The Chronicles of Robin Hood (30 page)

Robin laid his cap down upon the chest, and slipping his bowstave from his shoulders, propped it in the corner with his quiver beside it; and while he was doing these things, the Abbess Ursula brought salves and clean linen, and a fine brazen bowl which she set upon the floor beside the bed. When all was in readiness, Robin loosed the points of his stocking and drew it down, that she might come at the angry scar; then he lay down upon the bed with a sigh of relief.

The abbess dressed the old scar with a strong-smelling brown salve which felt wonderfully cool and soothing, and covered it with bandages of linen. Then Robin pulled up the loose sleeve of his tunic, and that of his shirt beneath, and held out his thin brown arm, for her to bleed him.

Abbess Ursula drew a small, sharp knife from the pouch hanging at her girdle, and taking Robin’s hand, she turned it palm upwards, and cut deep into the thick blue vein at his wrist. The blood welled up slowly, and she set the brazen bowl to catch the drops as they fell. Then she went quickly from the room, and returned in a few moments, carrying a silver cup. She set her arm beneath Robin’s head, and raised him gently. ‘Drink this,’ said she, ‘it will cool your fever. I will sit here in the window until it is time to tie up the blood-flow.’

Robin drank the brew, which tasted bitter and smelled strongly of herbs; and he lay back with a sigh, saying: ‘Thanks, Cousin Ursula. You are very kind to your lawless kinsman.’

She turned away without a word, setting the cup down on the gargoyle-carved chest, and went to sit in the broad window-embrasure.

Robin lay very still, gazing drowsily at the wintry sunshine that splashed down through the window, making the thick glass of the panes as clearly green as the leaves of his own dear lime-tree when the sun shone through them in the springtime. And sleep came upon him very gently, as the drug which had been in the cup began to work; slowly his eyes closed, and he drifted out into a dark sea of drugged sleep.

The abbess sat very quiet and watchful in the window embrasure, listening to Robin’s breathing until it grew deep and regular. Then she rose, and, crossing to the bed, stood for a moment looking down at the sleeping man before she went to the door and, opening it, beckoned to someone in the corridor outside.

Sir Roger of Doncaster came furtively into the chamber, and she pointed to the bed. ‘There he lies. It was a happy chance that brought you to Kirklees Hall this morning!’

The old knight stood looking down at his victim, and his face was twisted into a hideous, gloating pleasure. ‘When will he die?’ he asked softly.

‘If the blood continues to flow freely, he will be dead by nightfall,’ answered the abbess. She looked aside at Sir Roger, and suggested: ‘Why wait until then? Why not take your dagger and end it, now?’

But Sir Roger shook his head and began to draw back towards the door. ‘No—no, not I!’ he muttered.

The abbess laughed scornfully, and as Robin, disturbed by her laughter, stirred uneasily in his drugged sleep, she moved swiftly and silently from the room,
sweeping Sir Roger with her. She closed the door, and locked it with a heavy key from a bunch which hung at her girdle. Then she set her back against the door and stood looking at the evil old knight. ‘Had you been even half a man, you would have let his life out yourself, instead of leaving it to drain away into a basin!’ said she, contemptuously.

She began to walk away down the corridor, the skirts of her black habit sweeping over the floor; then she looked back over her shoulder, saying: ‘You had best come to my room and drink a cup of wine to give you courage, for we shall have a long wait.’

The two of them made their way up one stone-flagged passage and down another, the black abbess gliding before, the knight slinking behind; and descending the circular stairway, they came to the chamber where they had made their evil bargain, half a year ago.

Left alone in that wing of the nunnery, Robin slept on. The wintry sunshine stole farther and farther round the whitewashed walls of the little chamber, and the outlaw’s scarlet life-blood drained drop by drop into the bowl which had been set to receive it. The abbess had meant him to die in his sleep, but she had not mixed the drug strong enough, and towards evening he awoke. His fever had gone from him, but so, too, had almost all his life. He had ceased to bleed, but only because there was so little blood left in his body. Dragging himself up on to one elbow, he stared about him; but he saw no sign of the abbess, and then he knew that he had been left to die.

