The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood
by Howard Pyle
PREFACE
FROM THE AUTHOR TO THE READER
You who so plod amid serious things that you feel it shame to give yourself up even for a few short moments to mirth and joyousness in the land of Fancy; you who think that life hath nought to do with innocent laughter that can harm no one; these pages are not for you. Clap to the leaves and go no farther than this, for I tell you plainly that if you go farther you will be scandalized by seeing good, sober folks of real history so frisk and caper in gay colors and motley that you would not know them but for the names tagged to them. Here is a stout, lusty fellow with a quick temper, yet none so ill for all that, who goes by the name of Henry II. Here is a fair, gentle lady before whom all the others bow and call her Queen Eleanor. Here is a fat rogue of a fellow, dressed up in rich robes of a clerical kind, that all the good folk call my Lord Bishop of Hereford. Here is a certain fellow with a sour temper and a grim look– the worshipful, the Sheriff of Nottingham. And here, above all, is a great, tall, merry fellow that roams the greenwood and joins in homely sports, and sits beside the Sheriff at merry feast, which same beareth the name of the proudest of the Plantagenets–Richard of the Lion’s Heart. Beside these are a whole host of knights, priests, nobles, burghers, yeomen, pages, ladies, lasses, landlords, beggars, peddlers, and what not, all living the merriest of merry lives, and all bound by nothing but a few odd strands of certain old ballads (snipped and clipped and tied together again in a score of knots) which draw these jocund fellows here and there, singing as they go.
Here you will find a hundred dull, sober, jogging places, all tricked out with flowers and what not, till no one would know them in their fanciful dress. And here is a country bearing a well-known name, wherein no chill mists press upon our spirits, and no rain falls but what rolls off our backs like April showers off the backs of sleek drakes; where flowers bloom forever and birds are always singing; where every fellow hath a merry catch as he travels the roads, and ale and beer and wine (such as muddle no wits) flow like water in a brook.
This country is not Fairyland. What is it? ‘Tis the land of Fancy, and is of that pleasant kind that, when you tire of it–whisk!–you clap the leaves of this book together and ’tis gone, and you are ready for everyday life, with no harm done.
And now I lift the curtain that hangs between here and No-man’s-land. Will you come with me, sweet Reader? I thank you. Give me your hand.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I HOW ROBIN HOOD CAME TO BE AN OUTLAW 1 II ROBIN HOOD AND THE TINKER 14 III THE SHOOTING MATCH AT NOTTINGHAM TOWN 27 IV WILL STUTELY RESCUED BY HIS COMPANIONS 38 V ROBIN HOOD TURNS BUTCHER 50 VI LITTLE JOHN GOES TO NOTTINGHAM FAIR 61 VII HOW LITTLE JOHN LIVED AT THE SHERIFF’S 68 VIII LITTLE JOHN AND THE TANNER OF BLYTH 81 IX ROBIN HOOD AND WILL SCARLET 92 X THE ADVENTURE WITH MIDGE, THE MILLER’S SON 102 Xl ROBIN HOOD AND ALLAN A DALE 115 XII ROBIN HOOD SEEKS THE CURTAL FRIAR 129 XIII ROBIN HOOD COMPASSES A MARRIAGE 145 XIV ROBIN HOOD AIDS A SORROWFUL KNIGHT 156 XV HOW SIR RICHARD OF THE LEA PAID HIS DEBTS 172 XVI LITTLE JOHN TURNS BAREFOOT FRIAR 186 XVII ROBIN HOOD TURNS BEGGAR 202 XVIII ROBIN HOOD SHOOTS BEFORE QUEEN ELEANOR 222 XIX THE CHASE OF ROBIN HOOD 243 XX ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBOURNE 262 XXI KING RICHARD COMES TO SHERWOOD FOREST 281 EPILOGUE 300
How Robin Hood Cane to Be an Outlaw
IN MERRY ENGLAND in the time of old, when good King Henry the Second ruled the land, there lived within the green glades of Sherwood Forest, near Nottingham Town, a famous outlaw whose name was Robin Hood. No archer ever lived that could speed a gray goose shaft with such skill and cunning as his, nor were there ever such yeomen as the sevenscore merry men that roamed with him through the greenwood shades. Right merrily they dwelled within the depths of Sherwood Forest, suffering neither care nor want, but passing the time in merry games of archery or bouts of cudgel play, living upon the King’s venison, washed down with draughts of ale of October brewing.
Not only Robin himself but all the band were outlaws and dwelled apart from other men, yet they were beloved by the country people round about, for no one ever came to jolly Robin for help in time of need and went away again with an empty fist.
And now I will tell how it came about that Robin Hood fell afoul of the law.
When Robin was a youth of eighteen, stout of sinew and bold of heart, the Sheriff of Nottingham proclaimed a shooting match and offered a prize of a butt of ale to whosoever should shoot the best shaft in Nottinghamshire. “Now,” quoth Robin, “will I go too, for fain would I draw a string for the bright eyes of my lass and a butt of good October brewing.” So up he got and took his good stout yew bow and a score or more of broad clothyard arrows, and started off from Locksley Town through Sherwood Forest to Nottingham.
It was at the dawn of day in the merry Maytime, when hedgerows are green and flowers bedeck the meadows; daisies pied and yellow cuckoo buds and fair primroses all along the briery hedges; when apple buds blossom and sweet birds sing, the lark at dawn of day, the throstle cock and cuckoo; when lads and lasses look upon each other with sweet thoughts; when busy housewives spread their linen to bleach upon the bright green grass. Sweet was the greenwood as he walked along its paths, and bright the green and rustling leaves, amid which the little birds sang with might and main: and blithely Robin whistled as he trudged along, thinking of Maid Marian and her bright eyes, for at such times a youth’s thoughts are wont to turn pleasantly upon the lass that he loves the best.
As thus he walked along with a brisk step and a merry whistle, he came suddenly upon some foresters seated beneath a great oak tree. Fifteen there were in all, making themselves merry with feasting and drinking as they sat around a huge pasty, to which each man helped himself, thrusting his hands into the pie, and washing down that which they ate with great horns of ale which they drew all foaming from a barrel that stood nigh. Each man was clad in Lincoln green, and a fine show they made, seated upon the sward beneath that fair, spreading tree. Then one of them, with his mouth full, called out to Robin, “Hulloa, where goest thou, little lad, with thy one-penny bow and thy farthing shafts?”
Then Robin grew angry, for no stripling likes to be taunted with his green years.
“Now,” quoth he, “my bow and eke mine arrows are as good as shine; and moreover, I go to the shooting match at Nottingham Town, which same has been proclaimed by our good Sheriff of Nottinghamshire; there I will shoot with other stout yeomen, for a prize has been offered of a fine butt of ale.”
Then one who held a horn of ale in his hand said, “Ho! listen to the lad! Why, boy, thy mother’s milk is yet scarce dry upon thy lips, and yet thou pratest of standing up with good stout men at Nottingham butts, thou who art scarce able to draw one string of a two-stone bow.”
“I’ll hold the best of you twenty marks,” quoth bold Robin, “that I hit the clout at threescore rods, by the good help of Our Lady fair.”
At this all laughed aloud, and one said, “Well boasted, thou fair infant, well boasted! And well thou knowest that no target is nigh to make good thy wager.”
And another cried, “He will be taking ale with his milk next.”
At this Robin grew right mad. “Hark ye,” said he, “yonder, at the glade’s end, I see a herd of deer, even more than threescore rods distant. I’ll hold you twenty marks that, by leave of Our Lady, I cause the best hart among them to die.”
“Now done!” cried he who had spoken first. “And here are twenty marks. I wager that thou causest no beast to die, with or without the aid of Our Lady.”
Then Robin took his good yew bow in his hand, and placing the tip at his instep, he strung it right deftly; then he nocked a broad clothyard arrow and, raising the bow, drew the gray goose feather to his ear; the next moment the bowstring rang and the arrow sped down the glade as a sparrowhawk skims in a northern wind. High leaped the noblest hart of all the herd, only to fall dead, reddening the green path with his heart’s blood.
“Ha!” cried Robin, “how likest thou that shot, good fellow? I wot the wager were mine, an it were three hundred pounds.”
Then all the foresters were filled with rage, and he who had spoken the first and had lost the wager was more angry than all.
“Nay,” cried he, “the wager is none of thine, and get thee gone, straightway, or, by all the saints of heaven, I’ll baste thy sides until thou wilt ne’er be able to walk again.” “Knowest thou not,” said another, “that thou hast killed the King’s deer, and, by the laws of our gracious lord and sovereign King Harry, thine ears should be shaven close to thy head?”
“Catch him!” cried a third.
“Nay,” said a fourth, “let him e’en go because of his tender years.”
Never a word said Robin Hood, but he looked at the foresters with a grim face; then, turning on his heel, strode away from them down the forest glade. But his heart was bitterly angry, for his blood was hot and youthful and prone to boil.
Now, well would it have been for him who had first spoken had he left Robin Hood alone; but his anger was hot, both because the youth had gotten the better of him and because of the deep draughts of ale that he had been quaffing. So, of a sudden, without any warning, he sprang to his feet, and seized upon his bow and fitted it to a shaft. “Ay,” cried he, “and I’ll hurry thee anon.” And he sent the arrow whistling after Robin.
It was well for Robin Hood that that same forester’s head was spinning with ale, or else he would never have taken another step. As it was, the arrow whistled within three inches of his head. Then he turned around and quickly drew his own bow, and sent an arrow back in return.
“Ye said I was no archer,” cried he aloud, “but say so now again!”
The shaft flew straight; the archer fell forward with a cry, and lay on his face upon the ground, his arrows rattling about him from out of his quiver, the gray goose shaft wet with his; heart’s blood. Then, before the others could gather their wits about them, Robin Hood was gone into the depths of the greenwood. Some started after him, but not with much heart, for each feared to suffer the death of his fellow; so presently they all came and lifted the dead man up and bore him away to Nottingham Town.
Meanwhile Robin Hood ran through the greenwood. Gone was all the joy and brightness from everything, for his heart was sick within him, and it was borne in upon his soul that he had slain a man.
“Alas!” cried he, “thou hast found me an archer that will make thy wife to wring! I would that thou hadst ne’er said one word to me, or that I had never passed thy way, or e’en that my right forefinger had been stricken off ere that this had happened! In haste I smote, but grieve I sore at leisure!” And then, even in his trouble, he remembered the old saw that “What is done is done; and the egg cracked cannot be cured.”
And so he came to dwell in the greenwood that was to be his home for many a year to come, never again to see the happy days with the lads and lasses of sweet Locksley Town; for he was outlawed, not only because he had killed a man, but also because he had poached upon the King’s deer, and two hundred pounds were set upon his head, as a reward for whoever would bring him to the court of the King.
