The Chronicles of Robin Hood (29 page)

These tidings of his enemy drove Sir Roger of Doncaster almost crazy with malice, yet he must always be listening for more; for now, whether he sat at meat in his gloomy hall or rode hawking in his chase, he could think of nothing but Robin Hood and his longing to be revenged upon him.

One day news came to Sir Roger, brought by a trembling villein in hope of favour, that the outlaw chief had been wounded in the thigh while fighting against the marauding Scots of Westmorland, and was direly sick of the wound. Sir Roger rewarded the man with a gold noble; and that night he sat late over his wine, staring in front of him down his long hall, with an evil joy on his face as he thought of his enemy’s plight, or biting his fingers when he bethought him that after all the tidings might be false.

But the tidings were not false. Robin lay in his summer quarters at the Stane Ley, with a great wound in his thigh; and for a little while he seemed very likely to die, for all Little John’s tender nursing.

The wound healed at last, but from that time forward all was not well with Robin of Barnesdale. For months at a time he would be well and strong as ever, but there were times when the old scar grew angry and inflamed,
and fever ran hot in his veins. Sometimes the sickness would be slight and pass swiftly under Little John’s rough yet skilful doctoring; but at others it would last for many days, and rather than burden his band with a sick man to care for, Robin would betake himself to Kirklees Nunnery, where his cousin Ursula was now the abbess. She was skilled in herb-lore and medicine, and would bleed him and give him cool herbal brews to quell his fever, and spread soothing salves on the old, aching scar; and in a day or two the outlaw chief would be whole again, and go back to his waiting men in the Greenwood.

All this was known to Sir Roger of Doncaster, and inside his cunning brain an evil plan began to grow.

One day in early summer he paid a visit to the Abbess of Kirklees Nunnery. A fair and gracious place was the nunnery, set in a wide bow of Sherwood Forest, amid quiet fields where the wheat was tall and green and hay-harvest had not yet begun. The steward’s house, with its shingle roof, and the bracken-thatched hovels of the farm villeins clustered not far from the grey walls of the nunnery, each with its little bean-patch and herb-plot, and a little way off the fish-pond reflected the sky silverly between the pollard willows which ringed it round.

Sir Roger rode down into the shallow dale, and handing his horse over to the care of a villein made his way to a small, strong door set deep in the wall of the nunnery garden. He beat with the pommel of his sword upon the door-timbers, and a stout portress came in answer to his summons, who after inspecting him through a grill gave him entrance and led him up through the roses, sweet-rocket and clove carnations to the door of the hall.

In a narrow, white-walled chamber smelling of
bees-wax, he spoke with Abbess Ursula as she stood beside the window. She was a tall old woman, with a smooth pale face long schooled to wear a saintly expression, yet her eyes had the cold, shallow glitter of glass, and her hands, which moved ceaselessly over the beads of her rosary, were cruel and greedy as the talons of a bird of prey, for all that they were so soft and white.

They had exchanged formal greetings, Sir Roger had apologized for intruding upon her, and now he began to speak politely of the richness of the nunnery lands.

The abbess listened to him courteously, then said she: ‘The lands of Kirklees are famed for their richness, as our garden is farmed for its herbs—and indeed it is just as well that it should be so, for we have barely enough land for the upkeep of so large a religious house.’

‘Should you not like to add to the nunnery lands, then, Holy Mother?’ asked Sir Roger, and then added slowly: ‘I have thirty acres of good corn-land not above three miles from here, and possibly I might be able to spare them.’

The Abbess Ursula made no reply, but she looked at him closely, and waited for him to go on.

‘Should you not like to add thirty acres of corn-land to the nunnery estates?’

‘Oh my son,’ replied the abbess in a pious voice; ‘the blessings of the Saints be upon you for the gift!’

Sir Roger shook his head with an evil smile. ‘It is no gift for the good of my soul that I offer, Holy Mother, but payment for a certain service.’

‘A certain service?’ asked the abbess softly. ‘And what might that be?’

The old knight bent his head and continued: ‘I have heard it said that a certain cousin of yours comes here at
times, to be physicked for an ancient wound that troubles him.’

‘That is so.’

‘And it is likely that he will come again?’

