Robin Hood

by Roehrig Tilman

  “Leave the bow!” commanded Robin. “Take it easy. You’re a monk. So act like it!”

  “Quite so.” But the bad feeling was back: Danger was imminent. John felt it all the way down his neck.

  What was the man up to? As the riders approached, the scarlet man sprang aside with a light leap and was gone among the trees.

  John opened and closed his fist. Robe or no robe. If I see him again, I’ll grab him.

  Before they reached the inn, the monks dismounted. Friar Tuck stood at the side of the road. He gathered his robes under his ample belly and crouched. His companions waited indifferently. After a low whistle on the silver flute and an “O Sancta Clara,” Friar Tuck dropped the robes back into place again and quietly said, “All right. My darlings will wait patiently until you’re ready to move on.”

  John poked Robin lightly in the side. “He gets it, eh?”

  “Yeah. We got lucky.” Robin laughed. “And we got a priest.”

  After their rest stop, the monks made their horses prance awkwardly in front of the stone bridge. Clearly, they were clumsy riders. An amusement for anyone who watched them. While they struggled to keep the horses in check, five gray dogs scurried across the bridge ahead of them.

  “Courage, my brothers!” shouted Friar Tuck emphatically loudly. “Hold on to the reins. And with faith in God, go on.”

  Soon the horses were snorting. They had almost reached the high ground. The men rode toward the last long sweeping bend. Above them, the scarlet man stood again in the middle of the road. He seemed to be waiting, arms folded, his blue cloak tucked behind the hilt of his sword.

  “Stop!” hissed Robin. “You’re right, John. Now I want to know what he’s up to, too.”

  “At last.” The giant pulled the bow from its blanket sheath.

  “Wait! We won’t learn anything that way.”

  “But if we get closer, he’ll disappear again.”

  “Fox or deer.” Friar Tuck reached for little flute hanging around his neck. “My hounds know how the prey is driven.”

  Robin agreed. John, too, nodded. They held themselves ready to ride off at a moment’s notice. Friar Tuck steered his horse to the side of the road. At his whistle, the pack loped out of the bushes. The monk pointed to the scarlet man. “O Sancta Catherina!”

  The greyhounds raced off barking. The stranger stood motionless. A stone’s throw from their quarry, the pack scattered. The scarlet man did not move. The dogs surrounded him, their barking intensifying. From all sides, they rushed at him. Then the stranger crouched low and sprang jumping over one of the beasts, drawing his sword as he leapt. The dog threw itself around, snatching at the blue cloak. Even as it sank its teeth into the fabric, a mighty blow severed its neck. Howling, the other four jumped on the man. He lost his sword. They pulled him to the ground.

  Now the horsemen were at the scene of the battle. Brother Tuck issued the command, and the greyhounds released their victim. The scarlet man lay on his back. Groaning, Brother Tuck sank to his knees. “What have you done?” he wailed. He loosened dog’s the fangs from the stranger’s cloak.

  Slowly the stranger sat up. His clothes hung in tatters, but he himself seemed intact. He looked directly into the monk’s face. “I had to fight back.” He looked up at the other two. “You are witnesses, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

  They gave no answer. Friar Tuck tenderly carried dog’s head to the side of the road. As he lifted the blood-streaming torso from the stones, the other greyhounds whimpered. “Yes, mourn, my darlings. Mourn Secundus!” He crouched down among the pack.

  The stranger reached for his red cap and slapped the dust from it on his knees, indignation in his gray eyes. “Don’t stare at me like that. I’m not to blame for the mutt’s death. You monks set the pack on me.”

  Reluctantly, John nodded. Robin frowned. “Where have I seen . . . ?” He shook off the thought, set his fists on his hips. “Get up!”

  With a skillful roll, the stranger twisted to the side and grabbed the hilt of his sword. John was quicker, his boot on the blade. “Don’t even try it, lad!”

  “Enough!” Robin commanded.

  The stranger jumped to his feet. Fearless, he relaxed his shoulders. “What monastery are you from? Where are pious brothers allowed to hunt with dogs?”

  “Shut up!” growled John.

  Unimpressed, the stranger pointed at his red tatters. “And who’s going to pay for my expensive clothes?”