Now the Sheriff of Nottingham swore that he himself would bring this knave Robin Hood to justice, and for two reasons: first, because he wanted the two hundred pounds, and next, because the forester that Robin Hood had killed was of kin to him.
But Robin Hood lay hidden in Sherwood Forest for one year, and in that time there gathered around him many others like himself, cast out from other folk for this cause and for that. Some had shot deer in hungry wintertime, when they could get no other food, and had been seen in the act by the foresters, but had escaped, thus saving their ears; some had been turned out of their inheritance, that their farms might be added to the King’s lands in Sherwood Forest; some had been despoiled by a great baron or a rich abbot or a powerful esquire– all, for one cause or another, had come to Sherwood to escape wrong and oppression.
So, in all that year, fivescore or more good stout yeomen gathered about Robin Hood, and chose him to be their leader and chief. Then they vowed that even as they themselves had been despoiled they would despoil their oppressors, whether baron, abbot, knight, or squire, and that from each they would take that which had been wrung from the poor by unjust taxes, or land rents, or in wrongful fines. But to the poor folk they would give a helping hand in need and trouble, and would return to them that which had been unjustly taken from them. Besides this, they swore never to harm a child nor to wrong a woman, be she maid, wife, or widow; so that, after a while, when the people began to find that no harm was meant to them, but that money or food came in time of want to many a poor family, they came to praise Robin and his merry men, and to tell many tales of him and of his doings in Sherwood Forest, for they felt him to be one of themselves.
Up rose Robin Hood one merry morn when all the birds were singing blithely among the leaves, and up rose all his merry men, each fellow washing his head and hands in the cold brown brook that leaped laughing from stone to stone. Then said Robin, “For fourteen days have we seen no sport, so now I will go abroad to seek adventures forthwith. But tarry ye, my merry men all, here in the greenwood; only see that ye mind well my call. Three blasts upon the bugle horn I will blow in my hour of need; then come quickly, for I shall want your aid.”
So saying, he strode away through the leafy forest glades until he had come to the verge of Sherwood. There he wandered for a long time, through highway and byway, through dingly dell and forest skirts. Now he met a fair buxom lass in a shady lane, and each gave the other a merry word and passed their way; now he saw a fair lady upon an ambling pad, to whom he doffed his cap, and who bowed sedately in return to the fair youth; now he saw a fat monk on a pannier-laden ass; now a gallant knight, with spear and shield and armor that flashed brightly in the sunlight; now a page clad in crimson; and now a stout burgher from good Nottingham Town, pacing along with serious footsteps; all these sights he saw, but adventure found he none. At last he took a road by the forest skirts, a bypath that dipped toward a broad, pebbly stream spanned by a narrow bridge made of a log of wood. As he drew nigh this bridge he saw a tall stranger coming from the other side. Thereupon Robin quickened his pace, as did the stranger likewise, each thinking to cross first.
“Now stand thou back,” quoth Robin, “and let the better man cross first.”
“Nay,” answered the stranger, “then stand back shine own self, for the better man, I wet, am I.”
“That will we presently see,” quoth Robin, “and meanwhile stand thou where thou art, or else, by the bright brow of Saint AElfrida, I will show thee right good Nottingham play with a clothyard shaft betwixt thy ribs.”
“Now,” quoth the stranger, “I will tan thy hide till it be as many colors as a beggar’s cloak, if thou darest so much as touch a string of that same bow that thou holdest in thy hands.”
“Thou pratest like an ass,” said Robin, “for I could send this shaft clean through thy proud heart before a curtal friar could say grace over a roast goose at Michaelmastide.”
“And thou pratest like a coward,” answered the stranger, “for thou standest there with a good yew bow to shoot at my heart, while I have nought in my hand but a plain blackthorn staff wherewith to meet thee.”
“Now,” quoth Robin, “by the faith of my heart, never have I had a coward’s name in all my life before. I will lay by my trusty bow and eke my arrows, and if thou darest abide my coming, I will go and cut a cudgel to test thy manhood withal.”
“Ay, marry, that will I abide thy coming, and joyously, too,” quoth the stranger; whereupon he leaned sturdily upon his staff to await Robin.
Then Robin Hood stepped quickly to the coverside and cut a good staff of ground oak, straight, without new, and six feet in length, and came back trimming away the tender stems from it, while the stranger waited for him, leaning upon his staff, and whistling as he gazed round about. Robin observed him furtively as he trimmed his staff, measuring him from top to toe from out the corner of his eye, and thought that he had never seen a lustier or a stouter man. Tall was Robin, but taller was the stranger by a head and a neck, for he was seven feet in height. Broad was Robin across the shoulders, but broader was the stranger by twice the breadth of a palm, while he measured at least an ell around the waist.
“Nevertheless,” said Robin to himself, “I will baste thy hide right merrily, my good fellow”; then, aloud, “Lo, here is my good staff, lusty and tough. Now wait my coming, an thou darest, and meet me an thou fearest not. Then we will fight until one or the other of us tumble into the stream by dint of blows.”
“Marry, that meeteth my whole heart!” cried the stranger, twirling his staff above his head, betwixt his fingers and thumb, until it whistled again.
Never did the Knights of Arthur’s Round Table meet in a stouter fight than did these two. In a moment Robin stepped quickly upon the bridge where the stranger stood; first he made a feint, and then delivered a blow at the stranger’s head that, had it met its mark, would have tumbled him speedily into the water. But the stranger turned the blow right deftly and in return gave one as stout, which Robin also turned as the stranger had done. So they stood, each in his place, neither moving a finger’s-breadth back, for one good hour, and many blows were given and received by each in that time, till here and there were sore bones and bumps, yet neither thought of crying “Enough,” nor seemed likely to fall from off the bridge. Now and then they stopped to rest, and each thought that he never had seen in all his life before such a hand at quarterstaff. At last Robin gave the stranger a blow upon the ribs that made his jacket smoke like a damp straw thatch in the sun. So shrewd was the stroke that the stranger came within a hair’s-breadth of falling off the bridge, but he regained himself right quickly and, by a dexterous blow, gave Robin a crack on the crown that caused the blood to flow. Then Robin grew mad with anger and smote with all his might at the other. But the stranger warded the blow and once again thwacked Robin, and this time so fairly that he fell heels over head into the water, as the queen pin falls in a game of bowls.
“And where art thou now, my good lad?” shouted the stranger, roaring with laughter.
“Oh, in the flood and floating adown with the tide,” cried Robin, nor could he forbear laughing himself at his sorry plight. Then, gaining his feet, he waded to the bank, the little fish speeding hither and thither, all frightened at his splashing.
“Give me thy hand,” cried he, when he had reached the bank. “I must needs own thou art a brave and a sturdy soul and, withal, a good stout stroke with the cudgels. By this and by that, my head hummeth like to a hive of bees on a hot June day.”
Then he clapped his horn to his lips and winded a blast that went echoing sweetly down the forest paths. “Ay, marry,” quoth he again, “thou art a tall lad, and eke a brave one, for ne’er, I bow, is there a man betwixt here and Canterbury Town could do the like to me that thou hast done.”
“And thou,” quoth the stranger, laughing, “takest thy cudgeling like a brave heart and a stout yeoman.”
But now the distant twigs and branches rustled with the coming of men, and suddenly a score or two of good stout yeomen, all clad in Lincoln green, burst from out the covert, with merry Will Stutely at their head.
“Good master,” cried Will, “how is this? Truly thou art all wet from head to foot, and that to the very skin.”
“Why, marry,” answered jolly Robin, “yon stout fellow hath tumbled me neck and crop into the water and hath given me a drubbing beside.”
“Then shall he not go without a ducking and eke a drubbing himself!” cried Will Stutely. “Have at him, lads!”
Then Will and a score of yeomen leaped upon the stranger, but though they sprang quickly they found him ready and felt him strike right and left with his stout staff, so that, though he went down with press of numbers, some of them rubbed cracked crowns before he was overcome.
“Nay, forbear!” cried Robin, laughing until his sore sides ached again. “He is a right good man and true, and no harm shall befall him. Now hark ye, good youth, wilt thou stay with me and be one of my band? Three suits of Lincoln green shalt thou have each year, beside forty marks in fee, and share with us whatsoever good shall befall us. Thou shalt eat sweet venison and quaff the stoutest ale, and mine own good right-hand man shalt thou be, for never did I see such a cudgel player in all my life before. Speak! Wilt thou be one of my good merry men?”
“That know I not,” quoth the stranger surlily, for he was angry at being so tumbled about. “If ye handle yew bow and apple shaft no better than ye do oaken cudgel, I wot ye are not fit to be called yeomen in my country; but if there be any man here that can shoot a better shaft than I, then will I bethink me of joining with you.”
“Now by my faith,” said Robin, “thou art a right saucy varlet, sirrah; yet I will stoop to thee as I never stooped to man before. Good Stutely, cut thou a fair white piece of bark four fingers in breadth, and set it fourscore yards distant on yonder oak. Now, stranger, hit that fairly with a gray goose shaft and call thyself an archer.”
“Ay, marry, that will I,” answered he. “Give me a good stout bow and a fair broad arrow, and if I hit it not, strip me and beat me blue with bowstrings.”
Then he chose the stoutest bow among them all, next to Robin’s own, and a straight gray goose shaft, well-feathered and smooth, and stepping to the mark–while all the band, sitting or lying upon the greensward, watched to see him shoot–he drew the arrow to his cheek and loosed the shaft right deftly, sending it so straight down the path that it clove the mark in the very center. “Aha!” cried he, “mend thou that if thou canst”; while even the yeomen clapped their hands at so fair a shot.
“That is a keen shot indeed,” quoth Robin. “Mend it I cannot, but mar it I may, perhaps.”
Then taking up his own good stout bow and nocking an arrow with care, he shot with his very greatest skill. Straight flew the arrow, and so true that it lit fairly upon the stranger’s shaft and split it into splinters. Then all the yeomen leaped to their feet and shouted for joy that their master had shot so well.
“Now by the lusty yew bow of good Saint Withold,” cried the stranger, “that is a shot indeed, and never saw I the like in all my life before! Now truly will I be thy man henceforth and for aye. Good Adam Bell[1] was a fair shot, but never shot he so!”
[1] Adam Bell, Clym o’ the Clough, and William of Cloudesly were three noted north-country bowmen whose names have been celebrated in many ballads of the olden time.
“Then have I gained a right good man this day,” quoth jolly Robin. “What name goest thou by, good fellow?”
“Men call me John Little whence I came,” answered the stranger.
Then Will Stutely, who loved a good jest, spoke up. “Nay, fair little stranger,” said he, “I like not thy name and fain would I have it otherwise. Little art thou indeed, and small of bone and sinew, therefore shalt thou be christened Little John, and I will be thy godfather.”
Then Robin Hood and all his band laughed aloud until the stranger began to grow angry.
