Erasmum Hobart

by Erasmum Hobart

  ‘What makes you think it’s the same one, lad?’

  Will frowned. ‘Will you stop calling me lad,’ he snapped.

  ‘Sorry, lad.’

  Will grimaced.

  ‘Sorry, l—, er, sorry, Will,’ John managed. ‘What makes you think it’s the same tree?’

  ‘That little mound of acorn cups at the bottom.’

  ‘Well, what’s so unusual about those?’ said Robin. ‘Plenty of oaks in Sherwood.’

  ‘Yes,’ Will spoke painfully slowly as if to a child, ‘but that’s not an oak.’

  Erasmus examined the base of the tree carefully, then looked up into the branches. ‘I think Will’s right,’ he said, ‘there’s a squirrel’s dray up there.’

  ‘Well, there’re plenty of squirrels in Sherwood,’ said Robin. ‘I’m sure some of them nest in ash trees.’

  ‘Probably not all that many,’ said Erasmus. ‘It’s further from the acorns. Besides, there’s also the fact we’ve been walking in a large circle for about the last hour.’

  ‘What?’ said John, Will and Robin in unison.

  ‘You could tell by the position of the sun,’ said Erasmus. ‘I thought it was odd.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you bleedin’ well say something?’ snapped Will.

  ‘I thought you all knew where you were going.’

  ‘You thought we wanted to go round in a circle?’

  Erasmus shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I thought you were going in a wide arc – I didn’t realise it was a circle until just now.’

  Will turned back to Robin. ‘So we’re lost. I thought you knew where we were going.’

  ‘Deloial said it was this way,’ said Robin. ‘He’d have led us himself, but he’s slightly incapacitated.’

  ‘Why are we going where he tells us anyway? I thought you were supposed to be the leader of this band.’

  Robin’s smile slipped and he fell silent for a moment. ‘Look,’ he said eventually. ‘Deloial told me about this rich monk; he didn’t give me any instructions, he just told me where he was.’

  ‘It’s a long way to go to find a monk,’ said John.

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t be that far—’ Robin began.

  ‘If we’d been going the right bleedin’ way,’ Will concluded. He turned to the rest of the band. ‘Much!’ he called the youngest of the party to his side. Much approached him timidly, trying to seem friendly whilst simultaneously keeping out of range of Will’s fists.

  ‘Will,’ he greeted his comrade.

  ‘Shin up that tree,’ said Will, motioning to the ash.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To see if you can see the abbey, of course.’ Much nodded and began to climb the ash, Erasmus giving him a boost into the lower branches.

  ‘And Much,’ Will called after him.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Knock that bloody squirrel’s nest out when you pass it. Those little bleeders are beginning to get on my nerves.’

  Ten minutes later the group resumed their travels – this time in a different direction. The doe and her fawn waited until Will’s voice, still audible in the distance as he complained that the monk had better be extremely rich, had receded sufficiently from them, then returned to the clearing to play and to examine the strange ball of twigs that had appeared on the ground in their absence.

  Eventually, they emerged from the woods and Fountains Abbey came into view. Erasmus stopped and contemplated the view with something approaching awe. He had seen the ruins before, of course, as an empty shell like most of those that had been victims of Henry VIII and his son Edward, but with no surviving examples to put meat on the bones, he had been entirely unprepared for the grandeur that was Fountains at its peak.

  The tall, elegant building, with its colonnaded walkways and steeply sloping roof, dominated the surrounding countryside and was visible to the outlaws from the moment they reached the fringes of Sherwood and looked upon the open countryside beyond.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ Erasmus half-whispered.

  ‘It bloody ought to be, it’s taken enough money,’ said Will.

  ‘And we’re going to just walk in and rob it?’

  ‘No. We’re going to rob a monk.’

  Erasmus nodded towards the vast stone structure. ‘Yes, but there’ll be dozens in there, surely. You think they’ll just stand by and let you?’

  Robin stepped forward and scanned the horizon. ‘The one we’re after has a favourite haunt outside the abbey,’ he said. ‘Come on – it’s this way.’ He began to lead the way through the fringes of the forest, keeping the building on his left as he went.