  Like a snake’s head, Robin’s right hand flew to his rope belt, and he had his sword in his fist. With the tip, he lifted the man’s chin. “I’m asking the questions,” he said, dangerously softly. “And if you don’t answer nicely, you won’t have need for any clothes.”

  The stranger’s smooth face turned pale. Cautiously, he nodded.

  “That’s the way I like you.” Robin asked quick and curt questions.

  The man had been waiting for weeks now. He had watched every traveler. Whether they came on foot or on horseback down to the River Went. He only wore the red clothes so everyone would actually look at him.

  “Who are you waiting for?”

  “When he comes, he’ll recognize me.”

  Robin lifted the sword’s tip a little more. “Who?”

  “A relative.”

  “And his name?”

  “If you kill me. I can’t tell you.”

  “You do have guts.” Again, Robin frowned.

  Meanwhile, Friar Tuck had returned. He stood beside John, muttering, “The misfortune is done. And we bear the blame. Why magnify it yet more?”

  “You’re right.” John expelled a breath. “We should keep going.”

  “No, wait!” commanded Robin. Unblinking, he stared at the stranger. “Who are you?”

  “Gamwell. Gamwell from Maxfield.”

  Robin lowered his weapon. “Do you have an aunt?” he asked gruffly.

  Cautiously, the scarlet man fingered his neck. “Yes. She’s a nun. The prioress of Kirklees Abbey.”

  “Prioress!”

  “Yes, so she has been for the past month.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Sister Mathilda. She knows all about the healing arts.”

  Robin sheathed his sword. He winked at his companions. “So, Gamwell. I know who you’re looking for.” He smiled. “Me.”

  “And you are . . . ?”

  “Hush. No names.” Robin put a finger to his lips, then laughed. He held out both hands. “Well met, cousin!”

  Lithely, Gamwell stepped close, and he let himself be embraced. He laughed, too.

  Robin called to the others over his cousin’s shoulder. “Well, what do you think of that? Is this a remarkable day? The last time I saw this little fellow, he was a toddling babe. And I was just thinking, ‘That face! Why do I know those eyes?’”

  Little John fiercely rubbed the scar in his beard. He had never seen Robin like this before.

  Gamwell extricated himself. “I’ve been waiting . . . because I don’t know where to go anymore. Because I need your help.”

  “First of all, I’ll bring you with me. Family blood belongs together. Later . . . we’ll see.” Robin led him before the others. “This is my friend, Little John. You were lucky, Gamwell. He was a hair away from shooting you.”

  John took the outstretched hand. He has strength, yes. Openly, warmly, Gamwell returned his scrutinizing look. And yet . . . John wasn’t sure about him. He still felt the tug at the back of his neck.

  “I’m glad to meet you,” Gamwell said in a melodious voice.

  In reply, the giant growled.

  “And this is the only true Cistercian of us. Brother Tuck.”

  Silently, the monk clasped his hands in front of his stomach. Gamwell grew serious. “Forgive me, father. What was I supposed to do?”

  Brother Tuck nodded. “You proved to me on the very first day how thorny my new path will be. My son.” He pointed to the pack. “These are Primus, Tertius, Quartus, and Quintus. Obedient, and incor
ruptible. And while they are in mourning, beware them.”

  “We’ll be friends,” Gamwell said, his gray eyes cold.

  Robin handed John the packs from his horse and let his cousin mount behind him.

  The two rode ahead, searching for shared memories. There were few of them. Gamwell had not seen his older cousin since the raid on Loxley after Robin’s father’s death.

  “I had to fight, constantly.” Robin held up his fist. “First for food. But now—for much more.” He laughed.

  Friar Tuck and Little John followed them. The giant held the reins loosely in his hand. Beside him, the monk hunched silently in the saddle. How fast thing were going! John sighed. Yesterday we were traveling alone together, wanting only to find a priest. And today, we have a priest, a cousin, and four dogs.

  “How was it with you?”

  Robin’s question to Gamwell snapped John out of his thoughts. Tensely, he listened.

  “The plague came to Maxfield. Both of my parents died. On the same day. That’s when Aunt Mathilda took me in.”

  “That nun! Not a word did she tell me about this.”

  “She hid me from you. So I wouldn’t turn out like you.”

