YORKSHIRE. BARNSDALE WINTER CAMP.
The snow melted by early March. Water thundered through the gorge. The stream swelled, washing away the mud and branches, its waves foaming and sloshing under the tree bridge. For days it had been flooding the bank at the main camp.
The air had become light. Thrushes greeted the morning, and the linden tree in the middle of the meadow showed bright budding tips. Among the tall beech trees rose the smell of rich black earth.
“In one week, we’ll move to Sherwood,” Robin Hood had ordered.
Old Herbghost and Gilbert Whitehand were to leave immediately. The most essential kitchen gear, and most importantly the unstrung bows, stocks of arrows, and a rough wooden reel wrapped in tightly twisted yet supple tendon cord for bow strings, as well as a sufficiently large selection of frocks, robes, and tradesmen’s tunics—all this was carried by the band of men to the main road. There they pulled the cart out of its hiding place, loaded it, harnessed the strongest horse, and disguised as peddlers, Herbghost and Whitehand climbed onto the wagon seat. “See you in two weeks at the latest. We’ll be waiting for you at the big oak tree!” Gilbert Whitehand took the reins and cracked the whip.
Beth worked ceaselessly. The outlaws exchanged their dark winter doublets for the green summer outfit. It was too much for her to do alone. Two neighbors gave the seamstress a hand.
“You must help too, princess!”
And so it started. Marian inspected the discarded black-brown hooded cloaks. What was damaged would be mended by Beth over the next months. Much carried the undamaged clothes to the cave and stowed them in the big oak chests under the supervision of Paul Storyteller. “No fleas. No moths,” Storyteller assured him, as between the uniforms the old man sprinkled crushed roots of blessed knapweed.
John had been the first to come to Barnsdale Top for his measurements to be taken, and today he was the last to pick up his newly made uniform. Patiently he stood there, his head bent down so as not to bump into the ceiling.
“I’ve never used so much fabric for anyone before. Raise your arms.” Beth stretched and pulled the seams. “By St. Catherine, you are truly a giant.”
“I guess so.” John grinned and patted his mighty stomach. “Need food for two. And a tunic that’ll hold two other men.” He laughed happily.
Beth was pleased with her work. “Nobody’ll mistake you for a frog down there in Sherwood, more like a tree with legs.” She joined in the laughter.
Marian had listened to them silently. Now she tugged impatiently at her brown doublet. “What about me? I can’t . . .”
“Later, princess,” Beth told her. “Once the fellows are gone day after tomorrow, we’ll have time. Then I’ll sew you a frock out of the best fabric, with a fancy collar, even. You’ll look beautiful.”
Marian gave a start of sudden realization. She gaped at the giant. “Gone? What about me?”
John turned serious. “Well, you see . . .” He took in an anxious breath. Over and over, he had postponed telling her, from one day to the next. Now they had to talk. He rubbed the scar in his beard. “You know, little one, you should stay here. It’s better, believe me.”
Marian shook her head. Her eyes grew big. Finally, she clenched her fists. “Liar,” she stammered, “that’s what you are. A mean scoundrel.” With that, she rushed out of the hut.
Helplessly, John shrugged his shoulders. “She can’t go down to Sherwood with us. She simply can’t.”
Beth turned the giant man around and pushed him to the door. “Go after her, you clumsy oaf. Explain it to her! Don’t just tell her.”
“Fine, then.”
John found Marian behind the house. Knees drawn up, she was crouched on the piled firewood. She had her arms wrapped around her knees, staring at the clouds.
“Look here, little one . . .”
She ignored him.
“There are no proper houses down there, Robin says. We sleep in a cave or just under a bush. It is only comfortable when the weather is nice, Robin says. And we have to go from one hiding place to another. Always on the run because the sheriff’s iron soldiers are after us. It is not pleasant. You see, there is no home for you down there.”
“I don’t care, no matter what Robin says. You promised: You’ll never leave me.”
“That’s true. But I need you to be safe. And not live rough in the woods. I don’t want that for you.”
