The Chronicles of Robin Hood

by Rosemary Sutcliff

  The road was deep-rutted, and the dust kicked up by horse’s hooves settled thickly on the unfortunate brethren in the rear, who were soon powdered from head to foot so that their black habits seemed almost white, while their eyes smarted and their throats were sore. Little cared Abbot Richard for that; the rolling dust-cloud was behind him, and ahead lay the promise of adventure. The air was honey-sweet with the fragrance of elder trees in bloom along the wayside, and already the golden horns of the honeysuckle were blowing in the light summer breeze which whispered among the tree-tops and through the wayside grass. Cuckoos shouted from thickets far and near; and all the world seemed gay and warm, and the white road beckoned on—and on.

  They had ridden ten miles or more, and were drawing close to the branch road from Selby to Pomfret, when the adventure that the king had been seeking came upon him.

  Out from a thicket of goat-willow some forty paces ahead stepped a man in garments of Lincoln green, who moved into the middle of the road and stood to await their coming. He was a tall man, lean and powerful as a wolf-hound, and the hood of his capuchin, lying back on his shoulders, revealed a thin face burned deeply brown by the sun that had bleached the ends of his crisp dark hair almost to silver. He carried no bow, and his sword rested peaceably in its sheath; but suddenly, as Richard reined in his horse to an amble, the woodshore was alive with men, each with bow ready-drawn and arrow menacing one or other of the monkish party.

  So Richard-the-Abbot, guessing who the tall man was, smiled to himself in the shadow of his cowl as he ambled nearer.

  Robin awaited the coming of the three monks, standing quite still on the crown of the road. He had little hopes of a rich haul from their saddlebags, for no churchmen, most assuredly, would travel the forest highways without a strong escort, if they had gold or valuables about them. None-the-less, these three black monks had the well-to-do look of a rich abbey about them, and their horses were splendid animals; and anyway, it went against the grain with Robin to allow churchmen to pass through his forest realm unmolested; so he waited.

  The tall man riding a little in advance of the other two, with his cowl pulled far over his face, had an air of pride and power which marked him out as one in authority; and to him Robin addressed himself, catching his bridle-rein as he drew level.

  ‘Good day to you, My Lord Abbot!’ said he. ‘If you have any gold in those saddlebags of yours, you shall pay it to me and my men as toll-fare for your safe passage through this forest of ours.’

  While he was yet speaking, two of the wood-rangers stepped out to the heads of the monks’ horses. The disguised lords yielded up their bridles to them, fuming inwardly, but not daring to resist because of the bowmen among the trees; and Abbot Richard enjoyed their discomfiture as he replied courteously: ‘We have no gold; but if you are Robin of Barnesdale, as I think you are, we bring you a message from the king, who has heard much of you and your men.’

  Without releasing the horse’s bridle, Robin bent his head, saying reverently: ‘God Save the King.’

  ‘Strange words from a traitor!’ retorted the other swiftly.

  For a moment Robin made no reply, only he grew white under his tan, as he stared up into the abbot’s face. Then said he, speaking in a voice that was very quiet, yet ugly to hear: ‘If you were not the king’s messenger, you should bitterly regret that word! I am as true a man to the king as ever lived, and so is every one of my band. We never yet injured honest man, and our enemies are those who, in the king’s name or the name of his brother, have made this England of ours a hell for all who are weaker than themselves!’

  ‘Then surely the clergy should be safe from your way-layings?’

  ‘It is with the clergy that we have most quarrel of all, for they are worse than the barons—as you should know, Master Abbot,’ replied Robin. Then he added, less bitterly: ‘Yet, since you are the king’s messenger, welcome to you and your brethren, for the king’s sake; and you shall taste of our Greenwood cheer before you deliver your message.’ And so saying, he turned the horse’s head and began to lead it in among the trees. The other outlaws followed, leading the seeming monks among them, and in a few moments the roadway was deserted.

