by Howard Pyle
“’Tis strange,” muttered Robin to himself after a Robin heareth space, when the voices had ceased their strange talking. talking; “surely there be two people that spoke the one to the other, and yet methinks their voices are mightily alike. I make my vow that never have I heard the like in all my life before. Truly, if this twain are to be judged by their voices no two peas were ever more alike. I will look into this matter.” So saying, he came softly to the river bank, and laying him down upon the grass peered over the edge and down below.
All was cool and shady beneath the bank. A stout osier grew, not straight upward, but leaning across the water, shadowing the spot with its soft foliage. All around grew a mass of feathery ferns such as hide and nestle in cool places, and up to Robin’s nostrils came the tender odor of the wild thyme, that loves the moist verges of running streams. Here, with his broad back against the rugged trunk of the willow tree, and half hidden by the soft ferns around him, sat a stout, brawny fellow, but no other man was there. His head was as round as a ball, and covered with a mat of close-clipped curly black hair that grew low down on his forehead. But his crown was shorn as smooth as the palm of one’s hand, which, together with his loose robe, cowl, and string of beads, showed that which his looks never would have done, that he was a Friar. His cheeks were as red and shining as a winter crab, albeit they were nearly covered over with a close curly black beard, as were his chin and upper lip likewise. His neck was thick like that of a north country bull, and his round head closely set upon shoulders e’en a match for those of Little John himself. Beneath his bushy black brows danced a pair of little gray eyes that could not stand still for very drollery of humor. No man could look into his face and not feel his heartstrings tickled by the merriment of their look. By his side lay a steel cap, which he had laid off for the sake of the coolness to his crown. His legs were stretched wide apart, and betwixt his knees he held a great pasty compounded of juicy meats of divers kinds made savory with tender young onions, both meat and onions being mingled with a good rich gravy. In his right fist he held a great piece of brown crust at which he munched sturdily, and every now and then he thrust his left hand into the pie and drew it forth full of meat;
Robin Hood seeth a stout Friar feasting beneath the shadow of the bank.
anon he would take a mighty pull at a great bottle of Malmsley that lay beside him.
“By my faith,” quoth Robin to himself, “I do verily believe that this is the merriest feast, the merriest wight, the merriest place, and the merriest sight in all merry England. Methought there was another here, but it must have been this holy man talking to himself.”
So Robin lay watching the Friar, and the Friar, all unknowing that he was so overlooked, ate his meal placidly. At last he was done, and, having first wiped his greasy hands upon the ferns and wild thyme (and sweeter napkin ne’er had king in all the world), he took up his flask and began talking to himself as though he were another man, and answering himself as though he were somebody else.
The Friar talketh to himself.
“Dear lad, thou art the sweetest fellow in all the world, I do love thee as a lover loveth his lass. La, thou dost make me shamed to speak so to me in this solitary place, no one being by, and yet if thou wilt have me say so, I do love thee as thou lovest me. Nay then, wilt thou not take a drink of good Malmsey? After thee, lad, after thee. Nay, I beseech thee, sweeten the draught with thy lips (here he passed the flask from his right hand to his left). An thou wilt force it on me so I must needs do thy bidding, yet with the more pleasure do I so as I drink thy very great health (here he took a long, deep draught). And now, sweet lad, ’tis thy turn next (here he passed the bottle from his left hand back again to his right). I take it, sweet chuck, and here’s wishing thee as much good as thou wishest me.” Saying this he took another draught, and truly he drank enough for two.
All this time merry Robin lay upon the bank and listened, while his stomach so quaked with laughter that he was forced to press his palm across his mouth to keep it from bursting forth; for, truly, he would not have spoiled such a goodly jest for the half of Nottinghamshire.
The Friar singeth the merry song of “The Loving Youth and the Scornful Maid” in two voices.
Having gotten his breath from his last draught, the Friar began talking again in this wise: “Now, sweet lad, canst thou not sing me a song? La, I know not, I am but in an ill voice this day; prythee ask me not; dost thou not hear how I croak like a frog? Nay, nay, thy voice is as sweet as any bullfinch; come, sing, I prythee, I would rather hear thee sing than eat a fair feast. Alas, I would fain not sing before one that can pipe so well and hath heard so many goodly songs and ballads, ne‘ertheless, an thou wilt have it so, I will do my best. But now methinks that thou and I might sing some fair song together; dost thou not know a certain dainty little catch called ‘The Loving Youth and the Scornful Maid’? Why, truly, methinks I have heard it ere now. Then dost thou not think that thou couldst take the lass’s part gif I take the lad’s? I know not but I will try; begin thou with the lad and I will follow with the lass.”
Then, singing first with a voice deep and gruff, and anon in one high and squeaking, he blithely trolled the merry catch of
THE LOVING YOUTH AND THE SCOURNFUL MAID.
HE.
“Ah, it’s wilt thou come with me, my love?
And it’s wilt thou, love, be mine?
For I will give unto thee, my love,
Gay knots and ribbons so fine.
I’ll woo thee, love, on my bended knee,
And I’ll pipe sweet songs to none but thee.
