Presently the sheriff came out from the gateway with his lady on his arm, and with them several other merchants and their wives. They mounted the wooden steps to the crimson-hung stand, and settled themselves on the cushioned bench, the ladies carefully spreading out their damask skirts. The sheriff flung himself back against the cushions, folding his hands on his stomach, and turned to speak to the man at his left—a lean man who sat forward, gazing keenly about him, his face deeply shaded by his forward-drawn hood, who somehow did not look like a merchant.
The heads that had begun to poke up all along the top of the wall craned over farther than ever; the dogs that had been running among the legs of the crowd were hastily caught by their masters; small children were swung up on to their fathers’ shoulders, so that they could see over the heads of the people. Then a man-at-arms stepped out to the front of the stand, and raising a bugle-horn to his lips, blew a sharp, strident blast.
‘Those of you here who have come to shoot for the silver arrow,’ shouted he, ‘take your bows and come forward.’
Instantly the pushing and shoving began again as the bowmen thrust their way clear of the crowd and stepped out into the open range, there to be met and shepherded into a space that had been fenced off like a cattle pen, towards one end of the butts. With them went Robin, followed by his chosen six. The rest of the brotherhood remained where they were, leaning easily on their ready-strung bows, yet alert for any sign of trouble.
The bugle-horn sounded again, and the first man stepped out to shoot. He shot badly, and withdrew, crimson with confusion, before the derisive hoots of the crowd, to make way for the second bowman. This was a little wizened man, with a ragged thatch of tow-coloured hair straying out from beneath his hood; but he raised his bow and loosed with an ease that could scarcely have been bettered by one of Robin’s men; and the arrow snored away down the range to thud into the target not much more than a hand-breadth from the peg. Three times the little man loosed, and though his second and third shots were not so true as his first had been, they were still fine shots. Then he stepped aside, and went to collect his arrows, which had been plucked from the target by one of the foresters who were keeping the score.
‘That was a fine archer, John,’ Robin said in a low voice, to his lieutenant. ‘I would that we had him with us!’
‘Maybe we shall, one day, Master,’ said Little John idly, turning to look at the next man who had stepped out to shoot. But Robin was still watching the little archer as he walked away; and then he saw a strange thing, for as the man passed his own little band of bowmen, he turned his head suddenly, and hesitated, as though he were going to speak to one of them, and then continued on his way; and at the same instant Alan A’Dale looked up, saw him, and looked away again at once, but even at that distance Robin had seen the quickly hidden recognition in Alan’s face.
A man-at-arms stepped out next, stringing his bow as he did so, and he, too, shot well; but after that, for a while there was no shooting that was worth the watching.
At two hours past noon the archery ceased for a while, the crowd broke up and scattered, the richer people in search of the inns and taverns of Nottingham, the poor folk settling themselves below the town walls to stay their hunger on black bread and strong yellow cheese, and—those of them who were lucky—fat bacon.
The sheriff and his guests disappeared through the gateway, to dine on cold mutton pasties and many-coloured marchpanes among the roses in the sheriff’s garden; and sprawling on the grass below the town walls, a little removed from the rest, Robin and his band lazily talked over the shooting of the morning, while they ate their dinner.
At last the bugle-horn recalled them to the butts, and after more pushing and jostling and thrusting, when several straying dogs had been removed from the range, and a little boy who was discovered asleep in the shade of one of the targets had been returned to his mother, and the sheriff and his fine guests had once more settled themselves upon the stand, the shooting started again.
The long, hot, summer afternoon wore away, as man after man stepped forth and loosed his three arrows. The shafts hummed drowsily as they flew down the range, and the ‘thwack’ of those that reached the target sounded sharply on the warm air. A brimstone butterfly danced like an enchanted primrose-petal above the heads of the crowd, and a cuckoo called softly and repeatedly from the woods over towards Linden Lea.
The shadows were already beginning to lengthen when at last the turn of the seven outlaws came to shoot. Young Gilbert went first. He loosed well and smoothly, and his third shaft struck within three-fingers of the peg. Robin nodded his approval, and Reynold took the boy’s place.
