Robin Hood

by Roehrig Tilman

  Robin took the offered hand. “I never would have believed a Norman could ally himself with an outlawed Saxon. This is all very upside-down. But I like it.”

  It was time to leave. Time was short. The bond had to be redeemed at St.t Mary’s Abbey by sunset. Richard at the Lea sat up straight on the horse and stroked the mane of the magnificent white steed admiringly. “I’ll fly to York.”

  “I shall not ever find such a fine beast . . .” Robin stopped himself. “Yes, a beautiful horse.” And he glanced at John with a stern look. “Why are you dawdling, squire?”

  Marian clung to the giant’s cloak. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.

  “I’ll be back, little one. I will. Believe me, I won’t abandon you!” John gently loosened her clasped hands. “Tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow at the latest, I’ll be back. In the meantime, go over to the village. Beth will be happy to see you.”

  Marian wiped her eyes with her fists. She opened her mouth, formed words, but only wheezing and gargling escaped her throat.

  “It’s all right, little one. Go to Beth and wait for me.” John abruptly turned and mounted the brown horse.

  Pete Smiling had attached the knight’s shield to the saddle horn. “If he calls for it, you pass it to him, nice and polite like a good squire.” John gave a strained grin. Pete bared his teeth and pointed to the feet hanging down below the horse’s belly. “And if your steed isn’t fast enough, just put your feet on the ground and give him some help!”

  Before John could think of a suitable response, Robin Hood ordered, “Forward!”

  The knight spurred the white horse on. He sat upright in the saddle. John put the hood of his coat over his head and snatched the packhorse’s reins from Pete’s hand. “I’ll be back,” he threatened.

  I’ll be back, his gaze promised the girl. He clicked his tongue and followed his new master.

  Marian’s shoulders sank. Even when horse and rider had long since been swallowed by the forest, she stood motionless.

  “Hey, little condition!” Robin Hood waved his hand up and down in front of her eyes. “Hey, here I am!” He crouched down. “You were John’s one condition, and I gave my word. At first, nobody knew what we should do with a girl amongst us boys.” He continued in earnest: “But now you no longer belong just to that giant. You belong to us. We are your family.”

  For a long time, Marian searched the gray eyes of the leader. Then she nodded.

  Robin straightened up. Looking dubious, he asked, “How fast are you?”

  The girl put one foot forward and set her chin.

  “Very well. Whoever gets to the village first. The rules are, if I win, I give you a knife. If you win, I owe you a knife.”

  Marian frowned. Finally, she sneered contemptuously.

  “Not a good game, is it?”

  She shook her head.

  “Very well. We’ll walk to the village together. You’ll stay with Beth. And you can pick out a good dagger from the blacksmith. Deal?”

  That was when Marian finally smiled at him.

  VII

  The latest dispatch from the Crusade: Sultan Saladin’s prisoner exchange does not fully meet the demands of the victor of the battle of Acre. In a rage, Lionheart has 3000 Muslim prisoners—women, children, and men—slaughtered on August 20, 1191, outside the city walls. Lionheart marches on toward Jerusalem with his army.

  ST. MARY’S ABBEY IN YORK.

  An oak crucifix was affixed to the front wall of the hall with iron wedges. The spear wound on the Savior’s body had been renewed with fresh red paint only a few days earlier. In painful devotion, the suffering Christ looked down on the richly laid table. The sound of the noon bell had long since died away. “He will not come. Deo gratias! Not if he hasn’t by now.” The well-padded cheeks of the abbot were flushed. “Be seated! Let’s enjoy the meal.” He waved his guests and the monks to the table.

  The abbot submissively led Baron Roger of Doncaster to his seat. The mighty patron of St. Mary’s Abbey had kept his word. All the costs for the restoration of the crucifix and the refectory had been paid by him. “A modest meal will fill our stomachs till sundown. And after the deadline, the knight’s possessions will fill our purses. What a day for the Lord!”

  Sir Roger swiped the Benedictine’s hand off his black velvet sleeve. “Prudemment, abbé, I detest being touched. Even by a man of the cloth!” The thin lips of the gaunt, hollow-cheeked man barely moved when he spoke, thrusting the words from his mouth and nose. The pale green eyes showed annoyance. “Not a day for the Lord. It is my money that you lent out. It is my day.”