Marian wiped her eyes. “But I can do it. We have already lived in a cave, both of us, and slept on moss and in a ditch. And it was wonderful because you were with me. Please, John. Please take me with you.”
“We were alone then. We had nothing. But everything’s better now. You have to stay here, dearheart.” He wanted to hug her.
She grabbed a stick of firewood. “Go. Go away! Since you don’t need me anymore. Go to your dearheart Robin.”
“I just . . . want to say,” he muttered, “I do only have you and Robin. But Beth needs you, too. I will come visit often. With the loot. One of us lieutenants always has to come bring it here.”
Marian lowered her head. The fair curls covered her face. “Go away!” Her shoulders trembled.
John wanted to comfort her, did not know how. “I do need you.” At a loss, he walked away.
The days hurried on, and it was time to depart—the main camp was secured. On the high ground, the freemen had camouflaged all three pathways down with bushes. They had piled stones at the bottom of the ravine in front of the fourth entryway through the rock tunnel. For the first month, Pete Smiling was to remain at the base with three other outlaws. In case of danger to the main camp or Barnsdale Top, one of them would jump on horseback and alert the band in Sherwood. In April, Tom Toad and a few men would replace the current guards.
The departure was before sunrise. Little John looked around the camp furtively. Was Marian there? He wanted at least to say a farewell! “I need luck, little one,” he muttered. But he hadn’t seen the girl for two days. The giant sighed. He couldn’t go back to the village to look for her there. There was no time for that now.
Robin Hood checked each man’s weapons and equipment. No extra baggage permitted, only water, and provisions. Everything else was well hidden in the storage caves in Sherwood. “Our first meeting place is below Doncaster, off the trade road, by the creek near the little ford. But nobody goes to the mill, understand? It’s too dangerous.”
“But . . . but . . . You . . . you gave . . . gave me . . .” Much raised his hands, pleading.
“Patience, boy! I haven’t forgotten you.”
Simple caps and hats on their heads, green uniform, sword, and a knife hidden under shabby gray travel cloaks, the men set off in small groups. “Don’t forget the signal!” The crack of a dry twig had to be answered with a double crack to confirm it was one of their own. “Avoid every village!” The final orders were short: no raids on the way. No hunting, no matter how tempting the prey. Above all, no fighting with any guards or royal forest rangers. “Avoid them! Hide or run away. Fight only when there is no way out. But if you have to fight, leave no one alive!” Gray eyes glittered in the sharply cut face. “We’ll hole up secretly in Sherwood again.” Only when his army had reached the summer encampment whole and safe did he want to strike. “Then, our game begins.”
His army: twenty-eight fighters, strong, agile, deadly precise with the bow, and each wielding a dangerous blade. Loot was important. But their fight against the cruel attacks of the iron-encased men-at-arms on defenseless villagers was the most critical thing for Robin. “And I promise you, my friends: We will light a fire under the damned lord sheriff this summer and until he falls to his knees and prays God for mercy!”
With his fists on his hips, the outlaw leader surveyed his men. His brotherhood of outlaws trusted him to the full. “Go on, now!”
At short intervals, they left the base. Three or five of them scurried away at a time.
Soon, except for old Storyteller and the guards who were to stay behind, only Jo
hn, Much, and Threefinger were left. Robin Hood pushed back his hood back and shook his auburn hair. “One of us is missing.” He knelt down. “Without her, we cannot succeed. She must be with us.” The men knelt beside him, as with a firm voice, Robin asked for the protection of the Blessed Virgin.
After his sincere prayer, he rose: “What harm could come to us now?” Laughing, he poked John in the side. “Wouldn’t you say?”
John shrugged. “Fine, then.” Again, the giant looked around. Marian had not come.
After another short salute to Smiling and his men, Robin strode out with broad steps. Much and Threefinger followed close behind him.
Only after a while longer did Little John finally leave the clearing. An apple struck the forest floor right in front of him. Two colorful feathers from a jay were stuck in it. John picked it up, and looked up. In the forking branches of a bare chestnut tree stood Marian. She twisted a finger through her curls. “I can’t go with you anyway. I have to help Beth.”