‘It is certain,’ replied Abbess Ursula. ‘For no one else can heal him as surely as I can, since no one else has my knowledge of herbs.’

‘Doubtless you have often bled him also,’ said Sir Roger, hurriedly. ‘Blood-letting is the best way of cooling a fever, as I have heard; and I have heard also that it is sometimes easy for
too much blood to flow, and the patient die.
’ As he spoke, he glanced over his shoulder, as though afraid someone might have overheard him.

The abbess ceased fingering her beads, turned from the window with a slow swirl of her black habit, and came close to her visitor. ‘Thirty acres of corn-land for the death of your enemy?’ said she.

Sir Roger drew back from her, crossing himself. His pale face had grown livid. ‘I did not say it!’

‘No, you did not
say
it,’ said the abbess contemptuously. ‘You have not the courage to order the murder of your enemy in so many words, lest the walls should overhear you! The walls have no ears, man, and they are too thick for anyone outside to overhear anything which passes in this room!’

The old knight licked his dry lips and summoned up a smile. ‘Ah, now, Holy Mother, you are too hard upon me. It is as well to be careful in these matters. But—is it a bargain?’

‘A pair of golden candlesticks would look well before St. Catherine’s shrine in our little chapel,’ replied the Abbess Ursula, watching him with a greedy light in her
eyes. ‘Add them to the corn-land, for the good of your soul, and it is a bargain.’

‘And a mighty hard one. Holy Mother! I am not a rich man!’ protested Sir Roger.

‘That is nothing to me. If the death of Robin Hood is worth thirty acres of corn-land
and
a pair of golden candlesticks to you, you have only to say so. If not, you can find some other hand to commit your murder for you!’

For a few moments Sir Roger of Doncaster was silent, staring at the floor and biting his fingers. Then he said: ‘Very well—the land and the candlesticks together.’ But within himself he added: ‘And may your soul rot for this, you bargain-driving old shrew!’

The abbess smiled a slow and pious smile, but her eyes glittered beneath her lids. ‘Come whenever you will to ask for news; for I shall send you no messenger when your orders have been carried out, lest he be stopped by Robin’s men and suspicion fall upon this house.’

She took up a little silver bell from the table beside her, and rang it. A novice came in answer to her summons, and was bidden to show the visitor to the gate; and after following her black figure down long passages and being given into the charge of the portress, Sir Roger of Doncaster found himself once again outside the walls of Kirklees Nunnery.

On the whole he was well pleased with his visit as he rode home. The abbess had driven a hard bargain, but he knew in his heart of hearts that he would have paid away almost all that he possessed to bring about the death of the man he hated so bitterly.

Autumn in the Greenwood. Late autumn, and the last
brown leaves whirling down in the wind. High overhead the sky was milky blue, and the bare branches of the trees danced against it to the hoarse music of the gale. The whole forest seemed to be dancing—dancing away the last of summer before it turned to the long, cold frost-time of winter that lay ahead. It was such a day as Robin had ever loved, and of old he would have been out in the hurly-burly of it—out after the red deer perhaps, with his bow in hand, or striding through the forest with no particular end in view; one excuse was as good as another when the wind was full of whirling leaves and the bare branches whipped across the sky and wintry sunshine scudded through the forest.

But this day Robin lay propped on one elbow beside the fire in the Long Cave, and his eyes were over-bright and his cheeks flushed with fever.

Robin of Barnesdale was growing old: his crisp dark hair had become brindled grey like a badger’s coat, and the bones stood out too sharply beneath the brown skin of jaw and temple; but his lean body had altered little since first he came to the Greenwood, and save for his hair, and the fine network of lines which age and rough weather and much gazing into the distance had set about his eyes, he still seemed like a young man.

As he gazed into the licking flame-tongues of the fire, his face was set and hard with pain; and presently he shifted uneasily, to comfort the throbbing of the old wound which was troubling him again.

A huge shadow darkened the opening of the cave, and Little John came in, shaking the shrivelled leaves from his hood, and squatted down at Robin’s side.

‘Is it any easier, Robin?’ asked he.

‘No, John. I am hot and cold at once, and there is a fire in the old wound. It is best that I should go to Kirklees Nunnery to-day and ask my cousin Ursula to bleed and physic me, and make me whole again.’

