The Chronicles of Robin Hood
Page 24
It ended its flight, striking the ground close beside a tiny path that led across the pastures, just where farmland and forest came together; and as it landed, Robin gave a sigh, and fell back into Little John’s arms. They lowered him gently upon the bed, and he lay still, with his hand in Little John’s.
‘Dig my grave broad and long, that I may lie easy,’ he whispered. ‘And set a green sod beneath my head and another at my feet, for I—have always loved best to sleep—upon the free turf of the—Greenwood, and I would sleep upon it—at the last. And lay my bow beside me. It has been a faithful friend these—many years.’
He looked about him at the outlaws who stood around his bed, and summoned up a faint smile. ‘Never wear such woeful faces on my account, lads; but be glad of the good days that we have shared together!’
For a while he lay in silence, gazing at the window, with a wide, blue look of peace in his eyes. At last he stirred, and spoke again to Little John, in a whisper so faint that only those nearest to him could hear what he said:
‘Raise me up, old lad—your arm under my head—so. Now kiss me, John—and—good-bye.’
Little John was dry-eyed as he bent his head and kissed the forehead of his sword-brother. He would have wept had he been able to, but it was as though his heart were dried up and turned to stone within him.
Robin drew a long, quivering breath, and with its outgoing his gallant spirit went free as the winds of the Greenwood.
Little John laid him down, and got slowly to his feet. A great stillness had fallen over the men who stood with bared heads around their leader’s body. So quiet was the chamber that those within it could hear the sad, sweet autumn-song of a robin at the farther end of the nunnery garden.
The outlaws would not suffer the body of their leader to lie within Kirklees hall that night. Little John it was who, with his great strength, carried him down the narrow stairway and out of the accursed house into the free wholesomeness of the meadows. They bore him far into the forest that had been his kingdom, and laying him down at the head of a broad ride, where often he had lain to watch the sunshine splashing through the chestnut-trees, watched beside him all night, while one of their number sped northward through the forest towards Fountains Dale, to fetch Friar Tuck.
It was towards evening on the second day when the Curtel Friar came out of the forest; and he was old and grey, his great shoulders bowed with the weight of the years that had passed over him, and his face haggard with sorrow at the cause of his coming.
Then the outlaws laid the body of Robin Hood very gently in the grave that they had dug for him where the arrow fell—a broad, long grave, as he had asked—and they set a green sod beneath his head and another at his feet, and laid his great red-yew bow ready-strung beside him.
The crimson sun was sinking low behind the western hills as the outlaws stood with bowed heads around the open grave while Friar Tuck read the burial service. The red sunset light flowed across the meadows, sending long shafts of warmth and radiance to strike deep into the forest, and flushing the boles of the trees with pink. Friar Tuck’s deep voice fell silent, and he closed his book. Then they filled in Robin’s grave and laid the sods back lightly over it.
Long after the rest had gone in silence back towards Dunwold Scar, long after the red warmth of sunset had died out among the trees, Little John remained alone in the slate-grey November twilight, standing with bent head beside the grave. Then he, too, turned and stole away into the forest, where it was already night.
Sir Roger had left Kirklees with the abbess by a secret way. He fled to Grimsby, with Much, Will Stukely, and Little John hard upon his heels, and narrowly escaped them by taking ship for France, where he returned to his own estates, keeping himself closely guarded against the just vengeance which he knew to be hard behind him. For a while he lived on miserably, in hourly fear for his life; and then the vengeance that he had feared caught up with him.
Strangely, it was not Little John, nor Much, nor Gilbert-of-the-White-Hand who avenged Robin’s death on the man who had caused him to be slain. It was a certain strolling juggler, a little, wizened old man like a dressed-up monkey in his parti-coloured rags of red and yellow, who juggled wonderfully with gaily coloured balls and fresh-cut flowers and little gleaming daggers. They were so bright and pretty, those daggers, that they seemed more like playthings than weapons; but one of them was sharp enough to slip deep into Sir Roger’s black heart as he sat in his castle garden; and afterwards the little juggler escaped, and was no more seen.
It was so long since Peterkin had been one of Robin Hood’s men that the others of the original band had all but forgotten him; but Peterkin had not forgotten.
After the death of Robin of Barnesdale it was not long before the brotherhood split up. Some of them went to distant towns and far-off dales, hired themselves to new masters, and settled down into law-abiding citizens. Gilbert travelled north, and became a famous fighter against the Scots; several of the younger ones went south, to join the King’s Archers. Some made their way to Alan A’Dale, who now held the Castle of Linden Lea, old Sir Richard being long since dead, and he settled them on his land.
Much and Little John would have been welcome at Linden Lea also, but they had no wish to take service with another master, even if that master was Alan A’Dale. They had enough money between them to buy a little farm in the wilds of Werrisdale, and there they went together and settled down.
The shadows of the budding trees danced over Robin’s grave in the winds of springtime, and the golden leaves drifted down and covered it in the autumn. Once again grass grew over the fire-scars in the Stane Ley, and no one sat between the spreading roots of the giant Trysting Lime. It was as though Robin Hood and his men had never roamed the glades of Barnesdale and Sherwood. Yet they lived on in the hearts of the people; and indeed they still do, even to this very day, because they stood for freedom and justice and kindliness, and all those things which are dear to the English people.
About the Author
Rosemary Sutcliff was born in 1920 in West Clanden, Surrey.
With over 40 books to her credit, Rosemary Sutcliff is now universally considered one of the finest writers of historical novels for children. Her first novel, The Queen Elizabeth Story was published in 1950. In 1959 her book, The Lantern Bearers won the Carnegie Medal. In 1974 she was highly commended for the Hans Christian Andersen Award and in 1978 her book, Song for a Dark Queen was commended for the Other Award.
In 1975, Rosemary was awarded the OBE for services to Children’s Literature and the CBE in 1992. Unfortunately Rosemary passed away in July 1992 and will be much missed by her many fans.
Also by Rosemary Sutcliff
Beowulf: Dragonslayer
The Armourer’s House
The Capricorn Braclet
The High Deeds of Finn MacCool
The Hound of Ulster
The Sword and the Circle
The Light Beyond the Forest
The Road to Camlann
The Shining Company
Sun Horse, Moon Horse
The Witch’s Brat
The Sword Song of Bjarni Sigurdson
Bonnie Dundee
The Mark of the Horse Lord
Frontier Wolf
Flame-Coloured Taffeta
Knight’s Fee
Blood Feud
Simon
Song for a Dark Queen
Tristan and Iseult
Warrior Scarlet
Brother Dusty-Feet
THE CHRONICLES OF ROBIN HOOD
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 448 17298 6
Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK
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This ebook edition published 2013
Copyright © Rosemary Sutcliff, 1950
First Published in Great Britain by Oxford University Press, 1950
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