“An thou make a jest of me,” quoth he to Will Stutely, “thou wilt have sore bones and little pay, and that in short season.”
“Nay, good friend,” said Robin Hood, “bottle thine anger, for the name fitteth thee well. Little John shall thou be called henceforth, and Little John shall it be. So come, my merry men, we will prepare a christening feast for this fair infant.”
So turning their backs upon the stream, they plunged into the forest once more, through which they traced their steps till they reached the spot where they dwelled in the depths of the woodland. There had they built huts of bark and branches of trees, and made couches of sweet rushes spread over with skins of fallow deer. Here stood a great oak tree with branches spreading broadly around, beneath which was a seat of green moss where Robin Hood was wont to sit at feast and at merrymaking with his stout men about him. Here they found the rest of the band, some of whom had come in with a brace of fat does. Then they all built great fires and after a time roasted the does and broached a barrel of humming ale. Then when the feast was ready they all sat down, but Robin placed Little John at his right hand, for he was henceforth to be the second in the band.
Then when the feast was done Will Stutely spoke up. “It is now time, I ween, to christen our bonny babe, is it not so, merry boys?” And “Aye! Aye!” cried all, laughing till the woods echoed with their mirth.
“Then seven sponsors shall we have,” quoth Will Stutely, and hunting among all the band, he chose the seven stoutest men of them all.
“Now by Saint Dunstan,” cried Little John, springing to his feet, “more than one of you shall rue it an you lay finger upon me.”
But without a word they all ran upon him at once, seizing him by his legs and arms and holding him tightly in spite of his struggles, and they bore him forth while all stood around to see the sport. Then one came forward who had been chosen to play the priest because he had a bald crown, and in his hand he carried a brimming pot of ale. “Now, who bringeth this babe?” asked he right soberly.
“That do I,” answered Will Stutely.
“And what name callest thou him?”
“Little John call I him.”
“Now Little John,” quoth the mock priest, “thou hast not lived heretofore, but only got thee along through the world, but henceforth thou wilt live indeed. When thou livedst not thou wast called John Little, but now that thou dost live indeed, Little John shalt thou be called, so christen I thee.” And at these last words he emptied the pot of ale upon Little John’s head.
Then all shouted with laughter as they saw the good brown ale stream over Little John’s beard and trickle from his nose and chin, while his eyes blinked with the smart of it. At first he was of a mind to be angry but found he could not, because the others were so merry; so he, too, laughed with the rest. Then Robin took this sweet, pretty babe, clothed him all anew from top to toe in Lincoln green, and gave him a good stout bow, and so made him a member of the merry band.
And thus it was that Robin Hood became outlawed; thus a band of merry companions gathered about him, and thus he gained his right-hand man, Little John; and so the prologue ends. And now I will tell how the Sheriff of Nottingham three times sought to take Robin Hood, and how he failed each time.
Robin Hood and the Tinker
Now it was told before how two hundred pounds were set upon Robin Hood’s head, and how the Sheriff of Nottingham swore that he himself would seize Robin, both because he would fain have the two hundred pounds and because the slain man was a kinsman of his own. Now the Sheriff did not yet know what a force Robin had about him in Sherwood, but thought that he might serve a warrant for his arrest as he could upon any other man that had broken the laws; therefore he offered fourscore golden angels to anyone who would serve this warrant. But men of Nottingham Town knew more of Robin Hood and his doings than the Sheriff did, and many laughed to think of serving a warrant upon the bold outlaw, knowing well that all they would get for such service would be cracked crowns; so that no one came forward to take the matter in hand. Thus a fortnight passed, in which time none came forward to do the Sheriff’s business. Then said he, “A right good reward have I offered to whosoever would serve my warrant upon Robin Hood, and I marvel that no one has come to undertake the task.”
Then one of his men who was near him said, “Good master, thou wottest not the force that Robin Hood has about him and how little he cares for warrant of king or sheriff. Truly, no one likes to go on this service, for fear of cracked crowns and broken bones.”
“Then I hold all Nottingham men to be cowards,” said the Sheriff. “And let me see the man in all Nottinghamshire that dare disobey the warrant of our sovereign lord King Harry, for, by the shrine of Saint Edmund, I will hang him forty cubits high! But if no man in Nottingham dare win fourscore angels, I will send elsewhere, for there should be men of mettle somewhere in this land.”
Then he called up a messenger in whom he placed great trust, and bade him saddle his horse and make ready to go to Lincoln Town to see whether he could find anyone there that would do his bidding and win the reward. So that same morning the messenger started forth upon his errand.
Bright shone the sun upon the dusty highway that led from Nottingham to Lincoln, stretching away all white over hill and dale. Dusty was the highway and dusty the throat of the messenger, so that his heart was glad when he saw before him the Sign of the Blue Boar Inn, when somewhat more than half his journey was done. The inn looked fair to his eyes, and the shade of the oak trees that stood around it seemed cool and pleasant, so he alighted from his horse to rest himself for a time, calling for a pot of ale to refresh his thirsty throat.
There he saw a party of right jovial fellows seated beneath the spreading oak that shaded the greensward in front of the door. There was a tinker, two barefoot friars, and a party of six of the King’s foresters all clad in Lincoln green, and all of them were quaffing humming ale and singing merry ballads of the good old times. Loud laughed the foresters, as jests were bandied about between the singing, and louder laughed the friars, for they were lusty men with beards that curled like the wool of black rams; but loudest of all laughed the Tinker, and he sang more sweetly than any of the rest. His bag and his hammer hung upon a twig of the oak tree, and near by leaned his good stout cudgel, as thick as his wrist and knotted at the end.
“Come,” cried one of the foresters to the tired messenger, “come join us for this shot. Ho, landlord! Bring a fresh pot of ale for each man.
The messenger was glad enough to sit down along with the others who were there, for his limbs were weary and the ale was good.
“Now what news bearest thou so fast?” quoth one, “and whither ridest thou today?”
The messenger was a chatty soul and loved a bit of gossip dearly; besides, the pot of ale warmed his heart; so that, settling himself in an easy corner of the inn bench, while the host leaned upon the doorway and the hostess stood with her hands beneath her apron, he unfolded his budget of news with great comfort. He told all from the very first: how Robin Hood had slain the forester, and how he had hidden in the greenwood to escape the law; how that he lived therein, all against the law, God wot, slaying His Majesty’s deer and levying toll on fat abbot, knight, and esquire, so that none dare travel even on broad Watling Street or the Fosse Way for fear
of him; how that the Sheriff had a mind to serve the King’s warrant upon this same rogue, though little would he mind warrant of either king or sheriff, for he was far from being a law-abiding man. Then he told how none could be found in all Nottingham Town to serve this warrant, for fear of cracked pates and broken bones, and how that he, the messenger, was now upon his way to Lincoln Town to find of what mettle the Lincoln men might be.
“Now come I, forsooth, from good Banbury Town,” said the jolly Tinker, “and no one nigh Nottingham–nor Sherwood either, an that be the mark– can hold cudgel with my grip. Why, lads, did I not meet that mad wag Simon of Ely, even at the famous fair at Hertford Town, and beat him in the ring at that place before Sir Robert of Leslie and his lady? This same Robin Hood, of whom, I wot, I never heard before, is a right merry blade, but gin he be strong, am not I stronger? And gin he be sly, am not I slyer? Now by the bright eyes of Nan o’ the Mill, and by mine own name and that’s Wat o’ the Crabstaff, and by mine own mother’s son, and that’s myself, will I, even I, Wat o’ the Crabstaff, meet this same sturdy rogue, and gin he mind not the seal of our glorious sovereign King Harry, and the warrant of the good Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, I will so bruise, beat, and bemaul his pate that he shall never move finger or toe again! Hear ye that, bully boys?”
“Now art thou the man for my farthing,” cried the messenger. “And back thou goest with me to Nottingham Town.”
“Nay,” quoth the Tinker, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “Go I with no man gin it be not with mine own free will.”
“Nay, nay,” said the messenger, “no man is there in Nottinghamshire could make thee go against thy will, thou brave fellow.”
“Ay, that be I brave,” said the Tinker.
“Ay, marry,” said the messenger, “thou art a brave lad; but our good Sheriff hath offered fourscore angels of bright gold to whosoever shall serve the warrant upon Robin Hood; though little good will it do.”
“Then I will go with thee, lad. Do but wait till I get my bag and hammer, and my cudgel. Ay, let’ me but meet this same Robin Hood, and let me see whether he will not mind the King’s warrant.” So, after having paid their score, the messenger, with the Tinker striding beside his nag, started back to Nottingham again.
One bright morning soon after this time, Robin Hood started off to Nottingham Town to find what was a-doing there, walking merrily along the roadside where the grass was sweet with daisies, his eyes wandering and his thoughts also. His bugle horn hung at his hip and his bow and arrows at his back, while in his hand he bore a good stout oaken staff, which he twirled with his fingers as he strolled along.
As thus he walked down a shady lane he saw a tinker coming, trolling a merry song as he drew nigh. On his back hung his bag and his hammer, and in his hand he carried a right stout crabstaff full six feet long, and thus sang he: “In peascod time, when hound to horn Gives ear till buck be killed, And little lads with pipes of corn Sit keeping beasts afield–“
“Halloa, good friend!” cried Robin.
“I WENT TO GATHER STRAWBERRIES–“
“Halloa!” cried Robin again.
“BY WOODS AND GROVES FULL FAIR–“
“Halloa! Art thou deaf, man? Good friend, say I!”
“And who art thou dost so boldly check a fair song?” quoth the Tinker, stopping in his singing. “Halloa, shine own self, whether thou be good friend or no. But let me tell thee, thou stout fellow, gin thou be a good friend it were well for us both; but gin thou be no good friend it were ill for thee.”
“And whence comest thou, my lusty blade?” quoth Robin.
“I come from Banbury,” answered the Tinker.
“Alas!” quoth Robin, “I hear there is sad news this merry morn.”
“Ha! Is it indeed so?” cried the Tinker eagerly. “Prythee tell it speedily, for I am a tinker by trade, as thou seest, and as I am in my trade I am greedy for news, even as a priest is greedy for farthings.”
“Well then,” quoth Robin, “list thou and I will tell, but bear thyself up bravely, for the news is sad, I wot. Thus it is: I hear that two tinkers are in the stocks for drinking ale and beer!”
“Now a murrain seize thee and thy news, thou scurvy dog,” quoth the Tinker, “for thou speakest but ill of good men. But sad news it is indeed, gin there be two stout fellows in the stocks.”
“Nay,” said Robin, “thou hast missed the mark and dost but weep for the wrong sow. The sadness of the news lieth in that there be but two in the stocks, for the others do roam the country at large.”
“Now by the pewter platter of Saint Dunstan,” cried the Tinker, “I have a good part of a mind to baste thy hide for thine ill jest. But gin men be put in the stocks for drinking ale and beer, I trow thou wouldst not lose thy part.”
