The outlaws watched him entranced: the palmer forgot his beads, and the man-at-arms his aching knee. When at last he made an end, the great cave echoed and re-echoed with their roar of approval.
Smiling to himself, Peterkin sat down again and returned the gay baubles to his bundle. ‘It be all in the knack,’ he said, almost apologetically.
Then Robin spoke for the first time. ‘It is a knack worth having, Friend Peterkin.’
‘Oh aye! It earns me my bread and meat, and it gives pleasure to many—most of all to me.’
‘Yet it must be a hard life in the winter.’
‘Why, there are worse,’ said the little man comfortably. ‘I ply my trade in rich men’s halls and village ale-houses, and I seldom want for my supper and a warm place to sleep—and there is always the spring coming, and the country fairs. Sometimes I juggle at weddings, too. I should be on my way to a wedding now… .’ He broke off and cast a questioning glance at the grey curtain of rain beyond the entrance of the cave; seeing which, Robin said:
‘It is cruel weather for travelling. Have you far to go to this wedding?’
‘A matter of twenty miles or so—to Malaset, over beyond Locksley. The wedding is not until the day after to-morrow, but the guests will most likely have gathered by now, and there will be many of them, for ’tis a lordling’s daughter that is being wed to a knight.’
‘Her name, man—her name!’ cried Robin harshly, and he sprang to his feet.
Peterkin the Juggler looked up in surprise. ‘I have not heard her name; but she is daughter to Lord Robert Fitzwater of Malaset.’
‘Do you know who is the bridegroom?’
‘Aye, that I do know. He is Sir Roger of Doncaster: a black, covetous young villain, if ever there was one, and no fit mate for any woman. And this I have heard,’ added Peterkin slowly: ‘that in this marriage she does not follow her own heart.’
Robin turned away without a word, and went and stood in the opening of the cave, staring blindly out at the downpour.
So Marian was to be married, and to Roger of Doncaster—that smooth-faced young coxcomb, whose name had already begun to have an ugly sound in the ears of the country folk. And she was being forced into the marriage; even if the little juggler had not said as much, Robin would have known that she did not follow her own heart. She was his: his dear Marian, alone and frightened in the power of that old tyrant, her father. He swung round to the juggler.
‘You say the wedding is not until the day after to-morrow?’
Peterkin nodded. Every outlaw in the place was silent, watching their leader.
‘Peterkin,’ said Robin, ‘I shall go with you to that wedding. Do you not think I shall make a fine minstrel?’ And without even noticing the surprised bewilderment on the faces of his band, he strode across to the mouth of one of the inner caves which opened from the main one, and disappeared inside.
The inner cave was one of the brotherhood’s treasure-stores; and when Robin came back a few minutes later, he carried a lute, and a rich suit of clothes which had been taken only a few days before from the baggage of a gay young nobleman on the Nottingham road. One leg of the silken hose was green, the other violet. The tight-fitting surcoat was particoloured in the same gay hues, and the wide, fantastically dagged sleeves were lined with rose-colour, while rose-colour also lined the hood of crimson velvet. Robin settled down by the fire again, with the exquisite garments across his knees; and taking woodash, staining lichen, and a sharp stone, he set to work to wreck them.
While he worked, he spoke to his followers: ‘Lads, you’ll be thinking that I am out of my wits; but listen to me. You know, all of you, what manner of man is Sir Roger of Doncaster. And the lady who is to be wed to him in two days time—against her will, as you have heard the juggler say—is my own dear lady. I have neither seen her nor spoken with her since I was proclaimed wolfshead, for the Greenwood is no life for a woman. But now it seems that there are worse things than the Greenwood, and so to-morrow I am going to bring her away.’
‘We will come with you!’ cried Little John.
‘Aye, we’ll come with you, Master!’ cried the others.