  After a pause, Robin asked, “And what happened then, Gamwell?”

  “She provided everything for me. I learned from her. Now I can read, write and . . .”

  “. . . handle a sword,” Robin added dryly. “Our Mathilda is very capable. She is prioress now, after all. And she even knows something about the art of combat.”

  Gamwell laughed. “No, I didn’t learn that from her. I learned that at Doncaster.”

  John held his breath.

  “Where?” Robin shot a look back at his cousin.

  “At Sir Roger’s, the Baron of Doncaster.”

  The giant sped up his horse until he drew even with Robin’s. “Say that again!”

  Chagrined, Gamwell looked from one to the other, then lowered his eyes. “I had to obey. Aunt Mathilda wanted me to be a squire.” At the castle, he had learned to fight, hunt with a falcon, shoot crossbow, make polite conversation, and had learned proper table manners. Everything had been taught to him. And he even enjoyed it. “You’ll be a real Norman yet,” Sir Roger had told him, pleased with him.

  Robin looked ahead again. From the side, John saw his friend’s frozen face.

  “A Norman, are you!” Little John took over the interrogation. “So why did you suddenly appear here?”

  Gamwell seemed oblivious to the looming tension. Without faltering, he answered, “Because I killed the steward. Because I couldn’t stand the injustice any longer.” He paused. “Outwardly, Sir Roger pretends to be charitable and plays the pious patron. But I quickly saw through him. Power is what he wants. To enforce his evil plans, he orders torture, even murder. And this steward was his henchman.” Gamwell wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “With the baron, I lacked courage, but I finally confronted his bailiff. He took up his sword. I was better.”

  John’s jaw dropped. Robin had turned halfway around in the saddle. “You dared to do that?”

  “I had to, for the sake of those innocent victims. I hid the body behind some barrels. But it was discovered. Before anyone could suspect me of it, I mounted my horse and rode away.”

  “That’s fine, boy.” For the first time, John looked kindly at Robin’s cousin. “Glad I didn’t shoot you. And you’ll have to tell our Much that story, too.”

  Robin’s eyes smiled. “Good thing you waited for us.”

  Before they rode off the main road and into the wilderness, John ordered his cousin and Father Tuck to dismount.

  “Don’t get carried away with it!” Robin advised John.

  “It’s your rule!” John grinned. “It applies to all strangers. To reverends and also to relatives.” He tore two long strips from Gamwell’s red jacket. “Blindfold yourselves until we get there.”

  Gamwell obeyed, and with a mighty swing, John put him back on the horse behind Robin Hood.

  “Hold on, son!” Friar Tuck called to the dogs. “O Sancta Ursula,” he instructed them.

  “Now it’s Ursula?”

  “No matter where you take me,” the monk said. “With Sancta Ursula, they will stay by my side.”

  The first sentry sounded the horn on their arrival. The second relayed the signal onward. When they entered the main camp, all the men gathered in front of the kitchen shed. While Robin Hood introduced the priest and his cousin outside, the two cooks inside poured some more water into the steaming soup to extend it, complaining and cursing.

  John did not get a word in edgewise, nor would he have wanted to. After the meal, Robin reported in detail and cheerfully about the two last days’ adventure. “We made provision for Friar Tuck,” he concluded, “but until Gamwell’s hut is ready, he’ll stay with me.”

  Ale was dispensed, and even wine! Tom Toad circled his braid around his tankard, eyeing Robin’s cousin. “Gamwell? Don’t like it. We’ll have to change that.”

  “You’re right.” Robin stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Gamwell. Gam. Well.” He tried the name. Smiling faces all around.

  John slammed his paw on the table. “It’s simple: Will! And because he was standing there in the road looking so pretty and red: Scarlet!”

  Robin whistled appreciatively. He drew his dagger, placed his splayed hand on the tabletop. Three times the “No!” rang out. The blade tip pointed between his last two fingers. “Will Scarlet?”

  “Yes!” the chorus answered.

  After Robin’s cousin was baptized with ale, Smiling bared his teeth. “And our frocked newcomer?”

