Robin Hood

by Roehrig Tilman

  John gave quick instructions. “The horse will still stay in the dugout overnight.” He designated four men—“You push”—and put on the harness himself. With his might at the front, they rolled the heavily loaded wagon through the forest. Close to the main road, John had them camouflage the cart with bushes and branches until was he satisfied.

  The wild boar back at camp tasted good, the brown crust crackling between his teeth. “Good job!” John winked at the cook as he wiped his beard.

  “Please and thank you stuff your bellies and hurry and be done!” Herbghost gasped for air. Suddenly the skewers fell from his hands. “Damn it!”

  John jumped up and took hold of the cook’s shoulders. “Hey, William. What’s wrong?”

  The old man muttered, “They’re looking for us, aren’t they? And I’m meant to ride up to a road blockade disguised as a rag collector.”

  “It’ll be all right, William. You’ll have Smiling with you.”

  Herbghost shook off the big hands. “That one?” he scoffed, gathering up the skewers and continuing to rant, “I can’t stand that perpetual grin!”

  “That’s the spirit!” John smirked. He walked over to the two men kneeling at the big fire. “How far along are you? Do you want me to start setting up the escort?”

  “Hush hush, don’t interrupt me!” Robin counted out the remaining coins to Pete, who placed the last stack next to the others on a spread-out cloak. All of the sheriff’s money boxes had been emptied, the shimmering wealth divided precisely.

  Smiling bared his teeth. “Three thousand pounds in five hundred beautiful gold pieces. That would be more than enough for my entire lifetime.”

  “Don’t stumble now, Pete.” Robin smiled softly. “So, one last time. Count along with me. You, too, John. There are thirty of us. There are twenty-five stacks here.” On his fingers, he counted off. “We’ll meet Vincent and Bill at the charcoal maker’s first. Herbghost and Smiling mustn’t be carrying any coins. And I’ll send Much to the villages tomorrow. Good. We’re ready to go, little man. Gather our people!”

  A little later, all the band of men stood before Robin Hood. One by one, they took off their green garb, tied twenty gold pieces tightly wrapped in a linen cloth around their bare bellies, and slipped their garments back on. It was Much’s turn. Robin waved the boy aside. “Not you.”

  “Why? I’m just as—”

  “Leave it be, son!” John placated him. “Be glad you don’t have so much hanging off your body.”

  Disappointed, Much squatted down on the grass. After Robin Hood and John had also donned the heavy bandages, the outlaw had his army line up under the Great Oak. Commendations were given for bravery, praise for courage, acknowledgments for obedience.

  “Starting tomorrow, they will hunt us, like bloodhounds. But you are good men. The best! I have confidence in each of you. Touch those bundles at your belly, and you’ll know I do. March out as soon as you’re awake! But go in twos. One helps the other. No meeting place on the way. Each is responsible to me for the coins, and, by the Blessed Virgin, as I know you, you will bring me our gold bundles home whole.”

  Their eyes lit up. Yes, they were ready!

  Only Much leaned listlessly against the trunk of the Great Oak. As Robin and John approached him, he turned away.

  “Hey, lad!”

  “You don’t need me anymore.”

  “Oh, nice.” Robin folded his arms. “Now that I can’t get this done without him, he’s grumbling like a child.”

  “I’m not a—”

  “Then listen!” Robin interrupted him sharply. “You run tomorrow to the villages the sheriff raided in the spring. Go to the elders. Just tell them: Robin Hood has taken care of you! What you need to survive will be at Blidworth and with the charcoal burner Gabriel.”

  It was an important task! Much carefully memorized the names of the villages. Robin laid out the route, first in the south of Sherwood, then village by village farther to the north.

  “I can’t do that in one day.”

  “Pfft!” Robin allowed no excuses. “That’s all the time you’ve got. We’ll wait for you at the charcoal burner’s. But only until tomorrow night.” With that, he turned away, calling over his shoulder for Little John.

  The giant murmured, “Don’t get caught, boy! You can do it. Show him you really are the fastest of us all!”

  Much smiled tightly. “I’ll prove it to you all.”

