The Chronicles of Robin Hood

by Rosemary Sutcliff

  ‘I’ll be away as soon as my dinner be inside me,’ Will assured him, easily, eyeing the long trestle table, where the innkeeper’s daughter was setting out great dishes of hot mutton pies on the white, scrubbed boards.

  But Will-the-Bowman was never to finish that dinner; for as he sat with his meal half-eaten before him, deep in friendly talk with a grey-haired old farmer who sat next to him at the table, the doorway was suddenly darkened, as three men-at-arms came thrusting in from the street.

  Will Stukely, with his mouth full of mutton, looked up at their entrance, and then sat quite still, with an expression of mild inquiry on his face. He was in deadly danger, and he knew it, and cursed himself for his foolhardiness in coming to the inn; but as he had come, his best chance was to behave exactly as his fellow guests were behaving.

  The innkeeper got up from the table, after casting one agonized glance of warning at Will Stukely, and turned to the men-at-arms, saying grumpily: ‘Oh, it’s you again, is it?’

  ‘Aye!’ agreed the foremost of the men-at-arms—a surly, red-eyed fellow. ‘It’s us again, come to search the house for wolfsheads, according to the sheriff’s orders.’

  ‘Well, don’t you go a-pulling my house out-of-doors this time, as you did last—thrusting your ugly noses into honest folks’ houses, pulling the soot down their chimneys and frightening their womenfolk and keeping custom away!’

  The red-eyed man growled something in reply and turned his back on the innkeeper, to order the guests to remain where they were.

  The search began. While the leader of the men-at-arms stood insolently before the door, devouring a mutton pie which he had taken from the table, and keeping a wary eye on the guests, the other two were searching the room in a rather haphazard fashion. As for the guests, they had given up all attempts at eating, and sat anxiously watching the men-at-arms. All of them, save one, knew that they were not outlaws; but at that time, to be innocent of a thing was no safeguard against being hanged for it, and every man there was feeling his neck uncomfortably tight, as though the hangman’s rope was already about it.

  Will Stukely sat quietly in his place, though he longed to leap up and hurl himself upon the man who stood in the open doorway. Presently the sheriff’s men had finished searching the inn parlour and the rooms beyond. They had raked up the rushes and pulled the linen out of the mistress’s dower chest, kicked the dogs, smashed several pieces of treasured crockery, browbeaten the womenfolk of the house, and generally behaved as small scoundrels in the pay of a greater scoundrel are wont to do.

  Then they turned their attention to the guests; and the keen eye of one of them chanced to fall on Will Stukely’s left hand as it lay on the table before him. The fellow glanced meaningly at his comrades, and then, turning to a man at the lower end of the table, he demanded rudely: ‘You—old Greybeard—your name and trade?’

  ‘Simon Scorby,’ replied the man, ‘and I be a farmer.’

  The man-at-arms turned to the next man: ‘And yours?’

  ‘Jon of Kirkby, master fletcher.’

  ‘And yours?’ The man asked the same question all round the table until he came to Will Stukely.

  ‘Piers Cobbold, master thatcher,’ said Will, easily; and the next instant the hand of the sheriff’s man came down on his shoulder.

  ‘Liar!’ said the sheriff’s man. ‘You’re one of those accursed wolfsheads that follow Robin of Barnesdale!’

  Up sprang Will to his feet. ‘’Tis you that are the liar!’ cried he. ‘An honest thatcher am I, of Birkhampstead Village!’ But he knew that he had made a fatal mistake. What a fool he had been to claim thatching for his trade, he thought, as the three men-at-arms flung themselves upon him.

  Two of them contrived to hold him, despite his frantic struggles, while the third dragged out his left arm and looked at his hand.

  Now the harsh reed which thatchers use in their trade leaves many small scars on the palms of their hands. On Will Stukely’s palms there were no such scars; but on the side of his forefinger was a patch of hardened skin, almost a corn, and this was the unfailing sign of a bowman, for it was caused by the chafe of the arrow as it flew from the bow—not occasionally, on Sundays at the practice butts, but many times a day, every day, year after year.