  Erasmus looked at the unbroken line of trees ahead of them. Something about the venture made him very uncomfortable for some reason and it wasn’t just the moral ambiguity of robbing monks. ‘He’s hardly going to have all his money with him, is he?’ he said. ‘Surely you’ll have to go into the abbey to get it.’

  ‘That’s where you come in.’

  ‘What?’ Erasmus stopped suddenly and the rest of the party followed suit.

  Robin smiled winsomely. ‘You’ve still got that monk’s costume, haven’t you?’ he said.

  ‘Well yes, but…’

  ‘And you’ve got a dagger now.’

  ‘Yes.’ Erasmus had a sinking feeling about what was coming next. Robin didn’t disappoint him.

  ‘Well, what we’ll do is to persuade him to fetch his money from the abbey and then you can accompany him to make sure he gets it.’

  ‘Just me?’

  ‘And your dagger,’ said Robin. ‘I’m sure the good friar will get the point.’

  ‘Friar?’

  ‘Yes. Friar. What does it matter what kind of monk he is? We separate him from his money and that’s that.’

  ‘And if he objects?’

  ‘Then we can separate his soul from his body and let him see what his God makes of him.’

  The afternoon sun shone warmly on their backs as the group made their way around the abbey. Presently, they came to a river and Robin motioned for them to stay out of sight as he approached. Erasmus, curious for a glimpse of the friar, edged his way into the fringes of the forest and found himself a vantage point from where he could see and not be seen.

  The friar who sat on the bank opposite Robin showed little outward sign of wealth: his monastic robes were of the usual coarse brown cloth and were ragged at the edges. He wore a simple pendant around his neck and, although he couldn’t see it well from a distance, Erasmus imagined this was a religious symbol of some kind, rather than some rich jewel. The friar did, however, show signs that he was richly fed – the voluminous folds of his robes had little chance of concealing the bulk of the man beneath them and, even now, he appeared to be attempting to supplement his diet by fishing. As Robin’s shadow fell across the river, the friar raised his tonsured head to reveal a pudgy face, with kindly eyes and a friendly mouth. It was the kind of face that inspired trust – a useful attribute in a man of the cloth.

  The friar looked up at Robin. ‘Good afternoon, friend,’ he said. ‘Can I ask you to step to one side – your shadow is disturbing the fish.’

  Robin made no effort to move. ‘Good friar,’ he greeted the monk in turn, ‘I have a need to cross this river.’

  ‘If you need to cross, then do it quickly so that I can get back to my fishing.’

  Robin looked at the waters thoughtfully. ‘I’d rather not,’ he said. ‘My boots are exceptionally fine and I have no desire to get them wet.’

  ‘It’s a shallow river and a warm day. Besides the fish don’t bite.’

  ‘I see you wear a pendant around your neck,’ said Robin.

  ‘That I do. What of it?’

  ‘And is that the mark of Saint Christopher I see upon it?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Then surely you are bounden to help a weary traveller on his way.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said the monk, ‘And if you walk two miles north of here, you’ll find a small village. There’s a bridge ac
ross the river there. Consider yourself helped.’

  Robin toyed with his bow. ‘I’m afraid I must insist,’ he said.

  The monk shook his head, muttering something about tourists, then carefully withdrew his fishing line from the water and laid it on the bank. He checked the straps on his sandals, then began to wade across the river, the water coming to a little under waist deep. Once he reached the bank, the friar turned and allowed Robin to climb on to his shoulders before beginning his return to the opposite side. Robin made a point of keeping his boots clear of the water, digging his heels into his mount’s fat torso. The friar carried him uncomplainingly until he reached the bank, then pitched Robin on to the grass and, in one swift movement, took the outlaw’s sword and held it to his throat.

  ‘Friend, it is the custom amongst our order that all favours must be repaid when the debtor is able,’ he said. ‘Now that I have helped you to cross the river, you will kindly return the favour and carry me to the other side.’

  Robin looked at the friar as if he were mad. ‘But you started on this side,’ he said.

