The Chronicles of Robin Hood

by Rosemary Sutcliff

  ‘A pair of golden candlesticks would look well before St. Catherine’s shrine in our little chapel,’ replied the Abbess Ursula, watching him with a greedy light in her eyes. ‘Add them to the corn-land, for the good of your soul, and it is a bargain.’

  ‘And a mighty hard one. Holy Mother! I am not a rich man!’ protested Sir Roger.

  ‘That is nothing to me. If the death of Robin Hood is worth thirty acres of corn-land and a pair of golden candlesticks to you, you have only to say so. If not, you can find some other hand to commit your murder for you!’

  For a few moments Sir Roger of Doncaster was silent, staring at the floor and biting his fingers. Then he said: ‘Very well—the land and the candlesticks together.’ But within himself he added: ‘And may your soul rot for this, you bargain-driving old shrew!’

  The abbess smiled a slow and pious smile, but her eyes glittered beneath her lids. ‘Come whenever you will to ask for news; for I shall send you no messenger when your orders have been carried out, lest he be stopped by Robin’s men and suspicion fall upon this house.’

  She took up a little silver bell from the table beside her, and rang it. A novice came in answer to her summons, and was bidden to show the visitor to the gate; and after following her black figure down long passages and being given into the charge of the portress, Sir Roger of Doncaster found himself once again outside the walls of Kirklees Nunnery.

  On the whole he was well pleased with his visit as he rode home. The abbess had driven a hard bargain, but he knew in his heart of hearts that he would have paid away almost all that he possessed to bring about the death of the man he hated so bitterly.

  Autumn in the Greenwood. Late autumn, and the last brown leaves whirling down in the wind. High overhead the sky was milky blue, and the bare branches of the trees danced against it to the hoarse music of the gale. The whole forest seemed to be dancing—dancing away the last of summer before it turned to the long, cold frost-time of winter that lay ahead. It was such a day as Robin had ever loved, and of old he would have been out in the hurly-burly of it—out after the red deer perhaps, with his bow in hand, or striding through the forest with no particular end in view; one excuse was as good as another when the wind was full of whirling leaves and the bare branches whipped across the sky and wintry sunshine scudded through the forest.

  But this day Robin lay propped on one elbow beside the fire in the Long Cave, and his eyes were over-bright and his cheeks flushed with fever.

  Robin of Barnesdale was growing old: his crisp dark hair had become brindled grey like a badger’s coat, and the bones stood out too sharply beneath the brown skin of jaw and temple; but his lean body had altered little since first he came to the Greenwood, and save for his hair, and the fine network of lines which age and rough weather and much gazing into the distance had set about his eyes, he still seemed like a young man.

  As he gazed into the licking flame-tongues of the fire, his face was set and hard with pain; and presently he shifted uneasily, to comfort the throbbing of the old wound which was troubling him again.

  A huge shadow darkened the opening of the cave, and Little John came in, shaking the shrivelled leaves from his hood, and squatted down at Robin’s side.

  ‘Is it any easier, Robin?’ asked he.

  ‘No, John. I am hot and cold at once, and there is a fire in the old wound. It is best that I should go to Kirklees Nunnery to-day and ask my cousin Ursula to bleed and physic me, and make me whole again.’

  There was fear in Little John’s eyes and in his voice as he answered: ‘Robin, dear old lad—do not go to Kirklees, for I have heard it said that Roger of Doncaster has been there very often in these last few months, and I feel in my bones that his visits bode no good to you. Stay here with us, and the sickness will pass as it has done before.’

  But Robin only laughed. ‘Roger of Doncaster is an old man, and I have no doubt that he visits Kirklees for much the same reason as I do myself,’ said he. ‘And what possible harm could come to me in the nunnery? Is not the Lady Ursula my kinswoman? Go and saddle my horse, old friend, for the sooner we start out the sooner I shall be whole again.’

  Little John got up slowly. ‘Forty years and more, you and I have been together,’ he said. ‘And well I know that there is nothing on this earth that will turn you from your purpose once your wilful heart is set upon it. But I tell you this, Robin of Barnesdale—if you go to Kirklees to-day, there be four-score men of the Greenwood who are coming with you!’