  ‘So, Master Thatcher!’ cried one of his captors. ‘That corn did not grow in a day!’

  ‘Aye!’ cried another, dragging the hood back from Will’s face. ‘And I know this rogue! Three years ago we met at the shooting for the Silver Arrow. Well do I remember him, for he almost split my head in two!’

  Will Stukely ceased to struggle; then, as the grasp of his tormentors slackened a little, he twisted round, like an eel, diving under an unwary arm, and snatched up his quarterstaff. ‘Aye!’ he cried, whirling it before him. ‘Wolfshead I be! And I follow Robin of Barnesdale! Now take me if you can!’

  Kicked-up rushes filled the air; benches and stools went over. The guests hastily got themselves out of harm’s way as the trestle table went down with a crash, and a terrified dog ran howling into the street.

  Will Stukely put up a desperate fight for life and freedom, and none of his three attackers was swift or bold enough to break through the whirling defence of his quarterstaff. Slowly and steadily he moved back towards the open door; and escape seemed very near, when he caught his heel against an overturned bench-end. He staggered, and half fell; his quarterstaff flew wide, and in that unguarded instant one of the sheriff’s men brought his own staff down in a glancing blow on the side of the outlaw’s head. The next moment the fight flowed over him.

  Struggle as he would, he was but one man against three. They jerked him to his feet and twisted his arms behind him; and there he stood, drawing his breath in great gasps, while the blood from his broken head trickled down his temple and cheek.

  He had left his mark on the sheriff’s men: one of them nursed a broken elbow; one was still dizzy from a blow on the head, and the tally of bruised ribs and shoulders was hidden beneath their buff jerkins. But now they had him at their mercy.

  ‘Ho! Landlord!’ cried one. ‘Bring stout cords here to bind this fellow’s wrists!’

  The innkeeper, who all this time had stood watching miserably, began to rummage about in a helpless sort of way, looking in every place where he knew there was no cord, in the vain hope that if only he could delay matters long enough, something unexpected would happen to save Will Stukely. At last the sheriff’s man lost all patience and swore that if cord was not found at once they would begin to wonder whether the landlord were not a secret friend of the outlaws.

  At this, Will Stukely raised his bleeding head slowly, saying: ‘He is no friend to we of the Greenwood; nor did he know me for what I am—or he’d have given me no place at his table, I’ll warrant!’

  The innkeeper, who had his head inside a wall-press at that moment, while he dragged a length of hempen cord from within it, puckered up his face woefully when he heard this; and as he handed the cord to the man-at-arms he tried to catch Will’s eye and send him some signal that he was not to lose hope. But the outlaw’s head was turned away, his eyes on the free sunshine beyond the doorway, and he did not see the innkeeper’s signal.

  So they lashed his hands cruelly tight behind him, and thrust him out into the street and away towards the sheriff’s house.

  In the parlour of the Salutation Inn the landlord and his guests looked at each other among the overturned benches and scattered remnants of the mutton pies. There was not one soul there but was in sympathy with the outlaw, yet none of them had dared to lift a finger on his behalf for fear of the sheriff and the power of the barons; and now they were ashamed.

  The master fletcher shook his head. ‘Fine-looking chap, too,’ said he, dismally.

  ‘Aye,’ rejoined he of Kirkby, ‘and by this time to-morrow he will be carrion outside the Bridlesmith Gate!’

  Gloomy silence descended on the whole company. Everybody knew that it was only too true. Free men, and even serfs, could not
be condemned without trial by jury; but an outlaw had no rights. He was wolfsheaded—every man’s hand against him. He did not have to be tried. If he was caught he was hanged—there was no more to be said about it.

  George the Potman had set solidly to work, righting the overturned benches and trestles, and presently the guests sat down again to finish their interrupted meal—though indeed they had little taste left for the food.

  A little later, while carving a cold chine of bacon on the side-chest, the landlored managed to get his head close to George’s and whisper: ‘Geordie lad, go up to the sheriff’s house and wait about with your ears open until you hear when Will Stukely is to hang, and where; then take word of it to Robin Hood. You know the road.’

