My name is Sir Richard of the Lea, and I dwell in a castle, not a league from one of the gates of Nottingham, which has belonged to my father, and his father, and his father’s father before him. Within two or three years ago my neighbors might have told you that a matter of four hundred pounds one way or the other was as naught to me. But now I have only these ten pennies of silver, and my wife and son.”
“In what manner have you lost your riches?” asked Robin.
“Through folly and kindness,” said the knight, sighing. “I went with King Richard upon a crusade, from which I am but lately returned, in time to find my son—a goodly youth—grown up. He was but twenty, yet he had achieved a squire’s training and could play prettily in jousts and tournaments and other knightly games. But about this time he had the ill luck to push his sport too far, and did accidentally kill a knight in the open lists. To save the boy, I had to sell my lands and mortgage my ancestral castle; and this not being enough, in the end I have had to borrow money, at a ruinous interest, from my lord of Hereford.”
“A most worthy Bishop,” said Robin ironically. “What is the sum of your debt?”
“Four hundred pounds,” said Sir Richard, “and the Bishop swears he will foreclose the mortgage if they are not paid promptly.”
“Have you any friends who would become surety for you?”
“Not one. If good King Richard were here, the tale might be otherwise.”
“Fill your goblet again, Sir Knight,” said Robin; and he turned to whisper a word in Marian’s ear. She nodded and drew Little John and Will Scarlet aside and talked earnestly with them, in a low tone.
“Here is health and prosperity to you, gallant Robin,” said Sir Richard, tilting his goblet. “I hope I may pay your cheer more worthily, the next time I ride by.”
Will Scarlet and Little John had meanwhile fallen in with Marian’s idea, for they consulted the other outlaws, who nodded their heads. Thereupon Little John and Will Scarlet went into the cave near by and presently returned bearing a bag of gold. This they counted out before the astonished knight; and there were four times one hundred gold pieces in it.
“Take this loan from us, Sir Knight, and pay your debt to the Bishop,” then said Robin. “Nay, no thanks; you are but exchanging creditors. Mayhap we shall not be so hard upon you as the Christian Bishop; yet, again we may be harder. Who can tell?”
There were actual tears in Sir Richard’s eyes, as he essayed to thank the foresters. But at this juncture, Much, the miller’s son, came from the cave dragging a bale of cloth. “The knight should have a suit worthy of his rank, master—think you not so?”
“Measure him twenty ells of it,” ordered Robin.
“Give him a good horse, also,” whispered Marian. “‘Tis a gift which will come back four-fold, for this is a worthy man. I know him well.”
So the horse was given, also, and Robin bade Arthur-a-Bland ride with the knight as far as his castle, as esquire.
The knight was sorrowful no longer; yet he could hardly voice his thanks through his broken utterance. And having spent the night in rest, after listening to Allan-a-Dale’s singing, he mounted his new steed the following morning an altogether different man.
“God save you, comrades, and keep you all!” said he, with deep feeling in his tones; “and give me a grateful heart!”
“We shall wait for you twelve months from to-day, here in this place,” said Robin, shaking him by the hand; “and then you will repay us the loan, if you have been prospered.”
“I shall return it to you within the year, upon my honor as Sir Richard of the Lea. And for all time, pray count on me as a steadfast friend.”
So saying the knight and his esquire rode down the forest glade till they were lost to view.
“O what is the matter?” then said the Bishop,
“Or for whom do you make this a-do?
Or why do you kill the King’s venison,
When your company is so few?”
“We are shepherds,” quoth bold Robin Hood,
“And we keep sheep all the year,
And we are disposed to be merrie this day,
And to kill of the King’s fat deer.”
Not many days after Sir Richard of the Lea came to Sherwood Forest, word reached Robin Hood’s ears that my lord Bishop of Hereford would be riding that way betimes on that morning. ‘Twas Arthur-a-Bland, the knight’s quondam esquire, who brought the tidings, and Robin’s face brightened as he heard it.
