A distant rumble of thunder brought the audience back to Barnsdale Top. They filled their mugs with fresh ale.
Marian wanted more cider. “Did that really happen?” she asked.
“Don’t even ask, princess!” Toad’s wife studied the girl’s eyes. “Best I only give you a little bit more.”
Paul Storyteller had fortified himself. He wiped the ale foam from his beard with the sleeve of his tunic. “Oh—and that time Robin got the sack of flour thrown in his face. I was there to see it myself. There was a beggar—no, what am I saying, it was a miller. So: a miller lived with his wife in—”
Little John sat bolt upright. “Stop!” he snarled tightly. The mill at Doncaster appeared before him. He could see Much’s dead parents tied to the water wheel. “I don’t want to hear anything about a miller.”
Toad put a warning hand on his arm. “Don’t spoil the fun!”
But it was too late. Paul Storyteller was offended. He laboriously straightened his leg. “Then I won’t, little man. Tell a story yourself, if you think you can do better! But something new.”
“Please, John!” exclaimed Marian tipsily, clapping her hands. The villagers were also calling on the giant now. They demanded a new story, something funny.
Little John propped up his chin and rubbed his forehead. No, he didn’t want to be a killjoy. All right, something funny. Fine by me. But try as he might, there was nothing funny in Sherwood to talk about.
Tom Toad nudged him under the table. “Follow my lead. But pay close attention!” he murmured. Loudly he called out, “Folks. John and I will tell this tale together. Many an adventure we’ve lived through. But the best is the story of the potter.” Tom paused. As the guests looked at him expectantly, he reached around to the back of his neck, brought the long braid of hair forward, and let it circle slowly around above his ale mug. “We’re lying in the grass, as you do, full of food and comfortable. The sun is shining on our bellies. That’s when Robin jumps up. ‘Come on, you lazy bums!’ he says. ‘Let’s see if we can’t catch a golden goose on the trade road.’ Only me, John, and Gilbert went along. The others didn’t feel like it. That’s how it went, wasn’t it, John?”
“That’s right.” The giant grinned. What was he talking about?
“But no goose for miles. But then: Here comes a cart.” Toad pointed ahead with the end of his braid. “We hear the clatter of pitchers and bowls. ‘Hide,’ says Robin. ‘Want to bet the potter will pay me a toll?’ We warn him, but he doesn’t listen. Now you, John.”
The giant rubbed the scar in his beard hard. We don’t rob poor people, do we? And definitely Robin doesn’t! But this is just supposed to be a story. Just make something up, he thought, like in the old days when Marian wanted to hear about the hunt. I can do that easily. He was ready.
John pounded his heavy fist on the table. “‘Stop!’ Robin jumps in front of the cart. Give me your money.’ ‘Who wants my money?’ ‘I, Robin Hood.’” For the potter, John lent his own deep voice, letting it rumble; for his leader, he let it resound as bright and clear as he could. “‘I’ll give you nothing willingly,’ ‘I’ll take it, then.’ ‘You would rob an honest, poor man? I’ll show you.’ All at once the huge potter jumps off the cart. He lunges at Robin.” John pounded his fists one then the other on the table. Startled, the audience rescued their tippling mugs. With a snort, John shouted, “The fight is on!” He drummed his fists ever faster and louder, raising them up and slamming them down on the wooden tabletop together. “There lies Robin flat on the forest floor. No sooner is he awake again than he’s shaking his fist. ‘I’ll have your money in the end.’ ‘I’ll beat you to death first.’” The giant raised his clenched hands again. The gathering at the table held its breath in anticipation.
“Stop! That’s enough, John!” interrupted Tom Toad, laughing. “After all, we were also there.” He let the braid circle again. Lightly, Tom went on with his story: Just in time, he, John, and Whitehand held back the angry potter. Robin apologized to the fearless man. After Robin looked a while at the clay pots on the cart, a new idea occurred to him. “‘I feel like going to Nottingham. I want to pay a visit to the sheriff himself. I bet he won’t recognize me.’” Tom held the braid tightly. The audience stared at the narrator in disbelief. John, too, frowned.