Loud laughed Robin and cried, “Now well taken, Tinker, well taken! Why, thy wits are like beer, and do froth up most when they grow sour! But right art thou, man, for I love ale and beer right well. Therefore come straightway with me hard by to the Sign of the Blue Boar, and if thou drinkest as thou appearest–and I wot thou wilt not belie thy looks–I will drench thy throat with as good homebrewed as ever was tapped in all broad Nottinghamshire.”
“Now by my faith,” said the Tinker, “thou art a right good fellow in spite of thy scurvy jests. I love thee, my sweet chuck, and gin I go not with thee to that same Blue Boar thou mayst call me a heathen.”
“Tell me thy news, good friend, I prythee,” quoth Robin as they trudged along together, “for tinkers, I ween, are all as full of news as an egg of meat.”
“Now I love thee as my brother, my bully blade,” said the Tinker, “else I would not tell thee my news; for sly am I, man, and I have in hand a grave undertaking that doth call for all my wits, for I come to seek a bold outlaw that men, hereabouts, call Robin Hood. Within my pouch I have a warrant, all fairly written out on parchment, forsooth, with a great red seal for to make it lawful. Could I but meet this same Robin Hood I would serve it upon his dainty body, and if he minded it not I would beat him till every one of his ribs would cry Amen. But thou livest hereabouts, mayhap thou knowest Robin Hood thyself, good fellow.”
“Ay, marry, that I do somewhat,” quoth Robin, “and I have seen him this very morn. But, Tinker, men say that he is but a sad, sly thief. Thou hadst better watch thy warrant, man, or else he may steal it out of thy very pouch.”
“Let him but try!” cried the Tinker. “Sly may he be, but sly am I, too. I would I had him here now, man to man!” And he made his heavy cudgel to spin again. “But what manner of man is he, lad?
“Much like myself,” said Robin, laughing, “and in height and build and age nigh the same; and he hath blue eyes, too.”
“Nay,” quoth the Tinker, “thou art but a green youth. I thought him to be a great bearded man. Nottingham men feared him so.”
“Truly, he is not so old nor so stout as thou art,” said Robin. “But men do call him a right deft hand at quarterstaff.”
“That may be,” said the Tinker right sturdily, “but I am more deft than he, for did I not overcome Simon of Ely in a fair bout in the ring at Hertford Town? But if thou knowest him, my jolly blade, wilt thou go with me and bring me to him? Fourscore bright angels hath the Sheriff promised me if I serve the warrant upon the knave’s body, and ten of them will I give to thee if thou showest me him.”
“Ay, that will I,” quoth Robin, “but show me thy warrant, man, until I see whether it be good or no.”
“That will I not do, even to mine own brother,” answered the Tinker. “No man shall see my warrant till I serve it upon yon fellow’s own body.”
“So be it,” quoth Robin. “And thou show it not to me I know not to whom thou wilt show it. But here we are at the Sign of the Blue Boar, so let us in and taste his brown October.”
No sweeter inn could be found in all Nottinghamshire than that of the Blue Boar. None had such lovely trees standing around, or was so covered with trailing clematis and sweet woodbine; none had such good beer and such humming ale; nor, in wintertime, when the north wind howled and snow drifted around the hedges, was there to be found, elsewhere, such a roaring fire as blazed upon the hearth of the Blue Boar. At such times might be found a goodly company of yeomen or country folk seated around the blazing hearth, bandying merry jests, while roasted crabs[2] bobbed in bowls of ale upon the hearthstone. Well known was the inn to Robin Hood and his band, for there had he and such merry companions as Little John or Will Stutely or young David of Doncaster often gathered when all the forest was filled with snow. As for mine host, he knew how to keep a still tongue in his head, and to swallow his words before they passed his teeth, for he knew very well which side of his bread was spread with butter, for Robin and his band were the best of customers and paid their scores without having them chalked up behind the door. So now, when Robin Hood and the Tinker came thereto and called aloud for two great pots of ale, none would have known from look or speech that the host had ever set eyes upon the outlaw before.
[2] Small sour apples.
“Bide thou here,” quoth Robin to the Tinker, “while I go and see that mine host draweth ale from the right butt, for he hath good October, I know, and that brewed by Withold of Tamworth.” So saying, he went within and whispered to the host to add a measure of Flemish strong waters to the good English ale; which the latter did and brought it to them.
“By Our Lady,” said the Tinker, after a long draught of the ale, “yon same Withold of Tamworth–a right good Saxon name, too, I would have thee know–breweth the most humming ale that e’er passed the lips of Wat o’ the Crabstaff.”
“Drink, man, drink,” cried Robin, only wetting his own lips meanwhile. “Ho, landlord! Bring my friend another pot of the same. And now for a song, my jolly blade.”
“Ay, that will I give thee a song, my lovely fellow,” quoth the Tinker, “for I never tasted such ale in all my days before. By Our Lady, it doth make my head hum even now! Hey, Dame Hostess, come listen, an thou wouldst hear a song, and thou too, thou bonny lass, for never sing I so well as when bright eyes do look upon me the while.”
Then he sang an ancient ballad of the time of good King Arthur, called “The Marriage of Sir Gawaine,” which you may some time read yourself, in stout English of early times; and as he sang, all listened to that noble tale of noble knight and his sacrifice to his king. But long before the Tinker came to the last verse his tongue began to trip and his head to spin, because of the strong waters mixed with the ale. First his tongue tripped, then it grew thick of sound; then his head wagged from side to side, until at last he fell asleep as though he never would waken again.
Then Robin Hood laughed aloud and quickly took the warrant from out the Tinker’s pouch with his deft fingers. “Sly art thou, Tinker,” quoth he, “but not yet, I bow, art thou as sly as that same sly thief Robin Hood.”
Then he called the host to him and said, “Here, good man, are ten broad shillings for the entertainment thou hast given us this day. See that thou takest good care of thy fair guest there, and when he wakes thou mayst again charge him ten shillings also, and if he hath it not, thou mayst take his bag and hammer, and even his coat, in payment. Thus do I punish those that come into the greenwood to deal dole to me. As for thine own self, never knew I landlord yet that would not charge twice an he could.”
At this the host smiled slyly, as though saying to himself the rustic saw, “Teach a magpie to suck eggs.”
The Tinker slept until the afternoon drew to a close and the shadows grew long beside the woodland edge, then he awoke. First he looked up, then he looked down, then he
looked east, then he looked west, for he was gathering his wits together, like barley straws blown apart by the wind. First he thought of his merry companion, but he was gone. Then he thought of his stout crabstaff, and that he had within his hand. Then of his warrant, and of the fourscore angels he was to gain for serving it upon Robin Hood. He thrust his hand into his pouch, but not a scrap nor a farthing was there. Then he sprang to his feet in a rage.
“Ho, landlord!” cried he, “whither hath that knave gone that was with me but now?”
“What knave meaneth Your Worship?” quoth the landlord, calling the Tinker Worship to soothe him, as a man would pour oil upon angry water. “I saw no knave with Your Worship, for I swear no man would dare call that man knave so nigh to Sherwood Forest. A right stout yeoman I saw with Your Worship, but I thought that Your Worship knew him, for few there be about here that pass him by and know him not.”
“Now, how should I, that ne’er have squealed in your sty, know all the swine therein? Who was he, then, an thou knowest him so well?”
“Why, yon same is a right stout fellow whom men hereabouts do call Robin Hood, which same–“
“Now, by’r Lady!” cried the Tinker hastily, and in a deep voice like an angry bull, “thou didst see me come into thine inn, I, a staunch, honest craftsman, and never told me who my company was, well knowing thine own self who he was. Now, I have a right round piece of a mind to crack thy knave’s pate for thee!” Then he took up his cudgel and looked at the landlord as though he would smite him where he stood.
“Nay,” cried the host, throwing up his elbow, for he feared the blow, “how knew I that thou knewest him not?”
“Well and truly thankful mayst thou be,” quoth the Tinker, “that I be a patient man and so do spare thy bald crown, else wouldst thou ne’er cheat customer again. But as for this same knave Robin Hood, I go straightway to seek him, and if I do not score his knave’s pate, cut my staff into fagots and call me woman.” So saying, he gathered himself together to depart.
“Nay,” quoth the landlord, standing in front of him and holding out his arms like a gooseherd driving his flock, for money made him bold, “thou goest not till thou hast paid me my score.”
“But did not he pay thee?”
“Not so much as one farthing; and ten good shillings’ worth of ale have ye drunk this day. Nay, I say, thou goest not away without paying me, else shall our good Sheriff know of it.”
“But nought have I to pay thee with, good fellow,” quoth the Tinker.
” Good fellow’ not me,” said the landlord. “Good fellow am I not when it cometh to lose ten shillings! Pay me that thou owest me in broad money, or else leave thy coat and bag and hammer; yet, I wot they are not worth ten shillings, and I shall lose thereby. Nay, an thou stirrest, I have a great dog within and I will loose him upon thee. Maken, open thou the door and let forth Brian if this fellow stirs one step.”
“Nay,” quoth the Tinker–for, by roaming the country, he had learned what dogs were–“take thou what thou wilt have, and let me depart in peace, and may a murrain go with thee. But oh, landlord! An I catch yon scurvy varlet, I swear he shall pay full with usury for that he hath had!”
So saying, he strode away toward the forest, talking to himself, while the landlord and his worthy dame and Maken stood looking after him, and laughed when he had fairly gone.
“Robin and I stripped yon ass of his pack main neatly,” quoth the landlord.
Now it happened about this time that Robin Hood was going through the forest to Fosse Way, to see what was to be seen there, for the moon was full and the night gave promise of being bright. In his hand he carried his stout oaken staff, and at his side hung his bugle horn. As thus he walked up a forest path, whistling, down another path came the Tinker, muttering to himself and shaking his head like an angry bull; and so, at a sudden bend, they met sharply face to face. Each stood still for a time, and then Robin spoke:
“Halloa, my sweet bird,” said he, laughing merrily, “how likest thou thine ale? Wilt not sing to me another song?”
The Tinker said nothing at first but stood looking at Robin with a grim face. “Now,” quoth he at last, “I am right glad I have met thee, and if I do not rattle thy bones within thy hide this day, I give thee leave to put thy foot upon my neck.”
“With all my heart,” cried merry Robin. “Rattle my bones, an thou canst.” So saying, he gripped his staff and threw himself upon his guard. Then the Tinker spat upon his hands and, grasping his staff, came straight at the other. He struck two or three blows, but soon found that he had met his match, for Robin warded and parried all of them, and, before the Tinker thought, he gave him a rap upon the ribs in return. At this Robin laughed aloud, and the Tinker grew more angry than ever, and smote again with all his might and main. Again Robin warded two of the strokes, but at the third, his staff broke beneath the mighty blows of the Tinker. “Now, ill betide thee, traitor staff,” cried Robin, as it fell from his hands; “a foul stick art thou to serve me thus in mine hour of need.”