“Now, by our Lady!” quoth he, “I have long desired to entertain my lord in the greenwood, and this is too fair a chance to let slip. Come, my men, kill me a venison; kill me a good fat deer. The Bishop of Hereford is to dine with me today, and he shall pay well for his cheer.”
“Shall we dress it here, as usual?” asked Much, the miller’s son.
“Nay, we play a droll game on the churchman. We will dress it by the highway side, and watch for the Bishop narrowly, lest he should ride some other way.”
So Robin gave his orders, and the main body of his men dispersed to different parts of the forest, under Will Stutely and Little John, to watch other roads; while Robin Hood himself took six of his men, including Will Scarlet, and Much, and posted himself in full view of the main road. This little company appeared funny enough, I assure you, for they had disguised themselves as shepherds. Robin had an old wool cap, with a tail to it, hanging over his ear, and a shock of hair stood straight up through a hole in the top. Besides there was so much dirt on his face that you would never have known him. An old tattered cloak over his hunter’s garb completed his make-up. The others were no less ragged and unkempt, even the foppish Will Scarlet being so badly run down at the heel that the court ladies would hardly have had speech with him.
They quickly provided themselves with a deer and made great preparations to cook it over a small fire, when a little dust was seen blowing along the highway, and out of it came the portly Bishop cantering along with ten men-at-arms at his heels. As soon as he saw the fancied shepherds he spurred up his horse, and came straight toward them.
“Who are ye, fellows, who make so free with the King’s deer?” he asked sharply.
“We are shepherds,” answered Robin Hood, pulling at his forelock awkwardly.
“Heaven have mercy! Ye seem a sorry lot of shepherds. But who gave you leave to cease eating mutton?”
“‘Tis one of our feast days, lording, and we were disposed to be merry this day, and make free with a deer, out here where they are so many.”
“By me faith, the King shall hear of this. Who killed yon beast?”
“Give me first your name, excellence, so that I may speak where ‘tis fitting,” replied Robin stubbornly.
“‘Tis my lord Bishop of Hereford, fellow!” interposed one of the guards fiercely. “See that you keep a civil tongue in your head.”
“If ‘tis a churchman,” retorted Will Scarlet, “he would do better to mind his own flocks rather than concern himself with ours.”
“Ye are saucy fellows, in sooth,” cried the Bishop, “and we will see if your heads will pay for your manners. Come! quit your stolen roast and march along with me, for you shall be brought before the Sheriff of Nottingham forthwith.”
“Pardon, excellence!” said Robin, dropping on his knees. “Pardon, I pray you. It becomes not your lordship’s coat to take so many lives away.”
“Faith, I’ll pardon you!” said the Bishop. “I’ll pardon you, when I see you hanged! Seize upon them, my men!”
But Robin had already sprung away with his back against a tree. And from underneath his ragged cloak he drew his trusty horn and winded the piercing notes which were wont to summon the band.
The Bishop no sooner saw this action than he knew his man, and that there was a trap set; and being an arrant coward, he wheeled his horse sharply and would have made off down the road; but his own men, spurred on the charge, blocked his way. At almost the same instant the bushes round about seemed literally to become alive with outlaws. Little John’s men came from one side and Will Stutely’s from the other. In less time than it takes to tell it, the worthy Bishop found himself a prisoner, and began to crave mercy from the men he had so lately been ready to sentence.
“O pardon, O pardon,” said the Bishop,
“O pardon, I you pray.
For if I had known it had been you,
I’d have gone some other way.”
“I owe you no pardon,” retorted Robin, “but I will e’en treat you better than you would have treated me. Come, make haste, and go along with me. I have already planned that you shall dine with me this day.”
So the unwilling prelate was dragged away, cheek by jowl, with the half-cooked venison upon the back of his own horse; and Robin and his band took charge of the whole company and led them through the forest glades till they came to an open space near Barnesdale.
