The Chronicles of Robin Hood (5 page)

‘Why, if he is kinsman to you, he is friend to me,’ said Little John; and he dealt Gamwell an open-palmed blow on the back that made him stagger. ‘Now I come to look at you, you have the look of a good fighting man, despite your hose!’ he admitted handsomely. ‘What is your name, good lad?’

Gamwell told him, and the huge outlaw shook his head. ‘No no, Gamwell will never do!’ he considered, remembering his own rebaptism. His gaze dropped to the stranger’s legs in search of inspiration, and across his face spread a broad smile. ‘Scarlet! We will call you Scarlet, in memory of your stockings!’ he announced, and held out an enormous hand in token of fellowship.

And Scarlet, or Will Scarlet, the new-corner became from that day forward.

* * * * *

A little while after this Robin called his band together and announced a day of sport and merry-making to celebrate the coming of his kinsman. During the daylight hours there were to be all manner of trials of skill, with prizes for the victors taken from Robin’s share of the treasure store; and at night there would be a feast.

The day dawned clear, crisp, and frosty; and brisk and blithe were the outlaws as they moved to and fro about the glade in which they were encamped, pacing the distances for the archery butts and setting up the hazel-pricks and gaily coloured popinjays—straw targets they scorned. Many of them were laying wagers with each other as to the results of the long and high jumps, quarterstaff play, throwing the bar, and the five-mile race. Already, under the trees at one end of the glade, the cooks were hard at work preparing the great joints of venison and wild boar flesh, the pies and pasties and sugar-breads on which the whole band would feast that night.

The archery trials did not take place until late in the day, and only the most skilled among the marksmen took part; for the rest of the band, pleasantly tired after the strenuous day, and knowing that they had no chance of winning the fine quiver of arrows flighted with peacock feathers, which was the prize, preferred to lounge at their ease on the turf and offer helpful advice to the competitors.

Little John, Much-the-Miller’s-Son, Will Scarlet, Will-the-Bowman, and some half-dozen more—these were the
champions who now took up their stand at one end of the butts and began, each in turn, to shoot at the marks. They shot from two hundred, three hundred, and five hundred feet; and finally came the most difficult shot of all, in which the archer must turn round and loose within three seconds of his turning, at a mark whose distance from himself he must guess.

Robin stood with one shoulder propped against the trunk of an ash-tree, watching his men—eagerly, despite his lounging pose.

They shot well, all those sturdy brown-clad archers; but that evening Much-the-Miller’s-Son shot best of them all—better even than Little John. His arrow was the last to fly humming down the glade, and it split the hazel-wand, just as Robin’s shaft had done a few days before in his match with Scarlet. The little man grinned from ear to ear when he saw what he had done, and his comrades crowded round him, thumping him on the back, and loud with congratulations.

Into the merry group came Robin and laid his hand on his small henchman’s shoulder. ‘God’s love on you, old fellow,’ said he, softly. ‘I would need to ride five hundred miles to find your match.’

Will Scarlet—brown-clad now, like the rest—looked round, smiling, and shook his head. ‘Master Robin, have you never heard tell of the Curtel Friar of Fountains Dale?’

Now it was Robin’s turn to shake his head. ‘No, I have heard nothing of any such friar. Is he a marksman, then, despite his monkish habit?’

‘That he is,’ replied Scarlet. ‘He could draw your seven-foot bow, or Little John’s yonder, with ease, and
hold his own with either of you at a shooting contest. I know him well by repute, for my father’s land marches with that of Fountains Abbey.’

‘Yet it seems strange to me that this champion should be a churchman,’ Robin said consideringly.

And seeing his unbelief, Scarlet laughed. ‘It is many years since Friar Tuck walked the cloisters of Fountains Abbey, for the brethren expelled him long since for his unruly conduct; and I have heard it said that he broke a pewter pot over the Prior’s head and ducked the cellarer in the fish-pond, before he came away. Since then he has dwelt in a stronghold which he built for himself almost at the gates, for the brethren dare not drive him out.’

There was a roar of laughter from the listening men, and Ket-the-Smith said: ‘Yet I have heard of this turbulent monk as a kind man to the poor. Is it not so, Will Scarlet?’

Scarlet nodded. ‘Any villein of the dales around here will tell you that.’