  In long strides, John caught up with Robin. “Sending him alone? It’s madness. And without a sword? He’s only got his staff. I’d better go with the boy.”

  Robin was silent.

  “What if he really can’t make it in time?”

  Robin gazed frankly at his lieutenant. “Well, then, we wait for him.” John shook his head, uncomprehendingly.

  “Oh, my friend.” Robin looped his arm through John’s. “I never ask for anything I wouldn’t do myself, that’s why the men follow me. But tomorrow, that will be different, for Much. He’ll have to do something neither you nor I can manage. And so the poor villagers will have enough grain and money to last until next summer. That is more important than anything else to me. But—” Robin shrugged “—they should know who they have to thank for it. Through our messenger! Yes, I know, Much is risking his life. That’s exactly why I goaded him, so that—you shall see—he’ll run tomorrow like never before.”

  John scratched the scar in his beard. “The cuckoo.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The cuckoo sings out his own name.” John stared intently into the fire. “We don’t need that. Well. Much will do it for us.”

  Robin was silent. The corners of his mouth twitched. Finally, he tapped his fist against his friend’s chest. “You certainly are a fast learner, little man.”

  A cart was settled in front of the charcoal burner’s cottage, its bed loaded with baskets, filled to the brim with chunks of blue-black coal.

  For well over an hour, John and Robin Hood had been watching the small clearing. They clenched their fists in impotent rage. Vincent and Threefinger kneeled not far from the oxcart. Two woodsmen stood over them, dealing blows, kicks, With unconcerned expressions, they carried out the ranger’s orders.

  “Who are you?” the ranger in the black leather jerkin barked. His head went back and forth. During the interrogation, he held the gaunt charcoal burner in check with a bow primed to shoot. Gabriel had no choice but to watch the beating. His soot-blackened face shone with sweat. He could not help, was not allowed even to move. His little sons were with him. Fearfully they hid behind their father’s legs.

  “Who are you?” The same question for an hour.

  “Beggars. Just beggars,” Vincent whimpered. Blood ran from his mouth, dripping onto his traveling cloak. Threefinger raised his hands protectively. His eyes were bruised and swollen. Again and again, the fist hit his temples, his cheekbones.

  Gabriel shouted, “Stop it! Damn it. Stop it!”

  “Shut up! Or you’ll get a taste of it, too.” And again: punches, kicks. “Who are you?”

  In their hiding place, John hissed, “Those bastards.”

  “Quiet. Stay calm,” Robin whispered.

  John groaned. “Three arrows would do it.” But today, they carried no bows. To avoid attracting attention on the road, they had dispensed with the more obvious weapons. He began to rise up. “Come on! We’ll sneak up on them from behind.”

  Robin yanked his friend back. “Don’t be an idiot!” He pressed his mouth to the giant’s ear to whisper. “We can’t risk the children! Besides, if that forester doesn’t get back to Worksop with the coal cart, Gabriel’s done for.”

  “And our people?”

  “Wait and see. They’ll tough it out.” Robin drew his hunting dagger, weighed the blade in his hand. “If I need to, I’ll take him down. But not unless it gets really bad.”

  In the clearing, the ranger with the silver badge on his cap reveled in his power. “All right. Beggars you are. From what villa
ge?”

  “No village,” Threefinger groaned. “From Nottingham . . .”

  A nod to the woodsmen. Satisfied, the ranger watched Bill’s head snap back and forth at the blows. “You lie.”

  Despite the danger, Gabriel took the chance—in two steps, he was on top of the ranger. He snatched the arrow from its string, gripped it like a dagger, and put the point hard against the man’s neck. Over his shoulder, he shouted to his children, “Run! Run!” Only when they had disappeared into the house did he relax the pressure of arrowhead against throat. “By Swithin! Leave them alone already! I asked them to come here.”

  The ranger carefully pushed the shaft aside. Slowly, he took a step back.

  Gabriel allowed it but held the arrow ready to thrust. “I wanted these people to do some work for me.”

  “Now, all of a sudden, you remember?”

  Coldly, the charcoal burner looked him in the face. “Remember what? I put the word out everywhere that I need servants. It’s no surprise strangers would show up.”

