Henry Gilbert - Robin Hood

by Robin Hood (Lit)

  "Come down, Ket the Trow," said Robin, "and tell me thy news, lad."

  Next moment the little man had dropped from the tree and stood before Robin. Ket was no taller than a medium-sized lad of fourteen, but he was a man full grown, with great breadth of chest, long, hairy arms and legs, the muscles on which stood up like iron bands. His hair was black, thick, and curly; he had no shoes on his feet, and the only covering he wore was a stout leather jacket laced in front, and close-fitting breeches of doe-skin that reached to his knees. His face, broad and good-natured, was lit up with a smile as he returned Robin's kindly gaze, and his eyes, bright and keen, yet gentle as those of a fawn, rested on Robin's face with a look of respect that was almost reverence.

  "You followed the men that fled. Where went they?" asked Robin.

  "Through the forest north by west went they, till they came to the burn," answered Ket. "They forded it at the Stakes and crossed the moor to the Ridgeway. Through Hag's Wood they wended and through Thicket Hollow, and then I knew where they would go; by the Hoar Tree and the Cwelm stone, over Gallows Hill and by the Mark Oak, till they came to the Dead Man's Hill, and so by the lane of the Red Stones to the Evil Hold. All night I watched in the Mark Oak, and at dawn I saw three knights ride from the castle. One went south by east, and with him on horses were two of the knaves I had followed. Two went east, and these I followed. They had ten horsed knaves with them. They went through Barnisdale Wood, and I left them on the wide road which leads to Doncaster."

  "You did well, Ket," replied Robin. "And then?"

  "I went to thy house, Outwoods, by Barnisdale Wood," replied Ket, "and Scadlock thy man I met in Old Nick's Piece, and sad was he, for he said that he saw Guy of Gisborne and two monks riding by thy land the day before, and they spoke together, and stopped and pointed at thy fields. And he thinks the curse of that Judas, Sir Guy, is on thy land, and that ruin cometh quickly to thee, and full was he of woe, and much he longed to see thy face."

  Robin was silent for a while, and he was sunk in thought.

  "Heard you aught else? What of Scarlet and the little lad?"

  "I saw them not, but at night I crept down to the village and stole beside the cot with the bush before the door [the village alehouse], and leaned my ear against a crack and listened. And much woe and anger was in the mouths of the villeins so that they drank little."

  "What said they?" asked Robin. "How many think you were there?"

  Ket lifted up both hands and showed ten, then he dropped one hand and showed five fingers and then two more.

  "Were they the young men or the older?"

  "Most were full of fiery words, and therefore young I guess," went on Ket. "They that had the sorest backs spoke most bitterly. Cruel had been the beatings at the post that day, it seems; one was yet in the pit, too sore to move; one had been burned that day with the branding-iron because the steward swore he was a thief _ and he was most fierce of all; and many said their lives were too bitter to be borne. The work they must do on the lord's land was more than was due from them, and their own fields were left untilled, and therefore they starved. Some said they would run away to the town, where, if they could hide for a year and a day, they would be free men; others said the plague and pestilence could be got in a village cot as easily as in a town hovel, and they would prefer to live on the king's deer in the greenwood."

  "Ay!" said Robin, in a bitter voice, "poor folks have no friends in these days. The king's own sons rebel and war upon their father, the lords and monks fight for power and wider lands, and grind the faces of their villeins to the soil which they delve and dig, and squeeze from them rents and services against all rightful custom. Ket!" he said, rising, "I will go home this day. Find Hob, your brother, and when I have said farewell to my friends I will come anon."

  Saying these words, Robin picked up the birds he had shot and went back to the castle of Sir Richard, to say farewell to Marian. Ket the Trow or Troll glided among the trees and disappeared.

  That day, when the shadows of the trees cast by the sinking sun lay far over the fields, and in the warmth and quiet of the departing day there seemed no room in the peaceful world except for happy thoughts, Robin with quick soft steps came to the edge of Barnisdale Forest where it marched with his own land.

  The forest side was on high ground, which then sank gently away to his fields. Long and earnestly he looked at his house, and beyond to the cots of the five villeins who were part of his land. His own house and the garth or yard in the low quickset hedge about it seemed quite peaceful, as indeed it should be at that time. Perhaps Scadlock, his bailiff, was inside, but the villeins must still be at work in the fields. Then it struck him that perhaps it was too quiet. There were no children tumbling and playing about in the dusty space before the villeins' cottages, but every door was fast closed, and no life stirred.

  He was about to continue his walk under the trees to gain the footpath which led to the front of his house, when he saw a woman, a serf's wife, steal from the door of her hovel and creep along to the end of the hedgeú There she stood, and seemed to watch for some one coming across the fields on the other side of the house. Suddenly he saw her with both hands gesticulating, as if signing to some one to keep away. For a long time she stood thus, but from where Robin stood he could not see who it was to whom she made her signal.

  At length the woman, having apparently succeeded in giving her warning, stole cautiously back into her house and quietly closed the door.