Here they rested, and Robin gave the Bishop a seat full courteously. Much the miller’s son fell to roasting the deer afresh, while another and fatter beast was set to frizzle on the other side of the fire. Presently the appetizing odor of the cooking reached the Bishop’s nostrils, and he sniffed it eagerly. The morning’s ride had made him hungry; and he was nothing loath when they bade him come to the dinner. Robin gave him the best place beside himself, and the Bishop prepared to fall to.
“Nay, my lord, craving your pardon, but we are accustomed to have grace before meat,” said Robin decorously. “And as our own chaplain is not with us to-day, will you be good enough to say it for us?”
The Bishop reddened, but pronounced grace in the Latin tongue hastily, and then settled himself to make the best of his lot. Red wines and ale were brought forth and poured out, each man having a horn tankard from which to drink.
Laughter bubbled among the diners, and the Bishop caught himself smiling at more than one jest. But who, in sooth, could resist a freshly broiled venison streak eaten out in the open air to the tune of jest and good fellowship? Stutely filled the Bishop’s beaker with wine each time he emptied it, and the Bishop got mellower and mellower as the afternoon shades lengthened on toward sunset. Then the approaching dusk warned him of his position.
“I wish, mine host,” quoth he gravely to Robin, who had soberly drunk but one cup of ale, “that you would now call a reckoning. ‘Tis late, and I fear the cost of this entertainment may be more than my poor purse can stand.”
For he bethought himself of his friend, the Sheriff’s former experience.
“Verily, your lordship,” said Robin, scratching his head, “I have enjoyed your company so much, that I scarce know how to charge for it.”
“Lend me your purse, my lord,” said Little John, interposing, “and I’ll give you the reckoning by and by.” The Bishop shuddered. He had collected Sir Richard’s debt only that morning, and was even then carrying it home.
“I have but a few silver pennies of my own,” he whined; “and as for the gold in my saddle-bags, ‘tis for the church. Ye surely would not levy upon the church, good friends.”
But Little John was already gone to the saddle-bags, and returning he laid the Bishop’s cloak upon the ground, and poured out of the portmantua a matter of four hundred glittering gold pieces. ‘Twas the identical money which Robin had lent Sir Richard a short while before!
“Ah!” said Robin, as though an idea had but just then come to him. “The church is always willing to aid in charity. And seeing this goodly sum reminds me that I have a friend who is indebted to a churchman for this exact amount. Now we shall charge you nothing on our own account; but suffer us to make use of this in aiding my good friend.”
“Nay, nay,” began the Bishop with a wry face, “this is requiting me ill indeed. Was this not the King’s meat, after all, that we feasted upon? Furthermore, I am a poor man.”
“Poor forsooth!” answered Robin in scorn. “You are the Bishop of Hereford, and does not the whole countryside speak of your oppression? Who does not know of your cruelty to the poor and ignorant—you who should use your great office to aid them, instead of oppress? Have you not been guilty of far greater robbery than this, even though less open? Of myself, and how you have pursued me, I say nothing; nor of your unjust enmity against my father. But on account of those you have despoiled and oppressed, I take this money, and will use it far more worthily than you would. God be my witness in this! There is an end of the matter, unless you will lead us in a song or dance to show that your body had a better spirit than your mind. Come, strike up the harp, Allan!”
“Neither the one nor the other will I do,” snarled the Bishop.
“Faith, then we must help you,” said Little John; and he and Arthur-a-Bland seized the fat struggling churchman and commenced to hop up and down. The Bishop being shorter must perforce accompany them in their gyrations; while the whole company sat and rolled about over the ground, and roared to see my lord of Hereford’s queer capers. At last he sank in a heap, fuddled with wine and quite exhausted.
Little John picked him up as though he were a log of wood and carrying him to his horse, set him astride facing the animal’s tail; and thus fastened him, leading the animal toward the highroad and, starting the Bishop, more dead than alive, toward Nottingham.
The Bishop he came to the old woman’s house,
And called with furious mood,
“Come let me soon see, and bring unto me
That traitor, Robin Hood.”
