Robin Hood

by Roehrig Tilman

  The baroness stood beside her husband, waiting. She looked over at Little John. He was the only one still seated at the table. After a few patient moments, she decided to overlook his ignorance. “Squire John.” Her voice sounded warm and serious at the same time. “I wish to offer you my gratitude, for Marian. The child means a lot to us. Patricia has found not only a playmate but, above all, a friend. However . . .”

  John waved his hand, wanting to interrupt, but he came to his senses in time and closed his mouth.

  “However,” the lady at the Lea continued with a smile, “we are also glad that Beth is at our side. Otherwise, the girl’s temper would be hard to control.” With that, she took her leave until evening and left the hall through a side door.

  As soon as he and Sir Richard were alone, John squeezed his body out of the narrow chair. The armrests did not break. “Why did she thank me?” He stood before the knight. “It’s the other way around. I am in your debt, my lord. Because you’ve given the child everything, and she can already sing, just like our brother Tuck at mass. And pluck the lute. Oh, that was beautiful.” He thumped his hand against his chest. “Tonight at the meal, I will thank your wife.”

  Sir Richard stroked his trimmed beard. He mulled something over, then reached a decision. “What do you think, my dear Little John, the girls are doing right now?”

  The giant lightly shrugged his shoulders. “Well, at their learning. Surely they’re reading something with the monk.” His eyes lit up. “Or writing. Yes, surely . . .”

  “My dear Little John.” The knight took his arm and slowly paced the length of the hall with him. “So that you see how everything has two sides, I want to show you something.”

  The corridors were cold and damp. They followed a wide curved staircase up through other corridors, descended a narrow staircase. Before Sir Richard opened the door, he asked, “Do you remember how Mistress Beth persuaded Marian to obey? No? She asked the girl to remember the bargain she had made.”

  He pushed open the portal and led John a few steps along the battlements.

  Orders were yelled. Clipped shouts. More orders. Marian’s voice, Patricia’s voice echoed up from a small courtyard.

  John leaned over the ledge. His breath caught. Below him, the two girls stood facing each other, wooden swords in their hands. Attack and defense. Marian was showing her friend just what thrust to use to break through an opponent’s guard.

  John rubbed the scar in his beard. He saw bales of straw and target cloth on the courtyard wall, and he saw bows and arrows. “By Dunstan. Just like ours at the camp. I thought—”

  “There was no other way to negotiate with Marian.” Sir Richard frowned. “And she’s keeping her end of the bargain. She studies, is diligent, wears in public the clothes Mistress Beth puts her in. In return, she gets to frolic down there as she pleases. And, if I’m honest . . .” Sir Richard lowered his voice “. . . why shouldn’t a woman be able to handle a weapon? In moderation, of course. I don’t forbid my daughter to do so. And since the baroness has seen for herself Patricia’s enthusiasm, she has no objections either.”

  John leaned over the parapet again. Marian spotted him. Cockily, she whirled the wooden sword around her head. He tried to calm her with his hand. Concerned, he turned back to Sir Richard. “But, she’s learning as well? I mean, writing too, reading too? Because, after all, she is to become a lady.”

  “Don’t worry!” Sir Richard tried to ease his concerns. “Get used to this! Marian possesses all the good qualities a father would wish for his daughter. And a few more besides. Why shouldn’t those talents be nurtured as well?”

  “If that’s the way it is.” He was not entirely convinced. But if even a distinguished gentleman like Sir Richard did not object? “All right, then.” Then I’ll just get used to it.

  Back in the castle hall, Sir Richard sat down by the fire with his guest. They talked for a long time. About England. The shires, which the lords called counties.

  John memorized the name of the new lord sheriff. Walter de Monte. An ally of the prince. Cruel and greedy like his predecessor. Nothing had changed. “I’ll tell Robin. At least we know the name of the villain we’re fighting.”

  “But perhaps, my friend, everything will change for the better soon, after all. No—I’m sure of it.”

  “If only.” John thought about Robin. “But we’ll fight, no matter how long it takes.”

  The baron abruptly set down his goblet. “You don’t know?”

  “What?”

