Robin Hood

by Roehrig Tilman

  “I can do the work of three.”

  “You must understand . . .” The blacksmith drank until the brownish ale ran down his chin and neck. “I could use you. But first, you have to get rid of that one. Mutes in the house bring bad luck. You best leave her outside a convent.”

  John breathed heavily. The scar through his beard turned dark.

  The blacksmith didn’t notice. He carried on. “Or better still, sell her to a beggar. They like to have mutes with them because mutes make good thieves.”

  “I’ll shut you up!” John grabbed the man by the leather apron with his left fist and lifted him up to his face. “By Dunstan! I’ll—”

  Marian tugged at the giant’s coat and shook her head pleadingly. Her fear brought John to his senses. He eased his anger. “It’s all right, little one.”

  No sooner was the blacksmith safely back on the ground than the man puffed himself up. “Out! Or I’ll call the guards. Get out!” He gasped for breath. “Everyone here knows me. Even our Sir Roger. Because I am the Baron’s blacksmith. You’ll find no work in Doncaster, I’ll see to that. You understand me?”

  Without a word, John turned around. Marian was already waiting at the wide-open door of the workshop.

  “Get out! Don’t you dare come here again,” cried the blacksmith. In the street, John could still hear him cursing. “Damned scum! Where are you from anyway? You come here with a mute? Miserable vermin!”

  Without a look left or right, they left Doncaster. Marian walked beside the giant. Since the day before, since the miller’s barn, he had not had to carry the girl. Her gaze was now mostly clear and alert.

  John was silent. Now and then, Marian poked him on the arm. He smiled briefly but said nothing. Anger and powerlessness kept their grip on him.

  In the afternoon, the walls of a monastery appeared beyond green pastures. Marian crouched down in the grass. She pointed to the bag of provisions the miller’s wife had slipped to them when they left.

  “Good eating, little one.” John sat with her.

  Cheese and apples. Marian ate her fill, then she got up.

  “Not so fast. No one will look for us here.”

  Their faces were at the same level. She lightly tugged his beard, turned around, and walked away across the pasture toward the monastery.

  It took a while before John realized what she was planning to do.

  With one motion he leaped up, was beside her in giant strides, obstructed Marian’s path. “Don’t, girl. Don’t!”

  Her eyes were determined. She pointed over to the monastery wall and tried to pass him.

  “No. I won’t give you away.”

  Her eyes remained fixed on the wall.

  “Your mother would . . .” John faltered. For the first time, he’d spoken of the weaver, and he could not speak any further. He wiped his eyes. “You know, Marian. I, too, have . . . you know . . .” With his big hands, he gently enclosed her outstretched hand. “You know, Marian . . . I need you. You can’t leave me alone!”

  Her narrow shoulders sank.

  Although no sound came out of her open mouth, she shook with sobs. “We’ll stay together,” he comforted her. “We stay together,” he consoled himself.

  They were lucky. A wagoner let them sit in the back. John talked a lot during the ride. He made plans. “We head north. I ask for work in every town and village. And if there isn’t any . . . Fine. Then we go on.” Marian just watched him. Sometimes she smiled. “And if we can’t find a place to stay . . . I’ll build us a hut for the winter, where no one will find us. I just need a new bow. An elm—no, better still, I’ll find a yew. We won’t starve.”

  At Wrangbrook, John helped the wagoner unload the barrels and was paid three pennies. “Well, there you are, little one.”

  They saved their money and lay down to sleep in an abandoned cattle shelter outside the village. The day had been unusually warm for early October. The night would not be too cold. Nevertheless, John had piled up some stones and lit a fire.

  As it burned down, he returned to his plans, reading the pictures from the flames, hope for Marian, and for himself. “You know, far in the north, the highlands begin.” He had never been there before, and he could not remember a place name. There was surely a piece of land somewhere that belonged to no one, no monastery, no prince. Surely there must be something like that. He promised Marian such a small patch. That would be enough for a home. “And just beyond, you know, where the sky almost touches the earth, that’s where I think the old gods live. And somewhere in the middle, King Arthur has a castle, too. Remember, dearheart, how the tinker told us about it? And King Arthur’s bailiff, he must need a guy like me.” He listened. Marian had long since fallen asleep. “Even if you never say another word,” he whispered, “so be it. I will speak for you.”