At that moment, there was a flash of lightning, bright as day, followed soon by thunder. Little John breathed a sigh of relief. That’s it, he thought. A lightning storm means the end of storytelling time.
“It’s not raining yet.” Storyteller did not take his eyes off Tom Toad. “Go on. Go on with the story.”
“So. The plan was simple.” Robin bought the wagon and all the goods from the potter, as well as his tunic and cloak. Whistling a song, he set off for Nottingham market well disguised. “Now it’s your turn.” Tom turned to John.
John sighed in surrender. Brandishing his wares like a merchant, he hawked his tankard of ale, “‘Cheap! Cheap! Come, folks, buy!’ By noon, Robin is rid of almost all the pots. Five are left. He goes to the sheriff’s house . . .”
Lightning, an earsplitting crash. And rain. In a torrent, it pelted down on the table. John laughed and shouted, “By Dunstan! The story is over for today.” No one was left to hear. The guests had jumped to their feet, and everyone fled home.
Tom Toad put his arm protectively around his wife’s shoulder. “I’ll take you home.” After that, he still wanted to return to the camp with John. “But tomorrow night, I’ll stay.”
Marian was not tired. Elated from the sweet cider, she hopped through the puddles holding the giant’s hand. “If it’s really that much fun at Sherwood, I’ll go with you next year.”
“What?” John stopped. Despite the rain, he stopped and crouched down to her. Their faces were level. “They’re only stories. Just stories, little one. They’re what people like to hear about Robin Hood. I didn’t know that, before, either. But down in Sherwood, things are really different than here.”
Later, when Marian was dry and warm under the covers, John came to her bedside. “Tomorrow, when you wake up, I’ll be gone.”
“Come back soon!” Tearlessly, earnestly, she looked up at him. “And I’ll pray for you with Beth, too. When we are alone, we talk a lot to the Blessed Virgin.”
John nodded. “That’s good.”
John, Beth, and Tom Toad sat down together in the candlelight. There was one thing left on the giant’s mind. Whispering, he asked the seamstress to pay more attention to Marian.
Beth could barely suppress a laugh. “You’re worse than a wet nurse, giant.”
“I’m just saying.”
Abruptly, the mockery faded. “Leave the princess to me!” urged Beth. “As long as I live, she’ll be fine.”
John promised nothing. “Where else would she go?”
The storm did not pass until morning. Tom accompanied John to the base. There was no time for sleep. John had to get going on his way. “Or Robin will grab that overstuffed prize without me.”
The freemen had known about it for a while. Bill Threefinger had been sent out first. For more than a month, he had waited outside the gates of London. Robin Hood did not rely on rumors. The scout was to return to Sherwood only when he had definite news. And he did. The goods caravan meant for Nottingham fortress was on its way! And the unusually heavy arms of the escort could only mean one thing: This time, the wagons were carrying more than just grain, wax, pitch, and salt.
“And too bad I’ll be just sitting here. Someone’s got to guard the camp.” Tom Toad clenched his fists. “If it all works out, that’ll be the biggest robbery Robin ever pulled off. Really too bad that I won’t be there.”
“What are you upset about?” With difficulty, John suppressed a grin. “You’ll still get to tell the story later. And since you won’t be in it, it’ll be a pretty good story, too.” With that, John strode off across the clearing. Without turning around, he called out, “See you soon. And don’t get into any fights with old Storyteller!”
Tom Toad opened his mouth, said nothing at first, then laughed and waved a mock-threatening fist after his friend. “Get out of here, you runt! And . . . Take care of yourself, John!”
XIV
The latest dispatch from the Crusade: During the winter of 1191 and 1192, Sultan Saladin does not attack the Crusaders. Lionheart has time to rebuild the city of Ascalon into the strongest fortress on the coast. Worries torment King Richard—quarrels among his army commanders, Christians fighting Christians. Also, month after month, alarming news from home: Prince John is trying to usurp the throne by any means. At the meeting of his army commanders in Ascalon on April 16, 1192, Lionheart demands that they establish orderly conditions in Palestine as quickly as possible. He announces his intent to return to England soon.
