The youngster was clothed in scarlet redIn scarlet fine and gay;And he did frisk it o’er the plain,And chanted a roundelay.
One fine morning, soon after the proud Sheriff had been brought to grief, Robin Hood and Little John went strolling down a path through the wood. It was not far from the foot—bridge where they had fought their memorable battle; and by common impulse they directed their steps to the brook to quench their thirst and rest them in the cool bushes. The morning gave promise of a hot day. The road even by the brook was dusty. So the cooling stream was very pleasing and grateful to their senses.
On each side of them, beyond the dusty highway, stretched out broad fields of tender young corn. On the yon side of the fields uprose the sturdy oaks and beeches and ashes of the forest; while at their feet modest violets peeped out shyly and greeted the loiterers with an odor which made the heart glad. Over on the far side of the brook in a tiny bay floated three lily-pads; and from amid some clover blossoms on the bank an industrious bee rose with the hum of busy contentment. It was a day so brimful of quiet joy that the two friends lay flat on their backs gazing up at the scurrying clouds, and neither caring to break the silence.
Presently they heard some one coming up the road whistling gaily, as though he owned the whole world and ‘twas but made to whistle in. Anon he chanted a roundelay with a merry note.
“By my troth, a gay bird!” quoth Robin, raising up on his elbow. “Let us lie still, and trust that his purse is not as light as his heart.”
So they lay still, and in a minute more up came a smart stranger dressed in scarlet and silk and wearing a jaunty hat with a curling cock feather in it. His whole costume was of scarlet, from the feather to the silk hosen on his legs. A goodly sword hung at his side, its scabbard all embossed with tilting knights and weeping ladies. His hair was long and yellow and hung clustering about his shoulders, for all the world like a schoolgirl’s; and he bore himself with as mincing a gait as the pertest of them.
Little John clucked his teeth drolly at this sight. “By my troth, a gay bird!” he said echoing the other’s words—then added, “But not so bad a build for all his prettiness. Look you, those calves and thighs are well rounded and straight. The arms, for all that gold-wrought cloak, hang stoutly from full shoulders. I warrant you the fop can use his dainty sword right well on occasion.”
“Nay,” retorted Robin, “he is naught but a ladies’ man from court. My long-bow ‘gainst a plugged shilling that he would run and bellow lustily at sight of a quarter-staff. Stay you behind this bush and I will soon get some rare sport out of him. Belike his silk purse may contain more pennies than the law allows to one man in Sherwood or Barnesdale.”
So saying Robin Hood stepped forth briskly from the covert and planted himself in the way of the scarlet stranger. The latter had walked so slowly that he was scarce come to their resting-place; and now on beholding Robin he neither slackened nor quickened his pace but sauntered idly straight ahead, looking to the right and to the left, with the finest air in the world, but never once at Robin.
“Hold!” quoth the outlaw. “What mean ye by running thus over a wayfarer, rough shod?”
“Wherefore should I hold, good fellow?” said the stranger in a smooth voice, and looking at Robin for the first time.
“Because I bid you to,” replied Robin.
“And who may you be?” asked the other as coolly as you please.
“What my name is matters not,” said Robin; “but know that I am a public tax-gatherer and equalizer of shillings. If your purse have more than a just number of shillings or pence, I must e’en lighten it somewhat; for there are many worthy people round about these borders who have less than the just amount. Wherefore, sweet gentleman, I pray you hand over your purse without more ado, that I may judge of its weight in proper fashion.”
The other smiled as sweetly as though a lady were paying him a compliment.
“You are a droll fellow,” he said calmly. “Your speech amuses me mightily. Pray continue, if you have not done, for I am in no hurry this morning.”
“I have said all with my tongue that is needful,” retorted Robin, beginning to grow red under the collar. “Nathless, I have other arguments which may not be so pleasing to your dainty skin. Prithee, stand and deliver. I promise to deal fairly with the purse.”
“Alack-a-day!” said the stranger with a little shrug of his shoulders; “I am deeply sorrowful that I cannot show my purse to every rough lout that asks to see it. But I really could not, as I have further need of it myself and every farthing it contains. Wherefore, pray stand aside.”
“Nay that will I not! and ‘twill go the harder with you if you do not yield at once.”