  In the morning, before the girl woke, John stood up quietly, found some embers under the ashes, and built a new fire. The morning sun had already dried the dew and opened the autumn flowers.

  They had no more bread. For a moment, he thought of the blacksmith of Doncaster. No, no stealing. Marian could . . . certainly anybody would give to a mute . . . John slapped his forehead violently. “One of these days, I’m going to shut that fellow up,” he said to himself. Their misery was not all that great. After all, they had three pennies, more than enough to buy bread. But it would be better if they put the money aside for the winter. “Don’t worry, girl, I’ll take care of it!”

  In the nearby forest, John refilled the empty bag with tasty mushrooms, enough for the day. On the way back, he heard a buzzing. It passed by him again, and again. The hunter narrowed his eyes and followed the bees’ flight to a withered, man-high tree stump nearby. “This is going to be quite the surprise, little one.”

  He quickly brought the mushrooms to the campground, pulled a charred branch out of the fire, and turned back. With the hood of his cloak pulled over his head, and bent low, without sudden movements, John crept behind the tree trunk.

  The guards had not spotted the enemy.

  He drilled an opening at knee height with his knife and pushed the smoldering branch into the hollow tree. As smoke began to billow out of the hole, John struck at the roots with his flat hands and then kept striking higher and higher toward the trunk. At the base of the tree, he clenched his hands into fists. Blow after blow, the beats became stronger.

  The honey fortress trembled and smoked. Inside, the excitement grew. Alarm! Highest alarm! The escape route was not yet blocked. Her Majesty the Queen dared to flee under the guard of the whole swarm.

  The raider waited until the buzzing and humming faded into a distance. A mighty fist punch widened the hole. With both hands, John broke the trunk apart and retrieved the waxy treasure.

  What a meal! John laughed when he saw Marian’s round eyes. He and Marian squeezed out the honeycombs. The honey melted on their tongues. Marian left her hands sticky.

  Soon they were wandering north again on the main road. Marian put one after the other of her sweet fingers in her mouth and licked.

  “You will see,” John said with a smile, “the two of us will get by.” Even without begging! He was ashamed of his thoughts from the morning. He stopped abruptly. Had he just seen rooftops on the left? John slowly went back. After the fifth step, he saw them. After the sixth, they were out of sight again. “Over there, little one.” Only a trained eye could make out the dark thatched roofs in the dense, rising forest while passing by. Finally, Marian nodded.

  The village seemed very close, barely a mile away. “I’ll ask for work there.”

  There were no crossroads. John took note of the direction and left the road with Marian. After an arduous stretch across the woods, they suddenly came upon a path. “People rarely walk here.” John thoughtfully examined the tracks. “Well, little one. We’ve come this far now. It can’t be much farther,” he promised.

  John was wrong. The winding path broke off abruptly and descended between boulders into a ravine. The settlement
had to lie somewhere on the hill opposite.

  From the depths they heard dull roaring and rustling. The descent lasted a good hour. Nearby, water plunged from high above into a lake, which poured it into a broad riverbed. Water droplets flickered, weaving colorful, iridescent veils over the valley.

  Before the last bend, John pulled the girl into a bush. Crouching, they pushed on and peered through the leaves. The path ended at the river. A thick, long tree trunk led across. At its top, wide notches were hewn in like stairs. Below, the water rushed, splashing and swirling. John scratched his beard. If hardly anyone used the path, why was the tree hewn into a footbridge?

  “I don’t know, little one,” he whispered. On the other side, the terrain remained level for a while, with shrubs and bushes at the water’s edge. Behind it, mighty oaks and beeches stretched up the hill.

