The Chronicles of Robin Hood (8 page)

‘Master,’ said Little John, who was waiting beside him, ‘let us eat now, and wait no longer.’

Robin shook his head. ‘John lad, I cannot eat. I fear Our Lady is angry with me that she has not sent my money. And I would have staked my life on Sir Richard’s honour.’

‘Do not be downhearted, Robin,’ said his tall lieutenant. ‘The loan was not due to be repaid until noon. Something has happened to delay the knight a while, that is all.’ And he put a huge hand on Robin’s shoulder.

For a long while the two men waited, and then Robin said abruptly: ‘Take Much and Will Scarlet, and go up to the Irming Street, as you did last year; and bring a guest to dine with me. Be he messenger or minstrel, monk or villein, he will come in God’s name.’

So the three took their bows and quivers and went up through the willow plantation to the Irming Street. They
had not long to wait before they saw a cavalcade approaching from the north. Two black monks rode at the head, and behind them came seven well-laden sumptermules and a file of two-and-fifty men-at-arms.

‘See yonder monks?’ said Little John. ‘They look as though they have brought our pay!’

‘But they are many, and we are only three,’ replied Much, doubtfully.

Little John laughed softly in his throat. ‘Unless we bring them as guests to our master we shall get no dinner. If you do not wish to go hungry upon this feast of Saint John, see to your bows, lads. I take the foremost monk… .’ He broke off to watch the road in silence. ‘Now!’ As the cavalcade came trotting up the last slope, the three stepped out into the road, bows bent and arrows ready nocked on strings.

Little John addressed himself to the leading monk: ‘Shame on you, Sir Monk, to keep our master waiting!’

The monk reined in and sat looking down at him angrily. ‘And who is your master, you great oaf?’

‘Robin Hood, the lord of these parts. He bids you dine with him—and he is not used to being kept waiting!’

‘Robin Hood, is he?’ said the monk, with an ugly laugh. ‘Robin Hedge-knifer! A foul thief if ever there was one, and he will be sure to hang on the gallows tree at the last!’ And setting spurs to his horse, he strove to ride down the three outlaws.

Next moment Much’s bow-string twanged and a long arrow hummed its way into the monk’s heart. For an instant he swayed in the saddle, then crashed headlong to the ground and lay still; while his terrified mount sprang away among the men-at-arms. In the confusion all the men-at-arms took to their heels, thinking there was an ambush in the woods; and the second monk, bewildered and terrified, was easily taken captive.

‘Well,’ said Little John, ‘that was neatly done. Now for dinner!’ and leading the monk’s horse by the bridle, followed by Much and Will Scarlet with the pack-mules, he set off for the home glade.

Robin greeted his unwilling guest with all courtesy. ‘Welcome to the Greenwood, Reverend Sir. It is a happy chance that has sent you to us, on this feast of Saint John, for you shall say the mass for us and our own chaplain shall have a holiday.’

The monk was livid with spiteful fury, but he dared not disobey, and gabbled his way through the prayers while the outlaws knelt around him, reverently, with their caps doffed but their bows ready.

When the mass was over and the feasting began, the monk was set in the place of honour; Little John brought him a fine brass basin of water in which to wash his hands, and Robin himself served him with meat and wine, all of which frightened him greatly, for he wondered very much what it all meant and what was going to be done to him.

Presently Robin asked from which Abbey he came.

‘From St. Mary’s Abbey at York; and I am the cellarer,’ replied the trembling monk.

Robin glanced at him with a glint of amusement in his eyes, which the other did not see. ‘If Our Lady is your patron saint,’ said he, humbly, ‘you must intercede for me with her, for she has not sent me some money she owes me, and I fear she is angry with me.’

‘But, Master,’ said Little John comfortingly (but his
eyes twinkled); ‘if this good monk is her cellarer, no doubt he is her messenger also, and has brought you the money.’

Robin nodded and glanced up at Little John, with laughter twitching at the corners of his mouth. Then he turned gravely back to the cellarer, saying: ‘Sir Monk, Our Lady stood surety for a loan between me and a certain knight, and the money is due to be repaid to-day; so if you bring it with you, give it to me now.’

At this the ancient cellarer became more terrified than ever. ‘I know of no such suretyship,’ he protested shrilly. ‘I am a poor man, with only twenty marks in my coffers.’