  Sir Richard jumped up, slapping his forehead. “What a fool I am. How could you have known?” Excitedly, he grasped the giant’s shoulders. His face lit up. “My friend, my brave squire. The ransom, a hundred thousand pounds in silver marks! England has raised the sum. I understand from a trusted source in London that Queen Eleanor is already on her way to see the Emperor.” John’s incredulous expression only increased Richard’s excitement. “Yes, the old Queen Mother herself is accompanying the transporting of the ransom. If God is merciful to us, King Richard will soon be in England.”

  John emptied his cup in silence. It was not enough. He picked up the wine jug and drank directly from it. At last, he wiped his beard and mouth with his sleeve. “If Robin hears this . . .” He hesitated, wanted to inquire more, desisted. He grinned broadly. “That’s all right, sir. If Robin . . .” He struggled to choose the right words. “I mean: when Robin Hood hears this news . . . Oh, nonsense! It’s not simply news. It’s a marvel!”

  “And not only for England. For my family, too,” the baron added quietly. “So many young men have already returned from the Holy Land. And still, we wait for our son. But I know him. Surely Edward has stayed by his king’s side. Even in captivity. When Richard the Lionheart returns, my son will come home, too.”

  Beth and Tom stayed away from the night meal. John did not care. Everyone should enjoy themselves that day! He looked at the richly laid table—fragrant minced-meat of veal, accompanied by a cream sauce with red and black currants.

  And the giant ate! After all else had finished, accompanied by astonished looks, he continued to eat on alone. Nothing remained of the tasty dishes.

  John made a request. Marian and Patricia were happy to sing him the Latin song once again. They curtsied gallantly, then rushed off to their shared bedchamber.

  With jug after jug, the good news mingled in John’s head with the good malmsey from the castle’s wine cellar. Only with difficulty did he find his bed for the night. He snored away until a servant pounded on his door in the morning.

  First, a farewell from Sir Richard, his wife, and Patricia. The hosts remained behind at the gate. At the end of the drawbridge, Tom promised to his Beth to return soon.

  “Wait, little one!” Circumspectly, John searched in the provisions bag. With two fingers, he pulled out the small string of pearls. “Here. I thought . . . well, it’s sure to fit around your neck.”

  Marian took the necklace. “That’s all right,” she said quietly. Then she laughed happily. Suddenly, her blue eyes grew serious. “I like it here, John. But only because you’re not far away.”

  The men left briskly. Beth and Marian waved after them, standing close together on the drawbridge for a long time.

  “He is coming?” Robin slowly turned his back on his friend and leaned his forehead against a post in his hut.

  No sooner had the giant and Tom returned that afternoon than John had given him the good news.

  “He’s coming.” Hope grew in Robin’s voice. He pounded his fist against the wood. “An end at last. I promised you. Not someday, my friend, but soon. Soon we’ll reach our goal!”

  Robin abruptly turned around. The mask he had worn for the last months had fallen off. A new fire glowed in his gray eyes. “Oh, John. So long have we fought against injustice and oppression.” He paced back and forth in front of him. “Perhaps to the sheriff, to all the Norman plunderers, we are nothing but outlaws. Robbers. But, by the Blessed Virgin, Richard the Lionheart will
see us. With a gaze from which nothing can be hidden.”

  “He will.” John puffed up his chest, proudly. He didn’t care what Robin was saying. He only saw his radiance, heard the clear, powerful voice again. Finally.

  Robin laughed. “Our king is coming! That’s the most wonderful news. Especially coming today.” He took his friend’s arm. “For tomorrow we celebrate Christmas. And not just tomorrow. We shall feast into the new year. Roasts. Ale and beer. Well, what do you say?”

  “That’s all right.”

  Robin hugged the giant of a man fiercely. “That’s all right. That’s all right. Is that all you have to say? Oh, my friend.”

  Without a by-your-leave, the giant lifted Robin up and sat him down hard on the table. At Robin’s stunned face, John had to laugh.

  At midnight, torches blazed around the big linden tree. Joy was reflected in the eyes of all the freemen. Friar Tuck celebrated the Christmas Mass, proclaimed into the frosty night: “Ecce, rex venit sanctus et salvator mundi. Gloria! Gloria!” And the brotherhood sang, “Gloria in excelsis Deo.”