  “C’est vrai. Pardon me. C’est vrai.” Bowing low, the abbot held the chair for the Baron and waited for Sir Roger to settle down. Then he gestured to the next of his guests. “And you, my dear judge, will take your seat right here!”

  “With pleasure. Gladly.” The stout man pulled in the high-backed chair for himself. “Hunger and thirst are gnawing away at me.” His eyes were already eating into the fragrant hare pie.

  As a royal judge and tax collector, he traveled from castle to castle, from monastery to monastery. He cared little about robbery and murder. He calculated the sums that had to be paid to London, imposed fines, and threatened delinquent lords with property seizure. So, one was kind to him and more than kind. Everyone knew about his sticky open hands, his insatiable greed. He gratefully accepted generous gifts. In exchange, he reduced one’s tax debt. He gladly delayed his journeys for lucrative side deals.

  “It should be done lawful and proper,” the royal judge said. “If the knight lets the deadline expire, you shall bear witness to it with your seal.” For this small service, the abbot had given him an advance of fifty silver pieces from the monastery coffer that morning. The debtor still had a few hours left. The judge licked his lips with gusto; he intended to use this time to enjoy the wine and good food.

  “For the emissary of the Lord Sheriff of Nottingham,” said the abbot, “I have reserved the place on my right.”

  The squire sat down. With his knife upright in his fist, he waited for the meal to begin. He had only been sent as a witness. It was puzzling to him. He did not understand the whys and hows of it all, but he did know that he had rarely seen Thom de Fitz so outraged: “Diable! That pathetic knight has actually repaid all his debts in our shire. Sang de Dieu! All that remains is the bond in York.” The lord sheriff’s face had been red, except for the white stump on his nose, at the idea that this long-prepared plan could fail at the last moment. Thom de Fitz had received a splendid gold necklace from his friend Sir Roger after his testimony at the knight’s son’s trial.

  The Lord Sheriff had chosen the simplest squire in Nottingham to represent him today. “You swear to everything that you are asked!” had been the instructions. “For this, my noble and valiant warrior, you may kill a stag at the next hunt. You sign anything and everything, do you understand?”

  “Sign? As in write?” the squire had replied.

  “Par tous les diables. Then just put an X!”

  So far, the day had gone without a hitch. No one had asked him anything. No one had asked him to read or write anything. The squire was pleased with himself.

  “Brother Prior, come to me.” With his finger, the abbot ordered a slender, somewhat misshapen monk to the seat to his left. “Brother Cellar Master, sit down to his other side! Just to be safe.” The large-headed cellar master thanked him piously, and as he sat down, he almost knocked the prior off his stool with his well-fed bulk.

  The abbot looked over his shoulder up to the Redeemer, muttered a short prayer of thanksgiving, made the sign of the cross, and cried out: “God save Prince John! Enjoy whatever your heart desires!”

  And the round table did enjoy. Over the course of an hour, meat pies, ham, and hot wheat cakes were devoured and finally washed down with wine. The abbot snapped a finger at Brother Food Master. “Well, why are you dawdling?” He pointed to the baron’s place.

  With a blank face, Sir Rog
er of Doncaster first poured the rest of his wine at the monk’s feet before he had the cup refilled with fresh drink. His green eyes looked scornfully at the abbot. “Was that it?” he sniffed through his crooked nose. “Is that all the food you have to offer me?”

  “Wait, wait. A delicacy will crown our meal. Uh . . . une délicatesse excellente.” The abbot clapped his hands. At once, the food master rushed back out.

  “Have a little patience, Sir Roger! These taste best freshly prepared, crispy. They sweeten our estate. I may have the peasants tithe more, for the benefit of my humble monastery.”

  Next to him, the little prior shook his head. “It’s not right,” he said softly.

  “Quiet!” hissed the abbot

  “Forgive my disobedience, Father!” The prior stared straight ahead. “It is not right to deprive the knight of all his fortune. His debt is only—”

  “Brother Prior! I forbid you to speak!”