Slipping from the bed, he stood swaying dizzily on his feet, then, supporting himself against the wall, he dragged himself to the door. It did not yield to his hand; he had
not really expected that it would, for he had known in his heart that it would be locked on the outside. He turned away, and with a terrible effort, gained the window, collapsing against the sill; then, painfully dragging himself upright, he looked out. The window was too high for him to drop to the ground.

He was trapped! Trapped like a curlew in a fowler’s net. Not that it made any great difference now, for he was dying, and he knew it.

Close beside him his bugle-horn hung from the foot of the bed; and he took it up, and setting it to his lips, winded the old rallying-call. The blast was very weak, though it had cost him all the strength that was left to him, and he wondered, dreamily, whether Little John would hear it, even if he had disobeyed his orders to go back to Dunwold Scar and was still near at hand. Then the room went black about him and there was a great buzzing in his ears, and he pitched down half across the bed, and the darkness closed over him.

Little John had not led the outlaws back to Dunwold Scar. He had sat all afternoon on the woodshore, with his hands locked around his updrawn knees, gazing down at the grey huddle of buildings that was Kirklees Nunnery, and waiting for he knew not what; only he was sure that some danger threatened Robin, and his heart within him was sick with dread.

The other men were anxious and ill-at-ease also, though not so anxious as Little John, and as they sat or sprawled among the first trees of the forest, they turned often to look down at the nunnery in the valley.

Slowly the afternoon wore away. There was a bitter
smell of frost in the air, and the sun, like a rose-red lantern, was sinking low towards the western ramparts of the Peak district, when at last there came to the ears of the waiting outlaws the sound of Robin’s bugle-horn.

The old familiar summons sounded faintly—so very faintly—across the frosty fields; and Little John was afoot on the instant, and running for Kirklees as he had never run before. The others raced at his heels; not a word had been spoken, but each knew that some terrible harm must have come to Robin, that he winded so feeble a blast. They were young men, some of them stripling youths, and Little John was old, yet there was none among them who could outrun him that day, as he raced across the frosty field-strips, drawing his sword as he ran.

He reached that small strong door in the wall, and not waiting to summon the portress, hurled himself against the stout timbers. Others followed him; strong shoulders and hedge-cudgels soon battered it in, and the outlaw band poured through, to hurl themselves in turn against the door of the house itself. It gave way, as the other had done, the groaning of its rending timbers mingled with a great screaming and praying from within; and Little John strode into the hall of Kirklees Nunnery, with his sword in his hand and four-score grim-faced wood-rangers at his back.

Very white and grim was Little John, as he rounded upon the huddle of pale-faced nuns confronting him.

‘Where is Robin Hood?’ he demanded. ‘Where is the abbess?’

No one knew. The portress had admitted Robin Hood; no one else had seen him—except the abbess, and the abbess had fled.

Little John turned from the frightened nuns and spoke quickly to his men. ‘Search the house, lads.’ Instantly the band split up; green-clad figures sped to the various doors that opened upon the hall, while others followed at Little John’s heels as he stormed up the narrow stairway. They flowed like a green sea down the corridors of the sleeping-quarters, questing into room after room in search of their master.

It was Little John who came first upon the locked door, and withdrawing to the farther side of the corridor, he flung himself against it, battering it open with his shoulder. Much and Gilbert were close behind him as he rushed into the chamber.

What a sight met their eyes! Robin Hood lay half across the bed where he had fallen in his swoon, white and bloodless and seemingly dead, and on the floor beside him a deep brazen vessel brimmed over with blood!

Little John spoke no word, but he crossed to the bed, and dropping on his knees beside it, felt for Robin’s heart. It scarcely beat at all under his fingers, but next moment Robin opened his eyes slowly, and smiled. ‘So you—heard the summons, then, John?’

‘Yes,’ said Little John, ‘I heard the summons.’ Then, between shut teeth: ‘Kirklees Nunnery shall burn for this day’s work!’

Robin shook his head weakly. ‘Little John, I never harmed any woman in my life, and it shall not be done in my name after my death. But now—I have only a little while left. Gilbert, bring me my bow from—the corner yonder, and string it for me—and open the window.’