The easy success with which they had got the better of the good Bishop led Robin to be a little careless. He thought that his guest was too great a coward to venture back into the greenwood for many a long day; and so after lying quiet for one day, the outlaw ventured boldly upon the highway, the morning of the second. But he had gone only half a mile when, turning a sharp bend in the road, he plunged full upon the prelate himself.
My lord of Hereford had been so deeply smitten in his pride, that he had lost no time in summoning a considerable body of the Sheriff’s men, offering to double the reward if Robin Hood could be come upon. This company was now at his heels, and after the first shock of mutual surprise, the Bishop gave an exultant shout and spurred upon the outlaw.
It was too late for Robin to retreat by the way he had come, but quick as a flash he sprang to one side of the road, dodged under some bushes, and disappeared so suddenly that his pursuers thought he had truly been swallowed up by magic.
“After him!” yelled the Bishop; “some of you beat up the woods around him, while the rest of us will keep on the main road and head him off on the other side!”
For, truth to tell, the Bishop did not care to trust his bones away from the highroad.
About a mile away, on the other side of this neck of woods, wherein Robin had been trapped, was a little tumbledown cottage. ‘Twas where the widow lived, whose three sons had been rescued. Robin remembered the cottage and saw his one chance to escape.
Doubling in and out among the underbrush and heather with the agility of a hare, he soon came out of the wood in the rear of the cottage, and thrust his head through a tiny window.
The widow, who had been at her spinning wheel, rose up with a cry of alarm.
“Quiet, good mother! ‘Tis I, Robin Hood. Where are your three sons?”
“They should be with you, Robin. Well do you know that. Do they not owe their lives to you?”
“If that be so, I come to seek payment of the debt,” said Robin in a breath. “The Bishop is on my heels with many of his men.”
“I’ll cheat the Bishop and all!” cried the woman quickly. “Here, Robin, change your raiment with me, and we will see if my lord knows an old woman when he sees her.”
“Good!” said Robin. “Pass your gray cloak out the window, and also your spindle and twine; and I will give you my green mantle and everything else down to my bow and arrows.”
While they were talking, Robin had been nimbly changing clothes with the old woman, through the window, and in a jiffy he stood forth complete, even to the spindle and twine.
Presently up dashed the Bishop and his men, and, at sight of the cottage and the old woman, gave pause. The crone was hobbling along with difficulty, leaning heavily upon a gnarled stick and bearing the spindle on her other arm. She would have gone by the Bishop’s company, while muttering to herself, but the Bishop ordered one of his men to question her. The soldier laid his hand upon her shoulder.
“Mind your business!” croaked the woman, “or I’ll curse ye!”
“Come, come, my good woman,” said the soldier, who really was afraid of her curses. “I’ll not molest you. But my lord Bishop of Hereford wants to know if you have seen aught of the outlaw, Robin Hood?”
“And why shouldn’t I see him?” she whined. “Where’s the King or law to prevent good Robin from coming to see me and bring me food and raiment? That’s more than my lord Bishop will do, I warrant ye!”
“Peace, woman!” said the Bishop harshly. “We want none of your opinions. But we’ll take you to Barnesdale and burn you for a witch if you do not instantly tell us when you last saw Robin Hood.”
“Mercy, good my lord!” chattered the crone, falling on her knees.
“Robin is there in my cottage now, but you’ll never take him alive.”
“We’ll see about that,” cried the Bishop triumphantly. “Enter the cottage, my men. Fire it, if need be. But I’ll give a purse of gold pieces, above the reward, to the man who captures the outlaw alive.”
The old woman, being released, went on her way slowly. But it might have been noticed that the farther she got away from the company and the nearer to the edge of the woods, the swifter and straighter grew her pace. Once inside the shelter of the forest she broke into a run of surprising swiftness.
“Gadzooks!” exclaimed Little John who presently spied her. “Who comes here? Never saw I witch or woman run so fast. Methinks I’ll send an arrow close over her head to see which it is.”
“O hold your hand! hold your hand!” panted the supposed woman. “‘Tis I, Robin Hood. Summon the yeomen and return with me speedily. We have still another score to settle with my lord of Hereford.”