  ‘They shall come as far as the edge of the forest,’ re-joined Robin, ‘and you shall leave me at the nunnery gate, John. Now go and saddle my horse.’

  And with that Little John had to be content, as he made his way to the turf-roofed stables.

  So in a little while the band set out, Robin riding a placid grey palfrey, for he was too weak and ill to handle the fiery hunter he usually rode, with Little John walking at his stirrup, and the rest of the wood-rangers following behind.

  It was noon when they reached the place where Sherwood Forest washed against the rich farm-land of Kirklees Nunnery; and here Robin bade his men to wait, and rode forward with only Little John. The wind had quite died away since early morning, and it seemed very quiet in the peaceful dale as they made their way down to the grey huddle of the nunnery buildings. Before Robin dismounted at the gate, Little John made one last desperate appeal to him to change his mind. ‘Robin, come back with me now, for there is a shadow over this place, and it bodes ill for you!’

  ‘John, John,’ replied Robin, ‘you are as full of cluckings as a hen with only one chicken and that a duckling! If any harm should threaten me in the nunnery, I will wind my bugle-horn, as I have done often before when I had need of you. Now help me down, for I am weak, and the world swims about me.’

  So Little John aided him to dismount, and steadied him with a strong arm when he reached the ground. The outlaw chief turned towards the heavy door in the wall, and beat upon it, though feebly, with his clenched fist.

  In a little while they heard shuffling footsteps within; the face of the portress appeared behind the grill, and seeing who it was that claimed admittance, she swiftly drew the bolts and set the door wide. Robin took his hand from his tall lieutenant’s arm, saying: ‘Get back with the others to Dunwold Scar, John, and do not trouble your head with gloomy imaginings. I shall be back among you in three days’ time.’

  The two friends struck hands, and then Robin followed the portress into the nunnery garden, and the heavy door swung to behind him.

  Little John stood where he was until he heard the bolts being shot, and footsteps going away from him on the farther side; then, taking the grey palfrey’s bridle, he turned and trudged away with a heavy heart, back towards the woodshore where his comrades were awaiting him.

  Robin followed the portress, walking slowly and unsteadily, for the stone-flagged path seemed to sway beneath his feet.

  It was almost winter outside, but here in the nunnery garden, sheltered from frost and wind by the high walls, summer yet seemed to linger. There were a few scentless blossoms upon the rose-bushes, and the mignonette was still in flower. It seemed a long time to Robin before he reached the open door of the hall, and the abbess herself came down to greet him and bid him welcome.

  ‘Well, Cousin Ursula,’ said Robin, doffing his cap, ‘I am come to trouble you again, you see.’

  Very pious and sweetly smiling was the abbess. ‘It is no trouble, Robin, no trouble in the world,’ said she. ‘Indeed, as one grows older, one becomes lonely, and it is a pleasant thing to see a kinsman’s face.’ And she gave him her arm to aid him up the steep circular stairway that led from the great hall to the sleeping-quarters above.

  Down one corridor she led him, and up another, and so brought him to a part of the nunnery far removed from the living-quarters, to a small, white-walled chamber with sweet strewing-rushes on the floor. An ancient chest with grinning gargoyle heads carved upon it stood in one corner, and against the farther wa
ll was a narrow bed spread with a sheepskin rug, which looked very inviting to the sick man.

  Robin laid his cap down upon the chest, and slipping his bowstave from his shoulders, propped it in the corner with his quiver beside it; and while he was doing these things, the Abbess Ursula brought salves and clean linen, and a fine brazen bowl which she set upon the floor beside the bed. When all was in readiness, Robin loosed the points of his stocking and drew it down, that she might come at the angry scar; then he lay down upon the bed with a sigh of relief.

  The abbess dressed the old scar with a strong-smelling brown salve which felt wonderfully cool and soothing, and covered it with bandages of linen. Then Robin pulled up the loose sleeve of his tunic, and that of his shirt beneath, and held out his thin brown arm, for her to bleed him.

  Abbess Ursula drew a small, sharp knife from the pouch hanging at her girdle, and taking Robin’s hand, she turned it palm upwards, and cut deep into the thick blue vein at his wrist. The blood welled up slowly, and she set the brazen bowl to catch the drops as they fell. Then she went quickly from the room, and returned in a few moments, carrying a silver cup. She set her arm beneath Robin’s head, and raised him gently. ‘Drink this,’ said she, ‘it will cool your fever. I will sit here in the window until it is time to tie up the blood-flow.’

