“The beggar.” Baldwin gasped. “You—you were digging in my saddlebag.”
“That’s what I call coincidence.” Gilbert clenched his white fist. “So, out with the truth!”
Baldwin gave up . . . and, haltingly, he confessed, told them about the sheriff’s plan. The robberies, the deaths.
Robin Hood listened with his lips pressed tight. Next to him, John stepped from one foot to the other, finally turning away. His breath almost died at the thought of Marian’s mother. Like then. Just like us.
Every looted settlement, every village—Robin Hood made the man give a precise list.
“I only carried out the sheriff’s order, nothing more,” the sergeant concluded his terrible report. “My men and I, we are innocent. By the Holy Virgin.”
Robin grabbed the collar of the chain mail and yanked the man toward him. “Don’t sully the Virgin with your stinking mouth! Innocent? That word should choke you, you and your gang of murderers.” He pushed him away. The sergeant fell backward to the ground.
The sun had risen over the eastern pastures. “It’s time.” Robin nodded his chin toward it, gave orders. The prisoners were to remain seated back-to-back, hands on their heads. He had their four dead tied to the packhorses. He called Vincent over to him. “You’re from here, aren’t you? Is there a forge?” The freedman from Blidworth pointed to a solidly built hut.
“Nice. Little John, take two people. Stoke the embers! You, Vincent, run over to the thicket. Tell your sister and the others the danger is over! And tell them to fetch the sheep home.”
The night before, all the village’s inhabitants, along with their precious sheep, had been taken by the outlaws to a safe hiding place. Now they returned. The youths ran ahead of their fathers. Mothers carried babies in their arms. Shyly and incredulously, they looked at the prisoners, their damaged chain mail, their dented helmets. They saw the dead. These were the all-powerful men-at-arms? They crouched there beaten, moaning and groaning.
“This is what Robin Hood has done for us,” Vincent told every man and woman. “He’s our friend.”
Silently, they picked out their belongings from the piles and carried them home.
“Leave the honeypot,” Tom Toad asked. “Give me that.”
John had just returned from the forge and had reached for the pot. He scratched the scar in his beard. “Find your own!”
“Just you wait, you runt!” Tom grinned broadly and continued to tend to the rounded-up horses of the soldiers.
“Wants a taste of honey, ha!” John stomped over to Robin. “The embers are going.”
“Thank you, my friend. It’ll be a spectacle.” Robin rubbed his hands. “You’ll see. There’s never been a performance like this in Sherwood, I tell you, not in the whole shire.”
One by one, the prisoners were taken to the forge. With their hands behind their backs, they were shackled on a long chain. Robin borrowed the only cattle cart in the village. As a pledge for its return, he gave the village elder a gold coin. “If I lose your cart, you’ll have enough to buy two new ones.”
He had Gilbert Whitehand tidy up the men-at-arms. “Turn around!” Under the laughter of his companions, Whitehand pulled the green cloak through the belt of each prisoner, plucking the cloth out over their rear ends like a tail.
The women from Blidworth knotted the helmets in a string to two ropes and tied the ends of the rope to the back of the cart.
Gilbert Whitehand stepped before his leader like a courtier, bowing and making a gallant flourish with his white hand. “Our jesters are ready.”
“Wait! Wait!” Tom Toad brought the honeypot. He reached in and smeared one face after another with honey. He spent a particularly long time with Baldwin: “It’s going to be nice and warm today, Sergeant. A glorious spring day. There’ll be plenty of bees, mosquitoes, and blowflies.”
The prisoners were herded onto the cart. While Much hitched the two horses loaded with the four dead to it, Robin Hood turned to the village elder. “Do you . . . have courage?”
The man shrugged. “We are in your debt.”
“No. You do not owe me. I want a favor. Nothing more.” Robin asked him to go with Vincent to take the transport down the road to Nottingham. He saw the frightened eyes. “I beg you. Be my witness. The people on the road will believe you. Don’t be afraid. Vincent will be with you. He’ll watch out for you. He’ll drop you off safely, far away from the city. And besides: My men and I won’t let you out of our sight for a moment. Even if you don’t see us. We’ll give you an escort. We will be in front, at your side, and behind you, always.”
