All this time neither Robin nor the Outlaws had wasted a moment. His father, blind though he was, had taken it upon himself to tutor every one of them in the longbow. There was not one who could not now fashion a bow from the yew, and their own arrows from the ash. And they could use them too. Boy or girl, young or old, Robin’s father made them all practise every day, so that by now every single Outlaw who could hold a bow could shoot straight and true, some of them almost as well as Robin himself. With Will Scarlett for his eyes, Robin’s father was never happier than when he was teaching some young Outlaw how to judge the arc of flight, how to let fly without jerking. Left alone for too long he was inclined to moods of dark despair, so the Outlaws saw to it that he always had someone with him. All of them had known despair at one time or another, so they knew instinctively when they were needed. He treasured the time particularly when Marion would sit by him and tell him the stories her family had brought with them from France a hundred years before: stories of great mountains that touched the sky, of bears and wolves. He would listen to her stories for ever, he could never hear enough of them. He knew without seeing what everyone else knew, that Robin and Marion had become inseparable. Marion spoke of it one day when Robin was out hunting. “It’s not just me that loves him,” she said, “we all do.”
“Maybe, but I love him as a father loves his sons, and you love him as a woman loves a man. For the rest, they worship him and I wish they would not. Worship is for God, not man. I fear it will be too much for him. Stay close to him, Marion. He will need you, as a man needs his eyes.”
Each year there were fewer stags to be found in the forest, so that Robin and the Outlaws had to travel further and further from home in their search for meat. Hinds there were, and in plenty, but Robin had forbidden all killing of hinds unless they were old or wounded. It was June and the trees were in full leaf, and the deer difficult to spot in the dappled shadows of the forest. They had gone for days without a kill. They were all weary of it and wanted to go home. Robin wanted to be on his own for a while, to collect his thoughts. More and more he found he could only be himself with Marion, that he tired of playing the leader, of smiling when he did not wish to. “We’ll split up, twos and threes, south, north, east and west. Maybe we’ll be lucky. But be careful. We’re close to the edge of the forest here, so keep an eye out for the sheriff’s men. You never know. Be back by sunset and I’ll meet you down by the river over there.” And off they went.
Robin had it in mind to hide down by the river and wait for a stag to come down to drink. But he was about to break all his golden rules. No one should ever sleep unless guarded. No one should ever be without a weapon. No one should be without a horn to call for help. Quite forgetting all this, Robin squatted down under the shade of a great alder tree overhanging the river and waited. Kingfishers flitted up and down the river, flashes of fire in the sunlight. A heron landed nearby and waded on his stick legs into the shallows to fish. No stag came, but there were footprints enough to keep Robin hopeful. After a while, though, he became thirsty. He left his bow, his arrows and his horn under the tree and went down to the river to drink, cupping his hands in the water. The water was so cold and so inviting. He didn’t think twice. He took off his jerkin and jumped in. It was not that far to the other side and the current seemed gentle enough. So he swam across and stretched out on the bank in the warmth of the sun to get his breath back. He closed his eyes against the glare of the sunlight and was drifting off into a welcome sleep, when he felt a cold shadow come over him. He looked up into a round, red, grinning face, and there was a sword at his throat.
“I’m looking for Robin Hood. Do you know the rogue?” Robin saw the man was wearing the brown habit of a friar.
“I’ve heard of him,” Robin replied. “Now will you let me up?” But the friar put his foot on Robin’s chest and would not let him move.
“Tell me where I can find him and I might let you live, by God’s good grace,” said the friar, pressing the point of his sword into Robin’s neck just enough to draw blood.
“Across the river and just keep going,” said Robin. “You won’t find him. He’ll find you. And when he does, friend, you’d better watch out. He doesn’t much like friars, especially the rich, fat ones.”