“Good fellow,” said the other gently, “have I not heard all your speech with patience? Now that is all I promised to do. My conscience is salved and I must go on my way. To-rol-o-rol-e-loo!” he caroled, making as though to depart.
“Hold, I say!” quoth Robin hotly; for he knew how Little John must be chuckling at this from behind the bushes. “Hold I say, else I shall have to bloody those fair locks of yours!” And he swung his quarter-staff threateningly.
“Alas!” moaned the stranger shaking his head. “The pity of it all! Now I shall have to run this fellow through with my sword! And I hoped to be a peaceable man henceforth!” And sighing deeply he drew his shining blade and stood on guard.
“Put by your weapon,” said Robin. “It is too pretty a piece of steel to get cracked with common oak cudgel; and that is what would happen on the first pass I made at you. Get you a stick like mine out of yon undergrowth, and we will fight fairly, man to man.”
The stranger thought a moment with his usual slowness, and eyed Robin from head to foot. Then he unbuckled his scabbard, laid it and the sword aside, and walked deliberately over to the oak thicket. Choosing from among the shoots and saplings he found a stout little tree to his liking, when he laid hold of it, without stopping to cut it, and gave a tug. Up it came root and all, as though it were a stalk of corn, and the stranger walked back trimming it as quietly as though pulling up trees were the easiest thing in the world.
Little John from his hiding-place saw the feat, and could hardly restrain a long whistle. “By our Lady!” he muttered to himself, “I would not be in Master Robin’s boots!”
Whatever Robin thought upon seeing the stranger’s strength, he uttered not a word and budged not an inch. He only put his oak staff at parry as the other took his stand.
There was a threefold surprise that day, by the brookside. The stranger and Robin and Little John in the bushes all found a combat that upset all reckoning. The stranger for all his easy strength and cool nerve found an antagonist who met his blows with the skill of a woodman. Robin found the stranger as hard to hit as though fenced in by an oak hedge. While Little John rolled over and over in silent joy.
Back and forth swayed the fighters, their cudgels pounding this way and that, knocking off splinters and bark, and threatening direst damage to bone and muscle and skin. Back and forth they pranced kicking up a cloud of dust and gasping for fresh air. From a little way off you would have vowed that these two men were trying to put out a fire, so thickly hung the cloud of battle over them. Thrice did Robin smite the scarlet man—with such blows that a less stout fellow must have bowled over. Only twice did the scarlet man smite Robin, but the second blow was like to finish him. The first had been delivered over the knuckles, and though ‘twas a glancing stroke it well nigh broke Robin’s fingers, so that he could not easily raise his staff again. And while he was dancing about in pain and muttering a dust-covered oath, the other’s staff came swinging through the cloud at one side—zip!—and struck him under the arm. Down went Robin as though he were a nine-pin—flat down into the dust of the road. But despite the pain he was bounding up again like an India rubber man to renew the attack, when Little John interfered.
“Hold!” said he, bursting out of the bushes and seizing the stranger’s weapon. “Hold, I say!”
“Nay,” retorted the stranger quietly, “I was not offering to smite him while he was down. But if there be a whole nest of you hatching here by the waterside, cluck out the other chicks and I’ll make shift to fight them all.”
“Not for all the deer in Sherwood!” cried Robin. “You are a good fellow and a gentleman. I’ll fight no more with you, for verily I feel sore in wrist and body. Nor shall any of mine molest you henceforth.”
Sooth to say, Robin did not look in good fighting trim. His clothes were coated with dirt, one of his hosen had slipped halfway down from his knee, the sleeve of his jerkin was split, and his face was streaked with sweat and dirt. Little John eyed him drolly.
“How now, good master,” quoth he, “the sport you were to kick up has left you in sorry plight. Let me dust your coat for you.”
“Marry, it has been dusted enough already,” replied Robin; “and I now believe the Scripture saying that all men are but dust, for it has sifted me through and through and lined my gullet an inch deep. By your leave”—and he went to the brookside and drank deep and laved his face and hands.
All this while the stranger had been eyeing Robin attentively and listening to his voice as though striving to recall it.
“If I mistake not,” he said slowly at last, “you are that famous outlaw, Robin Hood of Barnesdale.”
“You say right,” replied Robin; “but my fame has been tumbling sadly about in the dust to-day.”