  They travelled in silence, the disguised king and his two lords marvelling at the sureness with which the wood-rangers knew their way where all ways looked alike. By mazy deer-paths they went, through darkling hollows that gave place to long open glades, traversing broad rides that ended in tangled thickets where the riders must bend low to avoid the whipping branches, out into the sunshine of open commons where the gorse flamed to the summer sky, past forest pools where the midges danced above the shadowed water.

  Not until they were nearing the end of their journey did Robin speak again; and then he looked up over his shoulder, saying: ‘You have no cause to fear, My Lord Abbot; if your saddlebags were crammed with gold they would be safe, and you and your lesser brethren also, for King Richard’s sake.’

  The Stane Ley was all but deserted when they reached it, for the day had scarcely turned towards evening, and only the cooks for the day bent over the turf ovens at the farther end of the glade, busied with the first preparations for supper, while a few hounds lay asleep in the sunshine or snapping idly at the summer flies that buzzed about them.

  Robin glanced around him, then, raising to his lips the bugle-horn which hung from a worn leather baldric at his side, he winded a long call that rang through the forest, making the echoes ring and sending out its summons far and wide. ‘Tan-tan-tran-trum-te-ran-tran,’ sang the bugle-horn. ‘Gather to me—gather to me—in orderly fashion—gather to me.’

  Almost before Richard had swung down from his gilded saddle, the first men were coming in answer to that call. They came at an easy wolf-trot out into the glade, some of them with their dogs at their heels, and joined up into loose ranks with the score of outlaws who were already there.

  Richard-the-Abbot stood beside Robin under the great lime-tree, with his own two men at his back, and watched the new-comers with the bright, intent gaze of one well used to judging the mettle of men. He saw men who had been serfs, and men who had been yeomen, and a few who had been knights and squires; but one and all, gently or simply born, bore the look of free men, trained and disciplined of their own free will.

  As the minutes passed, more and more of them came into the glade; and Robin stood quietly watching them come, and speaking no word, until at last there were more than a hundred men standing in loosely ordered ranks half-way round the giant lime-tree. Then he glanced aside at his black-robed guest, saying with a quiet pride in his voice: ‘That is the full tally, My Lord Abbot.’

  Abbot Richard looked along the curved lines of men, from huge, yellow-haired Little John, to small, gnarled, brown Much-the-Miller’s-Son; from grim, badger-haired Will Stukely to gay young Alan A’Dale.

  ‘These are your men?’ said he, in some wonderment. ‘Trained by you?’

  ‘These are my men,’ Robin replied. ‘But they have been trained by many masters. The wild things of the forest have taught them silence and wood-lore; hunger and danger have taught them to shoot straight and far; something they have learned from me, and much from each other. Their hatred of oppression and injustice they learned from your breed, My Lord Abbot, before ever they came to me.’

  ‘It would seem that their many masters have taught them well,’ said the abbot; ‘for I never saw fighting men whose look pleased me better.’

  Robin looked at him closely for a moment. ‘It would seem that you are a true judge of men, Holy Father!’

  ‘Even a churchman may be that,’ replied the other, briefly.

  For a moment longer Robin watched him, but there was nothing to be learned from the face half hidden beneath his cowl, and the outlaw turned away to the curved ranks of his men, crying: ‘Lads, here is a messenger from the king himself, come to sup with us. Make him welcome, and his lesser brethren with him, for the sake of King Richard—and afterwards we will hear the message.’

/>   With a shout the outlaws broke ranks and instant preparations for supper were begun.

  So presently Abbot Richard beheld a meal such as could scarcely have been bettered in his own palace. The outlaws had raided store and treasury in honour of the king’s messenger, and set out on the greensward beneath the lime-tree was a feast that was indeed fit for a king. Roast venison smoked upon silver chargers that were big enough for a knight’s shield, and white bread and brown was brought in curiously folded napkins. Golden and purple wines of the south glowed in flasks of silver beside nut-brown English ale in homely leather jacks; baked trout and all kind of river-fowl were there too, and many kinds of sweet preserves from the dark recesses of the store-pit.