Each of the outlaws shot their best that day, and Robin watched each in turn, with pride. Slim young Gilbert; square built, grizzled Reynold; Will Scarlet, jaunty in his homespun as ever he had been in velvet; small, brown, wiry Much; Hugh Greenleafe, square and ruddy; and lastly the huge, loose-limbed Little John. Each raised his bow, bent it, and loosed, all in one smoothly powerful movement; and as arrow after arrow thudded into the inner circles of the target, the onlookers pressed forward, murmuring among themselves in admiration, for never before had they seen such marksmanship as this.
Last of all, that afternoon, Robin Hood himself took his bow and moved out on to the range. Every eye was upon him as he raised his bow and nocked the arrow to his string. The bowstring hummed its deep music in his ear as he loosed; the shaft droned away down the sunlit range, to hang quivering in the target, a finger’s breadth from the peg. He drew and loosed again, and his second arrow grazed the peg on the other side. An utter silence had fallen on the crowd, and they scarcely breathed as he bent the great bow for the third time. Every eye followed the flight of that third arrow as it hummed on its way, burning like a streak of fire as the sun caught it, to thud into the target. Then a roar went up from the crowd: the ladies in the stand leaned forward, clapping their hands, and even the sheriff sat up and snorted with approval. Robin had done the thing that he had done once before in that same place—he had split the peg!
The crowd had surged forward and were spilling out on to the range. Two foresters, having examined the target, went up to the stand and spoke in the sheriff’s ear. The sheriff, in his turn, spoke to his lady wife, and she rose from the cushioned bench, shook out her skirts, and took up the gleaming gold and silver arrow from the place where it had rested all day.
Robin found himself being hustled towards the steps of the stand. He mounted them and dropped on one knee before the sheriff’s lady, who bent forward, smiling very prettily, with the silver arrow in her hand. He looked up at her, and as he did so, the low rays of the westering sun slanted in under his hood, lighting up his lean brown face with its glare; and the man in the deep hood, who had been standing beside the sheriff, leaned forward suddenly, to stare at him with fixed intensity. Robin caught the sudden movement out of the corner of his eye, and looking round, found himself staring into the narrowed dark eyes of Guy of Gisborne, steward of the Manor of Birkencar.
For a moment the two men looked into each other’s eyes, with hatred like a naked sword between them; and then Guy of Gisborne laughed exultantly, and cried out: ‘You were ever a fine bowman, but I think you have loosed your last arrow—Robin Hood!’
In an instant Robin had sprung to his feet and turned to leap down the steps. Behind him he heard a bellow of astonished rage from the sheriff, and the voice of his old enemy shouting to the men-at-arms to take him. At the foot of the steps he turned about to face their attack; his broadsword glittered in his hand, and he knew that his own men were closing up behind him, the six who had shot with him being quickly joined by the rest, who came thrusting through the crowd, their strung bows across their shoulders, their good blades naked in their hands.
The whole crowd was in an uproar around the outlaws, and the sheriff’s men-at-arms and archers came closing in on their flanks. They withdrew steadily: a little band of grim-faced, desperate men, their broadswords biting d
eep. The sheriff’s men dared not shoot in that crowd, and press inward as they would, they could not break through the menace of those leaping sword-blades; and the outlaws, in close formation, retreated steadily, slipping away as it were from between their fingers.
The sheriff shouted to the crowd to stand firm behind the wolfsheads and cut off their escape; but the townsfolk misliked the look of those leaping blades, and in their hearts most of the country people were in sympathy with the outlaws; and so, instead of hampering their retreat, they parted to let them through, huddling back upon each other like frightened sheep.
In a few moments more the forest-rangers were clear of the crowd, and with the men-at-arms pressing round them like hounds about their quarry and outnumbering them four to one, they sprang back and turned to run. Weaving from side to side as they ran, they sped over the turf. A flight of arrows hummed after them, but none found a mark; and the fleet-footed men of the forest were drawing steadily away from the full-fed men-at-arms.