  Immediately after the crossing, the path lost itself in the thicket. The big man felt uneasiness all the way down his neck. Determined, he put down their provisions and the water bag. “Wait here,” he whispered. “Don’t move! I’ll get you in a moment.” Marian nodded and crouched down on the soft forest floor.

  With the fighting staff in his fist, John returned to the spot where they had left the path.

  Humming a song, he stepped around the bend. Like a thirsty wanderer, the giant knelt down by the water, drank and cooled his bearded face, and from the corner of his eye he checked the opposite bank. Nothing. Nowhere did branches twitch, no leaf turned differently than the others.

  But the uneasiness remained.

  “Fine, then,” he murmured and climbed over the stones that formed steps up to the tree footbridge. The notches in the bridge had been hewn to match the strides of a normal-sized man. For John they were much too close together. He quickly reached almost the middle.

  “Hey! Get away!”

  John jumped to attention. He had looked down for only the briefest of moments at his feet. Just a second ago the footbridge had been empty. As if from nowhere, a stranger had appeared. He was coming toward John, had already come as close as ten paces. Now he stopped, his left foot braced in front of him. “Are you deaf? Go back!”

  The top of the man’s head almost reached the top of John’s chest. A tall fellow compared to anyone else. He had strength. Tensely, John assessed the danger. A quiver sat high and slightly slanted at the man’s back, the arrow shafts were quickly at hand, as good archers kept them. But the longbow was still shouldered. John breathed out. Until you grab it, I have you. He took his time. Everything on this fellow was green except his belt, hunting horn, and dagger. The trousers, the doublet—nothing ragged and everything dark green. Maybe that’s why I didn’t spot you. Even the short cowl was green, the hood pulled far over the man’s forehead. John saw nothing of the man’s eyes, only the narrow nose, mouth, and chin. No beard. A smooth face. So, you are a nobleman.

  “How much longer do I have to wait?”

  The giant knew that tone. He grinned in reply and spat in the water. I’m not taking orders from anyone here. He’s no reckless youngster, but he’s got a big mouth.

  “Come to your senses, dwarf, and get off the bridge!” The stranger spoke to him now as if to a child. “Don’t make me have to get cross with you!”

  Anger rose in John. “You pompous . . . frog,” he growled at the man dressed all in green.

  “Now, that’s what I like to hear. I was afraid you were mute.”

  Marian! She was waiting behind John. No matter what happens, that man must not get to the other side. “No more talking!” John gripped the fighting staff tighter and crouched to attack.

  The stranger flexed his shoulder, his bow jumped into his left hand, his right hand shot up and grabbed an arrow. In one smooth movement, the feathered shaft sat on the string, already pulled back to his ear. “Try it! And you are dead.”

  John had only managed two steps forward. He faltered and shook his head in disbelief. Never before had he seen such speed with a bow. “All right.” Very slowly, he stood upright again and lifted the staff in front of him.

  “Back! I will not tolerate strangers in my territory.” The voice had become sharp, cutting. “Walk backward. And then get out of the ravine! Before I change my mind.”

  John did not move. You’re not an earl, nor one of the royal foresters. Beads of sweat ran down the giant’s forehead. Yesterday it was get out of town! And today it was get off the road!

  Marian and I are not street dogs. Everyone we meet can’t give us a kick.

  But the braggart on the bridge had the advantage. John had to buy time, had to stop the scoundrel somehow. He forced his face into a grin. “All I’ve got is my walking stick. What about you?” He spat at the green man’s feet. “You’re gonna shoot me off the bridge just for trying to cross it? You’re a coward. You’re nothing without your bow.”

  The stranger laughed gleefully but kept the string taut by his ear. “The dwarf has wit. Nice.”

  John snorted and tightened his grip on the staff again.

  “Now, now. I wouldn’t do that.” The green man clicked his tongue. “Coward? No one’s ever gotten away with calling me that.”

  “You’ve also not met me yet.”

