The Brotherhood of Freemen safely reached their summer encampment in Sherwood in the middle of March. As every year, they had set out separately, in twos, in threes. Along the way, all of them were on high alert: if possible, escape; if necessary, fight to the death . . . of their pursuer. But no one had paid any mind to the wandering men. “If we had marched in the middle of the trade road,” Tom Toad reported as he rubbed his shriveled scalp, “the iron puppets wouldn’t have cared.”
Whitehand and Friar Tuck reported royal troops and tents around Tickhill, in southern Yorkshire. “We dared not go near the castle,” said Gilbert.
Reproach sharpened the monk’s voice. “It would have been easy for me to mingle with the mercenaries. No one would have refused information to a humble Cistercian.”
“You . . .” Gilbert swallowed whatever curse was coming with some effort, threatening Friar Tuck instead with his white fist. “And if it had gone wrong?” Seeking support, he turned to Robin. “No risk. That’s what you ordered, tell the holy man. Tell him!”
“Stop.” Robin was leaning against the trunk of the Great Oak. At a new thought, he snapped his fingers. “Nice.” He nodded to John. “So, our charcoal burner was right. The castle is under siege. And if that is true for Tickhill—” his voice grew rough “—then, friend, it is also true for Nottingham.”
“Good thing, too.” Grinning broadly, John added, “Before the eagle comes, the magpies are driven from their nests.”
The news had been astounding! Robin had asked twice. Gabriel had stuck to his story: The newly installed Chancellor of England, Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury, was preparing for the return of his king with an iron fist!
The chancellor was alarming Prince John’s supporters throughout the country: “Richard the Lionheart is coming!” It was both a warning and a threat. “Remember your oath of loyalty!” The cowardly renegade nobles blanched. To them, politics were only a means to personal gain. So, the news was enough—“Richard the Lionheart is coming!”—and one stronghold after another raised the royal standards again, the leopards and the lion of England fluttering side by side on the battlements. All the intrigues, all Prince John’s treacherous plans forged during his brother’s absence, blew away in the wind.
Nottingham and Tickhill alone defied the chancellor’s messengers, chasing them out to the gate. “Lies!” they declared. “Richard will never return. We stand under the banner of the future King John.”
Both fortresses had been besieged for more than three weeks. The charcoal burner had gotten the news from Tickhill: Besiegers and defenders were engaged in fierce battles. Losses on both sides, but no victory.
What was the situation outside Nottingham? Robin lined up his men under the Great Oak. “This time, there are no armed men from the sheriff looking for us. But there will be troops from those earls and bishops loyal to the king everywhere. By summer, we may have reached our goal. But I warn you: The game is not yet won.” Whitehand and Toad were to lie in wait with the main body of the brotherhood above Edwinstowe. “You will capture spoils. Keep a keen eye out for me for monks heading north! I imagine the priors, in particular, will be trying to quickly transport some more money bags under their robes to Doncaster, or some such place, before it’s too late—before our king reinstates law and order in the monasteries of that shire as well.” Robin would travel from village to village with John, Friar Tuck, Much, and Threefinger. “And if we don’t glean enough information, we’ll sneak up to the tents camped outside the city. I want an accurate view.”
It took the brotherhood a few days to settle back into Sherwood. They retrieved weapons from the caves, checked bow wood and sinews, resharpened arrowheads. Finally, after a week, Gilbert and Tom moved the men to the main road.
Friar Tuck knotted his rope belt over his sword belt. John and Robin shouldered their bows. Only Much and Threefinger were still squatting listlessly under the great oak.
The giant let his staff hover dangerously close to their feet. “Getting up soon?” he growled. “Or shall I help you along?”
Obediently, Threefinger tried to get up, but Much held him back. He looked up boldly at the giant. “Why can’t we go to the road with the others?”
“By Dunstan!” John thrust the stick into the soft moss between them, grumbling. He pushed up the sleeves of his green tunic. “I think . . .” he opened and closed his huge paws “. . . I think I need to have a good talk with you two.”
In two quick steps, Robin was beside him. “Hey. What are you up to?”