The friar laughed and twisted the blade of his sword. “Does he not indeed? Well now, that’s mighty unfortunate because as you see I’m very fat, and I’m very rich too, as it happens, by God’s good grace. In my sack here I have all the silver and gold I could steal. I suppose I’d be about the richest, fattest friar you’ll ever be likely to meet. And do you know something else, young man? I’ve this terrible aversion to water. I can’t abide wet feet. So how else, I ask myself, how else am I going to cross this river?” He hit his head with the palm of his hand. “Of course. Of course. Silly me. You can take me, can’t you? You can carry me and my sack of treasures. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”
The sword at Robin’s throat left him little choice. Besides, he had it already in mind that if he could once get himself back across to the other side of the river, then at least he could have his sword close to hand, and his horn to call for help if need be, though by the shape of the friar he did not imagine for one moment that he would need it.
So standing in the shadows with the river tugging at his ankles, he braced himself and waited for the fat friar to jump on his back. When he did it was all Robin could do to stand upright. The friar must have weighed as much as a full-grown stag. Robin stumbled out into the river, the friar spurring him on like a donkey and whacking him with the flat of his sword.
“Gee up! Gee up, you skinny nag,” he cried. And Robin ground his teeth in fury and staggered on. Twice he fell to his knees in the water and the friar cursed him, whacked him again and drove him on. When at last Robin reached the bank and sank down exhausted, the friar stood back, leaned on his sword and laughed till the tears ran down his face, the whole fat bulk of him wobbling like a great jelly. Robin saw his moment had come. His sword stood where he had left it, against the alder tree. He sprang to his feet, grabbed it, and with one swipe knocked the friar’s sword from his grasp. Suddenly the friar was not laughing any more.
“Now, fat man,” cried Robin, his sword deep into the friar’s several chins. “You shall carry me back over the river, not once but twice; there and back because I am only half your weight. Only fair, I think. Then we’ll be even and you can go your way, and I’ll go mine. No hard feelings, eh?”
“By God’s good grace,” said the friar, “you’re a fine and fair man, even if you are a mite skinny. Hop on, I won’t even feel you’re there.”
Sure enough, the friar strode across the river so fast that Robin barely had time to enjoy his triumph before he found himself being carried back again. They were halfway back when the friar suddenly stopped. “Get on, you great donkey,” Robin bellowed, kicking him on. But the friar was lifting his nose and sniffing the air.
“By God’s good grace,” he said, “you stink like an old badger. What you need is a good bath.” And with that he leant forward and tossed Robin off his back. Robin was not easily roused to anger, but as he sat there soaking and cold in the river, listening to the fat friar’s mocking laughter, his temper suddenly snapped. He charged out of the river, snatched up his sword and went for the friar like a wild thing. “Temper, temper,” scoffed the friar, standing his ground and parrying with consummate ease every frantic thrust and slash. Worst of all though, the friar would not stop laughing. The man was playing with him, and Robin knew it. This only served to infuriate him all the more. He was losing and there was nothing he could do about it. As his father had told him often enough: once you think you might lose, then you will lose. Before he knew it, Robin saw his sword flying through the air and felt again the friar’s sword at his throat.
“By God’s good grace, you’re an angry young man with a wicked temper. All I asked, and politely it was too, was where I might find this Robin Hood.”
“Well, look
no further, friar,” Robin said, pushing aside the sword. “You’re looking at him.”
“You? Robin Hood? But I heard he outwitted the sheriff, Sir Guy of Gisbourne and the whole miserable bunch of them, all by himself. I heard he could handle a sword better than any man alive.”
“I’m better with a bow and arrow,” Robin replied sheepishly.
The friar lowered his sword. “You really are Robin Hood, leader of the Outlaws? But you’re little more than a boy.”