“Fine, then, little one. I’ll see you soon.” John laughed and gave the staff a twirl around his hand.
Clay stuck to his boots. Despite the soft, sodden ground, they had made rapid progress. In no hurry, at an easy run that didn’t tire them out, Robin Hood set the pace. Now and then, Much tried to overtake him, surging forward. He would see his parents again soon!
“You may be the fastest of us all, but stay behind me, boy,” Robin commanded, smiling. “Otherwise, your legs will outrun your wits.”
Around noon they crossed the main road below Doncaster and followed the cart track through the forest. Finally, Robin raised his hand. The men stopped and peered forward from the shelter of white-gray birch trunks. The deep cart tracks ended at the bank between chunky boulders. On the opposite side of the broad creek, they continued up the rising meadow hill.
They had reached the meeting point. There was no one to be seen, not at the banks of the ford nor nearby.
“Over to you, Bill,” whispered Robin. “Do you see anything?”
Threefinger shaded his eyes and surveyed the scene for a long time. Finally, he shook his head.
“Just how I like it.” Robin picked up a dry branch and snapped it. Two cracks answered: nearby, to the side, behind them. Little John spun around. Nothing. He only saw birch trunks. Farther away, there were bare, intertwining oak trees. Up in the wide forks of the branches, crouched some of the outlaw band!
Robin touched his lieutenant’s arm. “Well, what do you think?”
John nodded appreciatively. “We have good men.”
“The best, my friend. The best.”
Robin stepped forward and sounded the hunting horn. Two short, low sounds. From behind the cliffs, from the thorny bushes, from the trees all around, the outlaws left their hiding places.
“No incidents,” Tom Toad reported to the leader. He pointed to the creek. “But the ford water is high. We’ll get wet up to our backsides. Better we backtrack to the big road and get over the bridge. If we hurry, we can just about make it to Worksop today.”
Immediately Much was at his side. “Not back. Please!” Red flushed his face. “Our mill is a good place to spend the night. And there’s a crossing below the mill.”
Tom Toad raised his eyebrows. Cheerful mockery played in his voice. “Our downy-lipped pup wants to go home.”
Much swallowed with difficulty. “I have . . . because I . . .” He rubbed the scanty fluff on his lips nervously.
“Leave him alone, Tom!” Robin interceded. “I promised. And there’s time enough.”
“I know you did.” Toad put his hand on the youngest of their brotherhood. “Just kidding. I’m sure you have ale at home, too.”
“You bet. Sometimes Father gets paid with a keg for grinding grain.”
The troop was thrilled by the prospect. Now some of them wanted to leave immediately.
“Whoa!” Robin jumped onto a fallen birch trunk. “What are you? Oxen running for water?” The danger was too great. Roger of Doncaster was looking for the miller’s son. “Don’t think that fox has forgotten our little one!”
To avoid ambush, Robin Hood divided his army into three squads. Little John was to circle a wide arc with his men and approach the mill from the east, Tom Toad from the north. “Hide yourselves around the valley and wait! I, Threefinger, and the rest, we’ll come up along the creek.” Silently, the outlaws scurried away.
Robin waved Much over to him. “You stay with me. And no running off ahead! Understood?”
The sun hung like a silvery disc in the misty sky. Magpies bobbed on the riverbank willows. “Just after the bend,” whispered the miller’s son. “That’s where our meadow begins.”
With a snap of his finger, the leader sent a scout up a tree. From high above in the branches, Threefinger scanned the narrow valley beyond the bend in the brook. It took him a long time. Far too long. Much opened and closed his fists. “Stay silent, boy!” Robin cautioned him.
Now Threefinger relaxed, climbed from branch to branch, slid down the trunk, and jumped the last bit. His face was blank. “All is quiet. By the house, even by the barn.” He looked past Much to Robin. “No chickens in the yard. No goose.”
Much laughed softly. “Of course not. Mullers don’t keep animals that eat grain.”
Disregarding his friend, Threefinger added, “And the mill wheel.”
A steep furrow grew on the leader’s forehead. “Well, go on and say it, Bill!”
“It’s turning slowly. Far too slowly.”