“Now yield thee,” quoth the Tinker, “for thou art my captive; and if thou do not, I will beat thy pate to a pudding.”
To this Robin Hood made no answer, but, clapping his horn to his lips, he blew three blasts, loud and clear.
“Ay,” quoth the Tinker, “blow thou mayest, but go thou must with me to Nottingham Town, for the Sheriff would fain see thee there. Now wilt thou yield thee, or shall I have to break thy pretty head?”
“An I must drink sour ale, I must,” quoth Robin, “but never have I yielded me to man before, and that without wound or mark upon my body. Nor, when I bethink me, will I yield now. Ho, my merry men! Come quickly!”
Then from out the forest leaped Little John and six stout yeomen clad in Lincoln green.
“How now, good master,” cried Little John, “what need hast thou that thou dost wind thy horn so loudly?”
“There stands a tinker,” quoth Robin, “that would fain take me to Nottingham, there to hang upon the gallows tree.”
“Then shall he himself hang forthwith,” cried Little John, and he and the others made at the Tinker, to seize him.
“Nay, touch him not,” said Robin, “for a right stout man is he. A metal man he is by trade, and a mettled man by nature; moreover, he doth sing a lovely ballad. Say, good fellow, wilt thou join my merry men all? Three suits of Lincoln green shalt thou have a year, besides forty marks in fee; thou shalt share all with us and lead a right merry life in the greenwood; for cares have we not, and misfortune cometh not upon us within the sweet shades of Sherwood, where we shoot the dun deer and feed upon venison and sweet oaten cakes, and curds and honey. Wilt thou come with me?”
“Ay, marry, will I join with you all,” quoth the Tinker, “for I love a merry life, and I love thee, good master, though thou didst thwack my ribs and cheat me into the bargain. Fain am I to own thou art both a stouter and a slyer man than I; so I will obey thee and be thine own true servant.”
So all turned their steps to the forest depths, where the Tinker was to live henceforth. For many a day he sang ballads to the band, until the famous Allan a Dale joined them, before whose sweet voice all others seemed as harsh as a raven’s; but of him we will learn hereafter.
The Shooting Match at Nottingham Town
THEN THE SHERIFF was very wroth because of this failure to take jolly Robin, for it came to his ears, as ill news always does, that the people laughed at him and made a jest of his thinking to serve a warrant upon such a one as the bold outlaw. And a man hates nothing so much as being made a jest of; so he said: “Our gracious lord and sovereign King himself shall know of this, and how his laws are perverted and despised by this band of rebel outlaws. As for yon traitor Tinker, him will I hang, if I catch him, upon the very highest gallows tree in all Nottinghamshire.”
Then he bade all his servants and retainers to make ready to go to London Town, to see and speak with the King.
At this there was bustling at the Sheriff’s castle, and men ran hither and thither upon this business and upon that, while the forge fires of Nottingham glowed red far into the night like twinkling stars, for all the smiths of the town were busy making or mending armor for the Sheriff’s troop of escort. For two days this labor lasted, then, on the third, all was ready for the journey. So forth they started in the bright sunlight, from Nottingham Town to Fosse Way and thence to Watling Street; and so they journeyed for two days, until they saw at last the spires and towers of great London Town; and many folks stopped, as they journeyed along, and gazed at the show they made riding along the highways with their flashing armor and gay plumes and trappings.
In London King Henry and his fair Queen Eleanor held their court, gay with ladies in silks and satins and velvets and cloth of gold, and also brave knights and gallant courtiers.
Thither came the Sheriff and was shown into the King’s presence.
“A boon, a boon,” quoth he, as he knelt upon the ground.
“Now what wouldst thou have?” said the King. “Let us hear what may be thy desires.”
“O good my Lord and Sovereign,” spake the Sheriff, “in Sherwood Forest in our own good shire of Nottingham, liveth a bold outlaw whose name is Robin Hood.”
“In good sooth,” said the King, “his doings have reached even our own royal ears. He is a saucy, rebellious varlet, yet, I am fain to own, a right merry soul withal.”
“But hearken, O my most gracious Sovereign,” said the Sheriff. “I sent a warrant to him with thine own royal seal attached, by a right lusty knave, but he beat the messenger and stole the warrant. And he killeth thy deer and robbeth thine own liege subjects even upon the great highways.”
“Why, how now,” quoth the King wrathfully. “What wouldst thou have me do? Comest thou not to me with a great array of men-at-arms and retainers, and yet art not able to take a single band of lusty knaves without armor on breast, in thine own county! What wouldst thou have me do? Art thou not my Sheriff? Are not my laws in force in Nottinghamshire? Canst thou not take thine own course against those that break the laws or do any injury to thee or thine? Go, get thee gone, and think well; devise some plan of thine own, but trouble me no further. But look well to it, Master Sheriff, for I will have my laws obeyed by all men within my kingdom, and if thou art not able to enforce them thou art no sheriff for me. So look well to thyself, I say, or ill may befall thee as well as all the thieving knaves in Nottinghamshire. When the flood cometh it sweepeth away grain as well as chaff.”
Then the Sheriff turned away with a sore and troubled heart, and sadly he rued his fine show of retainers, for he saw that the King was angry because he had so many men about him and yet could not enforce the laws. So, as they all rode slowly back to Nottingham, the Sheriff was thoughtful and full of care. Not a word did he speak to anyone, and no one of his men spoke to him, but all the time he was busy devising some plan to take Robin Hood.
“Aha!” cried he suddenly, smiting his hand upon his thigh “I have it now! Ride on, my merry men all, and let us get back to Nottingham Town as speedily as we may. And mark well my words: before a fortnight is passed, that evil knave Robin Hood will be safely clapped into Nottingham gaol.”
But what was the Sheriff’s plan?
As a usurer takes each one of a bag of silver angels, feeling each coin to find whether it be clipped or not, so the Sheriff, as all rode slowly and sadly back toward Nottingham, took up thought after thought in turn, feeling around the edges of each but finding in every one some flaw. At last he thought of the daring soul of jolly Robin and how, as he the Sheriff knew, he often came even within the walls of Nottingham.
“Now,” thought the Sheriff, “could I but persuade Robin nigh to Nottingham Town so that I could find him, I warrant I would lay hands upon him so stoutly that he would never get away again.” Then of a sudden it came to him like a flash that were he to proclaim a great shooting match and offer some grand prize, Robin Hood might be overpersuaded by his spirit to come to the butts; and it was this thought which caused him to cry “Aha!” and smite his palm upon his thigh.
So, as soon as he had returned safely to Nottingham, he sent messengers north and south, and east and west, to proclaim through town, hamlet, and countryside, this grand shooting match, and everyone was bidden that could draw a longbow, and the prize was to be an arrow of pure beaten gold.
When Robin Hood first heard the news of this he was in Lincoln Town, and hastening back to Sherwood Forest he soon called all his merry men about him and spoke to them thus:
“Now hearken, my merry men all, to the news that I have brought from Lincoln Town today. Our friend the Sheriff of Nottingham hath proclaimed a shooting match, and hath sent messengers to tell of it through all the countryside, and the prize is to be a bright golden arrow. Now I fain would have one of us win it, both because of the fairness of the prize and because our sweet friend the Sheriff hath offered it. So we will take our bows and shafts and go there to shoot, for I know right well that merriment will be a-going. What say ye, lads?”
Then young David of Doncaster spoke up and said, “Now listen, I pray thee, good master, unto what I say. I have come straight from our friend Eadom o’ the Blue Boar, and there I heard the full news of this same match. But, master, I know from him, and he got it from the Sheriff’s man Ralph o’ the Scar, that this same knavish Sheriff hath but laid a trap for thee in this shooting match and wishes nothing so much as to see thee there. So go not, good master, for I know right well he doth seek to beguile thee, but stay within the greenwood lest we all meet dole and woe.”
“Now,” quoth Robin, “thou art a wise lad and keepest thine ears open and thy mouth shut, as becometh a wise and crafty woodsman. But shall we let it be said that the Sheriff of Nottingham did cow bold Robin Hood and sevenscore as fair archers as are in all merry England? Nay, good David, what thou tellest me maketh me to desire the prize even more than I else should do. But what sayeth our good gossip Swanthold? Is it not A hasty man burneth his mouth, and the fool that keepeth his eyes shut falleth into the pit’? Thus he says, truly, therefore we must meet guile with guile. Now some of you clothe yourselves as curtal friars, and some as rustic peasants, and some as tinkers, or as beggars, but see that each man taketh a good bow or broadsword, in case need should arise. As for myself, I will shoot for this same golden arrow, and should I win it, we will hang it to the branches of our good greenwood tree for the joy of all the band. How like you the plan, my merry men all?”
Then “Good, good!” cried all the band right heartily.
A fair sight was Nottingham Town on the day of the shooting match. All along upon the green meadow beneath the town wall stretched a row of benches, one above the other, which were for knight and lady, squire and dame, and rich burghers and their wives; for none but those of rank and quality were to sit there. At the end of the range, near the target, was a raised seat bedecked with ribbons and scarfs and garlands of flowers, for the Sheriff of Nottingham and his dame. The range was twoscore paces broad. At one end stood the target, at the other a tent of striped canvas, from the pole of which fluttered many-colored flags and streamers. In this booth were casks of ale, free to be broached by any of the archers who might wish to quench their thirst.
Across the range from where the seats for the better folk were raised was a railing to keep the poorer people from crowding in front of the target. Already, while it was early, the benches were beginning to fill with people of quality, who kept constantly arriving in little carts or upon palfreys that curveted gaily to the merry tinkle of silver bells at bridle reins. With these came also the poorer folk, who sat or lay upon the green grass near the railing that kept them from off the range. In the great tent the archers were gathering by twos and threes; some talking loudly of the fair shots each man had made in his day; some looking well to their bows, drawing a string betwixt the fingers to see that there was no fray upon it, or inspecting arrows, shutting one eye and peering down a shaft to see that it was not warped, but straight and true, for neither bow nor shaft should fail at such a time and for such a prize. And never was such a company of yeomen as were gathered at Nottingham Town that day, for the very best archers of merry England had come to this shooting match. There was Gill o’ the Red Cap, the Sheriff’s own head archer, and Diccon Cruikshank of Lincoln Town, and Adam o’ the Dell, a man of Tamworth, of threescore years and more, yet hale and lusty still, who in his time had shot in the famous match at Woodstock, and had there beaten that renowned archer, Clym o’ the Clough. And many more famous men of the longbow were there, whose names have been handed down to us in goodly ballads of the olden time.
