Outlaw

by Angus Donald

  Dawn was just breaking as we moved off north-west, out of the village and along the farm tracks until we joined the road that wound north through Sherwood Forest. This great wood of the shire of Nottingham was a royal hunting preserve that stretched for a hundred miles north of our village. It was a huge expanse of territory, at some points being fifty miles wide, containing many villages and hamlets, fields and commons; but most of the land was woodland, home to badgers, rabbits, wolves and wild boar, and, of course, the King’s deer. To hunt King Henry’s deer was a capital offence, punishable by hanging if a man was caught ‘red handed’, stained with the deer’s blood; even to be caught with a hunting dog in the forest could bring you branding or mutilation. And two toes from each of the dog’s front paws would be hacked off to stop it running swiftly again. Not that this constrained Robin’s followers, I soon learnt. If they were captured they were dead men, anyway. But they seemed to take a special pleasure in flouting the forest laws, murdering the King’s foresters and eating as much venison as they wished. It was almost part of the band’s identity. ‘We were Robin’s men; we ate the red deer, and we laughed at the law,’ one grizzled outlaw told me simply, but with immense pride, years later.

  As I walked along on that morning, through the sharp spring sunshine, through the tall alders and kindly beech, and the thick trunks of ancient oak trees, with the feathery fingers of lush green fens caressing my legs, the horrors of the night receded and Tuck, who walked beside me leaning on his staff, began to talk. About nothing at first - just talking as we walked through the peaceful woodland.

  ‘I have met hot men,’ he said. ‘Men who could become angry in an instant; some say they have too much yellow bile in their bodies; too much of the element of fire. These are violent, angry men, who in their passion would strike you dead. Our own King Harry is one; an intemperate fellow. In his rages, he will roll upon the ground, you know; quite literally biting the rushes on the floor. Chewing them. Rush-muncher, his servants call him, when his back is turned, when they think it’s safe to joke about their lord.’

  I stared at him: the King? Who would dare to mock the King? And Tuck went on: ‘And I have met cold men, so-called phlegmatic types, with too much water in their veins. A man who would take a blow to the face from a man who had seduced his wife. And he would say naught, but then have his wife quartered and send the seducer a severed leg tied with her garter ribbons. Oh yes, and smile at dinner with him, drink a toast to the man’s health.

  ‘Both are dangerous, of course, but the worst men are the ones who appear cold, but inside they are hot. They have the raging power of anger but the icy control of a calm man. This cold-hot man, this phlegmatic-choleric man, is the one to fear.’

  ‘And my master,’ I asked. ‘Is he a cold-hot man?’

  Tuck shot me a sideways look. ‘Well done, boy. You’re quick, I see. Yes, Robin is such a man. He’s cold-hot. And when he is very angry, that’s when he is at his coldest. And then God help his enemies, whoever they are, for Robin will have no mercy on them.’

  ‘Is he a good man?’ I asked. Forty-odd years later the question still makes me blush. The monk just laughed. ‘Is he a good man?’ he repeated. ‘Yes, I suppose, he’s a good man. He’s a sinner, of course. We all are. But a good man, too. If you asked me is he a godly man, I’d have to say no. He has his own peculiar notions about God but he has no love, no love at all for Mother Church. Oh, quite the opposite. He mocks it. And takes pleasure in robbing and tormenting its servants.’ Tuck crossed himself. ‘I pray the Lord Jesus will open his eyes to the truth one day.’ Piously, I crossed myself too, but what I was feeling was an intoxicating shock of excitement. Such boldness, to mock God’s representatives on Earth; what contempt for his immortal soul, of Hell itself. Like the wolf’s head nailed to the church door, it was dizzying.

  ‘I’ll tell you a story,’ Tuck continued, ‘A few months ago, Robin, Hugh and a handful of his men ambushed the Bishop of Hereford as he was travelling with a considerable armed retinue through Sherwood. After a brief and bloody fight, the Bishop and his followers were subdued. Robin took three hundred pounds in silver pennies off them; then he ordered the Bishop to sing Holy Mass for his men. I was away at my duties in the north and the men had been without the comfort of a religious service for some time.

