"My bones ache so sorely," said Michael, "from the brute beast's cudgel that I crave no more basting for a time. I think I will hide me till I be a little less sore and master's anger hath cooled."
"Flee then, ass," said Bat, angry with himself and his companion, "and starve in the woods as thou surely wouldst, or run back to thy manor, thou run serf, and be basted by thy lord's steward."
But Michael was too fearful both of the lonely woods and of the strong arm of his lord's scourging man, and chose after all to go with Bat and take what punishment Robin chose to mete out to them.
They reached the camp just as the outlaws were about to sit to their supper, and Bat told everything with a frankness which showed how ashamed he was of himself. Robin heard them patiently, and then said:
"Hast thou still the purse which thou didst take from the rogue?"
Bat had thought no more of the purse, but feeling in his tunic found it was still there, and, drawing it forth, gave it to Robin. The outlaw bade Bat bring a torch to light him while he examined the contents of the purse.
First he drew out three rose nobles wrapped in a piece of rag, then a ring with a design engraved upon it, and lastly, from the bottom of the purse, he drew out a piece of parchment folded small. This he opened and smoothed out upon his knee, and read, slowly, 'tis true, since Robin, though he had been taught to read his Latin when a lad in his uncle's house at Lockseley, had had little use for reading since he had reached man's estate.
Slowly he read the Latin words, and as he grasped their meaning his face became grim and hard. The words, translated, were these:
"To the worshipful Master Ralph Murdach, Sheriff of the Shires of Nottingham and Derby, these with greeting. Know ye that the Bearer of these, Richard Malbˆte, is he of whom I spoke to thee, who hath been commended to me by my friend, Sir Nigel le Grym. He is a man of a bold and crafty mind, stinting no labor for good pay, and blinking not at any desperate deed: of a cunning mind, ready in wit and wile and ambuscades. But keep him from the wine, or he is of no avail. This is he who will aid thee to lay such plans and plots as will gain us that savage wolf's-head, Robin, and root out that growing brood of robbers who go with him. I hope to hear much good done in a little while."
The letter was not signed, for in those days men did not sign their letters with their names, but with their seals, and this was sealed on a piece of blue wax with the signet of Sir Guy of Gisborne, which was a wild man's head, below which was a sword.
Robin looked at Bat and Michael, who, with heads bent, seemed filled with shame, and as if expecting some punishment.
"Ye are not fit to be outlaws," he said sternly. "Ye are but common reivers and cutters [cutpurses], and shouldst run to the town and lurk by taverns and rob men when they are full of wine and cannot help themselves. When I send ye to do a thing, that thing thou shalt do, whatever temptation is placed before ye. But as ye are but fresh from the plow, I will overlook it this time. Go," he ended in gentler tones, "get your supper, and remember that I shall expect ye to be keen and good lads henceforth."
Bat had never before known a kind word from a superior, and his heart was greatly moved at Robin's words.
"Master," he said, bending on one knee, "I have been a fool and I deserve the scourge. But if you will not give me that~ give me some hard task to do, so that I may wipe the thought of my doltishness from my memory."
"And let me go with him, good master," said Michael, "for I would serve you manfully."
Robin looked at them for a moment, and smiled at their eagerness.
"Go get your suppers now, lads," he said at length. "It may be I will set thee a task ere long."
When the meal was ended, Robin called Little John to his side and said:
"John, hath the proud potter of Wentbridge set out on his journey yet?"
"Ay, master," replied John, "he went through but yesterday, with horse and cart laden with his pots and pans. A brisk man is he, and as soon as the snows are gone he is not one to play Lob-lie-by-the-fire."
Robin asked where the potter would be lodging that night, and John told him. Then Robin called Bat and Michael to him.
"Thou didst ask for a task," he said, "and I will give thee one. It may be a hard one, but 'tis one thou must do by hook or by crook. Thou knowest well the ways of the forest from here to Mansfield, for thou hast both fled from thy lord at Warsop. Now I will that ye go to Mansfield for me this night and seek the proud potter of Wentbridge. Tell him that I crave a fellowship of him. I wish him to let me have his clothes, his pots, his cart and his horse, for I will go to Nottingham market disguised."
"This will we do right gladly, master," said Bat. "We will take our staves and our swords and bucklers and start on our way forthwith."
Little John began to laugh heartily.
"Ye speak as if thou thinkest it will be no more than to say 'bo!' to a goose," he said. "But if thou knowest not the proud potter of Wentbridge, that lacking he will soon make up in thee by the aid of his good quarterstaff."
"I know, Little John," said Bat with a laugh, "that he hath given thee that lesson."
"Ye say truly," said honest John; "evil befell me when I bade him pay toll to the outlaws last harvest-time, for he gave me three strokes that I shall never forget."
"All Sherwood heard of them," said Bat; "but the proud potter is a full courteous man, as I have heard tell. Nevertheless, whether he liketh it or not, he shall yield Master Robin his wish."
"Then I will meet thee at the Forest Herne where the roads fork beyond Mansfield," said Robin, "an hour after dawn tomorrow."