  “But those two?” The forester sneered. “They come sneaking in here. First, you don’t know them. And now . . .”

  “Think what you will,” growled Gabriel. “Go ahead and beat them to death. But I swear to you, tomorrow I’ll be in Worksop to report on it. And then you’ll be rid of that nice silver badge on your cap. Our master has to deliver coal for the castle. How pleased do you think he’ll be when I have to shut down one of the burn piles? Because you killed my servants?”

  The forester gasped. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  With the arrow in his fist, Gabriel crossed his arms in front of his chest. “One thing is certain: Our lord needs me more than he needs you.”

  Seething with rage, the ranger shouldered his bow. “You false cur. I know that well enough. But you watch yourself! One day . . .” He turned away, called off his woodsmen, and went over to the coal cart. “I know there’s something fishy here,” he hissed. “And next time I pass, those scoundrels had better be working at the pile.”

  The gaunt charcoal burner shrugged. “Who knows? The work is hard. No farmhand lasts long with me.”

  The woodsmen reached for the bullock’s muzzle strap. Without looking back, the forester followed the coal wagon.

  Gabriel waited until the groaning of the wheels could no longer be heard. He turned around. The beaten men were huddled on the ground, breathing heavily.

  “Thanks,” Vincent muttered, spitting out blood.

  Threefinger felt at his welts. “They would have killed us outright.”

  “You just wait—I can still make that happen!” growled the charcoal burner, grabbing them both by the collar and shaking them. “Bastards! You miserable bastards! Have you no eyes in your head? I’m standing here with this blackcap, and you lot saunter out of the forest, merry as can be? Why didn’t you wait?”

  “We didn’t think,” Vincent stammered.

  “Stop!” pleaded Threefinger. “Yeah, it was stupid. Please stop!”

  But Gabriel jerked them back and forth, pushing them against each other. “And my children? You didn’t think about them either, did you. You don’t care about my family, do you? I should give you—”

  A harsh, clear voice rang out. “Stop it!”

  Gabriel let go of his victims. He wheeled around. Robin Hood and Little John grinned at him.

  “You, too,” the charcoal burner snarled angrily. “Where did you come from?”

  “From there.” John pointed with his staff to the bushes at the edge of the clearing. “Nothing would have happened to your children.”

  Robin reassured the man: “You’re right, Gabriel. But let it go!”

  Indignant shouting came from the cottage. In the entrance, the two boys twisted out of their mother’s grasp, tore themselves away, and rushed toward their father. Gabriel stroked their shocks of hair. Anger and worry dissolved. “Just ask me how you managed all that in Blidworth. Against the iron men.” The charcoal burner pointed at Vincent and Threefinger. “With addle-pates like that, I wouldn’t try to steal a sheep from a pasture.”

  Robin looked at him. “So, you know about that?”

  “I know all about it. Everyone in Sherwood knows.” He held out his hand to the outlaw. “I’m sorry. When the raids started in the spring, I thought . . .”

  Laughing, Robin took the offered hand and held it. “The sheriff almost succeeded. But I had my addle-pates with me.”

  Gabriel sent the injured men into the house. “Let my mother take care of you. You’ll be all right with a little spit weed.”

  Meanwhile, the two boys danced around the giant. They tugged at his cloak, made faces. John gave them a low growl. The children whooped and led their bear around in circles.

  Concerned, Gabriel rubbed his chin. “You can’t stay here, Robin. If the ranger comes back with armed men, it’ll be bad.”

  “But we must. Our messenger is still missing.” Quickly Robin explained why Much was on his way to the villages.

  The charcoal burner listened in silence. When Robin Hood entrusted him with the coin purse containing a hundred pounds in gold coins, he said haltingly, “I’ve never seen anyone like you.”

  “But that’s only because you don’t have a mirror.” Robin laughed.

  The outlaws were allowed to stay. Not at the charcoal burner’s house, but close by. Gabriel had cleared out the second charcoal kiln for them to tuck themselves around. “No one will look for you there. And the crumb coal is still warm.” He promised to bring ale, bread, and ham later.

