by Howard Pyle
Meantime the stranger, who had been walking so slowly that all this talk was held before he came opposite the place where they were, neither quickened his pace nor seemed to see that such a man as Robin Hood was in the world. So Robin stood in the middle of the road, waiting while the other walked slowly forward, smelling his rose, and looking this way and that, and everywhere except at Robin.
“Hold!” cried Robin, when at last the other had come close to him. “Hold! Stand where thou art!”
“Wherefore should I hold, good fellow?” said the stranger in soft and gentle voice. “And wherefore should I stand where I am? Ne’ertheless, as thou dost desire that I should stay, I will abide for a short time, that I may hear what thou mayst have to say to me.”
“Then,” quoth Robin, “as thou dost so fairly do as I tell thee, and dost give me such soft speech, I will also treat thee with all due courtesy. I would have thee know, fair friend, that I am, as it were, a votary at the shrine of Saint Wilfred who, thou mayst know, took, willy-nilly, all their gold from the heathen, and melted it up into candlesticks. Wherefore, upon such as come hereabouts, I levy a certain toll, which I use for a better purpose, I hope, than to make candlesticks withal. Therefore, sweet chuck, I would have thee deliver to me thy purse, that I may look into it, and judge, to the best of my poor powers, whether thou hast more wealth about thee than our law allows. For, as our good Gaffer Swanthold sayeth, ‘He who is fat from overliving must needs lose blood.’”
All this time the youth had been sniffing at the rose that he held betwixt his thumb and finger. “Nay,” said he with a gentle smile, when Robin Hood had done, “I do love to hear thee talk, thou pretty fellow, and if, haply, thou art not yet done, finish, I beseech thee. I have yet some little time to stay.”
“I have said all,” quoth Robin, “and now, if thou wilt give me thy purse, I will let thee go thy way without let or hindrance so soon as I shall see what it may hold. I will take none from thee if thou hast but little.”
“Alas! It doth grieve me much,” said the other, “that I cannot do as thou dost wish. I have nothing to give thee. Let me go my way, I prythee. I have done thee no harm.”
“Nay, thou goest not,” quoth Robin, “till thou hast shown me thy purse.”
“Good friend,” said the other gently, “I have business elsewhere. I have given thee much time and have heard thee patiently. Prythee, let me depart in peace.”
“I have spoken to thee, friend,” said Robin sternly, “and I now tell thee again, that thou goest not one step forward till thou hast done as I bid thee.” So saying, he raised his quarterstaff above his head in a threatening way.
“Alas!” said the stranger sadly, “it doth grieve me that this thing must be. I fear much that I must slay thee, thou poor fellow!” So saying, he drew his sword.
“Put by thy weapon,” quoth Robin. “I would take no vantage of thee. Thy sword cannot stand against an oaken staff such as mine. I could snap it like a barley straw. Yonder is a good oaken thicket by the roadside; take thee a cudgel thence and defend thyself fairly, if thou hast a taste for a sound drubbing.”
First the stranger measured Robin with his eye, and then he measured the oaken staff. “Thou art right, good fellow,” said he presently, “truly, my sword is no match for that cudgel of thine. Bide thee awhile till I get me a staff.” So saying, he threw aside the rose that he had been holding all this time, thrust his sword back into the scabbard, and, with a more hasty step than he had yet used, stepped to the roadside where grew the little clump of ground oaks Robin had spoken of. Choosing among them, he presently found a sapling to his liking. He did not cut it, but, rolling up his sleeves a little way, he laid hold of it, placed his heel against the ground, and, with one mighty pull, plucked the young tree up by the roots from out the very earth. Then he came back, trimming away the roots and tender stems with his sword as quietly as if he had done nought to speak of.
Little John and the Tanner had been watching all that passed, but when they saw the stranger drag the sapling up from the earth, and heard the rending and snapping of its roots, the Tanner pursed his lips together, drawing his breath between them in a long inward whistle.
“By the breath of my body!” said Little John, as soon as he could gather his wits from their wonder, “sawest thou that, Arthur? Marry, I think our poor master will stand but an ill chance with yon fellow. By Our Lady, he plucked up yon green tree as it were a barley straw.”