“It’s . . . just old.” Much was growing impatient. “Are there any strangers about?”
Bill shook his head. “No danger to be seen. There’s no one there. No one at all.”
Much couldn’t hold it any longer. “My parents must be in the house.” He ran off, jumped over bushes, and charged onward. He was quickly gone around the turn.
“They’re not in the house,” muttered Threefinger. “Damn it all. They’re not there.”
Quick as lightning, Robin grabbed the horn. Two low, short tones, the signal for the others to come. In giant leaps, he and his men stormed after the boy. They rushed across the meadow. Some of them drew their swords. Farther ahead, Much had already reached the small farm. “Ma! Ma? Where are you?” He disappeared through the open door of the house. “It’s me! Hullo! It’s me!” His cries echoed outside.
From the east, from the north, from far apart, the men ran toward the mill, closing in ever more tightly.
“Ma!” Much left the house and ran over to the barn. He called for his mother. Called for his father. “You don’t have to hide! It’s me. And my friends.”
Outside in the yard, Threefinger pointed to the water wheel.
Robin groaned. “We’re too late. Get out of here,” he ordered his men. “But stay close by!”
One look at the mill wheel, and horrified, they obeyed. No one wanted to be witness to what would come next.
Only John and Tom Toad remained, waiting, with Robin. In silence. Just the groaning of the mill wheel’s oak shaft, the scraping of the stones in the mill room.
Much returned from the barn. “They’re not there.” He gestured helplessly and came toward his friends. “But if they’d gone to Doncaster, they would at least have closed the door. And Father would have closed the mill chute. “He never goes . . .” Much trailed off. He looked from one man to the other. “What . . . what is it?” He followed their glances. He pressed both fists against his chest. His body convulsed: his mother’s white face, her body tied to the mill wheel, the corpse plunging into the water as the wheel lumberingly turned . . . then his father’s lifeless face, thin body. Much screamed.
He wanted to go to them, but Little John wrapped both arms around the boy.
“Don’t look! Don’t . . .”
Flailing desperately, Much kicked at the giant.
“Go ahead and beat me. Go on, boy! Yeah, go on.”
As the lad’s muscles slowly slackened, the screaming turned into broken sobs. John loo
sened his grip. “Hush, boy. Hush, boy.”
“Make . . . make it stop! Please . . . make it stop.”
Tom Toad and Robin ran, giving orders. The other outlaws hurried back. Above in the mill, the chute was closed. The wheel stopped.
John did not let go of the boy. “The others will take care of it.”
They wrapped the dead in blankets and laid them side by side in front of the house. “Now go to your ma!” The giant gently pushed Much ahead in front of him.
Silently, the companions watched the boy. He knelt before his parents. His shoulders trembled.
Vincent quietly approached Robin. “Over by the river crossing. There’s one more lying there.”
The leader nodded at John, and they swiftly followed Vincent. Next to the small bridge’s path, an armed man lay motionless, face down in the grass, arms outstretched over his head. In his right hand, he held a whip. The left was still clenched in a fist. His cape was dark blue. “That belongs to the Baron of Doncaster.” Robin Hood sent Vincent back. “Tell Tom to dig a grave for the miller and his wife!” As the man left, Robin turned the dead man over on his back.
“By Dunstan,” John gasped. “The spy. That’s Charles, the louse from Nottingham.” There was a black stab wound in his neck, just above his chain mail shirt. No distortion to his expression. He had died with a satisfied grin on his face.
How did this fellow get there? Why was he wearing the colors of the Lord of Doncaster? Who had killed him? Shaking his head, Robin brushed the hair from his forehead. “I don’t understand this game.” He examined the whip. They had seen welts on the bodies of Much’s parents. “So, he tortured those poor wretches.”
John bent down. From the dead man’s left fist hung a string of small wooden beads. John pried the fingers open and found a silver cross attached. “That miserable bastard.” John panted. A lump grew in his chest. It was my fault. I let the spy go. “My fault, Robin,” he said aloud. “This is all my fault. Because I didn’t want us to hang him.” He stared at the cross. “What am I going to tell the boy?”
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