  Robin drank the brew, which tasted bitter and smelled strongly of herbs; and he lay back with a sigh, saying: ‘Thanks, Cousin Ursula. You are very kind to your lawless kinsman.’

  She turned away without a word, setting the cup down on the gargoyle-carved chest, and went to sit in the broad window-embrasure.

  Robin lay very still, gazing drowsily at the wintry sunshine that splashed down through the window, making the thick glass of the panes as clearly green as the leaves of his own dear lime-tree when the sun shone through them in the springtime. And sleep came upon him very gently, as the drug which had been in the cup began to work; slowly his eyes closed, and he drifted out into a dark sea of drugged sleep.

  The abbess sat very quiet and watchful in the window embrasure, listening to Robin’s breathing until it grew deep and regular. Then she rose, and, crossing to the bed, stood for a moment looking down at the sleeping man before she went to the door and, opening it, beckoned to someone in the corridor outside.

  Sir Roger of Doncaster came furtively into the chamber, and she pointed to the bed. ‘There he lies. It was a happy chance that brought you to Kirklees Hall this morning!’

  The old knight stood looking down at his victim, and his face was twisted into a hideous, gloating pleasure. ‘When will he die?’ he asked softly.

  ‘If the blood continues to flow freely, he will be dead by nightfall,’ answered the abbess. She looked aside at Sir Roger, and suggested: ‘Why wait until then? Why not take your dagger and end it, now?’

  But Sir Roger shook his head and began to draw back towards the door. ‘No—no, not I!’ he muttered.

  The abbess laughed scornfully, and as Robin, disturbed by her laughter, stirred uneasily in his drugged sleep, she moved swiftly and silently from the room, sweeping Sir Roger with her. She closed the door, and locked it with a heavy key from a bunch which hung at her girdle. Then she set her back against the door and stood looking at the evil old knight. ‘Had you been even half a man, you would have let his life out yourself, instead of leaving it to drain away into a basin!’ said she, contemptuously.

  She began to walk away down the corridor, the skirts of her black habit sweeping over the floor; then she looked back over her shoulder, saying: ‘You had best come to my room and drink a cup of wine to give you courage, for we shall have a long wait.’

  The two of them made their way up one stone-flagged passage and down another, the black abbess gliding before, the knight slinking behind; and descending the circular stairway, they came to the chamber where they had made their evil bargain, half a year ago.

  Left alone in that wing of the nunnery, Robin slept on. The wintry sunshine stole farther and farther round the whitewashed walls of the little chamber, and the outlaw’s scarlet life-blood drained drop by drop into the bowl which had been set to receive it. The abbess had meant him to die in his sleep, but she had not mixed the drug strong enough, and towards evening he awoke. His fever had gone from him, but so, too, had almost all his life. He had ceased to bleed, but only because there was so little blood left in his body. Dragging himself up on to one elbow, he stared about him; but he saw no sign of the abbess, and then he knew that he had been left to die.

  Slipping from the bed, he stood swaying dizzily on his feet, then, supporting himself against the wall, he dragged himself to the door. It did not yield to his hand; he had not really expected that it would, for he had known in his heart that it would be locked on the outside. He turned away, and with a terrible effort, gained the window, collapsing against the sill; then, painfully dragging himself upright, he looked out. The window was too high for him to drop to the ground.

  He was trapped! Trapped like a curlew in a fowler’s net. Not that it made any great difference now, for he was dying, and he knew it.

  Close beside him his bugle-horn hung from the foot of the bed; and he took it up, and setting it to his lips, winded the old rallying-call. The blast was very weak, though it had cost him all the strength that was left to him, and he wondered, dreamily, whether Little John would hear it, even if he had disobeyed his orders to go back to Dunwold Scar and was still near at hand. Then the room went black about him and there was a great buzzing in his ears, and he pitched down half across the bed, and the darkness closed over him.

  Little John had not led the outlaws back to Dunwold Scar. He had sat all afternoon on the woodshore, with his hands locked around his updrawn knees, gazing down at the grey huddle of buildings that was Kirklees Nunnery, and waiting for he knew not what; only he was sure that some danger threatened Robin, and his heart within him was sick with dread.