"We will fail not to be there with all that thou wishest," replied Bat, and together he and Michael set out under the starlight on the way to Mansfield.
Next day, into the market-place of Nottingham, drove a well-fed little brown pony, drawing a potter's cart, filled with pots and pans of good Wentbridge ware. The potter, a man stout of limb, plump of body and red of face, wore a rusty brown tunic and cloak, patched in several places, and his hair seemed to have rare acquaintance with a comb. Robin indeed was well disguised.
Farmers, hucksters, merchants and butchers were crowded in the market-place, some having already set up their booths or stalls, while others were busy unloading their carts or the panniers on their stout nags. The potter set his crocks beside his cart, after having given his horse oats and hay, and then began to cry his wares.
He had taken up a place not five steps from the door of the sheriff's house, which, built of wood and adorned with quaint designs, occupied a prominent place on one side of the market-place; and the potter's eyes were constantly turned on the door of the house, which now was open, and people having business with the sheriff rode or walked up and entered.
"Good pots for sale!" cried the potter. "Buy of my pots! Pots and pans! Cheap and good today. Come wives and maidens! Set up your kitchens with my good ware!"
So lustily did he call that soon a crowd of country people who had come to the market to buy stood about him and began to chaffer with him. But he did not stay to bargain; he let each have the pot or pan at the price they offered. The noise of the cheapness of the pots soon got abroad, and very soon there were but half a dozen pots left.
"He is an ass," said one woman, "and not a potter. He may make good pots, but he knoweth naught of bargaining. He'll never thrive in his trade."
Robin called a serving-maid who came just then from the sheriff's house, and begged her to go to the sheriff's wife, with the best respects of the potter of Wentbridge, and ask whether the dame would accept his remaining pots as a gift. In a few minutes Dame Margaret herself ú came out.
"Gramercy for thy pots, good chapman," she said, and she had a merry eye, and spoke in a very friendly manner. "I am full fain to have them, for they be good pots and sound. When thou comest to this town again, good potter, let me know of it and I will buy of thy wares."
"Madam," said Robin, doffing his hat and bowing in a yeomanly manner, "thou shalt have of the best in
my cart. I'll give thee no cracked wares, nor any with flaws in them, by the Mass, but every one shall ring with a true honest note when thou knockest it."
The sheriff's wife thought the potter was a full courteous and bowerly man, and began to talk with him. Then a great bell rang throughout the house, and the dame said:
"Come into the house if thou wilt, good chapman. Come sit with me and the sheriff at the market table."
This was what Robin desired. He thanked the dame, and was led by her into the bower where her maidens sat at their sewing. Just then the door opened and the sheriff came in. Robin looked keenly at the man whom he had only seen once before. He knew that the sheriff, Ralph Murdach, was a rich cordwainer who had bought his office from the grasping Bishop of Ely for a great price, and to repay himself he squeezed all he could out of the people.
"Look what this master potter hath given us," said Dame Margaret, showing the pots on a stool beside her. "Six pots of excellent ware, as good as any made in the Low Countries."
The sheriff, a tall spare man of a sour and surly look, glanced at Robin, who bowed to him.
"May the good chapman dine with us, sheriff?" asked the dame.
"He is welcome," said the sheriff crossly, for he was hungry and had just been outwitted, moreover, in a piece of business in the market-place. "Let us wash and go to meat."
They went into the hall of the house where some twenty men were waiting for the sheriff and his lady. Some were officers and men of the sheriff, others were rich chapmen from the market.
When the sheriff and his wife took their seats at the high table, all the company sat down, Robin being shown a seat midway down the lower table. A spoon of horn was placed on the table where each sat and a huge slice of bread, called a trencher, but for drinking purposes there was only one pewter cup between each two neighbors. Then the scullions from the sheriff's kitchen brought in roasted meat on silver skewers, and these being handed to the various guests, each would take his knife from his girdle, rub it on his leg to clean it a little, and then cut what he wanted from the skewer, laying his portion on the thick slice of bread. Then, using his fingers as a fork, the guest would eat his dinner, cutting off and eating pieces of his trencher with his meat, or saving it till all the meat was eaten.
On the rush-covered floor of the hall dogs and cats fought for the meat or bones thrown to them, and at the door beggars looked in, crying out for alms or broken meat. Sometimes a guest at the lower end of the table would throw a bone at a beggar, intending to hit him hard, but the beggar would deftly catch it and begin gnawing it. When, as sometimes happened, the beggars became too bold and ventured almost up to the table, a serving-man would dart among them with his staff and thump and kick them pell-mell out through the door.
Suddenly, a sturdy beggar came forthright into the hall and walked up among the sprawling dogs toward the high seat. Instantly a serving-man dashed at him and caught hold of him to throw him out.
"I crave to speak with the sheriff," cried the beggar, struggling with the man. "I come with a message from a knight."
But the serving-man would not listen, and began to drag the beggar to the door. The noise of their struggle drew the attention of all the guests, and Robin, looking up, recognized the beggar. It was Sir Guy's spy, whom he had met but yesterday, and who had outwitted the two outlaws whom Robin had sent to take him_Richard Malbˆte, or, as the English would call him, Illbeast.