  Richard was just going to seat himself, wondering very much at the richness of the feast before him, when a stir among the outlaws caused him to look round, and he saw that three women had joined them. One of them was no longer young, though she looked as though she had once been very lovely to look upon; and she went to sit beside a thin, knightly looking man who was evidently her husband. The second was young, and of a fair and gentle prettiness, and she also went straight to her own man, who was as young and gay as she herself. But the third was the fairest of the three: tall and lance-straight in her kirtle of Lincoln green, with russet hair unhidden by any wimple, and laughter in her eyes; and she came swiftly to the side of Robin Hood himself.

  Robin took her hand, and turning to his guest, said: ‘My Lord Abbot, this is my dear lady.’ Then to Marian: ‘Sweetheart, the Holy Father here is a messenger from the king, and after we have fed him, he will give us his message.’

  Marian gave him her hand with grave courtesy, but her face was troubled, and the laughter was gone from her eyes as she turned away and sat down at Robin’s side between the spreading roots of the lime-tree. What message could the king be sending to such as they, that would not be an ill message? Surely he would not send them their pardon? What could it be, then, this message from the king?

  The same question was in Robin’s heart, too, and in the hearts of the wood-rangers. One and all of them were desperately eager to hear the king’s message; but the forest had taught them patience, among its other lessons, and they showed no sign of their eagerness. And a very pleasant meal was that, eaten under the giant lime-tree. The outlaws and their dogs sat at ease in little groups in the cool shade that was large enough for all, while overhead the brown velvet bees droned among the pale lime-blossom, and outside in the evening sunshine of the open glade the grasshoppers kept up their ceaseless churring.

  The two lesser brethren had been borne off by Will Scarlet and Roger Lightfoot to sit between them at a little distance. They were young and high-spirited, and having at last begun to enjoy themselves, they had also begun to forget the solemn behaviour which went with their black habits. Richard watched them a little anxiously at first; then he shrugged his shoulders and gave himself up to the enjoyment of the feast and the pleasant company.

  When the meal was over, Robin took up his drinking horn brimming with cool brown ale, and looking round on his band, cried gaily: ‘Lads! Here’s a health to the king! Long life to him, and confusion to his enemies!’

  ‘A health to the king!’ shouted the wood-rangers, raising their ale-cans on high. ‘Long life to him!’

  ‘And confusion to his enemies!’ said the strange abbot, drinking deep with the rest of them.

  ‘Now,’ said Robin, when the last toast had been drunk, ‘your message, my Lord Abbot. Will you give us the message you bear from the king?’

  ‘Nay,’ replied the abbot, smoothly. ‘First I would see some display of your men’s archery, for I have often heard it said that in all broad England there are none who can draw the bow against Robin of Barnesdale and his band.’

  Once again Robin looked at him quickly. This was surely no ordinary abbot; could he be a spy? Robin did not think so. He also was a judge of men, and he knew that spies did not carry themselves arrogantly, as this man did; and he had a clean, trustworthy feel about him. No, he was certainly not a spy. The outlaw chief would fain have heard the king’s message, which would set his doubts at rest, and which might mean so much, for good or ill, to himself and his band; but whoever the abbot might really be, he was the king’s messenger, and an honoured guest, and courtesy forbade Robin to press him further.

  So he rose to his feet and called to the easeful figures of his band: ‘Fetch your bows, lads; the good abbot would see your marksmanship. Set up the garlands at three hundred paces, John.’

  ‘Yes, Master,’ answered Little John, readily enough; but as he went to plant the newly peeled hazel wands, he pursed his mouth into a long, soundless whistle. Three hundred paces was a very great distance for accurate shooting.

  The same thought was in the minds of the rest as they fetched and strung their bows. The best archers of the brotherhood had gathered into a knot at one end of the glade.

  ‘Master Robin means to show the abbot and his brethren what Barnesdale archery can be!’ muttered Will Scarlet to Much-the-Miller’s-Son, as he bent his bow and slipped the loop of the string into place.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Much, ‘and I never knew an abbot to take an interest in marksmanship before!’

  ‘But then we never knew an abbot who was the king’s messenger,’ said Gilbert, his head bent close to Scarlet’s. ‘This is an odd thing, my brothers, a very odd thing!’

  ‘Aye—and a messenger who will not give his message!’ put in Will Stukely.