“Now why did I not know you at once?” continued the stranger. “This battle need not have happened, for I came abroad to find you to-day, and thought to have remembered your face and speech. Know you not me, Rob, my lad? Hast ever been to Gamewell Lodge?”
“Ha! Will Gamewell! my dear old chum, Will Gamewell!” shouted Robin, throwing his arms about the other in sheer affection. “What an ass I was not to recognize you! But it has been years since we parted, and your gentle schooling has polished you off mightily.”
Will embraced his cousin no less heartily.
“We are quits on not knowing kinsmen,” he said, “for you have changed and strengthened much from the stripling with whom I used to run foot races in old Sherwood.”
“But why seek you me?” asked Robin. “You know I am an outlaw and dangerous company. And how left you mine uncle? and have you heard aught of late of—of Maid Marian?”
“Your last question first,” answered Will, laughing, “for I perceive that it lies nearest your heart. I saw Maid Marian not many weeks after the great shooting at Nottingham, when you won her the golden arrow. She prizes the bauble among her dearest possessions, though it has made her an enemy in the Sheriff’s proud daughter. Maid Marian bade me tell you, if I ever saw you, that she must return to Queen Eleanor’s court, but she could never forget the happy days in the greenwood. As for the old Squire, he is still hale and hearty, though rheumatic withal. He speaks of you as a sad young dog, but for all that is secretly proud of your skill at the bow and of the way you are pestering the Sheriff, whom he likes not. ‘Twas for my father’s sake that I am now in the open, an outlaw like yourself. He has had a steward, a surly fellow enough, who, while I was away at school, boot-licked his way to favor until he lorded it over the whole house. Then he grew right saucy and impudent, but my father minded it not, deeming the fellow indispensable in managing the estate. But when I came back it irked me sorely to see the fellow strut about as though he owned the place. He was sly enough with me at first, and would brow-beat the Squire only while I was out of earshot. It chanced one day, however, that I heard loud voices through an open window and paused to hearken. That vile servant called my father ‘a meddling old fool,’ ‘Fool and meddler art thou thyself, varlet,’ I shouted, springing through the window, ‘thatfor thy impudence!’ and in my heat I smote him a blow mightier than I intended, for I have some strength in mine arm. The fellow rolled over and never breathed afterwards, I think I broke his neck or something the like. Then I knew that the Sheriff would use this as a pretext to hound my father, if I tarried. So I bade the Squire farewell and told him I would seek you in Sherwood.”
“Now by my halidom!” said Robin Hood; “for a man escaping the law, you took it about as coolly as one could wish. To see you come tripping along decked out in all your gay plumage and trolling forth a roundelay, one would think you had not a care in all the world. Indeed I remarked to Little John here that I hoped your purse was not as light as your heart.”
“Belike you meanthead,” laughed Will; “and is this Little John the Great? Shake hands with me, an you will, and promise me to cross a staff with me in friendly bout some day in the forest!”
“That will I!” quoth Little John heartily. “Here’s my hand on it. What is your last name again, say you?”
“‘Tis to be changed,” interposed Robin; “then shall the men armed with warrants go hang for all of us. Let me bethink myself. Ah!—I have it! In scarlet he came to us, and that shall be his name henceforth. Welcome to the greenwood, Will Scarlet!”
“Aye, welcome, Will Scarlet!” said Little John; and they all clasped hands again and swore to be true each to the other and to Robin Hood’s men in Sherwood Forest.
The friar took Robin Hood on his back,Deep water he did bestride,And spake neither good word nor bad,Till he came at the other side.
In summer time when leaves grow green, and flowers are fresh and gay, Robin Hood and his merry men were all disposed to play. Thus runs a quaint old ballad which begins the next adventure. Then some would leap and some would run and some try archery and some ply the quarter-staff and some fall to with the good broad sword. Some again would try a round at buffet and fisticuff; and thus by every variety of sport and exercise they perfected themselves in skill and made the band and its prowess well known throughout all England.
It had been a custom of Robin Hood’s to pick out the best men in all the countryside. Whenever he heard of one more than usually skilled in any feat of arms he would seek the man and test him in personal encounter—which did not always end happily for Robin. And when he had found a man to his liking he offered him service with the bold fellows of Sherwood Forest.
Thus it came about that one day after a practice at shooting, in which Little John struck down a hart at five hundred feet distance, Robin Hood was fain to boast.