  The charcoal burner’s mother also came outside with Vincent and Threefinger. She stopped in front of Robin Hood. “Put your hood back,” she demanded sternly. “Bend down.”

  Surprised, he obeyed. The old woman closed her eyes. “Mary’s milk and Christ’s blood . . .” Her voice sank into a murmur, rose again. “. . . And so no arrow shall hit you, no enemy shall hurt you.” With the tip of her thumb, she stroked a cross on his forehead. “And so that nothing of the curse remains.” She turned and limped back into the cottage.

  Robin straightened up again. Only after a while did he come back to himself and his smile disappear. “Come!” he snapped at the two companions. “Just wait until we get to the pile. I still have a few words to say to you.”

  Meanwhile, John had lifted both children onto his shoulders. They tugged at his hair. “Giddy-up!” they yelled. Their horse whinnied and ran.

  Robin whistled. The giant waved and trotted toward the charcoal burner’s house. At the entrance, he bent his knees to Gabriel’s wife and let his little riders dismount. “Do you got any of your own?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Do you got any little’uns?”

  Little John rubbed the scar in his beard. “Yes. A girl,” he said, drawing out his words, thinking.

  “Oh, that’s why.” The charcoal burner’s wife herded her sons into the house before her.

  No, he wasn’t going to the kiln. Not yet.

  “You go ahead,” he told Robin. “I’ll wait over in the bushes. When Much comes, I’ll show him the way.”

  Evening settled over the Sherwood. Gabriel had left the cottage with a pannier on his back and had walked away in the direction of the kiln. For a while longer, John heard the boys’ laughter from his hiding place, then they fell silent.

  John listened intently. When a twig cracked, leaves rustled, it was only the animals. He looked up at the full moon. It won’t be completely dark, he thought. That is good.

  A strange sound. It came closer. Footsteps. John heard a wheezing breath. Calmly he waited. A figure stepped out of the woods, lumbered into the front yard in the bright moonlight, stopped, swaying. Cautiously, Little John peeled himself out of the darkness. “Hey, lad,” he murmured.

  Immediately Much straightened, holding his staff defensively.

  “Hey, son,” John called softly. “Easy. It’s me.” He strode into the light.

  “I . . . I showed you.” The boy staggered toward th
e giant man. John caught him as he stumbled.

  “Everybody . . . knows . . .” gasped Much, coughing.

  “That’s right, son. That’s right.” John lifted the boy and put him over his shoulder.

  When he reached the kiln with his burden, Robin Hood was the first to jump up from the fire. “Thank the Blessed Virgin!” He reached out to help.

  “Don’t,” Much gasped. “I . . . I want to stand.”

  Gently, John let the exhausted lad slide down from his back. He supported him until Much could hold himself up with his staff by himself.

  “So?” Robin asked.

  “Been to every village,” Much reported. “Everyone knows . . .” He raised his voice: “Grain is in Blidworth. Money is with the charcoal burner. But be careful. You must . . .” His legs buckled.

  Robin Hood caught the boy and laid him, unconscious, close to the fire, on his back.

  “Damn it,” the charcoal burner groaned as he got a good look. The others bent over Much as well. There were bloodied scabs on his face, neck, arms, and legs. Under his torn tunic, blackish crusted wounds covered his body.

  Robin motioned to John, shoving the others aside. They examined Much all over. After a while, John sighed with relief. “Nothing bad. It’s really just scrapes and scratches.”

  “What was it? A bear?”

  “A bear would puncture deeper into the flesh. Looks like someone had at him with . . . needles.”

  It seemed the boy would be unconscious for the night. Gabriel promised to bring an herbal brew before they left the next day. One thing still worried John and Robin: Much’s eyelids were thickly stuck together. Were his eyes damaged?

  Vincent handed over his pitcher. “With the ale, you can—”

  “Sit down, you addle-pate.” Very carefully, Robin softened the crusted-over lids with spit and rubbed them clear. “Thank the Virgin!” Blood had only run down from a forehead wound.

  Suddenly Much opened his eyes. “I stabbed him to death.” He smiled.