The Chronicles of Robin Hood (3 page)

SPRING HAD COME
early to Barnesdale Forest. There were primroses in sheltered hollows, leaf-buds on the bare trees, hazel catkins scattering their golden pollen to the dancing winds; and on the topmost branch of a giant lime-tree which reared its head high above the other trees of the forest a blackbird was singing his heart out to the morning, shouting that winter was gone and the world turning green once more.

On the sloping hummock of turf between two great roots of the lime-tree sat Robin, with his back propped very comfortably against the trunk. He was fixing new leather straps to a buckler, but from time to time he glanced up at the men taking their ease in the wide glade
before him. It was but nine months since he and his little company had taken to the Greenwood, but already their number had been increased from six to twenty by other villeins weary of their bondage or outlawed for such crimes as shooting the king’s deer because they or those they loved were in want.

Robin had worked them hard to make them what they were; schooling them in the use of bow and quarterstaff, in sword and buckler play, and in all the hidden, nameless lessons of the forest and its ways. He had trained them well, knowing that their very lives depended on his training, and as his glance fell on first one burly figure and then another, he was well pleased with the result.

Each had been a hunted fugitive when he came to the Greenwood, miserable, ragged, hungry; but freedom and training, as well as good roast venison, had worked a powerful change in them, and now they were a goodly company of which any leader might be proud: stalwart of body, bright of eye, with the bearing of free men about them, each clad in tunic and hose of good Lincoln green cloth which they had obtained some time before from the pack-train of a rich merchant on the Lincoln to Doncaster road.

Robin finished his task, and, laying aside the buckler and outworn straps, he stretched until the muscles cracked behind his shoulders, and relaxed once more against the tree trunk. He was glad to be back in Barnesdale after the winter spent fifty miles to the south in the dry caves of Dunwold Scar in merry Sherwood; for much as he loved all the forest country, Barnesdale was nearest to his heart.

Idly his glance wandered over the glade where he had made his summer headquarters. The stabling for the outlaws’ few horses had been built half underground, and showed no more than a raised turf knoll, its entrance well hidden among brambles and young trees. The rude wooden shelters and cabins which they had built to save themselves the cheerless business of sleeping in the open in wet weather, were bowered so deep among the trees at the edge of the glade that a passer-by would scarce notice that they were there at all—not that passers-by were to be expected, here in the deep heart of Barnesdale Forest, where even the king’s foresters did not come for fear of wolf or hobgoblin or the terrible phantom horse that was supposed to roam those glades.

A little stream ran down the centre of the glade, bridged in one place by a baulk of timber for convenience, though it was so narrow that the taller of the men could easily step across it; and among the young green rushes of the bank knelt Much and Diccon, who were cooks for the day, cleaning the cooking-pots by scouring them with sand in the running water.

In the centre of the glade burned the fire (cooking-fire by day, camp-fire when the sun had set), and the blue smoke from it rose like a great slim feather up into the spring sky above the tree-tops.

Four of the men were sitting on their heels in a square, playing knucklebones with much laughter; another sat by himself, mending a rent in his hood. Two more were engaged in deep discussion, jabbing at each other with their forefingers to give point to their words, and several, scattered about the glade, lay outstretched in the pale spring sunshine, simply being lazy. One of these, a man somewhat older than the rest, lay close beside Robin,
with his hands behind his head, gazing up into the still bare twigs of the lime tree against the blue, and whistling lazily in imitation of the blackbird.

Presently Robin spoke to him. ‘The larder is empty, Will, and it is your turn and mine to fill it.’

Will Stukely, or Will-the-Bowman, as he was often called, ceased his whistling and sat up. ‘Aye, Master Robin,’ he replied, and, getting to his feet, took his bow from its resting-place against the trunk of the lime tree. He moved with a certain trained stiffness that was quite unlike the loose-limbed ease of the others, for Will had been a man-at-arms in King Henry’s army in his youth.