“God’s blessing on your heart!” he cried, clapping the burly fellow on the shoulder; “I would travel an hundred miles to find one who could match you!”
At this Will Scarlet laughed full roundly.
“There lives a curtall friar in Fountain’s Abbey—Tuck, by name—who can beat both him and you,” he said.
Robin pricked up his ears at this free speech.
“By our Lady,” he said, “I’ll neither eat nor drink till I see this same friar.”
And with his usual impetuosity he at once set about arming himself for the adventure. On his head he placed a cap of steel. Underneath his Lincoln green he wore a coat of chain metal. Then with sword and buckler girded at his side he made a goodly show. But he also took with him his stout yew bow and a sheaf of chosen arrows.
So he set forth upon his way with blithe heart; for it was a day when the whole face of the earth seemed glad and rejoicing in pulsing life. Steadily he pressed forward by winding ways till he came to a green broad pasture land at whose edge flowed a stream dipping in and out among the willows and rushes on the banks. A pleasant stream it was, but it flowed calmly as though of some depth in the middle. Robin did not fancy getting his feet wet, or his fine suit of mail rusted, so he paused on the hither bank to rest and take his bearings.
As he sat down quietly under the shade of a drooping willow he heard snatches of a jovial song floating to him from the farther side; then came a sound of two men’s voices arguing. One was upholding the merits of hasty pudding and the other stood out stoutly for meat pie, “especially”—quoth this one—“when flavored with young onions!”
“Gramercy!” muttered Robin to himself, “that is a tantalizing speech to a hungry man! But, odds bodikins! did ever two men talk more alike than those two fellows yonder!”
In truth Robin could well marvel at the speech, for the voices were curiously alike.
Presently the willows parted on the other bank, and Robin could hardly forebear laughing out right. His mystery was explained. It was not two men who had done all this singing and talking, but one—and that one a stout curtall friar who wore a long cloak over his portly frame, tied with a cord in the middle. On his head was a knight’s helmet, and in his hand was a no more warlike weapon than a huge pasty pie, with which he sat down by the water’s edge. His twofold argument was finished. The meat pie had triumphed; and no wonder! for it was the present witness, soon to give its own testimony.
But first the friar took off his helmet to cool his head, and a droll picture he made. His head was as round as an apple, and eke as smooth in spots. A fringe of close curling black hair grew round the base of his skull, but his crown was bare and shiny as an egg. His cheeks also were smooth and red and shiny; and his little gray eyes danced about with the funniest air imaginable. You would not have blamed Robin Hood for wanting to laugh, had you heard this serious two-faced talk and then seen this jovial one-faced man. Good humor and fat living stood out all over him; yet for all that he looked stout enough and able to take care of himself with any man. His short neck was thick like that of a Berkshire bull; his shoulders were set far back, and his arms sprouted therefrom like two oak limbs. As he sat him down, the cloak fell apart disclosing a sword and buckler as stout as Robin’s own.
Nathless, Robin was not dismayed at sight of the weapons. Instead, his heart fell within him when he saw the meat pie which was now in fair way to be devoured before his very eyes; for the friar lost no time in thrusting one hand deep into the pie, while he crossed himself with the other.
Thereupon Robin seized his bow and fitted a shaft.
“Hey, friar!” he sang out, “carry me over the water, or else I cannot answer for your safety.”
The other started at the unexpected greeting, and laid his hand upon his sword. Then he looked up and beheld Robin’s arrow pointing full upon him.
“Put down your bow, fellow,” he shouted back, “and I will bring you over the brook. ‘Tis our duty in life to help each other, and your keen shaft shows me that you are a man worthy of some attention.” So the friar knight got him up gravely, though his eyes twinkled with a cunning light, and laid aside his beloved pie and his cloak and his sword and his buckler, and waded across the stream with waddling dignity. Then he took Robin Hood upon his back and spoke neither good word nor bad till he came to the other side.
Lightly leaped Robin off his back, and said, “I am much beholden to you, good father.”
“Beholden, say you!” rejoined the other drawing his sword; “then by my faith you shall e’en repay your score. Now mine own affairs, which are of a spiritual kind and much more important than yours which are carnal, lie on the other side of this stream. I see that you are a likely man and one, moreover, who would not refuse to serve the church. I must therefore pray of you that whatsoever I have done unto you, you will do also unto me. In short, my son, you must e’en carry me back again.”
