The Adventures of Robin Hood

by Roger Green

  ‘Yes,’ panted Robin. ‘But it reminds me more of another fable – that of the ass with the bags of salt. That was a better example, and a wiser – or so it seems to me.’

  And as he said this, Robin gave a sudden dextrous jerk and flung the friar over his head into the deepest part of the river. Then he sprang hastily to the bank and turned back to laugh heartily at the great fat figure floundering and blowing like a whale in the water his bald scalp covered in green slime and chickweed.

  ‘Fine fellow, fine fellow!’ spluttered the friar scrambling to shore at length. ‘Make ready now and I will pay you the cracked sconce I owe you!’

  ‘No, no!’ laughed Robin. ‘I have not earned it. But you have earned it, and you alone shall have it.’

  After that they set at one another with great staves, smiting and feinting and raining blows like two lusty farmers threshing the corn.

  At last they paused through sheer weariness – and though neither was beaten, both had paid the toll of a broken sconce.

  ‘Honour, me thinks, is satisfied!’ puffed the friar. ‘Let us shake hands and part friends. You are a stout fellow for a minstrel, by the rood!’

  ‘I have used sword as well as harp,’ answered Robin. ‘But never have I met with such a wielder of the cudgel as you are. So a truce to our quarrel, and come let us rest a while in your cell – where, doubtless, you can set food and drink before a poor wanderer.’

  ‘Alas,’ said the friar, looking suddenly meek and pious. ‘There is no food here fit for a man such as yourself. You are welcome to share the frugal diet of a poor hermit vowed to fasting and prayer.’

  With that he led Robin to the hermitage, which was no more than a rough hut of stone and wood with a thatched roof, built across the front of a cave in the low cliff which fringed the river at that point.

  Inside were but a table, a couple of stools, a crucifix hanging on the wall, and a bed of leaves and dried grass at the back of the shallow cave. The friar reached down a dish of pease from a shelf of rock, set it on the table, and poured water out of a jug into a couple of drinking horns.

  ‘It seems, holy brother,’ said Robin, seating himself on a stool and sampling a mouthful of the pease without much enjoyment – ‘It seems that a few pease and a jug of water have thriven you marvellously. Surely it is a miracle when a man who lives upon a handful of pease is yet round and red-faced – and as lusty a fighter as you have shown yourself to be!’

  ‘Ah, good minstrel,’ answered the friar with a deep sigh, ‘it has pleased Our Lady and my patron saint, the holy Dunstan, to bless exceedingly the pittance to which I restrain myself.’

  ‘Aye, but there is no such blessing granted to poor wayfarers like myself,’ said Robin. ‘Surely some kindly forest ranger visits you from time to time and leaves some store for the use of travellers – which they are doubtless as ready as I am to pay for in other coin than the ferry fee!’

  So saying he flung a piece of gold on the table, and eyed the friar with a merry twinkle in his eye. The friar looked at the coin hungrily, hummed and hawed for a while, and then going to the side of the cave opened a cupboard cunningly concealed in the rock and drew out an enormous venison pasty. He set it on the board, and Robin set to work to satisfy his hunger at such a speed that the pasty began visibly to shrink.

  The friar sat watching him, his face growing longer and longer as the pasty grew shorter and shorter, until at last Robin took pity on him and exclaimed:

  ‘Good friar, far be it from me to tempt you into breaking your vows of abstinence, but surely good manners demand that a host should partake of the same dish as his guest – if only to show that the dish is wholesome and harmless!’

  ‘By the rood!’ cried the friar, his eyes lighting up. ‘Long sojourn alone in a hermit cell had make me forget that excellent rule! A thousand apologies, my worthy guest.’

  With that he set to work on the other end of the pasty – cramming in two mouthfuls for every one that Robin could take – and before long the dish was empty.

  ‘Holy man,’ said Robin gravely, ‘I’ll wager another piece of gold that the same forester who left that pasty here for the good cheer of travellers, left also a stoop of wine for their further refreshment! I think that if you were to search your cupboard again, you would find that I was right.’

  The friar rose to his feet with a broad grin – which he tried in vain to transform into a look of pious reproach – and set before his guest a leathern bottle containing at least a gallon. From this he filled the two horns, and then said:

  ‘Sir stranger, pledge me in this, and as, in duty bound – tell me your name.’