Robin had been listening intently, his hand still on Much’s shoulder, and now he said: ‘To-morrow morning I will go and seek out this rebel friar, for ’tis in my mind that we need a chaplain.’

Next morning he set off, after bidding Little John and twenty of the outlaws to follow in an hour, and turned his face north-west towards Fountains Dale. He was mounted on one of the few horses they possessed, its hooves sinking noiselessly into the carpet of fallen leaves, the bridle-bit jingling gaily as he rode. He wore a shabby leather jerkin, a steel cap on his head, and carried sword and buckler, and the great red yew bow, from which he was never parted, was slung across his shoulders. He and
his mount sniffed the bitter tang of the autumn morning together, and were in perfect harmony, for they had known each other for some time now and were good friends.

It was towards noon that Robin came at last towards the edge of the forest, and looking down through the trees, saw Fountains Dale lying lush and pleasant below him, with the gracious lines of the Abbey afar off among its golden trees and silver fish-ponds. He dismounted and tied his horse’s bridle to the low-hanging branch of an ancient thorn tree; and then, after fondling the animal’s arched neck for a moment, began to make his way down into the dale.

Once he thought he heard a distant hoof-beat behind him, and paused, looking back into the forest gloom and listening intently. He bethought him that Fountains Dale was uncomfortably near to York, and since he had come north into the territory of his old enemy the Abbot of St. Mary’s he had been very much on his guard. But the sound did not come again, and Robin went on, dropping steadily downhill through the usual outcrop of the forest—hazel and rowan, crack-willow and wild fruit-trees—until he came to the verge of the lush green valley-floor, and here he paused to look about him.

A short way in front of him, across a broad strip of open turf, ran a slow, peaceful stream, reflecting in its silver heart the alders and brown-tipped rushes through which it flowed. A little distance upstream, between the water and the forest, was a small, strong-seeming house of weatherworn timbers. It was obviously built for defence, for there was a stockade around it, which had taken root and sent out living twigs, and its walls were pierced with
arrow-slits; and Robin thought that this must be the forest stronghold he was seeking. He began to make his way upstream towards it, and as he rounded a great tangle of scrub matted together with old-man’s-beard, he came upon the friar himself.

A man of gigantic stature was the Curtel Friar, clad in the rough homespun habit of his order, and he sat with his elbow on his knees and his chin in his hands, gazing down thoughtfully into the water which flowed, just there, over a stone-paved ford.

Robin smiled to himself, and resolved to try the mettle of this huge, thoughtful man; and he drew his dagger from his belt. On silent feet he moved nearer over the soft turf, and brought his hand down on the bowed shoulder of the monk, who looked up with a start, revealing a large, guileless face and a pair of mild blue eyes. Robin bent over him, holding the point of his dagger to his throat.

‘Good day to you, Holy Father,’ said he. ‘I am minded to cross this stream, and I am minded to cross dry shod; so you shall carry me over on your back—it’s broad enough!’

The friar smiled affably. ‘Friend,’ said he, ‘take that bodkin of yours from my throat, and I will most willingly carry you across the stream.’ And as Robin withdrew the dagger, he got slowly to his feet, and kilting up the skirts of his habit, stooped down, presenting a broad back on to which Robin at once climbed.

Docile as any beast of burden, the great monk stepped down into the water, and made his way across the ford through the slow-flowing current towards the farther bank. Patiently he stood for the outlaw to slip from his
back. But the moment his feet touched the ground, Robin felt himself caught in an iron grasp and flung forward on to his face. He wrenched himself round, and found himself staring up into the broadly smiling face of the friar, who was half-kneeling on top of him.

‘Nay, lad,’ said the friar. ‘It is no use struggling, for you are not yet come to your full strength. So now you shall carry
me
back across the stream.’

Panting with his efforts to free himself, Robin glared up into the other’s face, but the friar’s knee on his chest held him down and he was powerless in the grip of the huge hands pinioning his arms.

‘I will do it,’ he said at last, ‘seeing that I have no choice in the matter.’

The friar nodded and, getting up, stood watching while Robin scrambled to his feet and in his turn proffered his back. Then the huge man climbed upon it and settled himself very comfortably; and Robin, bowed down under the terrific weight, stepped into the water. He owned to himself, with wry amusement, that he had underrated the great friar he now carried on his back, but deep in his heart he swore that he would get the better of the encounter.