NOTTINGHAM SHIRE. ON THE WAY TO NOTTINGHAM.
Since daybreak, heavy rain had been pelting down on the high arched tarpaulins over the wagons. The teams of oxen trotted heavily in their harnesses. Water flowed in rivulets from the brims of the coachmen’s hats. Four heavily burdened mules plodded between the first and second wagons; a fifth pulled the boxy feed cart. There was no need for anyone to walk in the rain and urge the patient mules on; a long rope, moored to the first wagon, connected one to the other. Their brown hides shone wetly.
The heavily armed riders of the escort pulled their cloaks tightly closed, with the soaked cloth of their hoods pulled low over their helmets and faces. Crossbows and shields hung from the pommels of their saddles.
Twelve mercenaries had been hired by a powerful merchant in London to protect his trade goods—rough, battle-hardened men. Four rode in front, two by two. They had relaxed their guard. The distance between them had grown to three horse lengths. Two mercenaries protected each flank of the caravan. The last wagon was followed by the rear guard. None of those four riders had kept to their positions. They had long since stopped riding in pairs. In this storm, it was much more practical to ride directly behind the horse of the man in front.
In the early morning hours, they passed Stamford. Although the cloudy gloom of the rain now blocked all view into the distance, Nottingham could not be far away. The mercenaries’ thoughts hurried ahead. By afternoon, they would reach the campsite below the city, a fire in front of their tent, ale for their ever-thirsty throats, a game of dice with their mates.
Behind the last of the rear guard, three figures detached themselves from the roadside brush. As they stooped low, following the riders, Robin Hood leaped into the road as well. He cocked his short bow.
His arrow whizzed over the backs of his men, piercing a mercenary’s neck. At once the three outlaws were upon him. They pulled the dead man silently and swiftly from the horse. Much caught onto the animal’s halter and led it onward as the others unwrapped the mercenary from his rain cloak. Pete Smiling threw the cloak around his shoulders, put its hood over his green hood, and took a running leap over the haunches of the horse into the saddle. At Pete’s signal, Little John burst from the bushes beside him. The blunt end of his staff struck the head of the next rider in line. Soundlessly, the mercenary toppled into the arms of the outlaws. They pulled him off the road. Soon an outlaw was draped in the man’s cloak and was in his saddle. Little John moved swiftly to the next. His blows were hard and short: the third rider, the fourth. To a casual glance back, the view would not have changed, Just as before, four cloaked mercenaries rode behind the caravan, one after the other.
On both sides of the road, ten or so men left cover. They scurried to join Little John hidden by the last wagon. Not a word was spoken. Every sound was drowned out by the pattering rain.
The giant and Gilbert Whitehand communicated briefly, in silent signals. The men to the left and right of the wagon hurried forward. Gilbert swung himself onto the wagon’s seat. The ox driver noticed nothing. His collar pulled up, his hat brim low on his forehead, he sat there holding the reins and staring at the swaying rumps of the four oxen. Gilbert stuck his clawed white hand in front of the man’s eyes. “Holy Cedric . . .” was all the ox driver got out. Whitehand slammed his left hand into the man’s neck and pushed him off the seat. Little John caught the man, flung him off farther. In the ditch by the side of the road, two outlaws picked him up. While they gagged the man with a leather strap and tied his feet, John tossed his staff to Much. In a fluid movement, the longbow flew into his hand. Robin ran up alongside on the other side of the wagon caravan. The two men stopped simultaneously, took quick aim, and the next two mercenaries slumped forward. The horses carried them onward. The next arrows struck their targets, too. The path to the middle wagon was clear.
For days the freemen had been observing the caravan. The merchant rode in this wagon. Gilbert passed the reins of the rear ox team to another of the outlaws and dashed ahead. His white hand surprised and horrified the second cart driver just as it had the first.
The drumming of the rain lightened. They had to hurry! Vincent quickly hopped onto the driver’s bench, his collar pulled up, the wide brim of his hat low over his eyes. Behind him, the curtain flaps of the travel wagon remained closed. The merchant had noticed nothing.