The village elder nodded calmly. “I have courage.”
“Good.” Robin laughed. His face became serious again. “You will tell everyone you meet what happened this morning in Blidworth. The prisoners are our proof. One more thing! And it’s very important to me: Take the small detour via Edwinstowe. Stop in front of the church. Wait until the residents have gathered. Send for the priest as well. Let all hear the truth!”
Without a word, the village elder climbed onto the narrow wagon bench. Vincent hesitated. Behind him stood his brother and brother-in-law. He had brought them to Barnsdale Top in the winter, and since then, they had belonged to the brotherhood.
“Robin. I wanted to ask . . . the thing is, my sister said . . .” Vincent pointed briefly over his shoulder “. . . she needs them. And you paid them money for their services. Well, they don’t want to come back with us.” It was out. “But I’m still your man,” he quickly assured him, and got on the cart.
For a moment, Robin Hood hesitated. He wiped his hand across his forehead into his reddish hair, wiping away the disappointment. “Agreed. But remember one thing!” He coolly examined the two farmers. “No one can leave our brotherhood. I demand fidelity and silence. You remain my freedmen.” Both nodded hastily. Robin laughed. “So, it’s agreed then—from this day forward, we’ll have two guardians in Blidworth.”
He mounted the sergeant’s horse. Tom and Gilbert chose two good horses. Little John eyed the size of the others. “I’d better just run alongside,” he decided. The remaining eight horses were divided among the men. All captured animals were to be hidden near the big road until evening. John shouldered his longbow. He winked at Much. “If you don’t run too fast, the two of us can travel together later.”
The boy beamed. “But one day, I’ll show you how fast I really am.”
The villagers waved and thanked the rescuers again. Robin put the horn to his lips.
The cart bounced out of the village. The prisoners’ green cloth tails bobbed and dangled. Their helmets bumped and rattled loudly on the lines behind the cart.
Tom Toad rode his horse beside the giant. “And when the bees come out, this lot will sing for us. What a song it will be!”
John clenched his fists. “They have it coming. And more.”
The village elder kept his word. Vincent backed him up. Outside the church at Edwinstowe, they outdid each other praising Robin Hood and the freemen’s brotherhood. They were occasionally drowned out by the howls of the green-tailed soldiers when a new swarm of bees or mosquitoes attacked their faces. The pastor spoke on behalf of his congregation: “God bless Robin Hood!”
Children ran alongside the cart until it reached the main road again.
At the turnoff to Nottingham, Vincent had the village elder get off the cart. “Thank you. That was fun, wasn’t it?” he said. “Better I do the rest of the work without you. And give my regards to my sister. I’ll be back for Christmas.”
Vincent cracked the whip, steered the team off the main road, and took the deeply rutted, gravel road toward town. No sooner was he alone than he pressed his lips together. The wheels creaked. Behind him, the prisoners whimpered and groaned. “How much farther?” he whispered. Again and again, he looked fretfully to the right and left. “Damn. Don’t leave me alone out here.”
At last, just before the cart left the hills north of Nottingham, Little John and Much st
epped out onto the road. “Off you get!”
“About time.” Relieved, Vincent jumped from the cart. Robin Hood and his two captains, Tom and Gilbert, were suddenly there, too. The other men had been left behind long ago.
“Beyond the next bend, things are going to get dangerous,” John stated.
Robin hurried over. He ordered Much to unhitch the packhorses and check the knots on the ropes tying down the corpses. “We will bring the horses down later.”
Together they pushed the cart out between the hills to the edge of the open terrain in the midday silence. In the distance, Nottingham rose, and its mighty fortress towered over the city. Before them, the road descended steeply into the valley before rising again to the fortifications.
Robin positioned himself so all the captive soldiers could hear him. “You!” He pointed to the sergeant of the guard. Baldwin laboriously turned his head. Mosquitoes buzzed around him, sat thickly on his blood-encrusted face. He barely managed to open his swollen eyelids.
“Give the lord sheriff a greeting from Robin Hood. And tell him: The people of Sherwood are under my protection. Anyone who tortures or kills them will suffer my vengeance.”