  The other men were anxious and ill-at-ease also, though not so anxious as Little John, and as they sat or sprawled among the first trees of the forest, they turned often to look down at the nunnery in the valley.

  Slowly the afternoon wore away. There was a bitter smell of frost in the air, and the sun, like a rose-red lantern, was sinking low towards the western ramparts of the Peak district, when at last there came to the ears of the waiting outlaws the sound of Robin’s bugle-horn.

  The old familiar summons sounded faintly—so very faintly—across the frosty fields; and Little John was afoot on the instant, and running for Kirklees as he had never run before. The others raced at his heels; not a word had been spoken, but each knew that some terrible harm must have come to Robin, that he winded so feeble a blast. They were young men, some of them stripling youths, and Little John was old, yet there was none among them who could outrun him that day, as he raced across the frosty field-strips, drawing his sword as he ran.

  He reached that small strong door in the wall, and not waiting to summon the portress, hurled himself against the stout timbers. Others followed him; strong shoulders and hedge-cudgels soon battered it in, and the outlaw band poured through, to hurl themselves in turn against the door of the house itself. It gave way, as the other had done, the groaning of its rending timbers mingled with a great screaming and praying from within; and Little John strode into the hall of Kirklees Nunnery, with his sword in his hand and four-score grim-faced wood-rangers at his back.

  Very white and grim was Little John, as he rounded upon the huddle of pale-faced nuns confronting him.

  ‘Where is Robin Hood?’ he demanded. ‘Where is the abbess?’

  No one knew. The portress had admitted Robin Hood; no one else had seen him—except the abbess, and the abbess had fled.

  Little John turned from the frightened nuns and spoke quickly to his men. ‘Search the house, lads.’ Instantly the band split up; green-clad figures sped to the various doors that opened upon the hall, while others followed at Little John’s heels as he stormed up the narrow stairway. They f
lowed like a green sea down the corridors of the sleeping-quarters, questing into room after room in search of their master.

  It was Little John who came first upon the locked door, and withdrawing to the farther side of the corridor, he flung himself against it, battering it open with his shoulder. Much and Gilbert were close behind him as he rushed into the chamber.

  What a sight met their eyes! Robin Hood lay half across the bed where he had fallen in his swoon, white and bloodless and seemingly dead, and on the floor beside him a deep brazen vessel brimmed over with blood!

  Little John spoke no word, but he crossed to the bed, and dropping on his knees beside it, felt for Robin’s heart. It scarcely beat at all under his fingers, but next moment Robin opened his eyes slowly, and smiled. ‘So you—heard the summons, then, John?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Little John, ‘I heard the summons.’ Then, between shut teeth: ‘Kirklees Nunnery shall burn for this day’s work!’

  Robin shook his head weakly. ‘Little John, I never harmed any woman in my life, and it shall not be done in my name after my death. But now—I have only a little while left. Gilbert, bring me my bow from—the corner yonder, and string it for me—and open the window.’

  The chamber was full of men now, and the corridor was full beyond, for word had gone round that the search was ended; two of them tore open the casement. It was Much who brought Robin’s quiver, while Gilbert strung the great bow that would never be strung again.

  ‘Now,’ said Robin. ‘Help me up, John, and hold me while I shoot; and where the arrow falls, that is where you shall bury me.’

  Very gently Little John aided him to rise and gain the window. Gilbert gave him his bow, and Much came forward, the tears rolling down his leathery cheeks, to put an arrow into Robin’s outstretched hand.

  For a few moments the dying outlaw stood looking away over the walls of the nunnery garden, over the meadows lying quiet in the sunset light, to the dark verge of the forest beyond. And it seemed to him that the evening was the fairest he had ever seen, and the forest was calling him home. Then he nocked the arrow to his string. He was so weak that he could scarcely bend the great bow halfway, but his loose was as smooth and true as ever. The arrow soared out through the window—the last arrow that Robin of Barnesdale would ever loose—and the released bow-string sang its familiar song close to his ear. A low sob broke from one of the brotherhood, and many eyes were dimmed with tears as they watched the shaft speeding out over the meadows.