On the opposite side of the fire a boy sat forward with a jerk, his face alight with eagerness and his eyes shining. Gilbert Shuttleworth—or Gilbert-of-the-White-Hand, as the others had nicknamed him because of his girlish appearance—had good cause to hate Sir Roger of Doncaster, whose serf he had been. It was only a few months since his father, forced to work in the fields with the marsh fever upon him, and then flogged for skimping his work, had died of the flogging. Gilbert had fled to join the outlaws after that, but he had neither forgotten nor forgiven, and his eagerness to pay a little of the debt leaped in his eyes as he exclaimed: ‘Let me come with you, Master Robin.’
‘You shall come,’ Robin said kindly. He looked round on all of them. ‘Twenty of you shall follow me as far as the edge of Locksley Chase; but from there I go alone—save for Peterkin here, if he is not afraid to come with me?’
Peterkin shook his head until the bells on his fool’s cap rang sweet and shrill. ‘I be small in body, and a man of peace,’ said he in his slow, pleasant voice; ‘but I have my little knives, and I be no coward, Master.’
Next morning, in the grey dawn, two figures emerged from the creeper-hidden entrance to one of the caves, and struck away through the forest in the direction of the Nottingham to Sheffield road. One of them was the little juggler; the other was a tall, tatterdemalion minstrel who bore only a very slight resemblance to the outlaw Robin Hood. He wore the stained and tattered remnants of what had once been a fine surcoat and hose of green and violet silk, and a hood of threadbare crimson velvet. He had stained his already brown skin to a gipsyish darkness with walnut juice. His hair was greased and flattened down beneath a fillet of twisted silk, and by careful use of a razor he had thinned his thick, level eyebrows, altering their shape and giving them a devilish upward quirk at the outer corners. He carried a ribboned lute, but there was a serviceable broadsword at his hip, and a dented buckler at his back—for in those days there was nothing unusual in a minstrel going armed against robbers on the lonely roads.
‘I suppose you can sing?’ asked Peterkin presently, as they went along.
‘Well enough,’ replied Robin briefly, and broke into song in a pleasant voice, accompanying himself on the lute. But after a few bars he fell silent again, and the two walked on without a word between them.
A mile behind them followed Will Scarlet and a score of the outlaw band, moving among the trees, silent and unseen in their winter brown, each man with bowstave in hand and well-filled quiver on hip.
On went Robin and Peterkin, the one striding, the other trotting along the highway, through a world that was clear-washed after the rain of the day before and blithe and gay in the early sunshine. The puddles in the deeply rutted road reflected the blue sky and the small white clouds. Though it was still winter, spring was in the air; the bare twigs of the forest were flushing purple with rising sap, and small birds were beginning to whisper the songs they would sing later in the year. Surely, thought Robin, on such a day as this all must go well and have a happy ending.
It was evening when they came at last down the long road through Locksley Village, and Robin looked about him with fondness at the little cottages crowding together in the dusk around their squat church tower.
On they went into the gathering darkness of the open dale beyond, where the road curved beside Locksley Chase, through the tiny hamlet of Malaset and out again to the last broad tongue of the Chase that reached down towards the road. Then at last they saw the great castle close before them, its buttressed keep standing dark against the primrose afterglow.
Standing hidden among the trees, the two men saw there were lights in the Gate House, and a great coming and going across the moat-causeway. Evidently some important wedding guest had just arrived, and his baggage animals had got mixed up with a donkey bringing in vegetables for the household.
The outer bailey was in darkness, save for the swinging light of a lantern as a groom hurried towards the stables, and empty save for a little page exercising two greyhounds in leash. But the inner bailey, when they reached it, was filled with light and bustle as servants, scullions, men-at-arms, and young squires hurried hither and thither about the business of the great castle and the wedding which was to take place on the morrow.
Swiftly Robin and Peterkin threaded their way through the throng and so came to the doorway of the great hall. The doors stood open and yellow light flowed down the steps and out into the hurry-scurry of the bailey. They asked permission of none—for on such an occasion as this no permission was needed—but strode boldly into the hall, Robin strumming his lute, and the bells on Peterkin’s cap jingling as they went.
