The merchant raised his brows. “I don’t mean to be rude. But what are you doing here in my wagon?”
“I?” Robin shook his head, gravely. “Nothing. But you, alas, you have lost everything.”
The lids half-lowered over the merchant’s dark eyes. “Is that so?”
“John!”
Instantly both linen flaps were flung aside. The giant thrust his head in, his massive body filling the gap. “It’s a Goliath,” the merchant stammered, pressing back in his chair. “By the twelve fathers of Israel!”
“Thank you, dwarf.” Robin winked at his friend. “That’ll do for now.”
“All right.”
The giant disappeared. The merchant fretted with his beard, his breathing panicked. “And who are you? A Philistine?”
“No. I’m Robin Hood.”
The man repeated the name silently. He sighed deeply. All at once, his features set, and calm and watchful dark eyes gazed at the robber. “My name is Solomon. I am a merchant and moneylender from London. Much have I heard about you. But wherever I went, I was never told that you rob from Jews.”
“No poor Jews. That’s right.”
“Three years ago, my brothers in the faith and I were hunted down and slain all over England. I escaped the slaughter. And now that we are under the protection of King Richard, is the fate of my people finally to catch up with me?”
“I had nothing to do with that!” Robin clenched his fist. “We are outcasts ourselves. I know how it feels to—” He broke off. Sharply, he looked the merchant in the face. “You’re smart, old man. You almost had me.”
Solomon shrugged. “All right, then. Then put it plainly. As one businessman to another, I’m asking you: Do I have a chance, here?”
“If you’re honest with me, yes.”
“Lie? I have enough to do, exposing the lies of my contractors, much less create my own.”
“How much is the entire cargo worth?”
Without hesitation, the merchant answered. “Three thousand and then another hundred pounds.” He bent to the side and opened a leather casket. He took out some rolls of parchment. “Here. My letter of protection, the lists of goods, and the contract. See for yourself. Which I suppose has now become worthless to me.” Solomon had already negotiated a price in London with Prince John’s agent. A thousand pounds was quoted for the supplies for the Nottingham fortress. Then, in addition, silk, wine, furs, and spices, all manner of precious items, intended for the visit of the prince and his guests the next month. “That adds two thousand to the price.”
“That adds up to only a sum of three thousand pounds. Guaranteed by seal. From where comes the rest?”
Despite his grief at his impending robbery, Solomon smiled disdainfully. “The lord sheriff is a vain little peacock. Though we Jews are hateful to him, he deigns to do business with us. For him, as every year, I have brought the latest fashions from France. He will pay the agreed three thousand from the fortress treasury, and his ostentation will be worth a hundred pounds to him out of his own coin purse.”
Robin handed back the papers. “Answer me one more question: Do you carry any empty chests?”
“If not, I would be a poor businessman. In Nottingham, I was going to sell. In York, I was going to shop. The last wagon is loaded with empty casks, crates, and barrels.”
“Nice.” Robin’s bright eyes reflected the light of the oil lamp. “Then you shall have your chance. Now, to our business.”
The outlaw outlined his plan succinctly. Solomon listened, straightening in his chair. After Robin spoke his piece, Solomon excitedly slapped both hands on the armrests. “That’s what I call the high art of cunning. Even if I have to shed some feathers. How lucky for me that you are not my enemy.”
Robin rose and took the outstretched hand. “So, it’s a deal. You’ll lose a little, but not everything.”
“And it’s far better than looking hungrily at the sky and waiting for food to fall.”
Robin laughed. He flipped the linen flaps apart. “John, stop the wagons!” Robin put the horn to his lips. Two short, low notes. His men emerged from the bushes. The men in disguise came galloping up to the travel wagon. Rich loot had been captured, with no casualties on their side. At last, the raid was over!
From the cart, Robin gave new, precise instructions. There were disappointed, perplexed faces all around. But the sharpness in his voice did not allow questions. “Hurry up! We mustn’t keep the sheriff waiting.”