When Little John could catch his breath from laughing, he winded his horn.
“Now, mistress Robin,” quoth he, grinning. “Lead on! We’ll be close to your heels.”
Meanwhile, back at the widow’s cottage the Bishop was growing more furious every moment. For all his bold words, he dared not fire the house, and the sturdy door had thus far resisted all his men’s efforts.
“Break it down! Break it down!” he shouted, “and let me soon see who will fetch out that traitor, Robin Hood!”
At last the door crashed in and the men stood guard on the threshold. But not one dared enter for fear a sharp arrow should meet him halfway.
“Here he is!” cried one keen-eyed fellow, peering in. “I see him in the corner by the cupboard. Shall we slay him with our pikes?”
“Nay,” said the Bishop, “take him alive if you can. We’ll make the biggest public hanging of this that the shire ever beheld.”
But the joy of the Bishop over his capture was short lived. Down the road came striding the shabby figure of the old woman who had helped him set the trap; and very wrathy was she when she saw that the cottage door had been battered in.
“Stand by, you lazy rascals!” she called to the soldiers. “May all the devils catch ye for hurting an old woman’s hut. Stand by, I say!”
“Hold your tongue!” ordered the Bishop. “These are my men and carrying out my orders.”
“God-mercy!” swore the beldame harshly. “Things have come to a pretty pass when our homes may be treated like common gaols. Couldn’t all your men catch one poor forester without this ado? Come! clear out, you and your robber, on the instant, or I’ll curse every mother’s son of ye, eating and drinking and sleeping!”
“Seize on the hag!” shouted the Bishop, as soon as he could get in a word. “We’ll see about a witch’s cursing. Back to town she shall go, alongside of Robin Hood.”
“Not so fast, your worship!” she retorted, clapping her hands.
And at the signal a goodly array of greenwood men sprang forth from all sides of the cottage, with bows drawn back threateningly. The Bishop saw that his men were trapped again, for they dared not stir. Nathless, he determined to make a fight for it.
“If one of you but budge an inch toward me, you rascals,” he cried, “it shall sound the death of your master, Robin Hood! My men have him here under their pikes, and I shall command them to kill him without mercy.”
“Faith, I should like to see the Robin you have caught,” said a clear voice from under the widow’s cape; and the outlaw chief stood forth with bared head, smilingly. “Here am I, my lord, in no wise imperiled by your men’s fierce pikes. So let us see whom you have been guarding so well.”
The old woman who, in the garb of Robin Hood, had been lying quiet in the cottage through all the uproar, jumped up nimbly at this. In the bald absurdity of her disguise she came to the doorway and bowed to the Bishop.
“Give you good-den, my lord Bishop,” she piped in a shrill voice; “and what does your Grace at my humble door? Do you come to bless me and give me alms?”
“Aye, that does he,” answered Robin. “We shall see if his saddle-bags contain enough to pay you for that battered door.”
“Now by all the saints—” began the Bishop.
“Take care; they are all watching you,” interrupted Robin; “so name them not upon your unchurchly lips. But I will trouble you to hand over that purse of gold you had saved to pay for my head.”
“I’ll see you hanged first!” raged the Bishop, stating no more than what would have been so, if he could do the ordering of things. “Have at them, my men, and hew them down in their tracks!”
“Hold!” retorted Robin. “See how we have you at our mercy.” And aiming a sudden shaft he shot so close to the Bishop’s head that it carried away both his hat and the skull-cap which he always wore, leaving him quite bald.
The prelate turned as white as his shiny head and clutched wildly at his ears. He thought himself dead almost.
“Help! Murder!” he gasped. “Do not shoot again! Here’s your purse of gold!”
And without waiting for further parley he fairly bolted down the road.
His men being left leaderless had nothing for it but to retreat after him, which they did in sullen order, covered by the bows of the yeomen. And thus ended the Bishop of Hereford’s great outlaw-hunt in the forest.
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