The chamber was full of men now, and the corridor
was full beyond, for word had gone round that the search was ended; two of them tore open the casement. It was Much who brought Robin’s quiver, while Gilbert strung the great bow that would never be strung again.

‘Now,’ said Robin. ‘Help me up, John, and hold me while I shoot; and where the arrow falls, that is where you shall bury me.’

Very gently Little John aided him to rise and gain the window. Gilbert gave him his bow, and Much came forward, the tears rolling down his leathery cheeks, to put an arrow into Robin’s outstretched hand.

For a few moments the dying outlaw stood looking away over the walls of the nunnery garden, over the meadows lying quiet in the sunset light, to the dark verge of the forest beyond. And it seemed to him that the evening was the fairest he had ever seen, and the forest was calling him home. Then he nocked the arrow to his string. He was so weak that he could scarcely bend the great bow halfway, but his loose was as smooth and true as ever. The arrow soared out through the window—the last arrow that Robin of Barnesdale would ever loose—and the released bow-string sang its familiar song close to his ear. A low sob broke from one of the brotherhood, and many eyes were dimmed with tears as they watched the shaft speeding out over the meadows.

It ended its flight, striking the ground close beside a tiny path that led across the pastures, just where farmland and forest came together; and as it landed, Robin gave a sigh, and fell back into Little John’s arms. They lowered him gently upon the bed, and he lay still, with his hand in Little John’s.

‘Dig my grave broad and long, that I may lie easy,’
he whispered. ‘And set a green sod beneath my head and another at my feet, for I—have always loved best to sleep—upon the free turf of the—Greenwood, and I would sleep upon it—at the last. And lay my bow beside me. It has been a faithful friend these—many years.’

He looked about him at the outlaws who stood around his bed, and summoned up a faint smile. ‘Never wear such woeful faces on my account, lads; but be glad of the good days that we have shared together!’

For a while he lay in silence, gazing at the window, with a wide, blue look of peace in his eyes. At last he stirred, and spoke again to Little John, in a whisper so faint that only those nearest to him could hear what he said:

‘Raise me up, old lad—your arm under my head—so. Now kiss me, John—and—good-bye.’

Little John was dry-eyed as he bent his head and kissed the forehead of his sword-brother. He would have wept had he been able to, but it was as though his heart were dried up and turned to stone within him.

Robin drew a long, quivering breath, and with its outgoing his gallant spirit went free as the winds of the Greenwood.

Little John laid him down, and got slowly to his feet. A great stillness had fallen over the men who stood with bared heads around their leader’s body. So quiet was the chamber that those within it could hear the sad, sweet autumn-song of a robin at the farther end of the nunnery garden.

The outlaws would not suffer the body of their leader to lie within Kirklees hall that night. Little John it was who, with his great strength, carried him down the
narrow stairway and out of the accursed house into the free wholesomeness of the meadows. They bore him far into the forest that had been his kingdom, and laying him down at the head of a broad ride, where often he had lain to watch the sunshine splashing through the chestnut-trees, watched beside him all night, while one of their number sped northward through the forest towards Fountains Dale, to fetch Friar Tuck.

It was towards evening on the second day when the Curtel Friar came out of the forest; and he was old and grey, his great shoulders bowed with the weight of the years that had passed over him, and his face haggard with sorrow at the cause of his coming.

Then the outlaws laid the body of Robin Hood very gently in the grave that they had dug for him where the arrow fell—a broad, long grave, as he had asked—and they set a green sod beneath his head and another at his feet, and laid his great red-yew bow ready-strung beside him.

The crimson sun was sinking low behind the western hills as the outlaws stood with bowed heads around the open grave while Friar Tuck read the burial service. The red sunset light flowed across the meadows, sending long shafts of warmth and radiance to strike deep into the forest, and flushing the boles of the trees with pink. Friar Tuck’s deep voice fell silent, and he closed his book. Then they filled in Robin’s grave and laid the sods back lightly over it.

Long after the rest had gone in silence back towards Dunwold Scar, long after the red warmth of sunset had died out among the trees, Little John remained alone in the slate-grey November twilight, standing with bent
head beside the grave. Then he, too, turned and stole away into the forest, where it was already night.