“I’ll tell him nothing,” the sergeant blurted out. “I’d rather die.”
“Patience. Patience.” A thin smile twitched at the corner of Robin’s mouth. “The game is not yet over for you and your murderous brethren.”
He calmly raised his hand. Tom and Gilbert led the packhorses aside. Little John sent Much aside with them and stepped alone behind the cart. At a tremendous push, the wheels crunched, the giant pushed a little more, ran, gave it more momentum; the cart rolled off and bumped driverless down the road, faster and faster. The green cloth tails fluttered. Loudly clattering, the two long helmet chains clanged and hopped behind the cart. The prisoners’ howls of fear rang out all the way to the city.
John returned to the others. The outlaws stood, unmoving, next to each other. They stared after the cart. It was still rolling on in the deep wagon ruts of the road, bumping, tipping to and fro, racing onward. Suddenly the cart rose, took a huge leap, bounced back down again, and a wheel tore free and jumped away. The cart somersaulted, broke apart. Wooden fragments flew, green pieces of cloth. The chained prisoners flew with the wreckage.
Close to John, Much whispered, “Oh my God!” All blood had drained from his face. John put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
Robin Hood snapped his fingers. “Now, the packhorses.”
Tom and Gilbert smacked the horses on the rump. Whinnying, the animals galloped into the open country, bucked, settled, then trotted down the road, side by side.
“There!” Gilbert pointed to the city. A horseman rushed out of the gate, bent low over the neck of the speeding animal, galloping into the valley. He circled the scene of the disaster and then rushed back. After a while, three more riders left Nottingham. Two armed men and a small man riding ahead of them, his light blue cloak billowing in the wind.
Robin shaded his eyes. Icily he said: “That’s what I call luck. Here comes the man himself.”
“Let’s go,” John warned. A stale taste on his tongue disgusted him. “It’s enough. We’ve achieved everything we wanted.”
Robin did not answer. His eyes followed the lord sheriff’s every move as if they were glued to him.
Down below, Thom de Fitz dismounted. He shooed the packhorses off the road. With the toe of his boot, he pushed the bent and twisted bodies. A head moved. One of the injured shifted his foot. The sheriff gave orders. Immediately the guards jumped off their horses and drew their swords. Fragments of sentences reached the outlaws: “Diable! . . . my order . . . not executed!” And even more clearly: “Kill the traitors!”
When the armed men stabbed their cronies, Much hid his face. John clenched his fists. “Animals wouldn’t even do this. Only humans. Not even animals would do that.”
Unspoken rage shook Toad and Whitehand.
“He’s eliminating the witnesses,” Robin hissed through his teeth. “His plan failed. So he’s murdering everyone involved.” His right hand flew up, grasped an arrow; a shrug of his shoulder and the longbow was in his left hand; and in an instant, the feathered shaft was on the string.
He caught John’s look. “No, my friend. I will not kill him.” Robin Hood stepped out from cover into the open. He lifted the bow, stretching the string to his ear, and let the arrow fly. It struck the ground near the sheriff’s boot.
Thom de Fitz swung around.
“Lord Sheriff? There’s a witness here you can’t kill. You murderer! Recognize me? Yes, this is Robin Hood!”
The sheriff raced to hide behind his horse. “Maudit bâtard!” he cried toward the hills. “Enfer et damnation!”
He made his men mount and serve as his shield. He led his animal on foot; only halfway to the city did he scramble into the saddle, pressing his head into the mane as he galloped up to the gate. “Alarm! Guard! Guard!”
Robin Hood laughed. Calmly he shouldered the longbow and returned to his friends.
On the way to the camp, Little John was silent. He tried to put his thoughts in order: We had to help the people in Blidworth. There were deaths. It happens. That’s just the way it is. And these iron men deserved what they got a hundred times over. And it’s all for the good because now everybody knows we didn’t rob from the villagers. John rubbed his forehead. That’s the way it is. But he could not swallow the stale taste.
For a long time, Robin Hood had only occasionally looked over at him from off to his side. Finally, he spoke. “Well, what do you say to all this?”