John hefted his staff. “Wanna teach these two a lesson.” John grinned tightly.
Much and Threefinger crawled backward away from him before scrambling up. “He wanted to beat the crap out of us,” Much grumbled.
“Ah, no, lad.” John twirled the staff. “It was just a game.”
The corners of the leader’s mouth gave a telltale twitch. “It looked pretty serious.” He murmured appreciatively, “Game? By the gracious Virgin, you certainly are a good student.”
Friar Tuck rubbed his tonsured head. “Better if we leave these two in Herbghost’s care. As kitchen servants.”
“By all the saints, anything but that!” Threefinger blurted out.
“If . . . if I . . .”
Robin didn’t wait for Much to get the sentence free. “Hush! So. While we’re in a village talking to the elder, you two will be watching the trade road. When troops pass by, you’ll make note of their crests, each flag. I’ll want to know precisely what they were. But as soon as something worthwhile turns up, then let me know at once. I don’t want to miss a chance at something. Is that clear?” Robin held up a finger on each hand and brought them together. “For that, I need my best scout and my best runner. All good?”
There was no questioning him. With great haste, Much and Threefinger made ready to depart.
“Lord Sheriff Walter de Monte sentenced three cutpurses to death. Put the rope around their necks and pushed them out of the windows of his own house. That’s how he hanged them.” Robin paused. “They were just children.”
He went on: “Because a farmer could not pay the interest on a loan, the sheriff’s soldiers took away the man’s only milk cow.”
He went on: “In the presence of Walter de Monte, the forest rangers chopped off both hands of a poacher. Because he had caught two partridges with one net.”
The trail of terror left by the new lord sheriff in his short tenure so far stretched from village to village.
But what was happening outside Nottingham, around its walls? None of the villagers had been able to answer that question.
On the twenty-fifth day of March, John, Friar Tuck, and Robin Hood sat in the cottage of the village elder of Blidworth. At last they received the information they needed: “The fortress is under siege. Yet, by day the troops can move no closer. The archers and crossbowmen have a clear line of fire down from the battlements of the walls. And at night?” The elder shrugged. “The weather has been too bad. If only the moon would shine.”
“So they’re making no progress?” Robin furrowed his brows. “You’d have to take that fortress by surprise.”
“It’s not so easy,” came the reply. “The new lord sheriff is different from Thom de Fitz. He knows a bit about warfare. He thinks himself as something of a field commander.”
“They’ll have to be starved out,” John grumbled.
The village elder sighed. “It’s more likely the king’s troops who are doing the starving in the tents outside the city.”
Much rushed in breathlessly. “Quick! Someone’s coming. From the direction of Nottingham. Maybe two miles away.”
Robin jumped to his feet. “Easy, boy! Who?”
“Four parsons. Black robes.”
“Any escorts?”
The boy shook his head.
“You’re certain?”
“Bill only saw the four of them. On horses. Riding slow. Bill says fine frocks. Sword scabbards gleaming. And spears. That’s all he co
uld make out so far. I headed back right away.”
Robin clapped his hands. “Four in one fell swoop. Nice.”
John was already at the door. Friar Tuck had no intention of staying behind. “When it comes to my fellow brothers, I want to give succor. No matter to whom.”
Robin quickly said goodbye to the village elder. “Thank you! But duty calls.” He laughed.
Much ran in front, through the forest. They would receive their victims to the north of the turnoff to Blidworth.
They reached the main road without a hitch. There was still no sign of the reverend lords. At the apex of the long sweeping curve of road, Robin stopped. Here was the most favorable spot for watching for travelers.
“We have plenty of time.” He ordered, “Much, fall back, half a mile. Wait until they pass and then join Threefinger. Both of you follow the parsons. But don’t let them see you!”
The boy rushed off.
Robin handed Friar Tuck his leather waterskin. “Stow that away!” He pointed to the bare bushes on the other side. “You hide yourselves there. And, by the Virgin, please keep quiet! Until I call for my cupbearer.”
A smile flitted across the monk’s plump face. “My outrage alone shall shut my mouth.” Friar Tuck crossed the trade road.