Robin also reached for his bowstave, and, getting up, set the butt against his foot; and bending the great stave, he slipped the bowstring into place. As though his rising had been a signal, a new alertness came over the men in the glade. The gambling party pouched their knucklebones; he who had been mending his hood rolled it into a ball and pitched it at the head of his nearest neighbour; one by one the lounging figures got to their feet. It was time to set about their daily tasks of the camp. Simon-the-Fletcher betook himself to his arrows; Ket-the-Smith to his little forest forge. There was firewood to be gathered, fodder for their few horses, and fresh fern for bedding. A little party under the orders of Much-the-Miller’s son were arming themselves before going up to the Pomfret road, there to lie in wait for any traveller whom fate might deliver into their hands.

Robin and Will Stukely parted on the farther side of the little brook and went their separate ways—Will northward towards Pomfret, Robin south through the dense forest towards the wide glades of the Nottinghamshire
border, which were generally rich in game. But to-day the deer seemed to have deserted their usual haunts, and, with all his hunter’s skill, the only game Robin saw that day were a few fallow does with their long-legged fawns beside them, and these must of course be left unmolested.

Evening found him once again within a short distance of the Stane Ley, as the glade of the giant lime-tree was called. He was angry with himself for failing to produce meat for his men. He had been thinking of Marian, whom he had not seen since he became an outlaw, and must never see again. Altogether he was not in the best of humours as he turned a corner in the narrow path he had been following and headed down towards a stream which ran chuckling over its speckled stones at the foot of a gentle slope. It was the same stream which, higher up its course, rippled down the Stane Ley, but here it was much broader and the path was carried across it by a narrow railless bridge, scarcely more than a single great beam.

He had reached the bridge and mounted upon it, and was already beginning to cross, when out from the thick hazel-scrub on the farther bank stepped a gigantic young man clad in the rough garments of a villein and carrying a quarterstaff, who leaped on to the bridge and came striding across it as though Robin had not been there at all.

Robin was annoyed by the man’s truculent aspect and his want of courtesy in mounting the bridge when he himself was already upon it and had therefore the right-of-way. So he strode on, and the two met in the middle.

Robin was a tall man, but his head came only to this young giant’s shoulder, and he had to tip his head back to look up at him, which annoyed him still further.

‘Where are your manners, fellow?’ he demanded haughtily. ‘Could you not see that I had already mounted the bridge before you set your great platters of feet upon it?’

‘Aye,’ replied the giant, with good-humoured effrontery. ‘But if it comes to manners, little man, where are yours?—The small should ever give way to the great!’

‘You impudent lout!’ cried Robin, who was now thoroughly angry. ‘Out of my way, or you will regret it!’

The giant laughed tauntingly. ‘Nay now, do you get out of
my
way, or
you
will regret it!’ and he shook his quarterstaff.

Back a few feet leaped Robin, and bending his bow, nocked an arrow to the string.

The stranger looked at him for a few moments, consideringly, and then shook his head. ‘You’ll never let daylight into poor John Naylor, and him with only a quarterstaff for his defence? If this be Barnesdale courage, little man, I will get me back into Cumberland, where men fight fair in their quarrels!’

Robin knew that the man’s words were just, and he lowered his bow at once. ‘There is truth in what you say,’ he said frankly, ‘so I will lay aside my bow and get a staff to match yours from the hedge yonder. Wait for me here upon the bridge, and I will show you that Barnesdale men also fight fair in their quarrels!’ And so saying he went back to the bank. Carefully he chose and cut a small ground-oak, and trimmed off its branches, while the giant upon the bridge stood leaning on his quarterstaff and watched him good-humouredly.

A few moments later Robin rejoined him, twirling the hedge-staff in his hand to test its balance. ‘Now let us
begin,’ said he, ‘and he who is first tipped into the stream shall be the loser.’

The other grinned. ‘With all my heart. But I warn you, little master,
I
shall not be the first to cry “quarter”.’

Robin laughed grimly as he brought up his staff, ‘We will soon see if your deeds are as brave as your words!’ said he.

So they fell to upon the narrow bridge, and a strange fight they made of it, though a fierce one, for every step they took backward or forward along those rail-less timbers was fraught with danger of a ducking, and the very force of their blows at times came near to tipping them off the bridge into the swift-running water below.