There was fear in Little John’s eyes and in his voice as he answered: ‘Robin, dear old lad—do not go to Kirklees, for I have heard it said that Roger of Doncaster has been there very often in these last few months, and I feel in my bones that his visits bode no good to you. Stay here with us, and the sickness will pass as it has done before.’

But Robin only laughed. ‘Roger of Doncaster is an old man, and I have no doubt that he visits Kirklees for much the same reason as I do myself,’ said he. ‘And what possible harm could come to me in the nunnery? Is not the Lady Ursula my kinswoman? Go and saddle my horse, old friend, for the sooner we start out the sooner I shall be whole again.’

Little John got up slowly. ‘Forty years and more, you and I have been together,’ he said. ‘And well I know that there is nothing on this earth that will turn you from your purpose once your wilful heart is set upon it. But I tell you this, Robin of Barnesdale—if you go to Kirklees to-day, there be four-score men of the Greenwood who are coming with you!’

‘They shall come as far as the edge of the forest,’ re-joined Robin, ‘and you shall leave me at the nunnery gate, John. Now go and saddle my horse.’

And with that Little John had to be content, as he made his way to the turf-roofed stables.

So in a little while the band set out, Robin riding a placid grey palfrey, for he was too weak and ill to handle
the fiery hunter he usually rode, with Little John walking at his stirrup, and the rest of the wood-rangers following behind.

It was noon when they reached the place where Sherwood Forest washed against the rich farm-land of Kirklees Nunnery; and here Robin bade his men to wait, and rode forward with only Little John. The wind had quite died away since early morning, and it seemed very quiet in the peaceful dale as they made their way down to the grey huddle of the nunnery buildings. Before Robin dismounted at the gate, Little John made one last desperate appeal to him to change his mind. ‘Robin, come back with me now, for there is a shadow over this place, and it bodes ill for you!’

‘John, John,’ replied Robin, ‘you are as full of cluckings as a hen with only one chicken and that a duckling! If any harm should threaten me in the nunnery, I will wind my bugle-horn, as I have done often before when I had need of you. Now help me down, for I am weak, and the world swims about me.’

So Little John aided him to dismount, and steadied him with a strong arm when he reached the ground. The outlaw chief turned towards the heavy door in the wall, and beat upon it, though feebly, with his clenched fist.

In a little while they heard shuffling footsteps within; the face of the portress appeared behind the grill, and seeing who it was that claimed admittance, she swiftly drew the bolts and set the door wide. Robin took his hand from his tall lieutenant’s arm, saying: ‘Get back with the others to Dunwold Scar, John, and do not trouble your head with gloomy imaginings. I shall be back among you in three days’ time.’

The two friends struck hands, and then Robin followed the portress into the nunnery garden, and the heavy door swung to behind him.

Little John stood where he was until he heard the bolts being shot, and footsteps going away from him on the farther side; then, taking the grey palfrey’s bridle, he turned and trudged away with a heavy heart, back towards the woodshore where his comrades were awaiting him.

Robin followed the portress, walking slowly and unsteadily, for the stone-flagged path seemed to sway beneath his feet.

It was almost winter outside, but here in the nunnery garden, sheltered from frost and wind by the high walls, summer yet seemed to linger. There were a few scentless blossoms upon the rose-bushes, and the mignonette was still in flower. It seemed a long time to Robin before he reached the open door of the hall, and the abbess herself came down to greet him and bid him welcome.

‘Well, Cousin Ursula,’ said Robin, doffing his cap, ‘I am come to trouble you again, you see.’

Very pious and sweetly smiling was the abbess. ‘It is no trouble, Robin, no trouble in the world,’ said she. ‘Indeed, as one grows older, one becomes lonely, and it is a pleasant thing to see a kinsman’s face.’ And she gave him her arm to aid him up the steep circular stairway that led from the great hall to the sleeping-quarters above.

Down one corridor she led him, and up another, and so brought him to a part of the nunnery far removed from the living-quarters, to a small, white-walled chamber with sweet strewing-rushes on the floor. An ancient chest with grinning gargoyle heads carved upon it stood in one
corner, and against the farther wall was a narrow bed spread with a sheepskin rug, which looked very inviting to the sick man.