  ‘Right willingly,’ answered Robin, ‘but once again you forget that you are my host, and a man must know the name of his bounteous entertainer.’

  ‘I am but the plain Hermit of Copmanhurst,’ was the answer, ‘and my name is Friar Tuck!’

  ‘Then, good Friar Tuck!’ cried Robin. ‘Good Brother Michael that was, I drink to you – I, Robin Hood, who once also had another name. Waes hael, Friar Tuck!’

  ‘Drink hael, Robin Hood!’ answered Friar Tuck, draining his horn at a single draught. ‘Right glad am I that the minstrel should hide so good a man.’

  ‘Come back to Sherwood with me, jolly Friar,’ begged Robin. ‘I have come hither to seek you, with a summons from the Lady Marian, whose confessor you were. Truly, when you broke my head with your staff I guessed you were the man I sought – but when you made such short work of the venison pasty, I knew that I was right!’

  ‘With all my heart!’ bellowed Friar Tuck, pouring out another horn full of wine. ‘Farewell to pease and springwater! You live well in the forest, jolly Robin, or so it is said. That you need a priest there is no shadow of doubt: and that I am the priest you need, no one will dare to deny!’

  Robin meanwhile had stepped to the door of the hermitage and sounded the call to his men.

  ‘Drink another draught before we go!’ shouted Friar Tuck. ‘It would be a sad pity to leave behind so good a wine. Here’s to you, Robin Hood; and here’s to our life in merry Sherwood!’

  And with that he drained another horn, and sang right lustily:

  Oh, bold Robin Hood is a forester good,

  As ever drew bow in the merry greenwood:

  At his bugle’s shrill singing the echoes are ringing,

  The wild deer are springing for many a rood:

  Its summons we follow, through brake, over hollow,

  The thrice-blown shrill summons of bold Robin Hood!

  9

  How Sir Richard Paid Robin Hood

  Grete well your abbot, sayd Robyn,

  And your pryour, I you pray,

  And byd hym send me such a monke,

  To dyner every day.

  ANON.: A Lytell Geste of Robyn Hode (1489)

  Spring came round again, and with it the day on which Sir Richard of Legh was to pay back to Robin Hood the four hundred pounds which had so narrowly saved his lands from the Abbot of St Mary’s.

  By living quietly at home and saving most of his rents, Sir Richard was able to set off at the appointed time not only with the four hundred pounds in his pouch, but accompanied by a troop of his own men who carried as presents for Robin a hundred good yew bows and as many sheaves of arrows with shining metal points and peacock feathers below the deep notches for the string.

  As Sir Richard and his followers hastened along the road into Barnsdale they came to a bridge over the river where many of the people living nearby were met that day for a wrestling match. The prize was a white horse richly harnessed, a pair of gloves, a gold ring and a pipe of wine, and just as Sir Richard arrived, a tremendous uproar began round the ring where the wrestling was taking place.

  Pushing through the crowd, he asked what was wrong and discovered that the favourite champion of the whole neighbourhood had just been thrown by an unknown yeoman who had appeared suddenly that day and entered for the wrestling.

  ‘But is not the contest open to a
ll comers?’ asked Sir Richard.

  ‘It is so, indeed,’ answered the onlooker whom he was questioning, ‘but the men of Barnsdale be jealous of an outsider like this Arthur-a-Bland, and I fear they will beat him and throw him into the river rather than let him carry off the prize.’

  ‘This shame must not be!’ exclaimed Sir Richard, and followed by his men he pushed his way to the centre of the crowd and struck up the cudgels which were raised to fell Arthur-a-Bland.

  Sir Richard spoke to the gathering for some time, and the truth of his words, backed by the sight of his armed followers, brought them to their senses, and the prize was given to Arthur-a-Bland the true winner. Sir Richard then bought the wine from him for five marks and presented it to the crowd, who cheered him heartily and began to drink his health and the health of Arthur-a-Bland too as if they had never thought of cracking his skull or throwing him into the river.

  But all this had taken some time, and hasten as he might, it was long past noon when Sir Richard came to the meeting place.