Whatever Robin Hood thought, he stood his ground, and now he and the stranger in scarlet stood face to face.
Well did Robin Hood hold his own that day as a mid-country yeoman. This way and that they fought, and back and forth, Robin’s skill against the stranger’s strength. The dust of the highway rose up around them like a cloud, so that at times Little John and the Tanner could see nothing, but only hear the rattle of the staves against one another. Thrice Robin Hood struck the stranger; once upon the arm and twice upon the ribs, and yet had he warded all the other’s blows, only one of which, had it met its mark, would have laid stout Robin lower in the dust than he had ever gone before. At last the stranger struck Robin’s cudgel so fairly in the middle that he could hardly hold his staff in his hand; again he struck, and Robin bent beneath the blow; a third time he struck, and now not only fairly beat down Robin’s guard, but gave him such a rap, also, that down he tumbled into the dusty road.
“Hold!” cried Robin Hood, when he saw the stranger raising his staff once more. “I yield me!”
“Hold!” cried Little John, bursting from his cover, with the Tanner at his heels. “Hold! give over, I say!”
“Nay,” answered the stranger quietly, “if there be two more of you, and each as stout as this good fellow, I am like to have my hands full. Nevertheless, come on, and I will strive my best to serve you all.”
“Stop!” cried Robin Hood, “we will fight no more. I take my vow, this is an ill day for thee and me, Little John. I do verily believe that my wrist, and eke my arm, are palsied by the jar of the blow that this stranger struck me.”
Then Little John turned to Robin Hood. “Why, how now, good master,” said he. “Alas! Thou art in an ill plight. Marry, thy jerkin is all befouled with the dust of the road. Let me help thee to arise.”
“A plague on thy aid!” cried Robin angrily. “I can get to my feet without thy help, good fellow.”
“Nay, but let me at least dust thy coat for thee. I fear thy poor bones are mightily sore,” quoth Little John soberly, but with a sly twinkle in his eyes.
“Give over, I say!” quoth Robin in a fume. “My coat hath been dusted enough already, without aid of thine.” Then, turning to the stranger, he said, “What may be thy name, good fellow?”
“My name is Gamwell,” answered the other.
“Ha!” cried Robin, “is it even so? I have near kin of that name. Whence camest thou, fair friend?”
“From Maxfield Town I come,” answered the stranger. “There was I born and bred, and thence I come to seek my mother’s young brother, whom men call Robin Hood. So, if perchance thou mayst direct me—”
“Ha! Will Gamwell!” cried Robin, placing both hands upon the other’s shoulders and holding him off at arm’s length. “Surely, it can be none other! I might have known thee by that pretty maiden air of thine — that dainty, finicking manner of gait. Dost thou not know me, lad? Look upon me well.”
“Now, by the breath of my body!” cried the other, “I do believe from my heart that thou art mine own Uncle Robin. Nay, certain it is so!” And each flung his arms around the other, kissing him upon the cheek.
Then once more Robin held his kinsman off at arm’s length and scanned him keenly from top to toe. “Why, how now,” quoth he, “what change is here? Verily, some eight or ten years ago I left thee a stripling lad, with great joints and ill-hung limbs, and lo! here thou art, as tight a fellow as e’er I set mine eyes upon. Dost thou not remember, lad, how I showed thee the proper way to nip the goose feather betwixt thy fingers and throw out thy bow a
rm steadily? Thou gayest great promise of being a keen archer. And dost thou not mind how I taught thee to fend and parry with the cudgel?”
“Yea,” said young Gamwell, “and I did so look up to thee, and thought thee so above all other men that, I make my vow, had I known who thou wert, I would never have dared to lift hand against thee this day. I trust I did thee no great harm.”
“No, no,” quoth Robin hastily, and looking sideways at Little John, “thou didst not harm me. But say no more of that, I prythee. Yet I will say, lad, that I hope I may never feel again such a blow as thou didst give me. By’r Lady, my arm doth tingle yet from fingernail to elbow. Truly, I thought that I was palsied for life. I tell thee, coz, that thou art the strongest man that ever I laid mine eyes upon. I take my vow, I felt my stomach quake when I beheld thee pluck up yon green tree as thou didst. But tell me, how camest thou to leave Sir Edward and thy mother?”