The beggar fought fiercely to free himself, but the serving-man was a powerful fellow, and Malbˆte's struggles were in vain. Suddenly he cried:
"A boon, Sir Sheriff! I have a message from Sir Guy of Gisborne!"
The sheriff looked up and saw the struggling pair.
"Let the rogue speak," he cried. The servitor ceased the struggle, but still held the beggar, and both men stood panting, while Richard Illbeast glared murderously at the man beside him.
"Speak, rogue, as his worship commands," said the servitor, "and cut not my throat with thy evil looks, thou scarecrow."
"I come from Sir Guy of Gisborne," said the beggar, turning to the high table, "and I have a message for thy private ear, Sir Sheriff."
The sheriff looked at him suspiciously.
"Tell me thy message, rogue," said the sheriff harshly. The beggar looked desperately round at the faces of the guests, all of which were turned to him. Some laughed at his hesitation, others sneered.
"He hath a private message for thy ear, sheriff," cried one burly farmer with a laugh, "and light fingers for thy jewels."
"Or," added another amid the laughter, "a snickersnee [small dagger] for thyself."
"Give some proof that you bear word from him you prate of," commanded the sheriff angrily, "or I will have thee beaten from the town."
"A dozen cutpurses set upon me in the forest," said Richard Illbeast, "and robbed me of the purse in which was Sir Guy's letter to thee!"
A roar of laughter arose from all the guests. This was a likely tale, they thought, and japes and jokes were bandied about between them.
"What sent he thee to me for, knave?" shouted the sheriff. "A likely tale thou tellest."
"He sent me to aid thee in seizing that thieving outlaw, Robin Hood!" cried Richard Illbeast, beside himself with rage at the laughter and sneers of the guests, and losing his head in his anger.
Men roared and rocked with laughter as they heard him. "Ha! ha! ha!" they cried. "This is too good! The thief-taker spoiled by thieves! The fox mobbed by the hare he would catch!"
"Thrust him forth," shouted the sheriff, red with rage. "Beat the lying knave out of the town!"
"I am no knave!" cried Richard. "I have fought in the crusade! I have _"
But he was not suffered to say further what he had done; a dozen menservants hurled themselves upon him. Next moment he was out in the market-place, his cloak was torn from his back and his bags ripped from him. Staves and sticks seemed to spring up on all sides, and amidst a hail of blows the wretch, whose heart was as cruel as any in that cruel time, and whose hands had been dyed by many a dreadful deed, was beaten mercilessly from the town along the road to the forest.
For a little time the guests at the sheriff's table continued to laugh over the beggar's joke, and then the talk turned on a contest which was to be held after dinner at the butts outside the town between the men who formed the officers of the sheriff, for a prize of forty shillings given by their master.
When the meal was ended, therefore, most of the guests betook themselves to the shooting, where the sheriff's men shot each in his turn. Robin, of course, was an eager onlooker at the sport; and he saw that not one of the sheriff's men could shoot nearer to the mark than by the length of half a long arrow.
"By the rood!" he said, "though I be but a potter now I was a good bowman once, and e'en now I love the twang of my string and the flight of my arrow. Will you let a stranger try a shot or two, Sir Sheriff?"
"Ay, thou mayst try," said the sheriff, "for thou seemest a stalwart and strong fellow, though by thy red face thou seemest too fond of raising thy own pots to thy lips with good liquor in them."
Robin laughed with the crowd at the joke thus made against him, and the sheriff commanded a yeoman to bring three bows. Robin chose one of these, the strongest and largest, and tried it with his hands.
"Thou'rt but poor wood, I fear," he said, as he pushed the bow from him and pulled the string to his ear. "It whineth with the strain already," he went on, "so weak is the gear."
He picked out an arrow from the quiver of one of the sheriff's men and set it on the string. Then, pulling the string to its fullest extent, he let the bolt fly. Men looked keenly forward, and a shout from the chapmen went up when they saw that his bolt was within a foot of the mark, and nearer by six inches than any of the others.
"Shoot another round," said the sheriff to his men, "and let the potter shoot with thee."
Another round was accordingly shot, and each man strove to better his previous record. But none got nearer than the po
tter had done, and when the last of them had shot his bolt they stood aside with glum faces, looking at the chapman as he stepped forward and notched his arrow upon the string.
He seemed to take less pains this time than before. The bolt snored away, and in the stillness with which the onlookers gazed, the thud, as it struck the broad target, two hundred yards away, was distinctly heard. For a moment men could not believe what their keen eyes told them. It had hit the center of the bull's eye, or very close thereto.
The target-man, who stood near by the butt to report exactly on each shot, was seen to approach the target and then to start running excitedly toward the archers.
"It hath cleft the peg in three!" he shouted.
The peg was the piece of wood which stood in the very center of the bull's eye. A great shout from all the bystanders rose up and shook the tassels on the tall poplars ' above their heads, and many of the chapmen gripped Robin by the hand or clapped him on the back.
Henry Gilbert - Robin Hood Page 10