  ‘Aye,’ whispered back George, hacking slices from a great loaf. ‘I’ve travelled it often enough before now, Master.’

  So about an hour before sunset, George the Potman strode out through the northern gate and took the Worksop road to carry news to the outlaw band that Will Stukely had been taken prisoner by the sheriff’s men and was to hang at dawn to-morrow outside the Bridlesmith Gate (even as Jon of Kirkby had foretold).

  Several times before he had made the journey between Nottingham and Dunwold Scar, carrying news or a warning, and he knew the way well; yet the forest looked strange in its wintry covering of snow, and stranger still when the sun had gone and the moon came creeping up into the eerie darkness. He lost his way two or three times and had to retrace his steps. Once he blundered into a straying forest pony, and, as the creature sprang away, thought for one terrible moment that the Phantom Horse of Barnesdale had strayed south. But he pressed on, and at last, towards midnight, he came out into Dunwold Glade and caught the faint flicker of firelight shining through a chink in the deerskin apron over the main cave doorway.

  Standing on the edge of the glade, he lifted up his voice in a strange, long-drawn cry, the seeking-cry of the outlaws, which they used when searching for each other, because of the long distance it would carry. The next moment arose a wild uproar of baying, the deerskin was thrust aside and a score of great hounds came pouring down from the cave and streaked across the snow towards him.

  George called them by name: ‘Gelert!—Beaufort!—Keri!—Breon! Good lads!’ And as they came rushing up he thrust out his clenched fists for them to smell at. They crowded round him, their baying dying out into friendly whining as they sniffed his fists and then his boots; and the next instant Robin himself leaped down from the cave doorway, and was striding across the snow, with Little John and Will Scarlet behind him.

  ‘Who comes here?’ he demanded.

  ‘It is I, George the Potman from the “Salutation”,’ called back George.

  ‘George! Do you bring a message? Come in, lad, for it’s cold out here.’

  George followed the three outlaws, with the dogs flowing all about him, scrambled up the steep bank, dived under the deerskin apron, and stood blinking in the warmth and firelight of the great cave.

  The outlaws were later than usual that night, in honour of its being Christmas time, but they had been on the point of seeking their beds of dried fern when they had heard the seeking-cry, and the hounds had rushed baying into the night. They stood round the fire, ready for action, every man facing the cave doorway; but when George the Potman appeared they sat down again.

  ‘You bring me a message from Will Stukely?’ Robin asked quickly, for he had expected Will back before dark and had been growing steadily more anxious about him for some hours past.

  ‘Not from him, Master, but of him,’ replied George, standing solidly in front of the outlaw captain. ‘He do be taken prisoner by the sheriff’s cut-throats, and will hang at dawn to-morrow outside the Bridlesmith Gate.’

  A gasp, a groan, rose from the outlaws. Robin caught George the Potman by the shoulders and turned him fully to the light. ‘Is this true?’ he demanded, in a harsh voice. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Sure as fate, Master! I saw him taken, and I stood among the folks before the sheriff’s house and heard the sheriff himself give the order.’

  Robin dropped his hands and swung round on his men. ‘Roger, Diggery, Jon, Hugh, Lightfoot, David, Hob, Ket—you will remain here to garrison the Scar. The rest of you make ready to start for Nottingham at once. Much, see to the issue of clothyard shafts—eight shafts to each man.’

  In grim silence the outlaws set about preparing for the venture. Little John, his bow already in his hands, looked down on them from his greater height, with the blue light of battle beginning to flicker in his eyes.

  ‘We’ll save old Will if we have to pull down the walls of Nottingham, stone by stone, to get him,’ he said to Robin; ‘but it’ll be a stiffish job!’

  ‘No, John, I have a better plan than that,’ replied Robin, and his eyes crinkled a little in a half smile, though his mouth was very grim. ‘Come with me now,’ and followed by his tall lieutenant, he turned and strode across to the dark mouth of the store-cave.

  When they came back Little John carried a bundle under his arm. They found the outlaw band standing ready: the eight who were being left behind were still sitting round the fire, and a little apart from them sat Jonathan the Blacksmith, with hunched shoulders and drooping head. He looked up as Robin entered, saying miserably: ‘Oh, Master, it be all my fault!’