The steward’s men were already ushering the gay company to their places at the long tables; and the golden light shimmered on silks and velvets and rich brocades in all the colours of the rainbow, dagged sleeves swung and long skirts trailed across the rush-strewn floor, jewels flashed and gold-work sparkled, as the knights and ladies moved about. There were lights everywhere: torches flared along the painted walls, waxen candles glimmered crocus-flamed all down the long tables, and the great fire on the central hearth shed a leaping radiance over the floor and the hounds which lay there waiting for scraps from the tables.
Peterkin bowed with a flourish to the company. ‘Good e’en to you, Gentles all,’ said he, and went swinging up the hall towards the raised dais at the farther end, whereon stood the high table.
Robin followed him, plucking gently at his lute and gay-seeming as though he had not a care in the world; but all the time he glanced about him in search of Marian.
He saw Lord Fitzwater already seated at the high table table—paunchy, old, and ill humoured. He saw the bridegroom in the place of honour, clad in the flashing green of a dragon-fly and playing with the great ruby on his finger—a very exquisite young gallant. But cruelty showed in the lines of his red mouth and the coldness of his dark eyes. A little farther along the table he recognized the scarred face of Sir Hugh de Staunton, a kinsman of Marian, and judged by the grimness of the young knight’s look that he had little liking for the match. The hall seemed full to overflowing with knights and ladies, little scurrying pages and portly stewards; but of Marian there was as yet no sign.
Next moment Peterkin had mounted the dais and leapt upon the damask-covered table, where he capered among the silver dishes and starry candles, without so much as oversetting a goblet or disturbing the longest feather in the spread tail of the roast peacock which had just been set upon the board.
Heads turned to watch him as he tossed up his balls and daggers, the gay baubles gleaming in the torch-light. The noise of many voices softened away, and even the old lord turned in his chair to watch for a few moments. But all was not well in the great hall: there was a growing uneasiness, and knights and ladies were beginning to whisper to each other all down the length of it, and turn often to glance at the door of the women’s quarters, through which Marian should by now have come. The nobles at the high table looked at each other with raised brows; Lord Fitzwater had begun to scowl and to drum upon the table with his fat old fingers, while Sir Roger had ceased to play with his ruby and was biting his fingers in an agony of impatience.
Robin had put back his hood and was sitting on the edge of the dais, strumming his lute. He dared not seem to be watching the door of the women’s quarters, but he could see it out of the corner of his eye, and he too was waiting for Marian to appear. He had no plan, save to get word with her; what came after must be left to the moment. If it were possible he would get her away during the night, none knowing of her flight. If not, he had his broadsword and Peterkin his daggers. Hugh de Staunton had ever been a good friend to Marian, and could be counted on to draw his sword on her behalf if it came to fighting; and the little band of outlaws was waiting little more than a bowshot from the castle walls.
More and more huge dishes were being borne in from the kitchens: smoking pies, roast joints still on the spits, swans and peacocks with their feathers still upon them. The tables were laden with rich food, and the company waiting to begin; and still Marian had not come.
Peterkin finished his act, as though he had not noticed that anything was amiss, but when he leaped down from the table to Robin’s side, he whispered: ‘Your lady is taking her time, it seems.’
‘Poor lass!’ muttered Robin, not ceasing to strum his lute. There was no need for him to sing as yet, for already two tumblers in rags of green and crimson were tying themselves in knots for the amusement of the company. He was glad of this, for he was in no mood for song just then.
Suddenly the old lord let out a roar like an enraged bull, and banged both fists upon the table until the drinking vessels jumped and clattered. Humfrey, the chief steward, hurried to him and was sent trundling off as fast as his short legs would carry him, to fetch the Lady Marian. The guests looked at one another, and a bleak silence descended on the long hall, which had been so gay a little while before.