“Alas!” answered young Gamwell, “it is an ill story, uncle, that I have to tell thee. My father’s steward, who came to us after old Giles Crookleg died, was ever a saucy varlet, and I know not why my father kept him, saving that he did oversee with great judgment. It used to gall me to hear him speak up so boldly to my father, who, thou knowest, was ever a patient man to those about him, and slow to anger and harsh words. Well, one day — and an ill day it was for that saucy fellow — he sought to berate my father, I standing by. I could stand it no longer, good uncle, so, stepping forth, I gave him a box o’ the ear, and — wouldst thou believe it? — the fellow straightway died o’t. I think they said I broke his neck, or something o’ the like. So off they packed me to seek thee and escape the law. I was on my way when thou sawest me, and here I am.”
“Well, by the faith of my heart,” quoth Robin Hood, “for anyone escaping the law, thou wast taking it the most easily that ever I beheld in all my life. Whenever did anyone in all the world see one who had slain a man, and was escaping because of it, tripping along the highway like a dainty court damsel, sniffing at a rose the while?”
“Nay, uncle,” answered Will Gamwell, “overhaste never churned good butter, as the old saying hath it. Moreover, I do verily believe that this overstrength of my body hath taken the nimbleness out of my heels. Why, thou didst but just now rap me thrice, and I thee never a once, save by overbearing thee by my strength.”
“Nay,” quoth Robin, “let us say no more on that score. I am right glad to see thee, Will, and thou wilt add great honor and credit to my band of merry fellows. But thou must change thy name, for warrants will be out presently against thee; so, because of thy gay clothes, thou shalt henceforth and for aye be called Will Scarlet.”
“Will Scarlet,” quoth Little John, stepping forward and reaching out his great palm, which the other took, “Will Scarlet, the name fitteth thee well. Right glad am I to welcome thee among us. I am called Little John; and this is a new member who has just joined us, a stout tanner named Arthur a Bland. Thou art like to achieve fame, Will, let me tell thee, for there will be many a merry ballad sung about the country, and many a merry story told in Sherwood of how Robin Hood taught Little John and Arthur a Bland the proper way to use the quarterstaff; likewise, as it were, how our good master bit off so large a piece of cake that he choked on it.”
“Nay, good Little John,” quoth Robin gently, for he liked ill to have such a jest told of him. “Why should we speak of this little matter? Prythee, let us keep this day’s doings among ourselves.”
“With all my heart,” quoth Little John. “But, good master, I thought that thou didst love a merry story, because thou hast so often made a jest about a certain increase of fatness on my joints, of flesh gathered by my abiding with the Sheriff of—”
“Nay, good Little John,” said Robin hastily, “I do bethink me I have said full enough on that score.”
“It is well,” quoth Little John, “for in truth I myself have tired of it somewhat. But now I bethink me, thou didst also seem minded to make a jest of the rain that threatened last night; so—”
“Nay, then,” said Robin Hood testily, “I was mistaken. I remember me now it did seem to threaten rain.”
“Truly, I did think so myself,” quoth Little John, “therefore, no doubt, thou dost think it was wise of me to abide all night at the Blue Boar Inn, instead of venturing forth in such stormy weather; dost thou not?”
“A plague of thee and thy doings!” cried Robin Hood. “If thou wilt have it so, thou wert right to abide wherever thou didst choose.”
“Once more, it is well,” quoth Little John. “As for myself, I have been blind this day. I did not see thee drubbed; I did not see thee tumbled heels over head in the dust; and if any man says that thou wert, I can with a clear conscience rattle his lying tongue betwixt his teeth.”
“Come,” cried Robin, biting his nether lip, while the others could not forbear laughing. “We will go no farther today, but will return to Sherwood, and thou shalt go to Ancaster another time, Little John.”
So said Robin, for now that his bones were sore, he felt as though a long journey would be an ill thing for him. So, turning their backs, they retraced their steps whence they came.
The Adventure with Midge the Miller’s Son
WHEN THE FOUR yeomen had traveled for a long time toward Sherwood again, high noontide being past, they began to wax hungry. Quoth Robin Hood, “I would that I had somewhat to eat. Methinks a good loaf of white bread, with a piece of snow-white cheese, washed down with a draught of humming ale, were a feast for a king.”