  ‘And no doubt I will return to it in due course,’ said the friar, ‘but for the moment I have a desire to see the other bank.’ He kept his grip steady on Robin’s sword, prodding the outlaw gently to make him rise to his feet and descend into the river.

  Erasmus watched Robin struggle across the river with his burden. He didn’t envy the man his task: the monk was easily twice his own weight, if not more. Fish being good and healthy food, Erasmus assumed the good friar probably supplemented his diet with rather more ale than was strictly necessary.

  Robin made his way awkwardly towards the bank, feeling along the uneven riverbed with his feet. Every time he slowed down, the friar prodded him with his own sword, firmly, but never once drawing blood. When they reached the bank, Robin pretended to stumble then tipped the friar on to the bank. The friar, who had obviously expected his trick to be repeated, rolled over, picking up Robin’s sword from where it had fallen next to him and sat facing the outlaw, who was still standing in the river, breathing heavily.

  ‘Not quick enough, friend,’ said the friar, brandishing the sword.

  ‘Not smart enough, friend,’ said Robin, gesturing behind the man. The friar looked behind him to where John, Will and the twins were stood in a semicircle behind him, bows in hands and arrows at their strings.

  ‘Is this how you repay Christian charity?’ said the friar, rising slowly to his feet and making a great show of using Robin’s sword to help him. Robin watched with a concerned air as the blade flexed under the man’s weight. The outlaws waited courteously for the friar to rise, which he did with slow solemnity, and were then suddenly surprised when, with an almost cat-like agility, he spun around with sword outstretched and, at a stroke, cleaved the outlaws’ bows in half. The outlaws stared at the man in stunned silence – even Will was at a loss for a suitable response. Robin, meanwhile, had pulled himself from the river and pressed a dagger into the Friar’s back.

  ‘Drop the sword,’ he said. The friar complied and turned slowly to face Robin.

  ‘Who are you?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Robin Hood,’ said Robin.

  ‘I’ve heard of you,’ said the friar. ‘They say you rob the rich to give to the poor, that you right wrongs and punish injustices where justice wouldn’t normally prevail.’

  ‘Do they indeed? Well you, I presume, are Friar Tuck.’

  Tuck nodded. ‘That I am, friend.’

  ‘You’re no friend of mine,’ said Robin, shoving the friar to the ground with his free hand and picking up his sword. He put his dagger back into his belt and held the sword to the friar’s throat.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Tuck.

  ‘I’ve been told you take money from the poor to line your own pockets.’ Robin’s voice was bitter, but not so much that you felt he was that worried about the poor personally.

  ‘That’s not true. Who told you that?’

  Robin sneered as he toyed with the haft of his sword. ‘You’re a man of the Church,’ he said. ‘We all know how the Church lives off of the fat of the land.’ He prodded at Tuck’s ample stomach to punctuate the point. ‘I’ve simply heard that you’ve more fat than most.’

  Tuck’s amiable expression gave way to a look of fear and apprehension as it was reflected in the shining blade at his throat. ‘It’s not true, I tell you,’ he said, trying not to move too much as he spoke for fear of injury. ‘Who’s been saying these things?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. We’re here to right the wrong, one way or another.’

  Tuck’s eyes darted left and right in short, panicky motions. Then, in one swift movement, he moved back from Robin’s blade, picked up the dismembered remains of John’s bow and lashed the string around Robin’s ankles. He pushed the outlaw so that he fell over backwards into the river, then rose to his feet and ran in the direction of the abbey. The outlaws, stripped of their bows, looked first in the direction of the friar’s retreating back then towards the river and, making a snap decision, they hurried to the bank to rescue their leader.

  From behind the trees Erasmus watched, wide-eyed. This wasn’t the Robin Hood that he knew: whatever he had said about the money and the friar’s reputation, it was clear that Robin had intended to kill the man. This didn’t sound like the legendary outlaw’s justice – even if you allowed for the possibility that the story may have been toned down for a modern audience.