‘If that is the truth,’ said Robin, ‘I’ll not touch a penny of it; indeed, I will lend you anything you may need. But if there is more than twenty marks, not a copper coin will I leave, for a monk should have no use for money.’ And seeing the anxious eye which the old sinner cast in the direction of his sumpter-mules, he was sure that there was a goodly store of gold somewhere in the pack-saddles. So he made a sign to Little John to search the bags and coffers; and while it was being done, he sat enjoying the expression on the face of St. Mary’s cellarer, who was in an agony of mingled greed and fear.

Little John went steadily to work. He spread a cloak upon the ground, and opening the coffers, poured their contents into it. When he had finished, he counted the pile of gold and silver coins which lay there, and then, gathering the cloak by its four corners, brought it to Robin.

‘The monk spoke truly, Master. Here are his twenty marks, and here with them are the eight hundred pounds which Our Lady sends you in repayment of your loan.’

Robin flung back his head and laughed; then clapping the shrinking cellarer on the shoulder, he cried: ‘Did I not say so, Sir Monk? Is not Our Lady the best surety a man could have? I lent only four hundred pounds, and she has repaid me twice over! Go back to your abbey in peace, man, and remember to tell your brethren of the good dinner Robin Hood gave you in Barnesdale Forest.’ Grumbling and muttering that his dinner had cost him dear (though he was careful not to do so above his breath) the ancient cellarer was hoisted by willing hands on to his horse. The outlaws kept his sumpter-mules. ‘For,’ explained Will Scarlet, ‘we would save you the trouble of driving such troublesome brutes single-handed.’ And two of their number went with him to set him on the nearest track that led to York.

Late in the afternoon Sir Richard and his little troop rode into the Stane Ley, and the good knight swung down from his saddle as Robin strode forward to greet him. The two clasped hands, looking gladly into each other’s eyes, like the friends they were. Sir Richard craved pardon for his delay and explained the cause of it. Then he turned to take his coffer from the saddle-bow; but Robin stayed him with a hand on his wrist.

‘No, Sir Richard, let your coffer be.’

‘But there are four hundred pounds in it, for the repayment of my debt,’ said Sir Richard, with a puzzled smile.

‘Your debt is already paid, and paid twice over.’ And Robin told him the story of St. Mary’s cellarer, drawing him away to sit beside him in the shade of the giant lime tree while he told it. ‘Our Lady owed me four hundred pounds, and she has returned me eight hundred. So you
must take the half, with my blessing; and if ever you should need more, come to me, and I will share with you whatever I have, whether it be much or little.’

Sir Richard strove to speak, but words were beyond him just then and he could only wring his friend’s hand in silence. Meanwhile, his men, aided by some of the outlaws, had unstrapped the bows and peacock-flighted arrows from the backs of the pack-horses, and now, one of them carrying a bowstave and the other a sheaf of arrows, they came across the glade to their master.

‘Here be the gear, Sir Richard,’ said the elder, ‘and not a cock-feather out of place.’

The knight glanced at the weapons and then back to the outlaw chief. ‘Friend Robin, you have refused to let me repay my debt, but you will not refuse my gift?’

Getting up, Robin put out his hand for the bowstave and bent it against his instep. ‘I will not refuse your gift,’ he said, smiling. ‘I accept it gladly, for its own sake and for the sake of the giver.’

Later that evening, when dusk was creeping up the Stane Ley and the owls were crying softly in the shadows, the outlaws settled down to their supper. Sir Richard sat with Robin Hood beside the largest of the camp-fires, feasting royally on roast venison and peacocks which had been poached by Simon-the-Fletcher from the poultry yard of Sir William de Trumpington. And next day, in the full glory of an early summer morning, he set out for Linden Lea once more.

It was some years before he and Robin came together again, but Sir Richard remained a loyal friend; and indeed, the day came when without his aid the outlaw brotherhood would have fared ill indeed.

IN THEIR CAVES
at Dunwold Scar the outlaws sat or sprawled around the fire. The spitting pine logs burned with clear red and saffron flames, sending up thick curling feathers of smoke that found their way out through a cranny in the rocks overhead. Outside, the cold February rain drenched down, turning the forest tracks into icy quagmires and every leaf on the holly bushes to a spouting water-chute. But within the great central cave of the many that honeycombed the sandstone scar, there was warmth and shelter, dry sand underfoot and warm, high-piled bracken for bedding, and the saffron flicker of firelight on the faces of the men and hounds gathered about the rude hearth.