  ‘Well, the Bishop, a stupid, arrogant man, refused to celebrate Mass in the wilderness at the command of outlaws. So Robin ordered the slaughter, one by one, of all the priests and monks who had the bad luck to be accompanying the Bishop on that day. He didn’t touch the captured men-at-arms or the female servants, but the clerics, he killed them all, one after the other, as the Bishop looked on and prayed for their souls. When they were all dead, the corpses lying in a stinking blood-spattered pile, they stripped the Bishop to his drawers and put a sword to his throat, and only then did he consent to sing Mass for the outlaws, shivering in his skimpy braies, in the gloom of the wild wood. Then Robin sent the Bishop on his way, almost naked and alone, stumbling all the way on foot twenty miles to Nottingham. Of course, Robin’s men loved it, if only for the entertainment. And, some felt their souls were more secure after the Mass.’

  ‘And yet you serve him?’ I asked. ‘You, a monk, serve a man who mocks Mother Church, who kills priests . . .’

  ‘Aye, well, actually, I do not serve him. I serve only God. But I’m his friend and so I sometimes help him. I help him and his men, God forgive me, because all men need Jesus’s love, even godless outlaws. And I regard the wild places in Sherwood as my parish. These men, if you like, are my parishioners, my flock. Remember, boy, we are all sinners to one degree or another. And Robin is not a bad man; he has done many bad things, no doubt. But I have faith that he will come to see the light of Our Lord Jesus Christ in time. I’m sure of that as I am of Salvation.’

  He fell silent. As we walked along, I thought about hot men and cold men and cold-hot murderers. And good men. And bad men. And sinners. And Hell.

  The morning passed and it grew hot under the sunshine. I wanted to ask Tuck so many things. But he had begun to sing a psalm to himself under his breath as we walked and I did not dare to disturb his thoughts. So for an hour or two we strolled along in companionable silence, keeping our place in the great slow-moving column and saving our breath.

  A horseman, well-mounted but in shabby homespun clothes, came riding up the column to Hugh, who was on a grey mare a few paces ahead of us. The rider’s hood was pulled far forward so as to conceal his face unless you were looking directly at him. In the full sunlight of a spring morning he still managed to look shadowy and sinister, as if he had somehow wrapped the night around himself. He drew his horse alongside Hugh’s and, leaning forward, whispered something into the clerk’s ear. Robin’s brother nodded, asked a question and learnt its answer. He handed the shadow man a small leather purse, said something inaudible to him and then Hugh spurred forward and galloped to the head of the column where Robin was riding. The hooded man turned his horse and trotted back the way we had come towards Nottingham. Tuck paid him no mind. He continued to plod along in that steady mile-eating pace, barely using his staff at all. Then, suddenly, a trumpet, shockingly loud, sounded from the head of the column. I started, looked around for an alarm but everything seemed normal. The cavalcade came to a halt. The people were chatting to each other unconcerned. The armed men leaning on their bow staves. The cheerful sun looked down from above: it was noon.

  ‘Time for dinner,’ said Tuck, with a great deal of relish. He rummaged in the nearest cart and pulled out a dirty white sack and huge stone bottle. ‘Let’s sit over here,’ he said, and we sat down in the shade of a wide chestnut tree. All around us men and women from the column were unpacking bags and satchels and spreading blankets on the grass. Out of our sack, like a travelling magician I had once seen at a Nottingham fair, Tuck started to pull wonderful things, luxuries of the kind that I rarely saw then and very seldom ate: a loaf of fine-milled white bread; a whole boiled chicken; smoked gurna
rd; cold roast venison; a round yellow cheese; hard-boiled eggs; salted cod; apples, stored in straw since the previous autumn . . . He gestured at the stone bottle, inviting me to drink, and I pulled out the wooden stopper and took a long swallow of cider. This was a feast fit for a royal household: my normal noon-day meal, if there was anything to eat in our house, which was seldom, consisted of coarse rye bread, ale, pottage and, if we were lucky, some cheese. Meat we rarely ate, perhaps a rabbit poached from the lord of the manor’s warren once in a while. The monk tore a leg off the plump chicken and tossed it to me. I grabbed a handful of the soft white bread, ripped off a hunk and quickly began to fill my belly.