  The monk ducked his head. His hump bulged higher under his black robe. “Forgive me! But I am your deputy.”

  The royal judge frowned with uncertainty. “I wash my hands of it. But if there is anything amiss in this transaction . . .”

  “No!” cried the abbot. “The law is on our side. If the knight does not appear and pay his debt, then, par la Vierge, he loses all his property, no matter how much his property is worth.”

  Relieved, the judge nodded. “Right. Right. That’s a fair way to look at it.” He leaned back.

  “Forgive me,” began the prior again, “but it’s cruel to treat a human being—”

  In a flash, the cellar master stamped the pommel of his knife on the back of the prior’s hand—the prior broke off in a stifled scream.

  “Forgive me, dearest Brother Prior,” said the cellar master. “But with all due humility, it’s none of your concern.” The cellar master shook his head. “I’m responsible for the monastery’s operations, the cellar, and the barns. And I am in accord with our gracious Father Abbot.”

  Sir Roger had listened in silence. “It amazes me,” he began and waited until everyone turned to him. “Yes, for a long time, I have wondered how a crippled man could have succeeded in obtaining such an elevated office. Are there no straight-backed men of faith in the order of the Benedictines?”

  The hunched monk let his chin sink to his chest.

  The abbot eagerly agreed with his patron: “On reflection, yes, it seems necessary, yes, that we may have to make a new choice for the monastery.”

  “I have so decided,” Sir Roger of Doncaster declared nasally.

  The two tapestries hung as curtains at the entry were parted. Led by the food master, three friars carried in the delicacies.

  They lowered the platters next to the Baron’s seat. Larks, warblers, and nightingales! Plucked, rolled in honey, and roasted brown on long, thin wooden skewers!

  Sir Roger helped himself with both hands. He did not wait for the others to be served. He bit the heads off the crispy birds, spat them across the table, then he tore the first nightingale from the skewer with his teeth.

  No more talking. The gentlemen of the table chewed the delicacies with relish. Alone among them the prior ate nothing. He sat slumped down on his stool.

  Forest, fields, pastures, and again forest. Not galloping, but at an easy trot, so they would not tire the horses. As the trees and shrubs moved in closer to the road, the foliage dampened the hoofbeats.

  Sir Richard at the Lea reined in the white horse at the top of a hill and waited until Little John caught up with the packhorse. “Just under an hour. Then we will reach our destination.”

  The road cut down through a narrow, straight gorge. Only when it reached the plain did it leave the forest for good and wind its way between brown-black fields to York’s city gates. No roofs could be seen beyond the powerful ring of walls. Still, there were plenty of church towers to be seen, close together, all dominated by the cathedral’s blunt tower.

  “About time.” John pushed the hood off his head. He looked up at the sun. “It’s all right, sir. There’s still time.”

  Sir Richard stretched out his arm. “There. Left side. Outside the city walls. There’s St. Mary’s Abbey. That’s where I’m expected.”

  “Or not.” John grinned.

  The knight turned grim. “Yes, perhaps. The abbot just wants a quick profit. But my neighbor, Sir Roger, would surely be disappointed. He has prevented anyone from lending me the final four hundred pounds with threats and promises. He would enjoy seeing my final humiliation.”

  “Well, then he will be disappointed.” The giant pulled up his bright-green and yellow hood again. “I can’t get it into my head how you fine Normans peck each other’s eyes out. Not even a crow will do that to its own.”

  “Silence! Remember one thing: Not all Normans are greedy.” Sir Richard drove on the horse with a light touch of his spurs. He let the animal gallop, quickly increasing the distance.

  “Very well, sir!” The squire gripped the leather strap of the packhorse tighter, snapped the reins on his brown steed, and trotted after.

  They had almost reached the plain. The path was still narrow. Trees and dense woods still lined the roadside. Richard at the Lea rode twenty horse lengths ahead.

  Suddenly, just in front of John, a ragged figure appeared from behind a tree trunk, a huge club in his fists. The face was dirty. The eyes glared. “I am Robin Hood. Get off that horse!”

  In John’s mind, the journey had been as good as over, he had as good as reached the comfort and shelter of the monastery. “Hey, what the—? Who the—? Who are you?” The giant was slow to process this unexpected turn. An ambush. How dare he! Calls himself Robin Hood! “Get out of here before I show you who’s who!”