But now all the benches were filled with guests, lord and lady, burgher and dame, when at last the Sheriff himself came with his lady, he riding with stately mien upon his milk-white horse and she upon her brown filly. Upon his head he wore a purple velvet cap, and purple velvet was his robe, all trimmed about with rich ermine; his jerkin and hose were of sea-green silk, and his shoes of black velvet, the pointed toes fastened to his garters with golden chains. A golden chain hung about his neck, and at his collar was a great carbuncle set in red gold. His lady was dressed in blue velvet, all trimmed with swan’s down. So they made a gallant sight as they rode along side by side, and all the people shouted from where they crowded across the space from the gentlefolk; so the Sheriff and his lady came to their place, where men-at-arms, with hauberk and spear, stood about, waiting for them.
Then when the Sheriff and his dame had sat down, he bade his herald wind upon his silver horn; who thereupon sounded three blasts that came echoing cheerily back from the gray walls of Nottingham. Then the archers stepped forth to their places, while all the folks shouted with a mighty voice, each man calling upon his favorite yeoman. “Red Cap!” cried some; “Cruikshank!” cried others; “Hey for William o’ Leslie!” shouted others yet again; while ladies waved silken scarfs to urge each yeoman to do his best.
Then the herald stood forth and loudly proclaimed the rules of the game as follows:
“Shoot each man from yon mark, which is sevenscore yards and ten from the target. One arrow shooteth each man first, and from all the archers shall the ten that shooteth the fairest shafts be chosen for to shoot again. Two arrows shooteth each man of these ten, then shall the three that shoot the fairest shafts be chosen for to shoot again. Three arrows shooteth each man of those three, and to him that shooteth the fairest shafts shall the prize be given.”
Then the Sheriff leaned forward, looking keenly among the press of archers to find whether Robin Hood was among them; but no one was there clad in Lincoln green, such as was worn by Robin and his band. “Nevertheless,” said the Sheriff to himself, “he may still be there, and I miss him among the crowd of other men. But let me see when but ten men shoot, for I wot he will be among the ten, or I know him not.”
And now the archers shot, each man in turn, and the good folk never saw such archery as was done that day. Six arrows were within the clout, four within the black, and only two smote the outer ring; so that when the last arrow sped and struck the target, all the people shouted aloud, for it was noble shooting.
And now but ten men were left of all those that had shot before, and of these ten, six were famous throughout the land, and most of the folk gathered there knew them. These six men were Gilbert o’ the Red Cap, Adam o’ the Dell, Diccon Cruikshank, William o’ Leslie, Hubert o’ Cloud, and Swithin o’ Hertford. Two others were yeomen of merry Yorkshire, another was a tall stranger in blue, who said he came from London Town, and the last was a tattered stranger in scarlet, who wore a patch over one eye.
“Now,” quoth the Sheriff to a man-at-arms who stood near him, “seest thou Robin Hood among those ten?”
“Nay, that do I not, Your Worship,” answered the man. “Six of them I know right well. Of those Yorkshire yeomen, one is too tall and the other too short for that bold knave. Robin’s beard is as yellow as gold, while yon tattered beggar in scarlet hath a beard of brown, besides being blind of one eye. As for the stranger in blue, Robin’s shoulders, I ween, are three inches broader than his.”
“Then,” quoth the Sheriff, smiting his thigh angrily, “yon knave is a coward as well as a rogue, and dares not show his face among good men and true.”
Then, after they had rested a short time, those ten stout men stepped forth to shoot again. Each man shot two arrows, and as they shot, not a word was spoken, but all the crowd watched with scarce a breath of sound; but when the last had shot his arrow another great shout arose, while many cast their caps aloft for joy of such marvelous shooting.
“Now by our gracious Lady fair,” quoth old Sir Amyas o’ the Dell, who, bowed with fourscore years and more, sat near the Sheriff, “ne’er saw I such archery in all my life before, yet have I seen the best hands at the longbow for threescore years and more.”
And now but three men were left of all those that had shot before. One was Gill o’ the Red Cap, one the tattered stranger in scarlet, and one Adam o’ the Dell of Tamworth Town. Then all the people called aloud, some crying, “Ho for Gilbert o’ the Red Cap!” and some, “Hey for stout Adam o’ Tamworth!” But not a single man in the crowd called upon the stranger in scarlet.
“Now, shoot thou well, Gilbert,” cried the Sheriff, “and if thine be the best shaft, fivescore broad silver pennies will I give to thee beside the prize.”
“Truly I will do my best,” quoth Gilbert right sturdily. “A man cannot do aught but his best, but that will I strive to do this day.” So saying, he drew forth a fair smooth arrow with a broad feather and fitted it deftly to the string, then drawing his bow with care he sped the shaft. Straight flew the arrow and lit fairly in the clout, a finger’s-breadth from the center. “A Gilbert, a Gilbert!” shouted all the crowd; and, “Now, by my faith,” cried the Sheriff, smiting his hands together, “that is a shrewd shot.”
Then the tattered stranger stepped forth, and all the people laughed as they saw a yellow patch that showed beneath his arm when he raised his elbow to shoot, and also to see him aim with but one eye. He drew the good yew bow quickly, and quickly loosed a shaft; so short was the time that no man could draw a breath betwixt the drawing and the shooting; yet his arrow lodged nearer the center than the other by twice the length of a barleycorn.
“Now by all the saints in Paradise!” cried the Sheriff, “that is a lovely shaft in very truth!”
Then Adam o’ the Dell shot, carefully and cautiously, and his arrow lodged close beside the stranger’s. Then after a short space they all three shot again, and once more each arrow lodged within the clout, but this time Adam o’ the Dell’s was farthest from the center, and again the tattered stranger’s shot was the best. Then, after another time of rest, they all shot for the third time. This time Gilbert took great heed to his aim, keenly measuring the distance and shooting with shrewdest care. Straight flew the arrow, and all shouted till the very flags that waved in the breeze shook with the sound, and the rooks and daws flew clamoring about the roofs of the old gray tower, for the shaft had lodged close beside the spot that marked the very center.
“Well done, Gilbert!” cried the Sheriff right joyously. “Fain am I to believe the prize is thine, and right fairly won. Now, thou ragged knave, let me see thee shoot a better shaft than that.”
Nought spake the stranger but took his place, while all was hushed, and no one spoke or even seemed to breathe, so great was the silence for wonder what he would do. Meanwhile, also, quite still stood the stranger, holding his bow in his hand, while one could count five; then he drew his trusty yew,
holding it drawn but a moment, then loosed the string. Straight flew the arrow, and so true that it smote a gray goose feather from off Gilbert’s shaft, which fell fluttering through the sunlit air as the stranger’s arrow lodged close beside his of the Red Cap, and in the very center. No one spoke a word for a while and no one shouted, but each man looked into his neighbor’s face amazedly.
“Nay,” quoth old Adam o’ the Dell presently, drawing a long breath and shaking his head as he spoke, “twoscore years and more have I shot shaft, and maybe not all times bad, but I shoot no more this day, for no man can match with yon stranger, whosoe’er he may be.” Then he thrust his shaft into his quiver, rattling, and unstrung his bow without another word.
Then the Sheriff came down from his dais and drew near, in all his silks and velvets, to where the tattered stranger stood leaning upon his stout bow, while the good folk crowded around to see the man who shot so wondrously well. “Here, good fellow,” quoth the Sheriff, “take thou the prize, and well and fairly hast thou won it, I bow. What may be thy name, and whence comest thou?”
“Men do call me Jock o’ Teviotdale, and thence am I come,” said the stranger.
“Then, by Our Lady, Jock, thou art the fairest archer that e’er mine eyes beheld, and if thou wilt join my service I will clothe thee with a better coat than that thou hast upon thy back; thou shalt eat and drink of the best, and at every Christmastide fourscore marks shall be thy wage. I trow thou drawest better bow than that same coward knave Robin Hood, that dared not show his face here this day. Say, good fellow, wilt thou join my service?”
“Nay, that will I not,” quoth the stranger roughly. “I will be mine own, and no man in all merry England shall be my master.”
“Then get thee gone, and a murrain seize thee!” cried the Sheriff, and his voice trembled with anger. “And by my faith and troth, I have a good part of a mind to have thee beaten for thine insolence!” Then he turned upon his heel and strode away.
It was a right motley company that gathered about the noble greenwood tree in Sherwood’s depths that same day. A score and more of barefoot friars were there, and some that looked like tinkers, and some that seemed to be sturdy beggars and rustic hinds; and seated upon a mossy couch was one all clad in tattered scarlet, with a patch over one eye; and in his hand he held the golden arrow that was the prize of the great shooting match. Then, amidst a noise of talking and laughter, he took the patch from off his eye and stripped away the scarlet rags from off his body and showed himself all clothed in fair Lincoln green; and quoth he, “Easy come these things away, but walnut stain cometh not so speedily from yellow hair.” Then all laughed louder than before, for it was Robin Hood himself that had won the prize from the Sheriff’s very hands.
Then all sat down to the woodland feast and talked among themselves of the merry jest that had been played upon the Sheriff, and of the adventures that had befallen each member of the band in his disguise. But when the feast was done, Robin Hood took Little John apart and said, “Truly am I vexed in my blood, for I heard the Sheriff say today, `Thou shootest better than that coward knave Robin Hood, that dared not show his face here this day.’ I would fain let him know who it was who won the golden arrow from out his hand, and also that I am no coward such as he takes me to be.”
Then Little John said, “Good master, take thou me and Will Stutely, and we will send yon fat Sheriff news of all this by a messenger such as he doth not expect.”
That day the Sheriff sat at meat in the great hall of his house at Nottingham Town. Long tables stood down the hall, at which sat men-at-arms and household servants and good stout villains,[1] in all fourscore and more. There they talked of the day’s shooting as they ate their meat and quaffed their ale. The Sheriff sat at the head of the table upon a raised seat under a canopy, and beside him sat his dame.
[1] Bond-servants.
“By my troth,” said he, “I did reckon full roundly that that knave Robin Hood would be at the game today. I did not think that he was such a coward. But who could that saucy knave be who answered me to my beard so bravely? I wonder that I did not have him beaten; but there was something about him that spoke of other things than rags and tatters.”
Then, even as he finished speaking, something fell rattling among the dishes on the table, while those that sat near started up wondering what it might be. After a while one of the men-at-arms gathered courage enough to pick it up and bring it to the Sheriff. Then everyone saw that it was a blunted gray goose shaft, with a fine scroll, about the thickness of a goose quill, tied near to its head. The Sheriff opened the scroll and glanced at it, while the veins upon his forehead swelled and his cheeks grew ruddy with rage as he read, for this was what he saw:
“Now Heaven bless Thy Grace this day Say all in sweet Sherwood For thou didst give the prize away To merry Robin Hood.”
“Whence came this?” cried the Sheriff in a mighty voice.
“Even through the window, Your Worship,” quoth the man who had handed the shaft to him.