“Since thou speakest of it,” said Will Scarlet, “methinks it would not be amiss myself. There is that within me crieth out, ‘Victuals, good friend, victuals!’”
“I know a house near by,” said Arthur a Bland, “and, had I but the money, I would bring ye that ye speak of; to wit, a sweet loaf of bread, a fair cheese, and a skin of brown ale.”
“For the matter of that, thou knowest I have money by me, good master,” quoth Little John.
“Why, so thou hast, Little John,” said Robin. “How much money will it take, good Arthur, to buy us meat and drink?”
“I think that six broad pennies will buy food enow for a dozen men,” said the Tanner.
“Then give him six pennies, Little John,” quoth Robin, “for methinks food for three men will about fit my need. Now get thee gone, Arthur, with the money, and bring the food here, for there is a sweet shade in that thicket yonder, beside the road, and there will we eat our meal.”
So Little John gave Arthur the money, and the others stepped to the thicket, there to await the return of the Tanner.
After a time he came back, bearing with him a great brown loaf of bread, and a fair, round cheese, and a goatskin full of stout March beer, slung over his shoulders. Then Will Scarlet took his sword and divided the loaf and the cheese into four fair portions, and each man helped himself. Then Robin Hood took a deep pull at the beer. “Aha!” said he, drawing in his breath, “never have I tasted sweeter drink than this.”
After this no man spake more, but each munched away at his bread and cheese lustily, with ever and anon a pull at the beer.
At last Will Scarlet looked at a small piece of bread he still held in his hand, and quoth he, “Methinks I will give this to the sparrows.” So, throwing it from him, he brushed the crumbs from his jerkin.
“I, too,” quoth Robin, “have had enough, I think.” As for Little John and the Tanner, they had by this time eaten every crumb of their bread and cheese.
“Now,” quoth Robin, “I do feel myself another man, and would fain enjoy something pleasant before going farther upon our journey. I do bethink me, Will, that thou didst use to have a pretty voice, and one that tuned sweetly upon a song. Prythee, give us one ere we journey farther.”
“Truly, I do not mind turning a tune,” answered Will Scarlet, “but I would not sing alone.”
“Nay, others will follow. Strike up, lad,” quoth Robin.
“In that case, ’tis well,” said Will Scarlet. “I do call
to mind a song that a certain minstrel used to sing in my father’s hall, upon occasion. I know no name for it and so can give you none; but thus it is.” Then, clearing his throat, he sang:
“In the merry blossom time,
When love longings food the breast,
When the flower is on the lime,
When the small fowl builds her nest,
Sweetly sings the nightingale
And the throstle cock so bold;
Cuckoo in the dewy dale
And the turtle in the word.
But the robin I love dear,
For he singeth through the year.
Robin! Robin!
Merry Robin!
So I’d have my true love be:
Not to fly
At the nigh
Sign of cold adversity.
“When the spring brings sweet delights,
When aloft the lark doth rise,
Lovers woo o’ mellow nights,
And youths peep in maidens’ eyes,
That time blooms the eglantine,
Daisies pied upon the hill,
Cowslips fair and columbine,
Dusky violets by the rill.
But the ivy green cloth grow
When the north wind bringeth snow.
Ivy! Ivy!
Stanch and true!
Thus I’d have her love to be:
Not to die
At the nigh
Breath of cold adversity.”
“’Tis well sung,” quoth Robin, “but, cousin, I tell thee plain, I would rather hear a stout fellow like thee sing some lusty ballad than a finicking song of flowers and birds, and what not. Yet, thou didst sing it fair, and ’tis none so bad a snatch of a song, for the matter of that. Now, Tanner, it is thy turn.”
“I know not,” quoth Arthur, smiling, with his head on one side, like a budding lass that is asked to dance, “I know not that I can match our sweet friend’s song; moreover, I do verily think that I have caught a cold and have a certain tickling and huskiness in the windpipe.”
“Nay, sing up, friend,” quoth Little John, who sat next to him, patting him upon the shoulder. “Thou hast a fair, round, mellow voice; let us have a touch of it.”