  Robin put his hand for an instant on his shoulder. ‘Never say that. Besides, we shall save him, and no harm done.’

  So the brotherhood set out on the long march that was to end at the gates of Nottingham.

  Now on the side of Nottingham on which the wall was pierced by the Bridlesmith Gate, a spinney of birch and witchen trees and ancient oaks grew not much more than a bowshot from the town. It had been left there when the forest was cleared back for pastureland, because it belonged to the Good People, the Wee Folk, who would be sure to bring ill luck upon anyone who interfered with it. And there, in the dark hour before the dawn, close on a hundred silent-moving men of the forest took cover among the dense tangle of hazel, brambles and old-man’s-beard which formed the undergrowth.

  Robin squatted down with his ready-strung bow across his knees, one hand twisted in the collar of Breon, the old pack-leader of the outlaws’ dogs, who crouched beside him. On his left was Will Scarlet; and on his right Much-the-Miller’s-Son crouched with his bow beside him and one arm round the neck of Keri—Breon’s son. Beyond them on either side, and behind, in the deeps of the spinney, Robin knew that the rest of his band crouched unseen, each with his bow beside him, and many of them with a hand on the collar of a great dog—for many puppies had been born in the forest, and the few ban-dogs which had come with Friar Tuck on that autumn evening more than seven years ago had become a pack of fully a score.

  So they waited, men and dogs together, gazing out from their cover across the snow-blanketed open ground towards the walls of Nottingham, while slowly the darkness thinned, and a growing radiance began to spread across the eastern sky.

  Meanwhile, a ragged palmer came trudging down the road from Worksop, and after pausing to glance up at the stark outline of the gibbet which had been set up near the gates on the evening before, shook his head, and went to sit on the patch of bare ground where the snow had drifted back from the wall. Very patiently he sat there, with his back propped against the great stones of the town wall, drawing his patched and tattered cloak close about him to keep out the bitter cold of winter dawn. As the light grew, it might be seen that he was a very giant of a man, head and shoulders taller than most other men, and huge-boned in proportion. He seemed to be waiting for the gates to open so that he might enter the town; and as he sat there he turned often to look up at the stark, ugly shape of the gallows, which was beginning to stand out clearly against the growing lightness in the sky.

  Dawn came at last—a low dawn showing but a bar of gold far down in the east between the dark rampart of the forest and the grey cloud-roof overhead.

  With the dawn there began the sounds of life from within the wa
lls of Nottingham, and in a short while the gates were swung open and a company of men-at-arms came out. One of them went straight to the gallows to make sure that the rope was truly fixed and had not been tampered with; and to him the palmer addressed himself: ‘Tell me, young man, what poor soul is to be hanged here this day?’

  ‘A notorious outlaw—one that followed Robin Hood himself,’ the man replied. ‘A very desperate fellow, who fought like a cornered wolf before he was taken, so I’ve heard say. But he’ll be quiet enough when we have done with him!’

  ‘And his name?’ asked the palmer.

  ‘Will-the-Bowman, they do call him.’

  The palmer gave a great cry, and exclaimed: ‘It was so they nicknamed Will Stukely. Ah, good sir, is it Will Stukely that you hang this day?’

  ‘That is he!’ cut in another man, with a brutal laugh. ‘If he be a friend of yours you’d better not own it, lest we hang you too!’

  ‘Alas! and alas!’ murmured the palmer, sadly, not seeming to heed him. ‘His mother and mine were sisters, and we often played together when we were little; and now he has come to this, poor lad! Indeed this be a sad home-coming for me, after so many years in the Holy Land!’

  But the men-at-arms had turned their backs upon him, and were busied about the gibbet; and the palmer, finding that they were no longer watching him, stopped shaking his head and sighing, and sat—watching them.

  Soon came the sheriff—a lean, black-browed man with a savage face, shivering in his thick-furred gown; and with him walked a short, burly knight in chain-mail, with a golden griffon on the breast of his blue surcoat. And this was Sir Hugo de Razeby, Lord of Nottingham Castle.