Will Stutely Rescued by His Companions
NOW WHEN THE SHERIFF found that neither law nor guile could overcome Robin Hood, he was much perplexed, and said to himself, “Fool that I am! Had I not told our King of Robin Hood, I would not have gotten myself into such a coil; but now I must either take him captive or have wrath visited upon my head from his most gracious Majesty. I have tried law, and I have tried guile, and I have failed in both; so I will try what may be done with might.”
Thus communing within himself, he called his constables together and told them what was in his mind. “Now take ye each four men, all armed in proof,” said he, “and get ye gone to the forest, at different points, and lie in wait for this same Robin Hood. But if any constable finds too many men against him, let him sound a horn, and then let each band within hearing come with all speed and join the party that calls them. Thus, I think, shall we take this green-clad knave. Furthermore, to him that first meeteth with Robin Hood shall one hundred pounds of silver money be given, if he be brought to me dead or alive; and to him that meeteth with any of his band shall twoscore pounds be given, if such be brought to me dead or alive. So, be ye bold and be ye crafty.”
So thus they went in threescore companies of five to Sherwood Forest, to take Robin Hood, each constable wishing that he might be the one to find the bold outlaw, or at least one of his band. For seven days and nights they hunted through the forest glades, but never saw so much as a single man in Lincoln green; for tidings of all this had been brought to Robin Hood by trusty Eadom o’ the Blue Boar.
When he first heard the news, Robin said, “If the Sheriff dare send force to meet force, woe will it be for him and many a better man besides, for blood will flow and there will be great trouble for all. But fain would I shun blood and battle, and fain would I not deal sorrow to womenfolk and wives because good stout yeomen lose their lives. Once I slew a man, and never do I wish to slay a man again, for it is bitter for the soul to think thereon. So now we will abide silently in Sherwood Forest, so that it may be well for all, but should we be forced to defend ourselves, or any of our band, then let each man draw bow and brand with might and main.”
At this speech many of the band shook their heads, and said to themselves, “Now the Sheriff will think that we are cowards, and folk will scoff throughout the countryside, saying that we fear to meet these men.” But they said nothing aloud, swallowing their words and doing as Robin bade them.
Thus they hid in the depths of Sherwood Forest for seven days and seven nights and never showed their faces abroad in all that time; but early in the morning of the eighth day Robin Hood called the band together and said, “Now who will go and find what the Sheriff’s men are at by this time? For I know right well they will not bide forever within Sherwood shades.”
At this a great shout arose, and each man waved his bow aloft and cried that he might be the one to go. Then Robin Hood’s heart was proud when he looked around on his stout, brave fellows, and he said, “Brave and true are ye all, my merry men, and a right stout band of good fellows are ye, but ye cannot all go, so I will choose one from among you, and it shall be good Will Stutely, for he is as sly as e’er an old dog fox in Sherwood Forest.”
Then Will Stutely leaped high aloft and laughed loudly, clapping his hands for pure joy that he should have been chosen from among them all. “Now thanks, good master,” quoth he, “and if I bring not news of those knaves to thee, call me no more thy sly Will Stutely.”
Then he clad himself in a friar’s gown, and underneath the robe he hung a good broadsword in such a place that he could easily lay hands upon it. Thus clad, he set forth upon his quest, until he came to the verge of the forest, and so to the highway. He saw two bands of the Sheriff’s men, yet he turned neither to the right nor the left, but only drew his cowl the closer over his face, folding his hands as if in meditation. So at last he came to the Sign of the Blue Boar. “For,” quoth he to himself, “our good friend Eadom will tell me all the news.”
At the Sign of the Blue Boar he found a band of the Sheriffs men drinking right lustily; so, without speaking to anyone, he sat down upon a distant bench, his staff in his hand, and his head bowed forward as though he were meditating. Thus he sat waiting until he might see the landlord apart, and Eadom did not know him, but thought him to be some poor tired friar, so he let him sit without saying a word to him or molesting him, though he liked not the cloth. “For,” said he to himself, “it is a hard heart that kicks the lame dog from off the sill.” As Stutely sat thus, there came a great house cat and rubbed against his knee, raising his robe a palm’s-breadth high. Stutely pushed his robe quickly down again, but the constable who commanded the Sheriffs men saw what had passed, and saw also fair Lincoln green beneath the friar’s robe. He said nothing at the time, but communed within himself in this wise: “Yon is no friar of orders gray, and also, I wot, no honest yeoman goeth about in priest’s garb, nor doth a thief go so for nought. Now I think in good sooth that is one of Robin Hood’s own men.” So, presently, he said aloud, “O holy father, wilt thou not take a good pot of March beer to slake thy thirsty soul withal?”
But Stutely shook his head silently, for he said to himself, “Maybe there be those here who know my voice.”
Then the constable said again, “Whither goest thou, holy friar, upon this hot summer’s day?”
“I go a pilgrim to Canterbury Town,” answered Will Stutely, speaking gruffly, so that none might know his voice.
Then the constable said, for the third time, “Now tell me, holy father, do pilgrims to Canterbury wear good Lincoln green beneath their robes? Ha! By my faith, I take thee to be some lusty thief, and perhaps one of Robin Hood’s own band! Now, by Our Lady’s grace, if thou movest hand or foot, I will run thee through the body with my sword!”
Then he flashed forth his bright sword and leaped upon Will Stutely, thinking he would take him unaware; but Stutely had his own sword tightly held in his hand, beneath his robe, so he drew it forth before the constable came upon him. Then the stout constable struck a mighty blow; but he struck no more in all that fight, for Stutely, parrying the blow right deftly, smote the constable back again with all his might. Then he would have escaped, but could not, for the other, all dizzy with the wound and with the flowing blood, seized him by the knees with his arms even as he reeled and fell. Then the others rushed upon him, and Stutely struck again at another of the Sheriff’s men, but the steel cap glanced the blow, and though the blade bit deep, it did not kill. Meanwhile, the constable, fainting as he was, drew Stutely downward, and the others, seeing the yeoman hampered so, rushed upon him again, and one smote him a blow upon the crown so that the blood ran down his face and blinded him. Then, staggering, he fell, and all sprang upon him, though he struggled so manfully that they could hardly hold him fast. Then they bound him with stout hempen cords so that he could not move either hand or foot, and thus they overcame him.
Robin Hood stood under the greenwood tree, thinking of Will Stutely and how he might be faring, when suddenly he saw two of his stout yeomen come running down the forest path, and betwixt them ran buxom Maken of the Blue Boar. Then Robin’s heart fell, for he knew they were the bearers of ill tidings.
“Will Stutely hath been taken,” cried they, when they had come to where he stood.
“And is it thou that hast brought such doleful news?” said Robin to the lass.
“Ay, marry, for I saw it all,” cried she, panting as the hare pants when it has escaped the hounds, “and I fear he is wounded sore, for one smote him main shrewdly i’ the crown. They have bound him and taken him to Nottingham Town, and ere I left the Blue Boar I heard that he should be hanged tomorrow day.”
“He shall not be hanged tomorrow day,” cried Robin; “or, if he be, full many a one shall gnaw the sod, and many shall have cause to cry Alack-a-day!”
Then he clapped his horn to his lips and blew three blasts right loudly, and presently his good yeomen came running through the greenwood until sevenscore bold blades were gathered around him.
“Now hark you all!” cried Robin. “Our dear companion Will Stutely hath been taken by that vile Sheriff’s men, therefore doth it behoove us to take bow and brand in hand to bring him off again; for I wot that we ought to risk life and limb for him, as he hath risked life and limb for us. Is it not so, my merry men all?” Then all cried, “Ay!” with a great voice.
So the next day they all wended their way from Sherwood Forest, but by different paths, for it behooved them to be very crafty; so the band separated into parties of twos and threes, which were all to meet again in a tangled dell that lay near to Nottingham Town. Then, when they had all gathered together at the place of meeting, Robin spoke to them thus:
“Now we will lie here in ambush until we can get news, for it doth behoove us to be cunning and wary if we would bring our friend Will Stutely off from the Sheriff’s clutches.”
So they lay hidden a long time, until the sun stood high in the sky. The day was warm and the dusty road was bare of travelers, except an aged palmer who walked slowly along the highroad that led close beside the gray castle wall of Nottingham Town. When Robin saw that no other wayfarer was within sight, he called young David of Doncaster, who was a shrewd man for his years, and said to him, “Now get thee forth, young David, and speak to yonder palmer that walks beside the town wall, for he hath come but now from Nottingham Town, and may tell thee news of good Stutely, perchance.”
So David strode forth, and when he came up to the pilgrim, he saluted him and said, “Good morrow, holy father, and canst thou tell me when Will Stutely will be hanged upon the gallows tree? I fain would not miss the sight, for I have come from afar to see so sturdy a rogue hanged.”
“Now, out upon thee, young man,” cried the Palmer, “that thou shouldst speak so when a good stout man is to be hanged for nothing but guarding his own life!” And he struck his staff upon the ground in anger. “Alas, say I, that this thing should be! For even this day, toward evening, when the sun falleth low, he shall be hanged, fourscore rods from the great town gate of Nottingham, where three roads meet; for there the Sheriff sweareth he shall die as a warning to all outlaws in Nottinghamshire. But yet, I say again, Alas! For, though Robin Hood and his band may be outlaws, yet he taketh only from the rich and the strong and the dishonest man, while there is not a poor widow nor a peasant with many children, nigh to Sherwood, but has barley flour enough all the year long through him. It grieves my heart to see one as gallant as this Stutely die, for I have been a good Saxon yeoman in my day, ere I turned palmer, and well I know a stout hand and one that smiteth shrewdly at a cruel Norman or a proud abbot with fat moneybags. Had good Stutely’s master but known how his man was compassed about with perils, perchance he might send succor to bring him out of the hand of his enemies.
“Ay, marry, that is true,” cried the young man. “If Robin and his men be nigh this place, I wot right well they will strive to bring him forth from his peril. But fare thee well, thou good old man, and believe me, if Will Stutely die, he shall be right well avenged.”
Then he turned and strode rapidly away; but the Palmer looked after him, muttering, “I wot that youth is no country hind that hath come to see a good man die. Well, well, perchance Robin Hood is not so far away but that there will be stout doings this day.” So he went upon his way, muttering to himself.
When David of Doncaster told Robin Hood what the Palmer had said to him, Robin called the band around him and spoke to them thus:
“Now let us get straightway into Nottingham Town and mix ourselves with the people there; but keep ye one another in sight, pressing as near the prisoner and his guards as ye can, when they come outside the walls. Strike no man without need, for I would fain avoid bloodshed, but if ye do strike, strike hard, and see that there be no need to strike again. Then keep all together until we come again to Sherwood, and let no man leave his fellows.”