Robin retrieved his horn from under the tree and blew on it three times, long and hard, the Outlaws’ call for help. “You’ll see soon enough,” said Robin, ferreting in the friar’s sack. He drew out a golden cross. “So you robbed a church, did you?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” replied the friar, who was suddenly serious now. “And I’ll tell you why. I was staying at Fountains Abbey, with the monks, as I often do when I pass by. And one Sunday morning from the pulpit, I spoke up for Robin Hood and his Outlaws, for all they were doing for the poor, for the unloved, for those our dear Lord loves more than anyone. The sheriff heard it, drove the monks out and took their abbey from them. He gave it over to the she-devil, the Abbess of Kirkleigh, sister to the sheriff, and Guy of Gisbourne’s lover too – did you know that? I may be a sinner. I drink too much, I know it, and my midriff vouches for my indulgence in at least one of the seven deadly sins, but compared to that witch, I am an angel, an angel, I tell you. So I went back and rescued what I could of the abbey’s treasures before she got her evil hands on them. It is little enough, but it belongs to God and God would want it spent where it is most needed. So I came to look for Robin Hood, to help him help the poor, and to lend him my prayers and my sword, if he wants them.”
“Oh, he wants them, good friar,” said Robin, and even as he spoke the Outlaws came running out of the trees all around. It was all Robin could do to prevent them throwing themselves at the friar. “Leave him be,” he cried. “He is an enemy of our enemy, so he’s our friend. Besides which, he’d cut you all into little pieces with that sword of his – believe me. He may not look much, but I tell you, he wields a sword better than any man alive. And look what he has brought us.” Robin held up the sack and shook it at them. “Gold and silver. Treasure to feed the hungry mouths, lots of them. This friar, unlike most, is a true friar and worthy of his calling, a Christian man. Welcome to our band, friar.” And when they embraced, the friar squeezed him so hard that Robin felt his ribs might crack. “Do you have a name, friar?” he said.
“Brother Ignatius. But that’s a terrible mouthful, so my friends call me Tuck, Friar Tuck.”
So Friar Tuck came to live amongst them in Sherwood. He set up a candlelit chapel in the cave beyond the clearing and made it plain that he expected everyone to be there each Sunday when he rang the bell for Mass. He was not a fellow to be argued with, and they soon knew it. Very few dared or wanted to stay away. He ate enough for three good men, but to the Outlaws he was worth every mouthful. Sundays he kept for the healing of the soul. “We’re arming ourselves for Christ,” he would say. But every other day he spent schooling the Outlaws in the art of swordsmanship, so that the forest rang now to the clash of steel on steel, and Friar’s Tuck’s infectious laughter. Loud buffoon, fierce warrior, wise priest, Tuck was a man of many parts, and it was he as much as anyone who bound the band of the Outlaws together and made a fighting force of them. Each one was now highly skilled with sword and bow, but although a few outsiders had trickled in to join them in Sherwood, there were still not enough of them to attack the sheriff and Sir Guy of Gisbourne in their strongholds.
Tuck did not mince his words, he never did. “We can’t just wait here, Robin, until folk decide to join us. We have to go out and recruit them – that’s what the Lord Jesus did, by God’s good grace. And we need more weapons, better weapons, swords, spears, shields. Either we go out and steal them – and we can’t do that without waking the sheriff up – or we make them. We need a smith. And there’s another thing. You’re all of you a deal too small and skinny, if you don’t mind my saying so. I could blow most of you over with one snotty sneeze. We have to be able to fight them with our bare hands if necessary. You’ve got to be strong. You’ve got to learn how to wrestle.” And he patted his great stomach as he went on. “Don’t look at me. I can’t teach you, not with this belly of mine. And Robin can’t either. He’s all whippet and no hound. We need to find someone who can teach us how to wrestle, how we can snap Sir Guy of Gisbourne’s miserable neck with a tweak of the wrist, or squeeze the life out of the Sheriff of Nottingham. A little faith, Robin, and by God’s good grace, we’ll find the men we need.” In the event they were to find the wrestler first.
Much was a miller’s son. All his life he had worked with his father, carrying sacks of wheat from the granary to the mill, and then sacks of flour from the mill to the cart outside. They worked every waking hour God gave them and they sold their flour to anyone who would buy it. The Sheriff of Nottingham bought all the flour he needed from Much’s father, but he always grumbled that his prices were too high. Much’s father, unlike many other millers, was no cheat. He always gave fair measures for a fair price, and so he refused to lower his price even when the sheriff threatened to burn down his mill. Unfortunately, when it came to threats, the sheriff was always as good as his word. This time he did not send his men to do his dirty work as he so often did; he meted out the punishment himself – he enjoyed that kind of thing from time to time, particularly if there was little or no danger.