  Tuck cut himself a large slice of cheese, wrapped it in bread, took a deep swallow of cider, and sighed happily. His mouth full, he gestured at me to eat and drink. And he further encouraged my gluttony by cutting me a large chunk of smoked fish. The food and drink seemed to loosen his tongue once again, and between mouthfuls he said: ‘You asked how I, a man of God, come to help Robin, a godless murderer. Well, I shall tell you . . .’ And he began.

  ‘I have known Robin these nine years past; since he was but a boy, not much older than you. He had been sent to stay with the Earl of Locksley, to learn the skills of a knight, but he was a wild one even then, forever running off into Barnsdale forest when he should have been attending to his lessons. But he was not an outlaw, not the Lord of the Wood you see today, whom everyone must obey on pain of death.’ He lifted his chin towards a distant group of figures - Robin, his brother Hugh and John - sitting on the ground, laughing and eating, joking with each other in a carefree way, but surrounded by a ring of grim armed men. ‘But he despised the Church, even at that age,’ he continued, ‘and when we first met, to him I was no more than a symbol of a tyrannical and corrupt institution.’ He paused and took another huge swig of cider.

  ‘I was a wayward monk, a sinner, who had been sent away from Kirklees Priory - yes, I know it is more famous as a nunnery, but a certain number of monks lived in an adjoining brother house - what was I saying? Yes, I was sent away to live alone in a cell in the woods. What was my sin, you ask? Not what you suspect, you horny young rascal, with the nuns and monks living next to each other; it was plain greed. I could not control my appetite on fast days. And, in those days, under old Prior William, almost every day at Kirklees was designated a fast day: Wednesdays, Fridays, Saturdays, and all those interminable, joyless holy days.’

  Tuck gave me a grin, to let me know that he was joking, and stuffed a whole leg of chicken into his mouth, stripping the flesh from the bone with his strong white teeth. ‘I have always been afflicted with a large appetite,’ he said, with his mouth full. ‘So, for my sin, I was sent off to a hermit’s cell in the forest where there was a ferry owned by the Priory. I was alone, and my duty was to act as the ferryman, conveying travellers safely across the river. I was to take my meagre living from their small gifts of food. Prior William thought it would teach me a lesson. Perhaps cure my gluttony.

  ‘One sunny day I was lying under a tree, eyes closed, in deepest contemplation, when a young man rode up on a horse. It was Robin. His shouts of greeting roused me from my meditation. He was well dressed and armed with a fine sword in a gold-chased scabbard. I could tell he came from money. “Good morning, Brother,” he sings out. And then I realised he was also very drunk and I noticed that his face was badly bruised. “Will you carry me across this river safely to the far bank?” Robin said cheerily, nearly falling off his horse.

  ‘I scrambled to my feet and said that I would, if he would grant me alms, food or drink as payment. He said: “I shall give you what you deserve for this service.” Then he walked his horse on to the ferry. I was wary of him: drunken, heavily armed young men usually mean trouble for someone. I know because I was not always a monk. Before I took my vows, I was a soldier in Wales, a bowman and a damned good one, though I say so myself, fighting for Prince Iorweth, and in those days I did my full share of swaggering about in drink.

  ‘The ferry was a simple floating platform linked to a rope that stretched across the river. The rider or pedestrian just walked on to the platform and I punted them a dozen yards across to the other side with a sturdy pole. Robin said nothing as I heaved the ferry across the calm brown water, but he took a long pull from a flask of wine at his belt. When we were still a few yards from the other bank, I stopped the ferry. It floated downstream a yard or two until it came to rest, held against the gentle current by the rope.

  ‘“I’ll take that payment now, if it pleases you, sir,” I said. Robin stared at me, then his handsome young face contorted in anger and he snarled: “I will pay you what you deserve, monk: and that is nothing, you brown parasite. You and your filthy brethren have been sucking the blood of good men for too long, threatening them with damnation unless they offer up their wealth, their food, their toil and even their bodies. I say you are all blood-suckers and I will not allow you another drop of mine. Take me to the bank and then get you to Hell.”

  ‘I said nothing but merely shoved my pole into the mud of the river and began to move the ferry back to the original riverbank. “What are you doing, you God-cursed tub of shit, you prick-sucking pig,” Robin was spitting at me in his rage. I stayed silent. But with two or three good shoves on the pole we were back where we had started, the ferry nudging up against the bank. “If you will not pay,” I said. “You shall not cross.”