Then they heard running footsteps, and the tapestry over the doorway was dragged aside to reveal the steward, panting and wild of eye, with the white-faced women-servants behind him. ‘My Lord!’ he cried. ‘Oh my Lord, the Lady Marian is gone!’
‘Gone?’ shouted Fitzwater, lurching to his feet; but the bridegroom had already sprung up with an oath, and catching the unlucky steward by the neckband of his tunic shook him like a rat.
All down the long hall a babble of voices had broken out; but Robin could hear the stammering voice of one of the maids telling how the steward had sent her to fetch her mistress, and how she had found the bower empty. And he could hear Fitzwater shouting that the castle must be searched, the gate-guard questioned, and his daughter instantly found. It seemed that everyone was shouting now, everyone running to and fro; and in the uproar Robin and Peterkin slipped away.
The men-at-arms at the gate were explaining to an agitated squire that no lady, let alone their own lady, had passed through the gate since they had been on duty, when the two came to the gate-house; and Robin strode blithely past them, calling out: ‘Seemingly there will be no wedding here to-morrow, unless you can catch the bride!’ But his face was grim and haggard in the light of the guard-room door.
A few minutes later they were safely across the causeway and on the open turf beyond. As they headed for the dark bulk of the Chase, Robin spoke quietly to his companion: ‘It seems that you have had a bootless journey, friend Peterkin. Will you make for the village alehouse now? Or will you come with me and the rest of our party to search for my lady?’
‘I do not like to turn my back upon a venture before it is ended,’ said Peterkin slowly. ‘I will go with you to search for your lady. And when we have found her, I shall go with you still—if you will have me.’
‘Certainly we will have you.’
So Peterkin joined the Outlaw Brotherhood.
Among the first trees of the Chase they found the little band waiting. Will Scarlet’s voice whispered out of the darkness: ‘What news?’
‘She has gone,’ Robin answered dully. The men crowded round him, scarcely visible in the crowding shadows; and briefly he told them what had happened. ‘Lads,’ he finished, ‘we must find my lady before harm comes to her, or she is retaken by her father or that devil—Roger of Doncaster!’
‘We will find her, Master, never fear,’ came the answer from the darkness around him; and Robin’s heart warmed towards his men as he gave them
their orders.
Diggery he sent off hot-foot to Kirklees Nunnery, for he thought perhaps Marian, knowing that Ursula, his kinswoman, was a nun there, had gone to her for shelter. He sent Gilbert off on the same errand to Sir Hugh de Staunton’s manor, over towards the Peak, and bade him search for her also on the road, since it was hardly likely that she would reach the manor that night.
But though she might have gone to either of these two, Robin knew in his heart that she was far more likely to have gone eastward into Sherwood or Barnesdale, seeking him; and he portioned out his men accordingly. This man was to watch the Nottingham road; this man to watch the track from Doncaster; a party to cut south through the forest towards Sheffield; another, under Will Scarlet, to search the southern skirts of Barnesdale. So he divided the forest among searchers in a wide curve about the eastern sides of Locksley.
Finally, he sent Roger Lightfoot, the swiftest runner of them all, speeding back through the forest to Dunwold Scar, to rouse out the rest of the band. The score of men split up into their separate parties, and melted into the darkness; and Robin Hood was left standing alone among the stately trees of Locksley Chase, where so often he had walked and ridden with Marian.
Where was she now, he wondered? Was she safe? The forest, which was a familiar friend to him, would be full of danger to a defenceless girl who did not know its ways. And how desperate and afraid she must have been, before she made up her mind to run away. Robin dropped his ribboned lute on the turf, and turning on his heel plunged away into the darkness.
By the following dawn the whole outlaw band—save for a few under the captaincy of Little John, who were to remain at the Scar in case Marian should find her way there—were out and scouring the forest from Nottingham to Barnesley; but all that day they searched without success, and Robin with them.
The Chronicles of Robin Hood Page 7