  Meanwhile Robin and his men waited in vain for the coming of Sir Richard.

  ‘Let us go to dinner,’ said Little John at length.

  ‘Not so,’ answered Robin. ‘I fear that Our Lady is wrath with me, since she has not sent me my pay!’

  ‘Have no doubts, master!’ cried Little John. ‘It is scarcely noon. Be sure that before the sun is down, all will come right. I dare be sworn Sir Richard of Legh is true and trustworthy.’

  ‘Then take your bows,’ said Robin, ‘you and Much and Scarlet, and hasten to the Great North Road. And if the knight you cannot find, may be you will meet with another guest to stand proxy for him!’

  Off went the three merry men, clad all in Lincoln green with swords at their sides and bows in their hands – but never a sign of Sir Richard could they find.

  Presently, however, as they lay in wait behind the bushes, they saw two monks dressed in long black robes and riding on white palfreys, with a large band of serving men and attendants behind them.

  Then said Little John to Much, with a broad grin; ‘I’ll wager my life these monks have brought our pay! So cheer up, loosen your swords in their scabbards, set arrows to your strings – and follow me. The monks have twenty or more followers I know – but I dare not return to Robin without his expected guests!’

  So saying Little John sprang out into the road, followed by Much and Scarlet, levelled an arrow at the face of the leading monk, and exclaimed:

  ‘Stay, churlish monk, and go no further! One more step, and you die! My arrow is aimed to strike an inch below your hat-band! So come along with me – my master is furious at being kept so long for his dinner.’

  ‘Who is your master?’ asked the monk, amazed by this sudden summons.

  ‘Who else but bold Robin Hood!’ answered Little John.

  ‘He is a strong thief!’ quavered the monk, pale with fear. ‘I have heard little good of him!’

  ‘You lie!’ cried Little John, ‘and you shall rue it! He is a good yeoman of the forest, and he bids you to dinner with him.’

  ‘What if we refuse?’ asked the monk.

  ‘Then I loose mine arrow,’ replied Little John calmly.

  ‘But my men will cut you down, all three of you!’ hesitated the monk.

  ‘I have a hundred bowmen hidden in the bushes on either side of the road,’ declared Little John unblushingly.

  ‘I have but to raise my hand, or cry an order, and every man here lies dead with an arrow in his heart!’

  When they heard this, there was panic amongst the followers and attendants: and when Little John made as though to raise his hand, they turned with one accord and fled for their lives, leaving the two monks on their horses too petrified to move.

  ‘We are well rid of them,’ laughed Little John, ‘since there are but three of us. Now then, you Much, and you Scarlet, lead our guests’ horses by their bridles while I walk behind with an arrow on the string – in case of accidents.’

  So they brought the two monks into Barnsdale where Robin was waiting for them, and Robin greeted them courteously.

  ‘These are churlish guests,’ protested Little John, ‘and their followers were but cowards! Forty of them at least there were – and all ran away when they saw me bend my bow!’

  ‘Well, summon our men to dinner,’ laughed Robin, ‘and let us make our guests as welcome as we can.’

  ‘This is an outrage!’ protested the first monk. ‘I am the Abbot of St Mary’s High Cellarer, and this reverent monk is my clerk.’

  ‘High Cellarer, ha-ha!’ said Robin. ‘Then your duty is to supply the Abbey with provisions and wine – and also to collect tithes, both in kind and money. Maybe Our Lady has sent me my pay after all – by the hands of this her servant… But to dinner first. Little John, fill a horn of the best wine for Master Cellarer – who doubtless is an expert on vintages – and let him drink to me!’

  With a very bad grace the Cellarer and his Clerk drank the wine and made some pretence at eating.

  ‘Well now,’ said Robin presently. ‘If you have indeed brought me my money, Master Cellarer, I pray you let me see it. And if you are ever in need, maybe I can do as much for you.’

  ‘I know nothing of any moneys owing to you!’ cried the Cellarer anxiously, ‘and I have no money with me.’

  ‘None at all?’ queried Robin.

  ‘But twenty shillings,’ declared the Cellarer, ‘I swear it before God. Twenty shillings for my journey, and no more.’