It was dawn, and Much was out rabbit-trapping when the sheriff came with his men. Much’s father was already at his milling. They shut the door of the mill and barred it. Then they tossed burning faggots in through the windows and set it on fire.
If there was one single thing that alarmed the Outlaws, it was fire. They all knew, as every forester does, just how fast a wind-fanned fire can race through the treetops, faster than a man can run. A look-out saw the smoke rising from the edge of the forest and sounded his horn. By the time Robin and the Outlaws reached the mill, it was burnt to the ground. They found Much the miller’s son sitting staring into the ashes, his face blackened with smoke and smeared with tears. He looked up at Robin.
“I should have been here. I was too late. They burnt him. They burnt my father alive.”
“The sheriff?” Robin asked.
“I saw him riding off,” said Much. “He was laughing. They were all laughing.”
Friar Tuck took him by the arms and helped him to his feet. Much was a massive man. He towered above Tuck and was just about as broad as he was high. “By God’s good grace, I know you,” said Tuck. “You’re the wrestler I saw at Nottingham fair, aren’t you? Didn’t you throw ten men inside as many minutes? I’d know you anywhere. I was one of the ten!” He turned to Robin. “Didn’t I tell you, Robin? Didn’t I say to have faith?”
“Then heaven be praised,” said Robin, “for you’re just the man we’re looking for. Teach us to fight as well as you, and we’ll build up your mill better than it ever was. What d’you say?”
Much the miller’s son looked down at Robin and wiped away the last of his tears. “You’re Robin Hood, aren’t you?” And he laid his great hands on Robin’s shoulders. “You can leave the mill as it is. I have milled my last sack of flour. If I can be of service, if I can put my strength to some good use, then all I ask in return is food in my belly, a warm place to lay my head, and the chance when the time comes to hang the cursed Sheriff of Nottingham for what he did to my father. Is it a bargain?”
“A bargain,” said Robin, “and a promise.”
And from that moment on the two of them became the firmest of friends, always comfortable in each other’s company. Hugely different as they were in shape and size, they were about the same age. A quiet giant and never far from Robin’s side, he soon became known as “Robin’s shadow”. They spoke little, nor did they need to, so closely did they seem to understand one another – perhaps because the sheri
ff had wreaked much the same havoc in both their young lives.
Much proved to be a tireless, patient teacher. He taught the Outlaws everything he knew, so that within months all of them were fighting fit. They were ready. Now, every one of them, however twisted and bent, could defend himself or herself, and most were more than a match for any sheriff’s man. They were champing at the bit, straining to be let loose at the sheriff, to do what they had been trained to do. But Will Scarlett and Robin’s father still counselled caution. They had only a couple of dozen rusty swords and a few spears between them, hardly enough to attack Nottingham castle. All the smiths they knew of were in the pay of the sheriff and his armourer, and none of them could be trusted. Robin, like most of them, began to despair of ever finding one. But not Tuck. “The Lord brought us Much, did he not?” he said. “Remember what He told us: ‘Seek and ye shall find.’ And so we shall, by God’s good grace. We shall find ourselves a smith.”
To keep the Outlaws happy, Robin arranged endless wrestling matches and archery competitions – which he was careful not to win too often. There were mock battles, mock ambushes. The weeks passed and the weeks passed and they searched the villages far and wide, but still they could not find the man they wanted. Like everyone else, Robin yearned for action. Marion did what she could to persuade him to be patient. “Bide your time, Robin,” she would tell him. “Why rush into danger? Let’s just live while we can and be happy. He’ll turn up sooner or later, you’ll see.”
Outlaw: The Story of Robin Hood Page 4