As they ran, they slipped their bows from their shoulders, and when they turned again, two hundred yards nearer the forest, each man had an arrow nocked to his string. The deadly clothyard shafts hummed away like a flight of angry hornets, and several of the men-at-arms dropped and rolled over.
The rest came on at an increased pace, pausing to loose, and then running again. The outlaws continued to fall back in good order towards the distant forest, turning to loose their flights of deadly arrows, falling back, turning to shoot again. Several times a forester or a man-at-arms fell, but so far the outlaws were unscathed, for in a running fight of this sort, marksmanship was not so sure as it was at the butts, when men had time to draw and loose in comfort at a fixed mark. Slowly the dark rampart of the forest drew nearer, but would the little band of desperate men gain the shelter of the trees before it was too late?
A company of men-at-arms, which had split off from the rest, was perilously near to their left flank. They had few arrows left, and the forest seemed yet a long way off. Glancing to his right, Robin saw that a valley had opened close to hand, running up between the shallow hills, and little more than a bowshot from the desperate band, a small, strong-seeming castle stood squarely on the green valley floor, its grey walls rising from the sheeny-darkness of its moat, among fair gardens and the trees of a little orchard.
It was the castle of Sir Richard at Lea, and Robin knew it. He knew that there would be willingly given sanctuary for him and his men behind those walls, and he knew also that if he claimed that sanctuary he might bring dire ruin upon Sir Richard, his friend. All this passed through his mind in an instant of time, and he turned his face resolutely back towards the forest, which seemed almost as far off as ever.
At that moment there came a deep, menacing hum, and a flight of arrows sped past and through the band of fugitives. All save two passed harmlessly, to spend themselves on the turf; but Diggery staggered, glancing down at a jagged tear in the fleshy part of his arm, and ran on; and in the same instant Little John stumbled, and, pitching forward, rolled over with an arrow through his left knee.
The rest stopped at once, and Robin was kneeling beside him almost before he had rolled over. Little John raised himself on his hands and looked down at his useless leg, and then up into Robin’s eyes. His face had grown suddenly very young and solemn.
‘Robin,’ he said urgently, ‘your dagger. Give me a swift release. Do not let me fall into the sheriff’s hands.’
‘Lose my lieutenant? No, John,’ Robin said. He got up and, stooping, braced himself for a tremendous effort. ‘Up, lad!—Gilbert, give me a hand here.’
Gilbert sprang to his aid, and a moment later Robin rose upright, braced under the weight of his friend, who lay across his shoulder.
The whole halt had taken only a few moments, and the men standing round Little John had loosed only one flight of arrows against the swiftly nearing men-at-arms; yet as Robin set off again, half the distance that they had gained from their pursuers was lost. If Little John had not been brought down they might have reached the forest, but now, with the sheriff’s men close upon them, and hampered as they were by the burden of a wounded man, they could never do so.
With a shout to his men to follow, Robin turned right, and headed at a stumbling run up the valley towards that small strong castle. Now, everything depended on whether or not the drawbridge was down, whether or not those within the castle would recognize them and give them quick admittance. A very short check would be enough to bring their pursuers up with them—and they were outnumbered four to one. Breathlessly, Robin called to Alan A’Dale. ‘Alan, run—the drawbridge!’
Alan sprang forward without a word, and went speeding ahead. He was the swiftest runner of them all, and would, of course, be recognized by his father’s men-at-arms.
Robin held doggedly on, hampered and slowed down by the weight of the wounded man across his shoulders. His men closed up round him, and above the thudding of their footsteps on the bridle-path, and the deep thrum of their bowstrings as they turned and loosed, he heard the sound of the pursuit drawing steadily nearer.
Little John heard it too, and demanded urgently: ‘Set me down, Robin! I shall be the death of all of you—better one than all!’
‘Be quiet, you fool!’ Robin gasped, and ploughed on. The blood was drumming in his ears, and he swayed as he ran; but the castle was very near now, and as he rounded the last corner of the track and came in full view of the gateway he saw that it was clear and open, though men-at-arms stood ready at the drawbridge chains. And on the drawbridge stood Alan A’Dale, with the familiar grey-mailed figure of his father beside him.