Scarcely a man sat idle, for there were always many tasks to be attended to when ill weather closed the roads and hunting trail alike. Some of them were making new clothes or mending old ones; others were refurbishing their weapons. Will Scarlet was building himself a short birding bow; Little John, with a pot of glue heating in the fire beside him, was mending his fishing tackle; Robin himself was burnishing the red rust-blotches from his steel cap.

As they worked, the outlaws talked among themselves and to their guests—for they had, guests that day, as they often did in bad weather—a quiet palmer who had been found trudging along the sodden highway by Will-the-Bowman; a burly man-at-arms with a damaged knee that needed resting; and last, but assuredly not least, a very small man with a snub-nose and sloe-black eyes set very wide apart in his tanned face, who now sat in his shirt and scarlet hose, holding out a tattered particoloured surcoat to dry before the fire. He had pushed his fantastic red and yellow fool’s cap back from his forehead, and every time he moved his head to look from one speaker to another, the tiny silver bells along the flaunting cockscomb rang very sweetly. He seemed a quiet little man, and though he sat there fully an hour, he had scarcely spoken; yet his face was alight with interest, and his bright black eyes flickered ceaselessly from face to face of all the outlaws scattered around the fire.

Presently Ket-the-Smith turned to him, saying: ‘Now, Master Fool, how about a song? A song of love, or a song of battle—who cares, so long as it be a merry one?’

The little man shook his head and laughed. ‘I am no minstrel, to sing you songs. A juggler am I, and my name
is Peterkin. But if you are minded to see some juggling, the best juggling in all the North Country… .’

‘Lads!’ cried Ket, looking round about him. ‘Here is Peterkin the Juggler. He says he will juggle for us. Shall we take him at his word?’

‘Yes,’ cried the outlaws; ‘let us have some juggling! Begin, Master Juggler—up with you, and begin!’

Work was laid aside and every man settled himself more comfortably, turning to face the little juggler, who first wriggled into his red and yellow surcoat, and then, getting up, opened his ragged bundle and delved inside it. Gay balls of painted wood rolled out on to the floor—the green of a breaking wave; the scarlet of a corn-poppy; the gold of saffron cake; the blue of the Madonna’s mantle. Two or three little bright daggers spilled out after them, and he gathered them up and turned to face his eager audience.

Then an odd change seemed to come over Peterkin the Juggler; he was no longer a ridiculous little man—for a little while he was beautiful. The firelight flickered over his thin figure in its fantastic garments as he tossed up ball after ball, seemingly without any thought of the matter, until there were eight of them shuttling backward and forward above his head. Sometimes they seemed a continuous many-coloured arc; sometimes they would separate, and for an instant the firelight would pick out a ball of blue or crimson or bright gilt, or the sparkling blade of a little dagger.

The outlaws watched him entranced: the palmer forgot his beads, and the man-at-arms his aching knee. When at last he made an end, the great cave echoed and re-echoed with their roar of approval.

Smiling to himself, Peterkin sat down again and returned the gay baubles to his bundle. ‘It be all in the knack,’ he said, almost apologetically.

Then Robin spoke for the first time. ‘It is a knack worth having, Friend Peterkin.’

‘Oh aye! It earns me my bread and meat, and it gives pleasure to many—most of all to me.’

‘Yet it must be a hard life in the winter.’

‘Why, there are worse,’ said the little man comfortably. ‘I ply my trade in rich men’s halls and village ale-houses, and I seldom want for my supper and a warm place to sleep—and there is always the spring coming, and the country fairs. Sometimes I juggle at weddings, too. I should be on my way to a wedding now… .’ He broke off and cast a questioning glance at the grey curtain of rain beyond the entrance of the cave; seeing which, Robin said:

‘It is cruel weather for travelling. Have you far to go to this wedding?’

‘A matter of twenty miles or so—to Malaset, over beyond Locksley. The wedding is not until the day after to-morrow, but the guests will most likely have gathered by now, and there will be many of them, for ’tis a lordling’s daughter that is being wed to a knight.’

‘Her name, man—her name!’ cried Robin harshly, and he sprang to his feet.

Peterkin the Juggler looked up in surprise. ‘I have not heard her name; but she is daughter to Lord Robert Fitzwater of Malaset.’