The fortress towered mightily above the valley of the River Trent. When the afternoon sun found a gap between the clouds, the stones of the sheer walls glinted. The sentinels on the battlements spotted the caravan on the southern plain long before it reached Trent Bridge. When the last wagon had safely crossed the river, a detachment of the castle guard rode out to escort them to a campsite near the shore.
“Oh, by Father Abraham, by the twelve fathers of Israel. No no no!” The august merchant refused the lord sheriff’s invitation. “I cannot come settle the sale at the city gate. I must keep watch over my guards.” He pointed at to the ox drivers and mercenaries. They were a grim group, with cloaks wrapped tight, shadowed faces under their gray wide cloth hoods, their beards covered with dust and mud.
One looked much the same as the other. Only the whites of their eyes shone from the dark masks of dirt. “Left unsupervised, my expensive goods will quickly take wing.”
The leader of the squad from the castle stared at the merchant uncomprehendingly. Solomon smiled. “Never mind, young man. What do you know about metaphors?” His voice became stern. “Offer your master my most humble greeting! Tell him: I await him here in the camp. All goods must be paid for and taken up to the fortress before nightfall. There are too much riffraff and brigands in the area. Now get a move on, young man!”
The squad leader nodded with relief. Following commands and obedience were the life of a soldier.
The sky had cleared of clouds. The sun was lowering toward the west. The air had been cleansed by the long rainstorm. An aromatic fragrance rose from the grass.
With five high-wheeled carts and a crowd of servants behind him, the fortress steward came riding down to the camp on a donkey.
The three covered carts stood in a semicircle, the oxen not yet unharnessed. There was a bustle of activity. Tents were being pitched. Goods were unloaded. The merchant sat in a comfortable armchair in front of his wagon. The cargo lists lay before him on a folding travel table.
The steward saluted him with well-chosen words. Lord Sheriff Thom de Fitz sent his apologies. Obligations held him up for a while until the goods were loaded for departure. He would follow later to settle the business of payment.
Solomon smiled. “I thank you for the considerate overlay, my friend. You may as well have said: ‘The lord sheriff is disgusted to be in the company of a Jew, so he sent me in his stead.’”
“I am only upholding the dignity of my office and . . . doing my job.”
“That is so, my friend, that is so. The servant must bend down so that the master may eat from his back.”
“Eat?” The steward hesitated in confusion, then shrugged. “As you say, Solomon. Let’s start with the grain barrels.” Every second lid was lifted. The grain was checked cursorily, and the lid closed again. Boxes, crates, bales of cloth, silks, furs—the steward tasted, felt, counted, compared the quantity with the list, and ordered goods to be loaded. Every now and then, he glanced worriedly at the two figures who always stayed one step behind the merchant.
Solomon noticed. “I bought this giant and his little brother from a Knight Templar. They’re quite dark, under all that road dust.”
“From a Templar? They are Moors? Two of them? They’re rarely seen in England.”
“They’re certainly worth the cost. I keep them as bodyguards.”
The steward shook himself. “With respect, I could never get used to having unholy foreigners around me.”
Solomon took a breath. He lifted his hands. “They
are quite capable. They guard me like the apple of their eye.”
The goods checked, they were transferred into the steward’s five carts.
“If you will acknowledge receipt?” Solomon held out a lead stylus.
With squiggling loops, the steward put his name under the lists. He drew two kerchiefs from his left tunic sleeve, stuffed back in the red one, and waved the white one over his head. Atop the battlements, the signal was answered with a white pennant.
A short while later, Lord Sheriff Thom de Fitz himself rode down the steep road. His light blue cloak billowed. A heavy cart followed at some distance. Two armed men of the town guard sat on the cart bench.
Thom de Fitz ignored the merchant’s outstretched hand, saying only, “Bonjour.” He let his eyes wander disparagingly over the camp. “Your wagon drivers are lazy, Jew. They haven’t unharnessed the oxen.”
“There wasn’t time yet, sir. After our little business is finished, I will have the animals fed and taken care of for the night.”
“What about your mercenaries? The men look like pigs.”
Solomon smiled. “A Jew does not surround himself with pigs, sir. Certainly, the men are dirty. They can’t help it, out in the rain and mud. But first they work, then they may wash.”