“I don’t know,” growled John. “About the cart. I don’t know.”
“Don’t worry, my friend. Most of them were still alive when the sheriff arrived.” Robin looked straight ahead. “This morning, the sergeant tried to convince us he was innocent. I tell you, John, nobody stays innocent in a war. Not even we do, even if our cause is just.”
“I’ll have to get used to that.”
After a while, Robin laid a hand on his friend’s arm. “You have a big heart. I know.”
“It’s . . .” Little John broke off.
Much later, he managed a smile. “We stick together. And that’s good.”
XII
YORKSHIRE. KIRKLEES MONASTERY.
“A shilling, sir!” The little one ran toward the horse, turned around, and ran back the other way to the squire. He held up his dirty hand. “A shilling, sir. For my mother.”
The rider looked down at the child’s feverish eyes. “For whom?” he asked in a tired voice. The boy pointed to the woman crouched by the wayside. Her face was encrusted with scabies, with festering cracks on her cheeks. “Sister Mathilda has an ointment. With it, my mother will get well again. I have collected two shillings already.” He nodded proudly. “In just one week.” His big eyes were fixed firmly on the convent gate a little farther ahead. “When I’ve got five, I can knock again, says the porter.”
Without stopping his horse, the squire counted off a few pennies. “Only five. I can’t give you more.” Before he could throw the money to the boy, a coughing fit shook him. Dark mucus smeared his beard. “I am quite ill. I will need my money for Sister Mathilda.”
The little boy nodded knowingly. “Her medicine is expensive.” He held his open hand up. “She will only help if someone can pay. But I can, soon.” They had almost reached the monastery. Ragged women, children, and men lay to the right and left of the path, marked by disease and misery. When the squire approached them, they begged, wailed. “Do not listen to them, Lord! I was here first,” urged the boy. “Give it to me! Please!”
A faint smile glided across the rider’s face. “You are clever.” With that, he dropped the pennies into the little hand. The boy picked up four of them. The fifth coin slipped out of his hands. Immediately, two lame men pushed their crutches forward, pulling their bodies along with a swing. The little one was faster. Before they got close, he had the last penny safely in his fist. “Th
ank you, Lord!” A new coughing fit tormented the squire. Panting, he reached the monastery.
The sick by the wayside sank back again. The boy ran past them, proudly giving his mother the silver pieces. “Now, only two and a half shillings to go. Then you’ll get well again.”
He hooked both thumbs into the cord belt of his short tunic and waited.
The sun shone over the roof of Kirklees Abbey. The grass was fragrant. Bright, green-tinted light shimmered through the leaves of the hazel bushes—a warm May day.
The boy shaded his eyes. Riders approached—armed men in dark blue capes. Three of them side by side, behind them three more. Their shields were emblazoned with a red crest. The boy craned his head back and forth. At last, he caught a glimpse of the man riding in the middle of them, shielded by the two rows. His hat was adorned with a soft plume of feathers, and a dark travel cloak hung loosely from his shoulders. The boy had seen enough. Fearlessly, he ran straight for the escort. Before the guards realized, he had scurried between the horse’s bodies and reached out his hand to the fine nobleman. “A shilling, sir. Please!”
“Begone, toad!” cried Sir Roger of Doncaster.
Undeterred, the little one asked, “A shilling for my mother. She is ill. She needs—”
A rough push with his heel hurled the boy to the side. Curled up, he lay where he fell. His mother whimpered. Only after a while did her son raise his head and crawl to her. Blood ran from the wide wound on his forehead. “I’ll be fine, and I’ll still get your coins,” he said bravely.
The sick at the edge of the last stretch of the road had witnessed the cruel hardness of the lord. No one dared call out to him. Without an eye for the misery on either side of him, the baron rode by.
The escort’s leader pulled at the bell. “Sir Roger of Doncaster,” he reported to the white-dressed sister serving as porter. At once, the gate was opened wide for the monastery’s great patron, and immediately closed again. The guards turned their steeds around and backed them up to the gate. As long as their master was within the walls, no one else was allowed to enter the monastery.
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