For a short while neither of them gained any advantage, for Robin was forced to admit that this great oaf was as quick as a cat when it came to quarterstaff play, while the stranger found that his opponent, though a head shorter than himself, was almost as strong, and had an even better sense of balance. But at last a blow from Robin’s staff laid open the cheek of the stranger, who laughed and cried out: ‘First blood to you, little man!’ and instantly began to press forward, striving to bring the fight to an end.

Robin resisted fiercely and their staffs rattled together as though threshing corn—now to the left, now to the right, as cunning attack was met by cunning defence—defence which, in its turn, became attack. Backward and forward they moved on carefully planted feet, bright-eyed and grim, while the little torrent swirled beneath. Then the stranger’s staff wavered out of line, Robin pressed in through his defence, and the next instant felt a stunning crack on the head. Something warm trickled
down his forehead, and for a moment he all but lost his balance.

‘Second blood to you, my friend!’ he cried, and shook his head to clear the blood out of his eyes. He strove furiously to come at his opponent, but could not break down his whirling guard.

For a short while the fight waxed fast and furious. But Robin’s head still rang from the blow, and suddenly he missed his footing. In a moment more he would have regained it, but a sweeping blow from the stranger’s quarterstaff caught him off his balance and swept him cleanly from the bridge. He hit the water with a terrific splash, sending up lances of silver spray all round him, and instantly the current swept him away under the bridge towards a little outcrop of the bank some yards down-stream.

Alone on the bridge, the gigantic stranger looked about him with an air of mild surprise. He looked over the edge of the bridge on the side from which Robin had fallen, as though expecting to find him still bobbing up and down there despite the current, and, finding no sign of him, a worried frown came over the good fellow’s face.

‘Now by the powers, I did not mean to do him any real harm!’ he muttered, and then, lifting up his voice: ‘Ho there! Good lad!—Where are you?’

‘I am here, safe and sound, though somewhat wet!’ called a voice behind him, and, turning about on the narrow bridge, he beheld Robin, who had reached the bank, pulling himself out of the water. Instantly he made for the bank and went to the other’s assistance, reaching down a long arm to aid him in his scramble up the steep over-hang.

‘Well,’ said Robin, laughing, and shaking himself like a dog, as he regained dry land, ‘I have crossed the stream, though not by the bridge, but I shall have to go back again for my bow, which I have left on the farther side.’ He put his hand to his head, and found, to his satisfaction, that the cold water had stopped the blood-flow. Turning to his late foe, who was dabbing at his broken cheek with a grubby neckerchief, he said: ‘It seems very strange to me, that after being in such violent haste to cross that you must fight rather than turn back for a few moments, you have turned back now of your own free will!’

‘Why, as to that, Master,’ answered the giant, rather forlornly, as it seemed to Robin, ‘I am bound for Nowhere-in-particular, and it does not much matter when I get there. It was only the breath of freedom working in me that caused me to act the fool just now.’

Robin looked at him shrewdly, his anger quite forgotten. He liked the look of the young giant: he liked his broad, honest face under the thatch of yellow hair, and his voice was kindly as he asked: ‘What did you say your name was?’

‘John Naylor. But men do call me John the Little.’

‘And what brings you into the heart of Barnesdale, John Naylor, out of your native Cumberland?’

For a moment John Naylor looked at Robin from under his brows, as though striving to make up his mind whether or not he was to be trusted. Then he smiled slowly and broadly.

‘Nothing but the wish to save my neck, Master. I be a poor villein, and my master had me flogged and set in the pillory for poaching his salmon. But I did not like
the pillory, and so I broke the steward’s head—and came away.’

Robin threw back his head and shouted with laughter. ‘Well done, my young fighting-cock!’ he cried, and then added: ‘Are you hungry, John the Little?’

‘I be always hungry,’ replied John, simply.

‘Then you shall sup with me and my men—always supposing that there
is
supper for any of us this evening.’ And so saying, Robin set his lips to the bugle-horn which hung from his belt, and winded a strange broken call.