  Friar Tuck set down his jug. “Wait. Debate no further, you ruffians.” Flushed with wine, he rose, paced back and forth in front of his congregation. “My name was Jerome. But because I . . .” he gathered his robe up to his belt “. . . always waded through the stream like this, they call me Friar Tuck.” He dropped the hems again.

  Enthusiastically, the companions drummed on the tabletop. “Friar Tuck! Yes! That’s the way it stays: Friar Tuck!”

  The jugs were refilled, again and again, until the singing and the last laughter were drowned in gurgling snores.

  Soon he would go talk to Marian and Beth—John was determined. Before Christmas. Right after the men have gone to their homes.

  By torchlight, Brother Tuck celebrated mass outside under the big linden tree on an icy Christmas Eve. Nothing dimmed the perfusing joy. Marian and Beth sang and prayed together with the freemen who had remained in the main camp.

  By Epiphany at the latest, John told himself. There’s plenty of time.

  Marian helped in the horse stables. Day after day, John watched her exuberantly ride the white stallion across the snow-covered paddock.

  “No, not today. But definitely tomorrow.”

  One by one, the men returned to camp from their villages. And John had said nothing, neither to Beth nor Marian.

  On the Feast of the Epiphany, Brother Tuck swapped places with the priest at Wrangbrook. “In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” He read three masses in a row. At the church entrance, Marian held out the offering plate, beaming. Three times the villagers were allowed to clear the mountain of pennies.

  “I need time and rest to do this,” John said to himself. “And now the men’s training must come first.”

  Every day John found new excuses. Sometimes it was training in archery, in fighting with staff; then he postponed because they were celebrating the new hut for Will Scarlet. Then it was a critical meeting with Robin Hood.

  The leader looked from one lieutenant to another. “Is there anything to be brought against my cousin?”

  Toad and Whitehand shook their heads. Smiling bared his teeth, “If Scarlet also handles his sword like he does in practice when the fighting is real, then he can manage four iron puppets at once.”

  “And what do you think, John?”

  “Got used to him.” He nodded thoughtfully. Scarlet does everything well. With a cros
sbow, he’s better than any of us. And he can talk. Sometimes I think . . . John wiped the thought away. Scarlet is Robin’s cousin! And that’s that. “It’s all right. I’m all for it.”

  “Nice.” Robin clapped briefly. “It gives the Brotherhood of Freemen a fifth lieutenant, Will Scarlet.”

  By the end of January, the snow was melting. John couldn’t delay any longer. First, he sat down secretly with Robin.

  “All right, my friend,” Robin replied. “Agreed. Our little condition, I’ll gladly give him. But as for Beth . . .” Robin shook his head. “It would be bad if we had to walk around all raggedy in the future.”

  “I’ll find a way to handle that,” John assured him.

  Then he talked to Toad and asked him to go with him to Barnsdale Top. He didn’t reveal the reason. And while Marian tended Lancelot at the base, he trudged silently beside his companion to the village.

  “Tell me now,” Tom urged.

  “Wait just a moment more!” After a few long strides, John added, “This is not easy.”

  Beth sat at the table after John spoke, her eyes wide. “You want to take her away from me?” she whispered. The seamstress felt for her husband’s hand, clasping it. “Tom, he can’t do that, can he? He can’t, can he? Tell him, Tom. He mustn’t.”

  Toad found no answer. Unblinking, John stared at the tabletop in front of him.

  Beth jerked her hand back. “So that’ s the way it is. Tom, you knew!” Her lips quivered. “You two, you’ve been working this out for a long time! Get out of here . . .”

  “I knew nothing until just now, believe me, Beth!” Tom gently took her shoulder.

  “Don’t touch me!” The seamstress shook him off and bent forward over the table, in tears. “My little princess. She’s the only thing I have left, she is. She’s my child. Mine!”

  Tom Toad ran his hand over his gray scalp and tugged his braid. “Damn it, John. There—you see the mess you’re making.”

  The giant put his hands flat beside each other. “My word’s my bond. To the knight. Because I want the best for Marian.”

  “Because you . . . ?” Beth sobbed. “And me? What am I to do?” She struggled for breath. “By the merciful Virgin, I beg you, John: Don’t take our little princess away from me!” She shook his arm. “Look at me!” When he raised his eyes, she asked, “If Marian is gone. What’s to become of me?”