  The man leapt closer and swung his weapon with both hands. John barely managed to pull himself back away from the blow, then the club crashed into his mount’s skull. The horse’s front hooves buckled.

  “By Satan!” The giant did not fall down. He stood with both his feet on the ground, the wounded horse gurgling between his legs. “Don’t tangle with me, lad!” Everything in John tensed.

  As the animal tipped to the side, John grabbed the shield off its saddle. Roaring, he pushed himself off and rushed toward the highwayman. The club swung in for a second strike. John dodged. The gnarled wood grazed his left arm, and he stumbled and hit the ground. Above him, the man took his time. He drew back wide to swing the third blow.

  That moment was enough for John to squat down and grab the shield with both hands. He jumped into the blow and rammed the attacker. The highwayman was thrown backward off the road. “You rat! Robin Hood, my ass. You’re a damned rat!” John made to throw himself over him.

  The packhorse was neighing behind him. John spun around. A second man was dragging the horse and the saddle chests into the bushes. “Miserable scum!” John dropped the shield and ran at him, but the first attacker was on him again. He fell, grabbed a foot, and clung on. “Not with me!” John let out a roar and slammed both fists into the man’s back.

  Richard at the Lea heard the squire’s roar. He turned the white horse about and galloped to help. Before he reached John, the highwayman hand already collapsed.

  John pushed the motionless body aside. “You damn idiot! Didn’t I tell you? Not with me!” He rushed across the road, plowed into the undergrowth. The second man hadn’t made it far with the bucking packhorse. When he saw the monster roaring up behind him, he forgot his prey and fled, screaming.

  John let him go. “That’s fine by me,” he panted. He slowly approached the frightened animal. “Shush!” He reached for the bridle. “Steady. It’s all right.”

  From the road, Richard at the Lea anxiously called his name.

  “All is well, sir. I got the gold.”

  The giant brought the packhorse safely back to the road.

  “He’s dead.” The knight had dismounted and turned the highwayman on his back.

  “Warned him.” John wiped his brow. “Couldn’t help
it. It happened too fast for me to get to the sword or the hammer. Had I had my staff, I’d have taken care of him right away. He’d have had a limp all his life, but he’d still be alive.” John knocked the dirt off his traveling cloak. “Trash!”

  Richard at the Lea pointed to the brown horse. It lay on its side, twitching and wheezing. “Help him,” he demanded.

  John looked at the knight, then lowered his eyes. “He’s suffered enough,” he murmured. Richard at the Lea understood, and he drew the sword himself.

  Silence. John adjusted the saddle chests, moved them back and forth, slapped the bundle of clothes. After a while, he paused, thoughtfully scratching the scar in the beard. “Sir? The robe. I think the new robe was to blame. The fellows saw it and thought, Here comes a rich man.” John took the knight’s old bad-weather cloak off the packhorse. “Put this back on! It’s better, I think. That won’t be attracting anybody’s attention.”

  “Good. Give it to me. We have to go.” Sir Richard followed the advice without hesitation. But then he paused, smiling softly: “Your idea is better than you think.” As he climbed into the saddle, he added: “This tattered garment will fool robbers like those, but also the other kind. But now . . . we’ve lost time.”

  “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll keep that packhorse moving. I’ve got good feet. It’s gonna be close, but we’ll make it.”

  As the giant ran after the knight in great strides, he kept on ranting. “Those rats! They just take and use Robin’s name. The vermin! Lurking behind the trees like that. The mangy, lousy vermin!”

  Finally, Sir Richard turned to him and said, “Who do you mean, Little John?”

  The giant fell silent. He pulled the large hood down over his forehead. “It’s all right, sir. Well, I mean, there are such foul robbers in the woods. That’s what I mean.”

  Red and golden sunlight flooded through the west windows of the abbey’s dining hall. Candied apples and nuts had rounded off the meal. Once again, the abbot had a refill of his cup. Slightly drunk, he lifted the goblet: “A toast to the sun. In another little while it will sink away. Hello, night. Farewell, knight!”