At the sight, Robin’s men set up a shout which was echoed by an enraged yell from their pursuers. Not a score of yards from the drawbridge, the outlaws turned to loose their last arrows before they ran on again. The drawbridge rang hollow beneath their feet, and almost before the last man was across, with a shrill grinding of chains, it began to rise.
Then Robin was standing in the outer bailey of the castle, and Sir Richard at Lea was easing the weight of Little John from his shoulders. Scarlet ran to his aid, and between them they laid the wounded man on the cobbles, taking care not to jar his injured knee. But Little John was past feeling any pain: he had quietly fainted as Robin carried him across the drawbridge.
Behind them the bridge rose higher and higher, chains screeching and pivots rumbling; and beyond it, on the farther side of the moat, they could hear the angry shouts of the sheriff’s men.
In the quiet, evening-shadowed bailey of the castle, Sir Richard’s men-at-arms and the panting outlaws stood and looked at each other. Then out from the doorway of the bower stairway came a tall woman in a gown of faded golden damask. She halted and looked at each of the outlaws in turn, questioningly. Forth from among his comrades stepped Alan A’Dale, saying: ‘Mother—don’t you know me?’ and took her in a fierce hug.
She held him off, half laughing but near to tears, and looked at him. ‘Know you?’ she exclaimed. ‘You have grown since I saw you last, little son of mine, but I knew you. Yes, and so did Diccon. He saw you at the butts this morning, and came back and told us that you were there.’
‘Aye.’ Sir Richard turned to Robin, who was kneeling over his wounded leiutenant. ‘He told us Alan was with a party of bowmen, and I guessed the rest; so I had a watch kept and the drawbridge manned, lest you should run into trouble, being young and—foolish—and have need of sanctuary.’
‘And it is as well for us that you did so,’ said Robin, looking up from his examination of Little John’s wound; ‘for being young and—foolish—we ran into trouble, as you see.’
The drawbridge had been slammed into place and made secure; and very clearly in the new silence they heard the enraged shouting of the pursuers, balked of their prey. Nobody paid any attention to them.
Diggery was sitting on a bench in the guard-room doorway, while a grey-haired man-at-arms bent over him, examining the wound in his arm; and the little wizene
d archer of the morning had come up to Alan, and was wringing him by the hand and smiling all over his weather-wrinkled face, while he exclaimed over and over again: ‘Aye-e, Master Alan, but I be that glad to see you home again!’
Little John had been carried into the great hall and laid on a low bench before the fire. He was beginning to revive, and as he stirred and tried to sit up, Robin bent over him, pressing him back with a gentle hand, saying: ‘Lie still, old lad.’
Sir Richard, standing at the foot of the bench, asked: ‘Will you cut out the barb, or shall I?’
‘I will do it,’ replied Robin, ‘if your lady will bring me warm water and fresh linen.’
The Lady Elizabeth, Sir Richard’s wife, had followed them into the hall and was standing beside him. ‘I will bring them at once,’ she said, and turning, disappeared into the shadows, while Robin drew his knife and bent to cut away the blood-soaked cloth of Little John’s hose from around the place where the arrow-shaft was embedded in his knee.
In a few moments the lady of the castle was back, with a bowl and ewer in her hands and clean white bandage-linen folded across her arm. Then Robin set to work; and Little John lay very stiff and rigid while Sir Richard steadied his knee, watching the sure movements of Robin’s hands as he cut out the torturing barb.
The operation was but half completed when young Alan, who had remained with the rest of the outlaw band in the guard-room, came into the hall and up to his father. ‘The sheriff has come up, sir,’ said he, ‘and he is dancing and bellowing with rage on the farther side of the moat. He demands that you deliver up to him the wolfsheads you are unlawfully sheltering.’
‘Does he so?’ said Sir Richard. ‘Then I had better go out to the ramparts and speak with the fellow, before he bellows himself into a fit of apoplexy! Alan, come here and take my place: see, hold the leg steady—thus.’
The Chronicles of Robin Hood Page 12