The small army continued to advance, past the mules, quickly replacing the driver of the first wagon. His place was taken by Whitehand.
The rain stopped completely, suddenly, as if an invisible hand had closed an ale-cask spigot above the road. The outlaws held their breath. In front of them, the first four mercenaries of the escort were still in their saddles. They still hadn’t noticed a thing. At the slightest suspicious noise, these men would not turn back to investigate or fight, but would gallop off toward Nottingham and sound the alarm. All eyes turned to Robin. Everyone knew: the caravan could not be diverted to some hiding place; it was too big, too cumbersome for that. And if they stopped, reinforcements would be upon them before they could unload the goods.
Determined, Robin swung himself up to join Gilbert on the wagon. He whispered orders. Quickly he was back on the road, giving hand signals. Robin Hood, Little John, and a few other men overtook the ox team and hurried farther ahead. When they were almost alongside the mercenaries, they jumped right and left into the cover of the bushes.
Gilbert let out a shrill whistle and shouted at the guards. “Hey! Hullo!” He whistled again and shouted some more.
One of the armed men turned around in the saddle. Gilbert waved his wet hat. “Come here! Come!”
At last, the riders heard and turned their horses and trotted back. As they approached, one called out, “What’s the matter?”
“You are to dismount. Orders from the master.”
They reined in the horses. “Are you addled?”
Behind them and one either side of them, outlaws appeared. In an instant, they were surrounded. Arrows were aimed at their horrified faces. “Are you deaf?” hissed Robin Hood.
The horsemen stayed frozen in place.
“Well.” Little John made short work of grabbing a mercenary’s boot and heaving him out of the saddle. “If you won’t follow orders.” Before the remaining three had a chance to think about their choices in life, they too were whirling through the air. They sprawled motionless in the mud beside the road.
Gilbert pulled back on the reins of the first team.
“Don’t stop!” Robin gestured ahead. “Keep going. Keep going!”
Pete Smiling came riding forward. He bared his teeth. “We did it!” He fought to suppress a cheer.
Robin’s face stayed tense. “Quickly, Pete. You take the lead with three men! Everything must look the same as before. Quick!” Pete hastily obeyed.
“Much, Threefinger, go tell the others. Whoever is on foot, get off the road. See to the prisoners. Wait for my orders!”
Little John shook his head. “Why keep going?”
“I’ll tell you later!”
The pack animals trotted by.
“Tell me now.”
“I want to negotiate.”
“What?” The giant forgot to close his mouth.
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“Wait and see, little man!” Robin smiled. When the middle one of the covered carts reached them, he poked John in the side. “Come along! You stay outside next to Vincent. Only come inside when I call for you.” He swung himself onto the cart’s seat, and waited until John was seated too. Robin drew his hunting dagger and slipped inside the wagon through the loosely hanging canvas flaps.
Inside, crates were stacked on top of each other, secured with ropes. From the rear to the middle, the space between was filled with furs and bales of cloth. In front of it all, in a fur-padded armchair, sat the merchant, his fur-trimmed cloak spread over his knees. His head had sunk to his chest. He was asleep. Of his face, Robin could see only the half-open mouth, the flowing gray beard. Nose, eyes, forehead were hidden by his wide square cap. A small oil lamp swung from an iron hook above a shallow bowl on the floor. The wick was trimmed low, but the dim light was enough for Robin. The color of the large hat he wore was yellow, marking him as a Jewish merchant. Jews were required to distinguish themselves from Christians by wearing such easily identified caps while traveling. Robin turned the flame higher. “When you sleep, you miss out on the best.”
His voice woke the merchant. The man raised his head. After a briefly startled moment, his eyes scanned the stranger, the dagger, the green clothes. The merchant’s beard quivered, but he strove for composure. “He who sleeps is cradled on Abraham’s knees.”
“Nice.” Robin sheathed his dagger. Calmly, he sat down at the man’s feet beside the lamp with his legs crossed. “It’s easier to do business this way, eye to eye.”
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