“Shall we go forth together?” asked John.
“I’ll go alone. You always say it’s better to be cautious. Who knows how brave these gentlemen are? You cover me.”
The giant took the bow from his shoulder, looked for a good shooting position among the trees. No matter what, my friend, I will let nothing happen to you. From where he stood, he could see Robin leaning against a tree trunk on the slightly elevated embankment, and past him, John could easily see the ribbon of the road up to the knoll. With a turn of his head, he could see anyone approaching the bend from the north.
Now came the waiting. The clouds hung heavy; it seemed they almost touched the bare crowns of the trees. But there was no rain.
Far to the south across the hill, four dark dots appeared, slowly growing larger. Four riders, dressed in black. Three brown horses, one white. Four robed priests, their wide hoods pulled low over their foreheads, riding leisurely into the hollow, getting closer.
Robin whistled. From beyond the road and behind his back, soft whistles answered.
Voices could be heard. The four travelers were conversing in the Norman tongue.
Calmly, Little John put a feathered shaft on the string. He pinched his brows. The tall one on the white horse, the one with fur on his cowl collar, that man was leading the conversation. If I have to, I’ll take him down first.
Robin detached himself from the trunk and stretched his back.
The dark monks rode along the bend, almost reaching the top.
Robin flew off the embankment with one leap, barely touched the ground, took a second springing jump. He landed standing in the middle of the road.
The horses spooked and pranced. “Merde!” Eventually, the priests had their steeds back in check. All reached for their lances and had them half out of their saddle straps.
A shrug of his shoulder and the bow was in his left hand; his right hand whipped behind his head; and the arrow was on the string. Robin drew it back. “Now, now!” His tone was sharp: “Don’t even dare!”
The monks froze in midmotion, staring dumbfounded at the green-clad man.
“Mon ami . . .” Deliberately slow, the tall one on the white horse slid his lance back into the saddle quiver. A nod of his head and his companions followed suit. He showed his open empty palms. “I am not angry with you, my son.” He spoke the words carefully, unpracticed, as if searching for the correct words in the Saxon tongue. “Surely it has escaped your notice who we are. See—we are Dominicans from . . .” he hesitated “. . . from Keyworth. Bien. And I am the Father Abbot of the monastery.” The timbre of his voice was full and strong. “We are hunting for a strong stag that has been spotted farther north in Sherwood near Edwinstowe. So, clear the way!”
“In due time, your reverence. In due time.” Robin smiled. “Just rest for a little bit. Then, I will relieve each of your heavy burdens, then you may continue on your hunting trip.”
The squat monk next to the abbot threatened with his fist. “You, bastard, dare—”
“Taisez-vous!” Sharply, his master reproached him. From the shadow of the black, fur-trimmed hood, the whites of his eyes shone, his beard gleamed red. Calmly he turned to the robber. “You are very brave. But alone. Despite our dress, we are skilled in the use of our weapons.”
“Enough of this!” Robin commanded gruffly. “Get off your horses! All four of you. Get a move on! And keep your hands where I can see them.”
In his hiding place, John drew the arrow shaft up to his right ear. The point was aimed at the abbot’s neck. One wrong move, and you’re done.
The men reluctantly climbed down from their saddles.
“Now, two steps forward.” Robin grinned. “Nice.” A short whistle. Behind the monks, Much and Threefinger crept out of the bushes. “Get the horses off the road,” Robin called to them.
The expressions of the four men darkened. None dared to turn their heads.
After they carried out the order, Threefinger returned alone. Unnoticed by the monks, he made warning signs, pointed south, and mouthed words over and over. Finally, Robin understood. “Armed men.” Now John, too, spotted the troop. Riders were charging up to the road at full gallop. By Dunstan!
“Reverend fathers. Forgive the inconvenience!” Bow still taut, Robin pointed with the arrow up the embankment. “It’s better to talk there in the woods.”
Wordlessly they obeyed. The abbot led the way, climbing effortlessly, his fellows following him closely as if to protect his rear. Robin drove the gentlemen deeper into the forest. None of them noticed the giant, Threefinger, or Friar Tuck, who crept behind them at a short distance.