  The outlaws looked at each other with questioning eyes. Who was this messenger? Was he truly an abbot—or some great lord in disguise? And, above all, what was the message which he brought but seemed so laggard to deliver?

  ‘At least we will show him that the men of Barnesdale shoot straighter than the king’s archers!’ said Scarlet with a laugh, glancing down at the clothyard shafts in his belt.

  Meanwhile, having paced out the range and stuck the peeled hazel-wand at either end, Little John was still whistling below his breath as he cut long blossom-laden sprays from a wild-rose bush which grew beside the stream, and twisted them into two rough garlands. When they were finished to his satisfaction he handed them over to Peterkin, who chanced to be near, bidding him hang them on the hazel-pricks; and himself went to join the knot of expert marksmen at the farther end of the glade.

  Straying dogs were collected from the open glade by their various owners, and all was in readiness. Under the lime-tree the three women had gathered together; the two disguised lords sat side by side on the shady turf, like a couple of crows, in their black habits; and in the council seat, between the spreading roots of the lime, Robin and his strange, black-robed guest stood looking down on the assembled archers.

  At a word from Robin, the first man stepped out to shoot. Every eye in the glade was turned upon Will Scarlet as he raised his bow, but no one watched more intently than the abbot. The arrow sped away down the sunlit glade, humming as it flew, passed through the garland within a finger’s breadth of the prick, and stood quivering in the trunk of an ash-tree beyond. Will Scarlet stepped back, and his place was taken by Gilbert.

  Many times the arrows sped their course down or up the glade, thrumming in the warm air of the summer evening. Many times the bowmen passed and re-passed the watching figures beneath the trysting lime as they went from one mark to the other, collecting their spent arrows and turning to shoot back; but the abbot never lost interest. His eye was always upon the marksman of the moment, and his watchfulness was well rewarded: only twice in all that evening did an arrow fail to pass within the garland, and no less than seven times the prick was split neatly in two—the last time by Little John.

  At last it was over. The marksmen slipped the strings from their bows, and the petals were already falling from the short-lived dog-rose garlands.

  Then the abbot, who had watched in silence all the while, turned to Robin, saying warmly: ‘I never saw bowmen to equal yours, friend outlaw. It seems a wicked thing tha
t you and your band should be wasted here in the wilderness when England has need of true men!’

  Robin of Barnesdale shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was not of our own free will that we came to the wilderness,’ said he.

  ‘No, I know that it was not,’ replied the other; ‘and if I were to carry the king’s pardon for you and your men, would you be loyal and true to him henceforth?’

  For a moment Robin did not answer. He was looking away down the glade, where his men stood in groups, discussing the shooting that was past, while the evening shadows stole out from the forest and lay cool upon the sun-drenched turf. And suddenly he knew how much he had loved the life of the Greenwood with all its hardships and dangers. Then he felt Marian’s hand slip into his, and he said: ‘For myself, I would be a loyal man to the king. My lads must answer for themselves.’

  ‘Ask them, then,’ said the abbot.

  So Robin lifted up his voice and called: ‘Ho! Lads! Gather to me!’

  The small groups broke up, and men came running from the farthest ends of the glade, the dogs, as ever, galloping at their heels, to stand in a wide half-circle before the trysting tree.

  When they were assembled, Robin looked them over. ‘Lads,’ said he, ‘if the Holy Father here were to bring you, each and every one, a free pardon from the king, would you be loyal men and true to him henceforth?’

  A great shout went up from the outlaws. ‘Yes! That we would!’

  Abbot Richard waited, looking down at them, until they were quiet; then he put up his hands to the breast of his black habit. As the long sable folds parted, the astonished outlaws beheld the golden Leopards of England blazing on his scarlet surcoat. He thrust back the cowl from his head, and stood before them—the king!

  For an instant there was an utter silence. Then Robin dropped on one knee at the king’s feet. He was followed by every man of the brotherhood, so that King Richard found himself looking down on a crowd of kneeling figures with reverently bowed heads. ‘It would seem that I have found loyal subjects in an unlikely place!’ said he.