  ‘At this Robin drew his sword. It was a beautiful blade, I remember thinking, far too good for the drunken lout who held it. “You will carry me across this river or I will have your life, you soul-selling leech,” Robin said, holding the sword to my throat. I looked into his grey eyes and I saw that, drunk or not, he meant what he said. My life hung by a thread. And so I shoved the pole into the riverbed and we began to cross once again. Robin relaxed; he still held the sword, but it was no longer tickling my throat.’ Tuck paused at this point and took a bite from a wrinkled apple.

  ‘Now, Alan, have a care about repeating what I tell you next. It is a sensitive issue with Robin. He’s a proud man and he can be very dangerous in defence of his reputation. ’ I nodded and he continued. ‘About halfway across the river, he holding out the sword and with his back to the other bank, I suddenly shouted, “My good sweet Christ,” and pointed over his shoulder at the edge of the wood behind. Robin spun drunkenly around in alarm to see what I was pointing at . . . and, holding the punting pole like a spear, I smashed the blunt end of it into the side of his head, exactly on the temple. He dropped like a sack of onions and slid off the ferry into the slow brown river.’

  I stared at Tuck, my mouth agape. Then I started laughing. ‘Are you serious?’ I asked, between gasps of breath. ‘Robin Hood fell for that old trick? “I say, what’s that behind you?” A ruse that was well into its dotage when Cain killed Abel?’

  Brother Tuck nodded. ‘He swallowed it. But try not to mention it to anyone. The poor boy is still very sensitive about it. He was very young, you must remember, and thoroughly drunk.’

  I controlled my snorts of laughter with a mouthful of cider: ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Well, I fished him out, of course,’ said Tuck. ‘He was quite unconscious, and so I wrapped him up in a blanket and let him sleep in my cell for the rest of that day and the whole night.

  ‘In the morning he was awake, with an aching head and a mouthful of apologies, and I fed him broth and we talked, and made peace between ourselves. We have been friends ever since. And, a few years later, after he was declared outlaw - which is a story for another day - he would visit me quite often, and sometimes leave wounded comrades at the cell for me to tend. Until he found someone who could heal them better than I. But that too is another story. Anyway, I have never seen Robin the worse for drink since that day. And I have never seen him openly display his anger. But he is angry inside - why, I do not know, but inside he is boiling and outside, these days at least, he is ice. He is the quintessential cold-hot man.’

  The noo
n meal was over. All along the column Robin’s people were packing away food sacks into the carts, sweeping crumbs off clothes, throwing away scraps. I was feeling full and not a little sleepy after such a huge meal. I had not slept the night before, though the hideous scenes with the man whose tongue was carved out seemed like no more than a nightmare in the glorious afternoon sunshine. Tuck noticed my tiredness and suggested I ride in one of the carts for a while. So I made myself a nest among the sacks of grain and bales of hay in the largest cart and lay back as the cavalcade moved off down the road. I thought about Tuck’s story; trying to imagine Robin, the calm, controlled man that I had met last night, as that raging drunken youth, but it seemed incredible, so I dismissed it from my mind and very soon the swaying of the cart and the soft familiar noises of the cavalcade lulled me to sleep.

  When I awoke it was dark, a crescent moon was high in the sky and the cart was in the courtyard of what looked like a large farmstead: a long hall with stables and various outbuildings. I must have slept all afternoon and for the early part of the night. There was nobody around, but the horses were housed, next to a dovecote, in an open shed, one of many off to the side of the hall itself. One of the horses was more striking than the others: pure white and more richly caparisoned than any I had seen on our journey here or, in fact, ever: it was the mount of a lady, not some well-to-do farmer’s wife, but a noblewoman. I stared at the horse for a while thinking that the bridle alone would be worth five marks, and, very briefly, I considered lifting it. I was hungry again and there were sounds of revelry - great gusts of raucous laughter and music - and a strong smell of roasting meat and spilled ale coming from a partially open door at the side of the house. I’d never get away with the bridle, I thought. I didn’t even know where I was exactly, and I had nowhere to run to, and nowhere to sell the loot. So, scrambling out of the cart, I brushed the hay and seeds off myself and went to the half-open door in search of food.