“Is this how you treat Christians?”
“They don’t complain, because they are paid well.”
“Maudit chien!”
The merchant kept a placid face. “My people have learned to endure slights, Lord Sheriff. You have known me long enough to know that your insults will not lower the price we agreed on. But to rid you of the sight of me as quickly as possible, I suggest we conclude our business at once.”
On the lower, straight stretch of the road, the carriage bumped past the five heavily loaded carts and swung into the stockyard. As soon as the horses stopped, the steward hurried to the loading area and took hold of the large linen blankets.
“Halt!” Thom de Fitz was already out of his saddle. “Don’t you dare!”
The steward looked at his master, puzzled. “I thought it was my duty . . .”
“Were the goods checked? The amount complete?”
“Yes, sir. Yes.”
“Then what are you still standing here for?” Thom de Fitz yanked him away from the cart. “Go get on your donkey, man! Your place is out by the carts.” Offended, the steward hurried away. Between the sheriff’s two armed men sat the large money box, on the carriage bench. “Carry that over to the Jew!”
Meanwhile, Solomon had had his bodyguards prepare everything for the conclusion of the deal: a second armchair, a clothes chest right next to it with the lid flipped up.
Full of impatience, Thom de Fitz waited until his men-at-arms had set down the gold then barked, “Now get out of the camp! Stay over by the goods until I call you.”
He lifted a gold-threaded brocaded tunic from the clothes chest and held it to his chest. “Par tous les saints. Magnifique.” When he looked up, it was right into the dirt-covered faces of the bodyguards, who had moved closer. “Don’t come near me, you bastards!” he hissed.
Solomon smiled. “They don’t understand your language. But they know you haven’t paid for the elegant pieces yet.”
The sheriff gently put back the robe. Immediately the watchful bodyguards took their position behind the merchant again.
“Who are those fellows?”
“Oh, just Black Moors,” Solomon said with a dismissive air. “So of course their names would be unpronounceable to you. That’s why I call them Goliath and Samson.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I would be willing to let you have them for a good price.”
The sheriff shook his head. “You cutthroat. I wouldn’t want to meet those two in the daytime, let alone hovering near me at night.”
“I can sympathize. To tell you the truth, they’re hard to rein in. I shall breathe a sigh of relief when I am rid of them.”
Thom de Fitz glanced up at the fortress. “It’s about time to settle the payment.”
As Solomon weighed bar after bar in his hand, and the sheriff’s face turned red except for the stump of his white nose. “You don’t trust me, greasy Jew?”
“Forgive me, I’m an old man. I trust in God. Otherwise, I trust only my wits.”
Not a gold piece too much, not one too little. Only after confirming it was so did the merchant have the delivery lists signed and sign his own receipt. One copy was for the lord sheriff, and the other he tucked into his robe. Sighing, he gave a wave to the bodyguards. Goliath and Samson picked up the heavy money box and disappeared with it around the covered cart. After a while, only Samson returned.
The lord sheriff did not notice. He had been examining the robes from France, shimmering with their pearls and brocade. “How much?”
“A hundred pounds.”
To the merchant’s astonishment, Thom de Fitz immediately agreed to the price. “However, I offer you a countertrade. Viens. Viens!” Swiftly, he led Solomon over to the cart and tore the canvas tarps open. Carved spoons, ladles. Earthen jugs. Bulging woolen sacks. Spindles. Farming implements.
Solomon picked up a wooden spoon. “Excellent quality. The villagers here in the north are skilled craftsmen.”
“Bien. Très bien. All this I offer you for the robes. And add fifty pounds on top.”
“Too little!” Someone countered in a hard, clear voice.
“You usurer! Wretched Jew!” the sheriff snapped at the merchant.
“I said nothing,” Solomon whispered close. “That was Samson. He’s behind you.”
“Diable . . .” The curse died on Thom de Fitz’s tongue. He felt a dagger at the back of his neck.
“Don’t turn around! There’s a witness here you can’t kill. Remember me?”