  “That’s enough. I could shoot you like a dumb ox, just like that. But it’s no fun. I’ve already wasted too much time on you. So I’m giving you a chance.” He lowered his bow. “Don’t move. I’ll cut a young oak . . . and come back without my bow. Then I’ll teach you a thing or two.” The green man laughed again. “A fair game.”

  “This is no joke,” growled John.

  “I make the rules here,” the stranger barked at him. “And you will be sorry if you do not follow them.”

  John nodded. I’m going to crack your skull, he thought.

  The green man turned around nimbly, ran back the way he had come, jumped off the tree-bridge with a giant leap, and disappeared into the bushes.

  He is quick, like a marten. John wiped his brow. “By St. Dunstan. If only I had stayed on the big road.” He didn’t fear the fight, but he had unnecessarily endangered Marian. Should he just go back now and get her out of this valley as fast as he could? Why brawl with that fellow first? No, when I turn around, I’ll end up with an arrow in my back.

  “Hey, dwarf!” The green man returned, without bow and quiver, armed only with a roughly smoothed oak staff. Ready for battle, John pulled his tightly woven hood over his head. The stranger jumped onto the walkway and came closer, playfully twirling the stick, throwing it from one hand to the other. “If you fall into the water and aren’t dead, I will give you time to disappear. I promise I’ll stand by my word.”

  The stranger had come close enough. “Shut up!” John gave him no time to prepare. His heavy staff jerked forward like a snake’s head and struck the stranger in the chest. His big-mouthed opponent staggered. John pushed on. The green man repelled the first blow. But the next one got past his guard. John used both ends of his thick tree trunk. Neck. Head. Neck again, and a terrible blow against the man’s heart. The stranger was lifted off his feet and thrown back, found his footing on the bridge again, panting. His jacket was torn apart. Blood ran from under his hood.

  “Enough?” John weighed the fighting staff in his fists.

  The green man shook his head, dazed. Blood ran down his cheeks.

  “Jump in the water, and I’ll let you live,” John offered. “You may hop along the river like a frog. Until I never see you again.”

  His opponent had regained his composure. Suddenly, he bent his head to the side as if he saw something behind the giant. “Now, that’s unexpected,” he gasped.

  Marian! Had she come out of hiding? John looked back over his shoulder. That moment was enough. The man took two leaps, thrust the end of his stick into a notch in the tree bridge, lifted himself up, and flew, legs first, like a bolt toward the giant. Both feet hit the mighty chest. The force of the impact sent John staggering. He stumbled, crashed backward onto the footbridge, slipped, clung on with his legs
, did not slip off, and quickly held the staff up in defense.

  No attack followed. Nothing happened. Where was the green man? John sat up and stared down the tree bridge but could not see his opponent. Then he saw the hands, right in front of his sandals. The fingers clawed into the bark. John pulled his legs up.

  On his knees, he crawled closer and bent his head down. There the stranger hung, paddling his feet above the water. The hood had slipped off. Clear, gray eyes looked up at John from a bloodstained face. They showed not a trace of fear.

  “Let go,” John demanded.

  “If I had landed on my feet,” the green man hissed through clenched teeth, “I’d have you now, you runt.”

  “Still got that sharp mouth?” The giant rose to full height. From high above, he stared down at his opponent. “I’ll shut it forever if you don’t let go.”

  “I just had a bit of bad luck. But otherwise, it was a fine bout, don’t you think?

  John couldn’t figure this stranger out. This was serious, deadly serious, and yet this frog kept croaking. “For the last time . . . let go.”

  He raised his staff like he was trying to churn butter in a barrel.

  “You won’t kill a defenseless man.” The gray eyes looked calm and steady.

  Right he was. John was annoyed, even more so because the frog knew it. “You’re not worth it. But you deserve this.” He slowly moved the heel of his sandal forward and rolled it over the man’s clawed fingers.

  “Damn bastard!” With that curse, the green man dropped into the swirling water. John nodded with satisfaction.

  The stranger was carried along a bit, paddled out of the current, and waded into shallower water. He hopped from stone to stone toward the shore. John rushed over the tree bridge, jumped, and awaited his opponent, ready to strike.