He carried his burden steadily across the ford to the opposite bank and set him down gently on the turf; then, with a lightning movement, tripped his legs from under him, and next moment was crouching over him with the dagger at his throat again.

‘Now,’ said Robin grimly, ‘you shall carry me back again, you great loblolly, and if you trick me again—you will regret the day you met with Robin Hood!’

The friar smiled gently, and as soon as Robin stood
aside, rose to his feet once more, and again proffered his broad back. As docilely as before he stepped down on to the paved ford. But in midstream he checked abruptly, and with a sudden twist shook Robin from his back into the water. Down went Robin with a slithering splash, but in an instant he was afoot again, and had closed with Friar Tuck. Thigh-deep in the icy water they reeled to and fro, smiting blindly at each other, until Robin missed his footing on the narrow ford, and the silvery flood closed over his head.

He came up spluttering and struck out for the nearest bank, where an overhanging willow tree offered a handhold. Here he scrambled out, and swinging his buckler from its place behind his shoulder, drew his broadsword and turned to meet his antagonist. But the friar had disappeared.

A moment later he reappeared from behind a great oak tree, also carrying sword and buckler. Then Robin slipped his great bow from his shoulders, so that it should not be harmed in the fight, and laying it down, advanced gaily upon the gigantic monk, who stood waiting for him, smiling, and with the light of battle in his eye.

There, on the smooth turf between the forest and the stream, they fought, grimly yet joyously, each taking pleasure in his own skill and the skill of the other. They fought buckler to buckler, trying every trick in their possession, aiming at the head or foot or shoulder, thrusting at the body, feinting, and falsifying their blows; and they fought in silence, save for the quick, soft padding of their feet and the ringing of their blades.

The fight was at its fiercest, and the bright blades, clashing together, were filling the frosty air with their
shrill clamour, while the sparks flew up from the steel after every stroke; when suddenly there came to their ears the shrill neighing of a horse in the woods above. Both men lowered their blades at once and stood listening. Faintly they heard the jinkety-jink of harness from the forest depths; and they looked at one another, their enmity quite forgotten.

‘It was my horse that neighed,’ said Robin.

‘And there are armed men in the woodshore,’ answered the friar grimly. ‘Get your bow, Robin Hood, for I think you will need it sorely before long.’

Robin slid his sword home with a rattle into its sheath, and, running to where his bow lay upon the grass, strung it swiftly and turned to follow his enemy, who was now his friend. He could hear the sounds of armed men crashing through the undergrowth, and there was no time to reach the little house, which two men could have held against an army. They gained a small raised knoll, set in a loop of the stream, and turned to face their attackers.

Raising his bugle-horn to his lips, Robin winded a blast which he knew would reach his men if they were within a mile of him. If they were not, it remained only for him to sell his life dearly; there were eight clothyard shafts in his quiver, and his keen blade at his side. But for the friar, standing with drawn sword beside him, it was quite another matter; there was no call upon him to risk his life, and as the first of the well-known yellow-crossed surcoats of St. Mary’s Abbey’s men-at-arms showed between the trees, Robin spoke quickly to his companion.

‘Get back to the house, friend. These men have come for me, not for you, and there is no call upon you to risk your life for a stranger.’

Friar Tuck gave a short laugh. ‘I have always loved a good fight, and I never yet turned my back upon one!’ And putting his fingers to his mouth he gave a shrill, long-drawn whistle, thrice repeated.

As the first of the foresters and men-at-arms came leaping out from the woodshore, Robin was aware of a flood of shadowy bodies that swept past the little knoll, and glancing down, he beheld ten or more great ban-dogs with hackles raised and deadly purpose in every flowing line of their grey bodies as they headed at a gallop towards the approaching men.

Then Robin laughed exultantly, drew the bowstring to his ear, and loosed. The clothyard shaft took the captain of the abbot’s cut-throats in the breast, and he flung wide his arms and dropped. The rest checked for a moment, and then came on, boldly enough; and Robin nocked another arrow to his string. He judged that there were about a dozen men in the ranks of his enemies, and his eyes narrowed as he picked out a certain tall blackguard in a buff jerkin and chain-mail coif, who seemed to be in some authority. Guy of Gisborne!