Then it’s hark! hark! hark!
To the wingèd lark.
And it’s hark to the cooing dove!
And the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill,
So come thou and be my love.
SHE.
“Now get thee away, young man so fine;
Now get thee away, I say;
For my true love shall never be thine,
And so thou hadst better not stay.
Thou art not a fine enough lad for me,
So I’ll wait till a better young man I see.
For it’s hark! hark! hark!
To the wingèd lark,
And it’s hark to the cooing dove!
And the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill,
Yet never I’ll be thy love.
HE.
“Then straight will I seek for another fair she,
For many a maid can be found,
And as thou wilt never have aught of me,
By thee will I never be bound.
For never is a blossom in the field so rare,
But others are found that are just as fair.
So it’s hark! hark! hark!
To the joyous lark,
And it’s hark to the cooing dove!
And the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill,
And I’ll seek me another dear love.
SHE.
“Young man, turn not so very quick away
Another fair lass to find.
Methinks I have spoken in haste to-day,
Nor have I made up my mind,
And if thou only wilt stay with me,
I’ll love no other, sweet lad, but thee.”
Here Robin could contain himself no longer but burst forth into a might roar of laughter; then, the holy Friar keeping on with the song, he joined in the chorus, and together they sang, or, as one might say, bellowed:—
“So it’s hark! hark! hark! To the joyous lark, And it’s hark to the cooing dove!
Robin Hood joineth in with the Friar’s singing.
For the bright daffodil
Groweth down by the rill,
And I’ll be thine own true love.”
So they sang together, for the stout Friar did not seem to have heard Robin’s laughter, neither did he seem to know that the yeoman had joined in with the song, but, with eyes half
closed, looking straight before him and wagging his round head from side to side in time to the music, he kept on bravely to the end, he and Robin finishing up with a mighty roar that might have been heard a mile. But no sooner had the last word been sung than the holy man seized his steel cap, clapped it on his head, and springing to his feet cried in a great voice, “What spy have we here? Come forth, thou limb of evil, and I will carve thee into as fine pudding-meat as e’er a wife in Yorkshire cooked of a Sunday.” Hereupon he drew from beneath his robes a great broadsword full as stout as was Robin’s.
“Nay, put up thy pinking iron, friend,” quoth Robin, standing up with the tears of laughter still on his cheeks. “Folk who have sung so sweetly together should not fight thereafter.” Hereupon he leaped down the bank to where the other stood. “I tell thee, friend,” said he, “my throat is as parched with that song as e’er a barley stubble in October. Hast thou haply any Malmsey left in that stout pottle?”
The Friar threatens Robin with dire ill.
“Truly,” said the Friar in a glum voice, “thou dost ask thyself freely where thou art not bidden. Yet I trust I am too good a Christian to refuse any man drink that is athrist. Such as there is o’t thou art welcome to a drink of the same.” And he held the pottle out to Robin.
Robin took it without more ado, and putting it to his lips tilted his head back, while that which was within said “glug! glug! glug!” for more than three winks, I wot. The stout Friar watched Robin anxiously the while, and when he was done took the pottle quickly. He shook it, held it betwixt his eyes and the light, looked reproachfully at the yeoman, and straightway placed it at his own lips. When it came away again there was naught within it.
“Dost thou know the country hereabout, thou good and holy man?” asked Robin, laughing.
“Yea, somewhat,” answered the other, dryly.
“And dost thou know of a certain spot called Fountain Abbey?”
“Yea, somewhat.”
“Then perchance thou knowest also of a certain one who goeth by the name of the Curtal Friar of Fountain Abbey.”
“Yea, somewhat.”
“Well then, good fellow, holy father, or whatever thou art,” quoth Robin, “I would know whether this same Friar is to be found upon this side of the river or the other.”
“Truly, the river hath no side but the other,” said the Friar.
“How dost thou prove that?” asked Robin.
“Why, thus;” said the Friar, noting the points upon his fingers. “The other side of the river is the other, thou grantest?”
“Yea, truly.”
The Friar argueth quaintly with Robin.
“Yet the other side is but one side, thou dost mark?”
“No man could gainsay that,” said Robin.
“Then if the other side is one side, this side is the other side. But the other side is the other side, therefore both sides of the river are the other side. Q. E. D.”
“’Tis well and pleasantly argued,” quoth Robin; “yet I am still in the dark as to whether this same Curtal Friar is upon the side of the river on which we stand or upon the side of the river on which we do not stand.”
“That,” quoth the Friar, “is a practical question upon which the cunning rules appertaining to logic touch not. I do advise thee to find that out by the aid of thine own five senses; sight, feeling, and what not.”
“I do wish much,” quoth Robin, looking thoughtfully at the stout priest, “to cross yon ford and strive to find this same good Friar.”
“Truly,” said the other, piously, “it is a goodly wish on the part of one so young. Far be it from me to check thee in so holy a quest. Friend, the river is free to all.”
“Yea, good father,” said Robin; “but thou seest that my clothes are of the finest and I fain would not get them wet. Methinks thy shoulders are stout and broad; couldst thou not find it in thy heart to carry me across?”