  Day after day, Herbghost and Storyteller stoked the fire in the long kitchen shed. Water boiled. The smell of soups rose from stewpots, and the smell of roasts drifted through the main camp down by the river. Night after night, the men gathered together. Robin wanted to hear stories—stories of King Arthur.

  Storyteller transformed the kitchen shed into Camelot Castle. The outlaws sat next to the noble knights of the Round Table.

  “How the Lady of the Lake saved good King Arthur from a cursed cloak that would have burned him.”

  “How King Arthur knighted brave Perceval.”

  “How the Red Knight dueled with—”

  That evening, John slammed the flat of his hand down on the table. “No. Not that story. I still don’t know what happened to the Green Knight. Only that he put his head back on and left.”

  Gilbert Whitehand remembered. “No, no. First, the fellow told Sir Gawain that he would be waiting for him at the Green Chapel a year from then. Then he rode off on the green horse.”

  “Yes, tell the tale!”

  As usual, Storyteller wanted to be begged, drinking his ale with relish. He awkwardly adjusted his stiff leg. “But the story will turn out different than you think. Very different.”

  “Get on with it!” Robin pointed warningly toward the door. “Or else . . .”

  “Don’t interrupt me!” hissed Storyteller. His hands reached for invisible reins. “On All Saints’ Day, Sir Gawain rides out through the gates of Camelot Castle. At once, the drawbridge is closed back up behind him. He sets off alone in search of the Green Chapel. It’s cold . . .” Storyteller showed a measurement with his fingers. “That’s how thick the ice was on his helmet, on his shield. Sir Gawain rides deeper and deeper into a wild forest. On Christmas Eve, he suddenly comes upon a castle. The knight is cordially welcomed therein. He sits by the fire with the lord of the castle. Then the door opens . . .”

  Storyteller pushed his tankard toward John. “I am in want of ale.”

  The giant hurried to return. Hurriedly, he poured more from the jug.

  “By Willick,” Tom Toad growled. “You are meant to be telling! You can drink later.”

  The old man set down the cup and wiped the foam from his chin with his sleeve. “That’s when the door opens, and the beautiful lady of the castle comes in. So beautiful. Such a woman as our knight has never seen. Such beautiful eyes he has never seen. And she makes beautiful eyes at him.” Storyteller scratched his head at length. “It wasn’t much farther to the Green Chapel. It stands only two miles away, in a deep ravine. So, Sir Gawain has some time to spare for the castle’s lovely mistress.”

  Tom Toad slapped his thighs. “Good on him. But what did the lord of the castle say to that?”

  Indignantly, John rubbed the scar in his beard. “If that was my wife. I would have pushed him headfirst through the ice into the moat.”

  “And I would have—” Gilbert spoke up. So did Much. Each man present announced what he would do to a rival.

  “Enough!” Robin smiled expectantly. “I want to know what happens next.”

  Every morning, the lord of the castle and his guest set out separately to hunt. They give their word to share the spoils in the evening.

  So, Sir Gawain receives half a deer, a hare. He, however, returns to the lady of the castle first thing every morning. First, he kisses the lady’s hands . . . And as an honest knight, he must keep his word. And so, he also shares this with the lord of the castle.

  Tom Toad opened and forgot to close his mouth. Amused, Storyteller grinned at the crowd. “First he kisses the lord’s hands . . .” He did not elaborate further. The laughter all around showed him that everyone understood well enough.

  Robin demanded silence. “You made that part up. You louse. If you don’t know the rest of the story, you know what happens to you.” He pointed sternly toward the door.

  “It’s true, though,” Storyteller grumbled. He hastily continued. On the last day of the year, it is time for Sir Gawain to leave. The lady of the castle gives him a green belt. “Wear it!” she says, “It will protect you.”

  Sir Gawain rides two miles into the deep gorge. At the Green Chapel, the Green Knight awaits him. His ax is even bigger than last year. Sir Gawain just stands there quietly. The Green Knight takes a wide swing. The blade whistles through the air. But just short of the knight’s neck, it stops and slides away. The Green Knight tries again. Again the ax slips. Only on the third blow does the edge touch Sir Gawain’s neck, but only lightly scratching the skin.