  Something was wrong. Of that Robin was certain now. Glancing warily this way and that, he went further among the trees, and approached the head of the footpath with every care. Suddenly as he looked from behind a tree he dodged down again. A man-at-arms stood beneath the next tree, which threw its broad branches over the footpath.

  From behind the beech trunk Robin keenly observed the man, whose back was toward him. He had evidently been put there to guard the approach from the forest. From where he stood the soldier could see the front of the house, and something that was happening there seemed to hold his attention. Sometimes he gave a laugh or a grunt of satisfaction.

  Robin's eyes went hard of look. He knew the man by his tunic of red cloth and his helm to be one of the guard of armed retainers which the abbot of St. Mary's, lord of the manor, had formed for his own dignity and to add to his retinue of lazy and oppressive menials. Very cautiously Robin crept along between the two trees, keeping himself hidden by the trunk against which the man leaned.

  With the stealthiness and quietness of a wild cat, Robin covered the space, until only the trunk of the tree separated him from the unsuspecting soldier. He rose to his full height, but as he did so his leg snapped a twig jutting from the tree. The man half swung round at the noise, but next moment Robin's fingers were about his throat, and in that grip of iron he was powerless.

  The man swooned, and then, laying him down, Robin quickly bound his hands and feet and placed a rough gag in his mouth, so that when he revived, as he would shortly, he would be unable to do any harm.

  When Robin turned to see what had drawn the man's attention so much, a groan burst from his lips. Tied to posts in front of the house were Scadlock and three of the poor villeins. Their backs were bare, and before each stood a burly soldier with a long knotted strap in his hand.

  A little way from them stood others of the men-at-arms and their chief, Hubert of Lynn, a man whom for his brutal insolence and cruelty Robin had long hated. In the still air of the afternoon Robin's keen ears could catch the laughter which came from Hubert and his men. At length, when all seemed ready, the voice of the leader rang out:

  "A hundred lashes first for these dogs that would resist the servants of their lord, and then an arrow for each. Now _ go!"

  Almost as if one man moved the four whips, they rose in the air and came down upon the bare backs which, since Robin had been their lord, had never been wealed by the cruel whip.

  Robin, under the beechen boughs, picked up his longbow and the long deer-bolt
s or arrows, which he had lain down when he had prepared to creep upon the man at the top of the path. He twanged his bow-string, saw that it was well set to the bow, and laid each arrow apart before him.

  Then kneeling on one knee, he whispered a prayer to Our Lady.

  "The light is bad, fair and sweet Mother of Christ," he said, "but do thou guide my arrows to the evil hearts of these men. Six bolts have I, and out of the pity I have for my poor folk, I would slay first him with the bitterest heart, Hubert of Lynn, and then those four with whips. Hear me, O our sweet Lady, for the sake of thy Son who was so stern against wrong, and pitiful for weak folk. Amen."

  Then he notched the first shaft, and aimed it at the breast of Hubert. Singing its deep song as if in exultation, the great arrow leaped through the air upon its way. When it was but half-way across the field, another, with as triumphant a song, was humming behind it.

  With a cry, Hubert sank on one knee to the ground, the shaft jutting from his breast. Feebly he tried to pluck it forth, but his life was already gone. He fell over on his side, dead. At the same time the place seemed full of great bees. First one man dropped his whip, spun round with his hands upon a bolt in his side, and then fell. Another sank to the ground without a murmur; a second leaped in the air like a shot rabbit; and the other, with one arm pinned to his side by an arrow, ran across the field swaying this way and that, until he dropped in a furrow and lay still.

  There were four who remained untouched, but filled with such consternation were they, that they broke and fled in all directions. So dazed was one that he came flying up the field path at the head of which Robin still kneeled, terrible in his wrath, with his last bolt notched upon his string. The fellow ran with open arms, terror in his eyes, thinking not at all of whither he was going.

  He pulled up when he came within a few yards of Robin, and yelled:

  "O master, be you fiend or man, shoot not! Thy witch bolts spoke as they came through the air. I yield me! I yield me!"

  The man fell before Robin, crying: "I will be your man, lord. I was an honest man two days ago, and the son of an honest man, and my heart rose against the evil work I was in."

  Robin rose to his feet, and the man clutched his hands and placed his head between in token of fealty.

  "See to it," said Robin sternly, "that you forget not your plighted word. How long have you been with Hubert and his men?"

  "But two days, lord," said the man, whose simple and honest eyes were now less wide with terror. "I am Dudda or Dodd, son of Alstan, a good villein at Blythe, and forasmuch as my lord beat me without justice I fled to the woods. But I starved, and for need of food I crept out and lay at the abbey door and begged for bread. And they fed me, and seeing I was strong of my limbs said I should bear arms. And I rejoiced for a time till the cruel deeds they boasted of as done upon poor villeins like myself made me hate them."

  "Get up, Dodd," said Robin. "Remember thy villein blood henceforth, and do no wrong to thy kind. Come with me."

  Robin went down to the garth of his farm, released poor Scadlock and his other men, then entered the house and found salves wherewith he anointed their wealed and broken backs.