  ‘Alas, poor man,’ said Robin sympathetically. ‘If that is indeed all you have, I’ll give you as much again to help you on your way… Little John, search the saddle-bags of these reverent gentlemen – and search them also, in case they may have forgotten an odd shilling or two.’

  The Cellarer grew pale with fear, and his Clerk began to blubber and mutter prayers, while Little John spread a cloak on the ground and after a little search began heaping piles of shining gold and silver on it.

  ‘Eight hundred pounds!’ he declared at length. ‘That is of gold alone. And yonder heap of silver will come to quite a few pounds over that sum.’

  ‘Then Our Lady has sent me the money which I had lent to pay the Abbot,’ said Robin. ‘And by the Mass, she pays good interest! Fill up Master Cellarer’s cup, and his Clerk’s cup also. But tell me, sirs, whither were you going?’

  ‘To seek his Royal Highness, Prince John,’ answered the Cellarer. ‘The money was for him – and cruel indeed will be the interest he will extort from you if you dare to touch a penny of it! I took with me also a message from the Lord Abbot about taking steps to humble the treasonable pride of a certain Sir Richard of Legh who is a law-breaker that defies Holy Church in the person of the said Abbot.’

  ‘The said knight,’ quoth Robin, mimicking the pompous tones of the frightened Cellarer, ‘is a good friend to me – and the said Prince John a traitor to his brother our good King Richard… The gold was intended for the royal coffers, was it, Master Cellarer?’

  ‘Yes, indeed it was!’

  ‘Then we will keep it for King Richard. And as for the silver, that we will keep in payment for the good food and wine our guests have partaken of while with us.’

  ‘Alas that ever we came into this place!’ lamented the Cellarer. ‘How much cheaper our dinner would have been in Blythe or Doncaster!’

  ‘Go now back to York,’ said Robin sternly. ‘Greet your Abbot from me: tell him to beware how he oppresses Sir Richard of Legh any further – and bid him send me such a guest as yourself to dinner every day!’

  *

  Scarcely had the Cellarer and his Clerk ridden away, lamenting the loss of their money and threatening dire revenges on Robin Hood and his men, when Sir Richard of Legh came riding hastily to the meeting place with his little troop behind him.

  ‘Greetings to you, good sir knight!’ cried Robin gaily. ‘But what brings you here into Barnsdale? No ill, I hope? Surely the Abbot of St Mary’s has not taken your house and lands from you
in spite of all?’

  ‘By God’s good grace and your kindness,’ answered Sir Richard gravely, ‘my house and lands are mine once more, free from all debt, mortgage or other incumbrance. But I pray you forgive me that I am late at the tryst: on the way I came upon a wrestling, where a good yeoman called Arthur-a-Bland was like to have suffered wrong and ill usage had I not stopped to help him.’

  ‘Forgive!’ cried Robin. ‘Rather I thank you from my heart for what you did – any man who stays to help a good yeoman earns my friendship for ever.’

  ‘I thank you,’ said Sir Richard. ‘But now take this money which I owe you, the four hundred pounds that saved my estate. And with it this twenty pounds more by way of interest.’

  ‘But, my good friend,’ said Robin very seriously. ‘You owe me no money. It has already been paid: Our Lady, by the hands of the Cellarer of St Mary’s, paid the full four hundred pounds scarce an hour since – and a good four hundred more by way of interest. And if I took it twice, I were shamed for ever. But truly, gentle knight, you yourself are more welcome than any money could be.’

  Sir Richard hardly knew what to say or think at this, but Robin Hood soon told him of what had happened, and they laughed together heartily over it.

  ‘But on my honour,’ said Sir Richard at length, ‘here is the money I owe you.’

  ‘Use it well,’ answered Robin, ‘buy a good horse and good armour in case you have need to fight for our noble King Richard, or to defend any other good yeoman… Or to defend yourself; I fear much lest the Abbot or Prince John accuse you of being in league with me in this matter of lightening Master Cellarer’s purse – and do you some ill deed.’

  ‘You certainly stand in great danger,’ answered Sir Richard, ‘and both the Abbot and the Sheriff will be out after you for this. Therefore accept these small gifts I have brought with me for you: a hundred good yew bows, cut and seasoned on my estate at Legh, and a hundred sheaves of arrows, true and straight and well feathered.’