  “‘Now it’s my turn!’” Storyteller boomed in Sir Gawain’s threatening voice. “He thrusts his lance. But the Green Knight just calmly swings his ax in his hand. ‘It is well, my friend,’ says he. ‘All this was but a test.’ He strips off the green mask. Standing before Sir Gawain is the lord of the castle. ‘You kept your word. You came at the appointed time. You shared honestly with me all that you had won, even my wife’s kisses. Only the belt you kept from me, so I had to wound you.’ Before Sir Gawain can reply, the lord of the castle turns and vanishes.”

  One by one, the freemen returned to their food. Unsatisfied, John shook his head. “Where did he go?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Storyteller scoffed indignantly. “That’s it for today.” He reached for the mug himself and poured himself a cup. “Make up something for yourself if you don’t like it.”

  On the penultimate day of Christmastide, the day before Epiphany, water was again being heated over the fireplace. The freemen stood outside in the snow. One by one, they undressed, then smeared themselves with grease, salt, sand, and ashes.

  “Our pure Virgin and the saints have refined noses!” Robin laughed at his men. “Our King Richard, too.” Thus he declared the Great Bath Day begun, and was the first to scrub himself, until his skin glowed. John had bucket after bucket brought to him. What a steaming treat. Last of all, Friar Tuck pulled up his robe, and this time not just up to his belt. He started scrubbing at his feet and didn’t stop until he reached the carefully shaved circle on the back of his head.

  After each service in the little church at Wrangbrook, Much held the penny plate in Marian’s place. The adults took gratefully, the children pecked twice, and the congregation’s reverend father emptied the lavish remainder into his lifted gray robe.

  The Brotherhood of Freemen trudged through the snow back to Barnsdale. Robin let the others lead the way. He took John’s arm. “My plan is set.” While the snow was still melting, he wanted to leave for the summer encampment. “We have to be in Sherwood early.”

  John shook his head. “We have time.”

  “No. I want to know as soon as possible what the new sheriff is up to. We’ll ask the charcoal burner, we’ll ask around Blidworth, we’ll ask all our friends. I want to know exactly what the new situation is. We’re sure to pick up a fat morsel or two along the way on the trade route. Besides, we must secure our terrain ar
ound the Great Oak. Get supplies and fine clothes into the caves. And do you know why?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. With a flourish, he yanked his cap off his head and spun it upward. His reddish-blond hair shone. “Oh, John!” He snatched the cap out of the air. “And in June, we’ll wait below Nottingham for Uncle Solomon.”

  “You mustn’t,” growled John. “We promised. No raiding his trade wagons.”

  “Don’t be a . . . ah, never mind, I’ll keep my word. I just want to ask him where Richard the Lionheart is. By then, I’m sure the king will be back in England. And then . . .” He paused. “Then you and I will dress up like fine nobles. That’s how we’ll go to London, to our king.”

  “What? You mean to do what?”

  Robin resolutely looked up at the giant, hardness in his eyes. “Yes, dear friend. We will appear before King Richard. First, I will tell him all about us—the plain truth. Then I will tell him of the sheriff, about every one of his barons, of every abbot, and how they bleed and torture the people. I want him to know everything. And then . . .” Robin spread his hands as if it were drawn before them. “We kneel. And await his judgment.”

  John’s breath caught. “What if he’s a completely different man? I mean, we may never be done with this game.”

  “None of that!” Robin laughed. After a while, he shrugged slightly. “And what if we aren’t? Only you and I would be headed to the hangman. Our men won’t. Think of our great goal. For that, the stakes are worth it, even if I don’t know all the rules this time.”

  Little John bent down and gathered some snow. While shaping it into a ball with his big hands, he said, “I’ll always stay by your side.” He smiled. “The first time we were together here in Wrangbrook . . . that time you threw the snowball over the church for the children. Do you remember what they shouted?” He handed the snowball to his friend. “Here. Try it again. Hit the sun for us!”

  XIX

  NOTTINGHAM SHIRE. SHERWOOD FOREST.