Robin asketh the stout Friar to carry him across the ford.
“Now, by the white hand of the holy Lady of the Fountain!” burst forth the Friar in a mighty rage; “dost thou, thou poor puny stripling, thou kiss-my-lady-la poppenjay; thou—thou—What shall I call thee? Dost thou ask me, the holy Tuck, to carry thee? Now I swear—” Here he paused suddenly, then slowly the anger passed from his face, and his little eyes twinkled once more. “But why should I not?” quoth he, piously: “Did not the holy Saint Christopher ever carry the stranger across the river? and should I, poor sinner that I am, be ashamed to do likewise? Come with me, stranger, and I will do thy bidding in an humble frame of mind.” So saying he clambered up the bank, closely followed by Robin, and led the way to the shallow pebbly ford, chuckling to himself the while as though he were enjoying some goodly jest within himself.
Having come to the ford, he girded up his robes about his loins, tucked his good broadsword beneath his arm, and stooped his back to take Robin upon it. Suddenly he straightened up. “Methinks,” quoth he, “thou’lt get thy weapon wet. Let me tuck it beneath mine arm along with mine own.”
“Nay, good father,” said Robin. “I would not burden thee with aught of mine but myself.”
“Dost thou think,” said the Friar, mildly, “that the good Saint Chrisopher would ha’ sought his own ease so? Nay, give me thy tool as I bid thee, for I would carry it as a penance to my pride.”
Upon this, without more ado, Robin Hood unbuckled his sword from his side and handed it to the other, who thrust it with his own beneath his arm. Then once more the Friar bent his back, and, Robin having mounted upon it, he stepped sturdily into the water, and so strode onward, splashing in the shoal, and braking all the smooth surface into ever-widening rings. At last he reached the other side and Robin leaped lightly from his back.
The Friar carries Robin across the water.
“Many thanks, good father,” quoth he. “Thou art indeed a good and holy man. Prythee give me my sword and let me away, for I am in haste.”
At this the stout Friar looked upon Robin for a long time, his head on one side, and with a most waggish twist to his face; then he slowly winked his right eye. “Nay, good youth,” said he, gently, “I doubt not that thou art in haste with thine affairs, yet thou dost think nothing of mine. Thine are of a carnal nature; mine are of a spiritual nature, a holy work, so to speak; moreover, mine affairs do lie upon the other side of this steam. I see by thy quest of this same holy recluse that thou art a good young man and most reverent to the cloth. I did get wet coming hither, and am sadly afraid that should I wade the water again I might get certain cricks and pains i’ the joints that would mar my devotions for many a day to come. I know that since I have so humbly done thy bidding thou wilt carry me back again. Thou seest how Saint Godrick, that holy hermit whose natal day this is, hath placed in my hands two swords and in thine never a one. Therefore be persuaded, good youth, and carry me back again.”
The holy Friar outwits Robin Hood.
Robin Hood looked up and he looked down, biting his nether lip. Quoth he, “Thou cunning Friar, thou hast me fair and fast enow. Let me tell thee that not one of thy cloth hath so hoodwinked me in all my life before. I might have known from thy looks that thou wert no such holy man as thou didst pretend to be.”
“Nay,” interrupted the Friar, “I bid thee speak not so scurrilously neither, lest thou mayst perchance feel the prick of an inch or so of blue steel.”
“Tut, tut,” said Robin, “speak not so, Friar; the loser hath ever the right to use his tongue as he doth list. Give me my sword; I do promise to carry thee back straightway. Nay, I will not lift the weapon against thee.”
“Marry, come up,” quoth the Friar, “I fear thee not, fellow. Here is thy skewer; and get thyself presently ready, for I would hasten back.”
So Robin took his sword again and buckled it at his side; then he bend his stout back and took the Friar upon it.
Now I wot Robin Hood had a heavier load to carry in the Friar than the Friar had in him. Moreover he did not know the ford, so he
went stumbling among the stones, now stepping into a deep hole, and now nearly tripping over a bowlder, while the sweat ran down his face in beads from the hardness of his journey and the heaviness of his load. Meantime, the Friar kept digging his heels into Robin’s sides and bidding him hasten, calling him many ill names the while. To all this Robin answered never a word, but, having softly felt around till he found the buckle of the belt that held the Friar’s sword, he worked slyly at the fastenings, seeking to loosen them. Thus it came about that, by the time he had reached the other bank with his load, the Friar’s sword-belt was loose albeit he knew it not; so when Robin stood on dry land and the Friar leaped from his back, the yeoman gripped hold of the sword so that blade, sheath, and strap came away from the holy man, leaving him without a weapon.
Robin Hood carries the Friar back again.
“Now then,” quoth merry Robin, panting as he spake and wiping the sweat from his brow, “I have thee, fellow. This time that same Saint of whom thou didst speak but now hath delivered two swords into my hand and hath stripped thine away from thee. Now if thou dost not carry me back, and that speedily, I swear I will prick thy skin till it is as full of holes as a slashed doublet.”