“R-r-obin Hood,” Thom de Fitz stammered.
“Such a bright little noggin, even without a nose. Nice.”
“Mercy. Spare me!” whimpered the sheriff. “Mercy! I’m defenseless. I’ll give you what you want.”
“You will, sure enough. And more than that,” Robin promised icily. “Just once, I let you look me in the eye because I wanted to see you up close. The second time, I swear, it will be the death of you. But it’s not that time yet.” He gave a short whistle. Little John emerged from behind the covered cart. “Take the merchant!” ordered Robin. “We’re on our way.”
The giant replied with a low affirmative grunt. His left paw dropped on the merchant’s yellow square cap and turned him around; his right grabbed the back of the merchant’s coat, and he lifted the old man roughly off the ground. The old man kicked, wailing in utter anguish, “Goliath! Spare me. By all the fathers of Israel. Have mercy!”
“Shut up,” warned John, “or I’ll break your neck.”
“I’ll keep silent,” the merchant promised. “I’ll keep quiet.”
John set him down. No sooner had Solomon regained his footing than he renewed his rant. John waited until he had fully lamented his misery to the sheriff: the raid on the caravan, he himself a prisoner of the robbers, and now, he said, all his beautiful gold lost.
“Shut up, I said!” The giant shook the scrawny merchant.
Thom de Fitz perked up hopefully. “Serves the Jew right. Take his money. And I swear I will not have you pursued.”
“You sneaky thief!” Robin Hood increased the pressure of the dagger point. “Confess to what you’ve been doing to the villages, or . . .”
“Yes, it is true!” the sheriff admitted at the touch of the sharp edge. “I have robbed the villages. It’s all here. Take it! And that makes us even.”
Robin made no reply. Thom de Fitz pulled two pouches from his belt and passed them carefully over his shoulder. “Ten pounds in gold. That’s all I’m carrying.”
“Drop them, if you please!” hissed Robin. “My men will collect them anon.” Again, he whistled. Immediately some of the outlaws disguised as coachmen and mercenaries left their work and sauntered over from the camp to the five heavily laden carts.<
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“No. You would not dare!” Thom de Fitz looked triumphantly up at the city walls. “As soon as you try to escape with the goods, the sentries will sound the alarm.”
Robin jabbed his knee into the sheriff’s rear. “Start marching, you rat! Don’t run. Move with dignity like the great judge of Nottingham should! Or I’ll cut you down in your tracks.”
Solomon, too, walked in front of John at a measured pace.
Outside the camp, the harnessed horses waited patiently. The castle servants leaned against the cartwheels. At the head of the procession squatted the steward on his donkey. To the right and left of the long-eared animal stood the two town guards. From a distance, nothing seemed to have changed. But as they approached and the sheriff got a clearer view, he shook his head with a furious growl. Guards, steward, servants, and servants were tied up and gagged. Even the animals had leather slings loosely tied around their front hooves.
“Diable,” Thom de Fitz cursed. Suddenly he gave a bleating laugh. “It’s no good, Robin Hood. You fleeced the Jew. But not me.” Without turning around, he warned, “You won’t get far with the goods. So take the ten pounds and the tat made by those Saxon dolts. And get out of here!”
Robin had the three barrels unloaded. “Open them!” Thom de Fitz obeyed him. “What do you see?”
“Grain.”
“Check it. Reach deeper!”
The sheriff burrowed in up to his forearms. Abruptly, he yanked his hands out. Sticking to his fingers were bran and bits of turnip. “Animal fodder. Sang de Dieu! Cattle fodder!” He lifted off the second lid, then the third. Under a thin layer of grain, he found nothing but bran and pieces of turnip.
“We needed space for our prisoners. So we took the liberty of transferring the contents of the feed cart into those barrels.”
Robin had his men show the sheriff a bale of silk. Below the first layer were nothing but rags and blankets. “Want to see some more?”
All the blood had drained from Thom de Fitz’s face. “Where are the goods? I paid for them. With money from the castle treasury.” He faltered, horrified. “With my lord’s money. Prince John.”
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