The sun was low in the western sky when a bugle note sounded from the castle wall. Then all was bustle in Nottingham Town and crowds filled the streets, for all knew that the famous Will Stutely was to be hanged that day. Presently the castle gates opened wide and a great array of men-at-arms came forth with noise and clatter, the Sheriff, all clad in shining mail of linked chain, riding at their head. In the midst of all the guard, in a cart, with a halter about his neck, rode Will Stutely. His face was pale with his wound and with loss of blood, like the moon in broad daylight, and his fair hair was clotted in points upon his forehead, where the blood had hardened. When he came forth from the castle he looked up and he looked down, but though he saw some faces that showed pity and some that showed friendliness, he saw none that he knew. Then his heart sank within him like a plummet of lead, but nevertheless he spoke up boldly.
“Give a sword into my hand, Sir Sheriff,” said he, “and wounded man though I be, I will fight thee and all thy men till life and strength be gone.”
“Nay, thou naughty varlet,” quoth the Sheriff, turning his head and looking right grimly upon Will Stutely, “thou shalt have no sword but shall die a mean death, as beseemeth a vile thief like thee.”
“Then do but untie my hands and I will fight thee and thy men with no weapon but only my naked fists. I crave no weapon, but let me not be meanly hanged this day.”
Then the Sheriff laughed aloud. “Why, how now,” quoth he, “is thy proud stomach quailing? Shrive thyself, thou vile knave, for I mean that thou shalt hang this day, and that where three roads meet, so that all men shall see thee hang, for carrion crows and daws to peck at.”
“O thou dastard heart!” cried Will Stutely, gnashing his teeth at the Sheriff. “Thou coward hind! If ever my good master meet thee thou shalt pay dearly for this day’s work! He doth scorn thee, and so do all brave hearts. Knowest thou not that thou and thy name are jests upon the lips of every brave yeoman? Such a one as thou art, thou wretched craven, will never be able to subdue bold Robin Hood.”
“Ha!” cried the Sheriff in a rage, “is it even so? Am I a jest with thy master, as thou callest him? Now I will make a jest of thee and a sorry jest withal, for I will quarter thee limb from limb, after thou art hanged.” Then he spurred his horse forward and said no more to Stutely.
At last they came to the great town gate, through which Stutely saw the fair country beyond, with hills and dales all clothed in verdure, and far away the dusky line of Sherwood’s skirts. Then when he saw the slanting sunlight lying on field and fallow, shining redly here and there on cot and farmhouse, and when he heard the sweet birds singing their vespers, and the sheep bleating upon the hillside, and beheld the swallows flying in the bright air, there came a great fullness to his heart so that all things blurred to his sight through salt tears, and he bowed his head lest the folk should think him unmanly when they saw the tears in his eyes. Thus he kept his head bowed till they had passed through the gate and were outside the walls of the town. But when he looked up again he felt his heart leap within him and then stand still for pure joy, for he saw the face of one of his own dear companions of merry Sherwood; then glancing quickly around he saw well-known faces upon all sides of him, crowding closely upon the men-at-arms who were guarding him. Then of a sudden the blood sprang to his cheeks, for he saw for a moment his own good master in the press and, seeing him, knew that Robin Hood and all his band were there. Yet betwixt him and them was a line of men-at-arms.
“Now, stand back!” cried the Sheriff in a mighty voice, for the crowd pressed around on all sides. “What mean ye, varlets, that ye push upon us so? Stand back, I say!”
Then came a bustle and a noise, and one strove to push between the men-at-arms so as to reach the cart, and Stutely saw that it was Little John that made all that stir.
“Now stand thou back!” cried one of the men-at-arms whom Little John pushed with his elbows.
“Now stand thou back thine own self,” quoth Little John, and straightway smote the man a buffet beside his head that felled him as a butcher fells an ox, and then he leaped to the cart where Stutely sat.
“I pray thee take leave of thy friends ere thou diest, Will,” quoth he, “or maybe I will die with thee if thou must die, for I could never have better company.” Then with one stroke he cut the bonds that bound the other’s arms and legs, and Stutely leaped straightway from the cart.
“Now as I live,” cried the Sheriff, “yon varlet I know right well is a sturdy rebel! Take him, I bid you all, and let him not go!”
So saying, he spurred his horse upon Little John, and rising in his stirrups smote with might and main, but Little John ducked quickly underneath the horse’s belly and the blow whistled harmlessly over his head.
“Nay, good Sir Sheriff,” cried he, leaping up again when the blow had passed, “I must e’en borrow thy most worshipful sword.” Thereupon he twitched the weapon deftly from out the Sheriff’s hand, “Here, Stutely,” he cried, “the Sheriff hath lent thee his sword! Back to back with me, man, and defend thyself, for help is nigh!”
“Down with them!” bellowed the Sheriff in a voice like an angry bull; and he spurred his horse upon the two who now stood back to back, forgetting in his rage that he had no weapon with which to defend himself.
“Stand back, Sheriff!” cried Little John; and even as he spoke, a bugle horn sounded shrilly and a clothyard shaft whistled within an inch of the Sheriff’s head. Then came a swaying hither and thither, and oaths, cries, and groans, and clashing of steel, and swords flashed in the setting sun, and a score of arrows whistled through the air. And some cried, “Help, help!” and some, “A rescue, a rescue!”
“Treason!” cried the Sheriff in a loud voice. “Bear back! Bear back! Else we be all dead men!” Thereupon he reined his horse backward through the thickest of the crowd.
Now Robin Hood and his band might have slain half of the Sheriff’s men had they desired to do so, but they let them push out of the press and get them gone, only sending a bunch of arrows after them to hurry them in their flight.
“Oh stay!” shouted Will Stutely after the Sheriff. “Thou wilt never catch bold Robin Hood if thou dost not stand to meet him face to face.” But the Sheriff, bowing along his horse’s back, made no answer but only spurred the faster.
Then Will Stutely turned to Little John and looked him in the face till the tears ran down from his eyes and he wept aloud; and kissing his friend’s cheeks, “O Little John!” quoth he, “mine own true friend, and he that I love better than man or woman in all the world beside! Little did I reckon to see thy face this day, or to meet thee this side Paradise.” Little John could make no answer, but wept also.
Then Robin Hood gathered his band together in a close rank, with Will Stutely in the midst, and thus they moved slowly away toward Sherwood, and were gone, as a storm cloud moves away from the spot where a tempest has swept the land. But they left ten of the Sheriff’s men lying along the ground wounded– some more, some less–yet no one knew who smote them down.
Thus the Sheriff of Nottingham tried thrice to take Robin Hood and failed each time; and the last time he was frightened, for he felt how near he had come to losing his life; so he said, “These men fear neither God nor man, nor king nor king’s officers. I would sooner lose mine office than my life, so I will trouble them no more.” So he kept close within his castle for many a day and dared not show his face outside of his own household, and all the time he was gloomy and would speak to no one, for he was ashamed of what had happened that day.
Robin Hood Turns Butcher
NOW AFTER all these things had happened, and it became known to Robin Hood how the Sheriff had tried three times to make him captive, he said to himself, “If I have the chance, I will make our worshipful Sheriff pay right well for that which he hath done to me. Maybe I may bring him some time into Sherwood Forest and have him to a right merry feast with us.” For when Robin Hood caught a baron or a squire, or a fat abbot or bishop, he brought them to the greenwood tree and feasted them before he lightened their purses.
But in the meantime Robin Hood and his band lived quietly in Sherwood Forest, without showing their faces abroad, for Robin knew that it would not be wise for him to be seen in the neighborhood of Nottingham, those in authority being very wroth with him. But though they did not go abroad, they lived a merry life within the woodlands, spending the days in shooting at garlands hung upon a willow wand at the end of the glade, the leafy aisles ringing with merry jests and laughter: for whoever missed the garland was given a sound buffet, which, if delivered by Little John, never failed to topple over the unfortunate yeoman. Then they had bouts of wrestling and of cudgel play, so that every day they gained in skill and strength.
Thus they dwelled for nearly a year, and in that time Robin Hood often turned over in his mind many means of making an even score with the Sheriff. At last he began to fret at his confinement; so one day he took up his stout cudgel and set forth to seek adventure, strolling blithely along until he came to the edge of Sherwood. There, as he rambled along the sunlit road, he met a lusty young butcher driving a fine mare and riding in a stout new cart, all hung about with meat. Merrily whistled the Butcher as he jogged along, for he was going to the market, and the day was fresh and sweet, making his heart blithe within him.
“Good morrow to thee, jolly fellow,” quoth Robin, “thou seemest happy this merry morn.”
“Ay, that am I,” quoth the jolly Butcher, “and why should I not be so? Am I not hale in wind and limb? Have I not the bonniest lass in all Nottinghamshire? And lastly, am I not to be married to her on Thursday next in sweet Locksley Town?”
“Ha,” said Robin, “comest thou from Locksley Town? Well do I know that fair place for miles about, and well do I know each hedgerow and gentle pebbly stream, and even all the bright little fishes therein, for there I was born and bred. Now, where goest thou with thy meat, my fair friend?”
“I go to the market at Nottingham Town to sell my beef and my mutton,” answered the Butcher. “But who art thou that comest from Locksley Town?”
“A yeoman am I, and men do call me Robin Hood.”
“Now, by Our Lady’s grace,” cried the Butcher, “well do I know thy name, and many a time have I heard thy deeds both sung and spoken of. But Heaven forbid that thou shouldst take aught of me! An honest man am I, and have wronged neither man nor maid; so trouble me not, good master, as I have never troubled thee.”
“Nay, Heaven forbid, indeed,” quoth Robin, “that I should take from such as thee, jolly fellow! Not so much as one farthing would I take from thee, for I love a fair Saxon face like thine right well– more especially when it cometh from Locksley Town, and most especially when the man that owneth it is to marry a bonny lass on Thursday next. But come, tell me for what price thou wilt sell me all of thy meat and thy horse and cart.”
“At four marks do I value meat, cart, and mare,” quoth the Butcher, “but if I do not sell all my meat I will not have four marks in value.”
Then Robin Hood plucked the purse from his girdle, and quoth he, “Here in this purse are six marks. Now, I would fain be a butcher for the day and sell my meat in Nottingham Town. Wilt thou close a bargain with me and take six marks for thine outfit?”
“Now may the blessings of all the saints fall on thine honest head!” cried the Butcher right joyfully, as he leaped down from his cart and took the purse that Robin held out to him.
“Nay,” quoth Robin, laughing loudly, “many do like me and wish me well, but few call me honest. Now get thee gone back to thy lass, and give her a sweet kiss from me.” So saying, he donned the Butcher’s apron, and, climbing into the cart, he took the reins in his hand and drove off through the forest to Nottingham Town.
When he came to Nottingham, he entered that part of the market where butchers stood, and took up his inn[2] in the best place he could find. Next, he opened his stall and spread his meat upon the bench, then, taking his cleaver and steel and clattering