  "'Twas but yesterday, master," said Scadlock, in reply to Robin's question as to what had happened, "that they proclaimed you an outlaw from the steps of the cross at Ponrefract, and this morning Hubert of Lynn came to possess your lands for the lord abbot. We here _ Ward, Godard, Dunn and John _ could not abear to see this wrong done, and so, like poor fools, with sticks and forks we tried to beat them back."

  "Ay, poor lads, foolish and faithful, ye had like to have paid with your lives for it," said Robin. "But now, come in and feed, and I will take counsel what must needs be done."

  By this time it was dark. One of the women was called in from the serfs' cottages, a fire was lit in the center of the one large room which formed Robin's manor-house, and soon bowls of good hot food were being emptied, and spirits were reviving. Even the captured man-at-arms was not forgotten; he was brought in and fed, and then lodged securely in a strong outhouse for the night.

  "Master," said Scadlock, as he and Robin were returning to the house from this task, "what is in your mind to do? Must it be the woods and the houseless life of an outlaw for you?"

  "There is no other way," said Robin with a hard laugh. "And glad I shall be, for in the greenwood I may try to do what I may to give the rich and the proud some taste of what they give to the poor men whom they rule."

  "And I will go with you, master, with a very glad heart," said Scadlock. "And so will the others, for after this day they can expect no mercy from Guy of Gisborne."

  Suddenly they heard across the fields toward the village the sound of many voices, and listening intently, they could hear the tramp of feet.

  "It is Guy of Gisborne and his men-at-arms!" said Scadlock. "Master, we must fly to the woods at once."

  "Nay, nay," said Robin, "think you Guy of Gisborne would come cackling like so many geese to warn me of his approach? They are the villeins of the manor, though what they do abroad so late is more than I may say. They will smart for it tomorrow, I ween, when the steward learns of it."

  "Nay, master," came a voice for the darkness at their elbow; "there'Il be no morrow for them in bondage if you will but lead us."

  It was the voice of one of the older villeins, who had stolen up before the crowd. It was Will of the Stuteley, generally called Will the Bowman _ a quiet, thoughtful man, whom Robin had always liked. He had been reeve or head villein in his time.

  "What, Will," said Robin, "what would they with me? Where should I lead them?"

  "Give them a hearing, Master Robert," said Will. "Their hearts are overfull, but their stomachs are nigh empty, so driven and stressed beyond fair duty have they been this winter and summer. First the failure of harvest, then a hard winter, a hungry summer, and a grasping lord who skins us. I tell thee I can bear no more, old as I am."

  "Well, well, Will, here they are," replied Robin, as a crowd of dark forms came into the yard. "Now, lads, what is it you want of me?" he cried.

  "We would run to the greenwood, master," some cried. "Sick and sore are we of our hard lot, and we can bear no more," cried others.

  Unused to much speaking, they could not explain their feelings any more, and so waited, hoping that he who was so much wiser, yet so kind, would be able to understand all the bitterness that was in their hearts.

  "Well," said Robin earnestly, "and if you run to the woods, what of your wives and children?"

  "No harm can come to them," was the reply. "Our going will give them more worth in the eyes of the lord and his steward. We do not own them. They are the chattels of the lord, body and soul. There will be more food for them if we go."

  There was some truth in this, as Robin knew. The lord and his steward would not visit their vengeance upon the women and children of those villeins who ran away. The work on the manor lands must go on, and the women and children helped in this. Some of the older women held plots of land, which were tilled by their sons or by poorer men in the hamlet who held no land, and who for their day's food were happy to work for anyone who would feed and shelter them.

  "How many of ye are there?" asked Robin. "Are there any old men among ye?"

  "There are thirty of us. Most of us are young and wiser than our fathers," growled one man. "Or we will put up with less these days," added another.

  "So you will let the work of the manor and the due services ye owe to the lord fall on the shoulders of the old men, the women, and the youngsters?" said Robin, who was resolved that if these men broke from their lord they should know all the consequences. "Come, lads, is it manly to save our own skins and let the moil and toil and swinking labor light on the backs of those less able to bear the heat of the noonday sun, the beat of the winter rain?"

  Many had come hot from the fierce talk of the wilder men among them as they sat in the alehouse, and now in the darkness and the chill air of the night their courage was oozing, an
d they glanced this way and that, as if looking how to get back to their huts, where wife and children were sleeping.

  But others, of sterner stuff, who had suffered more or felt more keenly, were not to be put off. Some said they were not married, others that they would bear no more the harsh rule of Guy of Gisborne.

  Suddenly flying steps were heard coming toward them, and all listened, holding their breath. The fainter hearted, even at the sound, edged out of the crowd and crept away.

  A little man crashed through the hedge and lit almost at the feet of Robin.

  "'Tis time ye ceased your talking," he said, his voice panting and a strange catch in it.

  "'Tis Much, the Miller's son!" said they all, and waited. They felt that something of dread had happened, for he was a fearless little man, and not easily moved.