“Take a seat!” Robin invited them. His guests squatted on the wet moss. He told them, and his voice brooked no argument, “Keep quiet!”
Hooves clattered over on the trade road. They came closer, grew loud, then quickly receded.
“Merde!” cursed one of the Dominicans between his teeth. With a perplexed expression, he looked at the others. The abbot, too, seemed changed all of a sudden.
Controlling himself with obvious difficulty, he forced his face into a thin smile. “Alors, mon ami. We are in a hurry. What can I do for you?”
“No.” Robin cut him off, aiming at the black-robed chest. “I make the rules here. You are my guests.”
“Guests?” the abbot sneered, not taking his eyes off the arrow. “Strangely uncouth manners seem to be practiced here in Sherwood. May I at least know the name of my host?”
Robin replied in the same tone, “Our customs are in accord with the visitors we receive.” He lowered his bow. “Before you stands Robin Hood.”
The three monks sat agape, sliding back a little on the wet moss. Only the abbot strained for poise despite his uncomfortable position. “Robin Hood?” He stroked his red beard and looked right and left at the others. “Then, messieurs, I suppose our hunting trip is over for the day.”
“Now, now,” Robin assured them. “Do not fear for your lives. You are my guests, and later I will allow you to hunt the treasures of my sprawling summer woods.”
“Do you presume to—?!” The abbot was indignant. “This forest is not your property. It belongs to the king!”
“Quite so. But until Richard the Lionheart is back, I am his steward.”
“Appointed by whom? Say it, you dishonorable rogue!”
Abruptly Robin’s countenance changed. “Guard your mouth, priest! My people and I know more about honor and loyalty to the king than most of the barons and abbots in this county. And I warn you, the bogs in Sherwood are deep. No one will ever find you and your monks.” He smiled again. “Enough of this. A welcoming drink will do you good.” Robin whistled, and called, “Cupbearer!”
Immediately Fri
ar Tuck stepped out from behind a tree.
“Feed our guests!”
The squat Cistercian’s round face was flushed. “Gladly, sir.” His voice sounded menacingly soft. “I’ll take care of these fine Dominicans.” He pulled off the leather stopper and approached the monks with the waterskin. “Open your mouths!” Holding the horned mouthpiece a handspan from their lips, he squirted a stream into the guests’ mouths one by one. One choked and coughed. Friar Tuck did not care. “For you thirsted, and I gave you to drink.”
Lastly, he stepped before the abbot. “And you, redbeard, lean your head back. For you, I have two sips.”
When the priest refused, Robin threatened him with the arrow. That was enough.
Friar Tuck splashed the closed lips with water. “For King Richard!” he demanded. No answer. “To our king’s happy homecoming!” The lips parted, but the abbot said nothing. Friar Tuck emptied half the contents of the skin over his mouth and red beard. “To Richard Plantagenet. King of England.” The priest spat and shook himself.
“And that was the refreshments.” Carelessly, Friar Tuck dropped the waterskin. He breathed deeply and looked down at the abbot. “And now for some more edifying conversation, as is customary among Cistercians and also Dominicans.” He raised his voice to a loud chant, “Beati, qui habitant in domo tua, Domine . . .” He paused, waiting. Nothing. The abbot just stared at him.
“Go on. Complete the verse!”
When there was still no answer, Friar Tuck swung his arm back and gave redbeard a resounding slap. He hit him again with a second slap, striking right and left, continuing the chant “in saecula saeculorum laudabunt te” and marking the beat of the words with his hard blows. “Amen.” Enraged, he folded his arms. “Liar. There is no monastery in Keyworth. You and this brood of yours! Oh, how I detest it when one dishonors the dress of the church.”
The stricken man lowered his hand to the pommel of his sword. Friar Tuck did not see. He was far too agitated. He blocked Robin’s aim.
Abruptly the abbot threw himself forward to his knees, and the weapon hissed out of the scabbard. Too late did Friar Tuck realize the danger. The tip of the blade pressed against his belly. “In the name of—”
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