  Erasmus had seen enough and he hadn’t liked any of it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When all is said and done, there can be few historical figures who really live up to their legends. Characters may be altered by time and bias, gaining a hump here, murdering a couple of illegitimate heirs there, but they are still undeniably rooted in some kind of reality. Legendary characters, meanwhile, are painted with a broader brush, one-dimensional renders of the hero or the villain, gifted with supernatural levels of wisdom, bravery or courtesy to women. It can be easily understood why serious historians are given to discard such legends entirely, especially when they involve giants, swords in stones or second comings of great hero kings.

  Such dismissal can, however, be doing those legends an injustice. Peel away the mystical baggage that generations of storytellers have added to the tales, and there may be a grain of truth at their heart. St George, we know, was a real person, even if his dragon was as genuine as JFK’s alien abductors. It is, therefore, reasonable to assume that other legendary characters may also have had real antecedents.

  Some, perhaps, can be considered to be based on a single, historical figure – William Tell is unlikely to be drawn from more, unless the Austrian government had a habit of balancing apples on the heads of small children – others are considered to be composites, a convenient label for a collection of characters who fought the good fight, whether against the invading Saxon horde, or against the tyranny of Norman injustice. In either case the legends persist and develop because they have, at their heart, some great human quality that proves inspirational to future generations. The grime of realism is then washed away by the passage of time, leaving a single kernel of truth wrapped in a nicely sanitised package.

  Had Erasmus been pressed for the key to Robin Hood’s legend, he would have said that it was his role as the people’s hero. Without robbing from the rich and giving to the poor, the real Robin would have been of no more interest to the oppressed villagers than any other outlaw – there would be no reason to sing his praises or to stage pageants in his honour. Finding the true Robin less than perfect in this regard was, therefore, something of a shock, and Erasmus could only assume a largely chauvinist society had taken stories of Marian’s deeds and cast them on to an arbitrary contemporary who simply happened to meet the criteria of wearing trousers.

  He sighed as he plodded his way through the forest. Even if, in his own time, Marian and her companions were not alive to benefit from the publicity, the slander still seemed unjust. He glanced briefl
y back over his shoulder in the direction of the abbey, shook his head and turned to his route of travel.

  Leaving the outlaws had been simple enough: Erasmus hadn’t come out of hiding when John and the others had surrounded Tuck, and they seemed to have completely forgotten about him by the time Tuck deposited Robin in the river and made his escape. As a result, Erasmus was able to slip away into the forest, navigating by the position of the sun, rather than retracing the route the band had followed on their outward trip. The weather was warm and pleasant and, as the autumn sun began to sink in the west, Erasmus began to look around for a place to camp for the night. He needed somewhere concealed enough that he could light a fire without drawing attention to himself, yet open enough that he wouldn’t be at risk of burning down the forest in the process.

  As the shadows began to lengthen, the teacher became a little less fussy. His path bisected a small clearing. It probably wasn’t that far from the path Robin’s men were likely to take, but if he didn’t want to be wandering the forest alone in the dark he knew this would have to do. He cleared an area in the centre then collected twigs and small branches from around the forest floor. Once he had a suitable pile, he took a quick look around to make sure he was definitely alone, reached into his pouch and took out a packet of matches.

  Erasmus had never been the outdoors type: when forced to go on camping holidays as a child, he had lived in perpetual fear of either letting in the rain by touching the side of the tent or of being woken up by a mole surfacing underneath him. When his parents had bundled him into the scouts, he’d cursed Baden-Powell for founding the organisation. Fortunately, his stay in the group had been short: he’d been ejected for using his skill with knots (one thing he could do) to tie all the tents in the neighbouring guide camp together and lash them to a handy Land Rover. When the scoutmaster had driven off to pick up some supplies, he’d simultaneously removed two-dozen tents and the modesty of a large number of young girls clad in their nightclothes. The guide captain had only been saved from embarrassment by her choice of nightwear, although she was still none too pleased to find herself, wearing nothing more than a flannelette nightgown, exposed to the gaze of several dozen young boys. The experience had been enough to ensure Erasmus never went camping again and he had thus missed out on the school’s orienteering programme, with its lessons in hunting, fishing and lighting fires with stones. He’d never seen the point of this latter skill, anyway: it was easy enough to remember a packet of matches and he was just as likely to lose those as he was the necessary equipment for killing and skinning a rabbit.