Courteously enough was this said; but so suddenly had the friar drawn his sword that Robin had no time to unsling his bow from his back, whither he had placed it to avoid getting it wet, or to unfasten his scabbard. So he was fain to temporize.
“Nay, good father, but I shall get my feet wet,” he commenced.
“Are your feet any better than mine?” retorted the other. “I fear me now that I have already wetted myself so sadly as to lay in a store of rheumatic pains by way of penance.”
“I am not so strong as you,” continued Robin; “that helmet and sword and buckler would be my undoing on the uncertain footing amidstream, to say nothing of your holy flesh and bones.”
“Then I will lighten up, somewhat,” replied the other calmly. “Promise to carry me across and I will lay aside my war gear.”
“Agreed,” said Robin; and the friar thereupon stripped himself; and Robin bent his stout back and took him up even as he had promised.
Now the stones at the bottom of the stream were round and slippery, and the current swept along strongly, waist-deep, in the middle. More-over Robin had a heavier load than the other had borne, nor did he know the ford. So he went stumbling along now stepping into a deep hole, now stumbling over a boulder in a manner that threatened to unseat his rider or plunge them both clear under current. But the fat friar hung on and dug his heels into his steed’s ribs in as gallant manner as if he were riding in a tournament; while as for poor Robin the sweat ran down him in torrents and he gasped like the winded horse he was. But at last he managed to stagger out on the bank and deposit his unwieldy load.
No sooner had he set the friar down than he seized his own sword.
“Now, holy friar,” quoth he, panting and wiping the sweat from his brow, “what say the Scriptures that you quote so glibly?—Be not weary of well doing. You must carry me back again or I swear that I will make a cheese-cloth out of your jacket!”
The friar’s gray eyes once more twinkled with a cunning gleam that boded no good to Robin; but his voice was as calm and courteous as ever.
“Your wits are keen, my son,” he said; “and I see that the waters of the stream have not quenched your spirit. Once more will I bend my back to the oppressor and carry the weight of the haughty.”
So Robin mounted again in high glee, and carried his sword in his hand, and went prepared to tarry upon the other side. But while he was bethinking himself what great words to use, when he should arrive thither, he felt himself slipping from the friar’s broad back. He clutched frantically to save himself but had too round a surface to grasp, besides being hampered by his weapon. So down went he with a loud splash into the middle of the stream, where the crafty friar had conveyed him.
“There!” quoth the holy man; “choose you, choose you, my fine fellow, whether you will sink or swim!” And he gained his own bank without more ado, while Robin thrashed and spluttered about until he made shift to grasp a willow wand and thus haul himself ashore on the other side.
Then Robin’s rage waxed furious, despite his wetting, and he took his bow and his arrows and let fly one shaft after another at the worthy friar. But they rattled harmlessly off his steel buckler, while he laughed and minded them no more than if they had been hail-stones.
“Shoot on, shoot on, good fellow,” he sang out; “shoot as you have begun; if you shoot here a summer’s day, your mark I will not shun!”
So Robin shot, and passing well, till all his arrows were gone, when from very rage he began to revile him.
“You bloody villain!” shouted he, “You psalm-singing hypocrite! You reviler of good hasty pudding! Come but within reach of my sword arm, and, friar or no friar, I’ll shave your tonsure closer than ever bald-pated monk was shaven before!”
“Soft you and fair!” said the friar unconcernedly; “hard words are cheap, and you may need your wind presently. An you would like a bout with swords, meet me halfway i’ the stream.”
And with this speech the friar waded into the brook, sword in hand, where he was met halfway by the impetuous outlaw.
Thereupon began a fierce and mighty battle. Up and down, in and out, back and forth they fought. The swords flashed in the rays of the declining sun and then met with a clash that would have shivered less sturdy weapons or disarmed less sturdy wielders. Many a smart blow was landed, but each perceived that the other wore an undercoat of linked mail which might not be pierced. Nathless, their ribs ached at the force of the blows. Once and again they paused by mutual consent and caught breath and looked hard each at the other; for never had either met so stout a fellow.
Finally in a furious onset of lunge and parry Robin’s foot stepped on a rolling stone, and he went down upon his knees. But his antagonist would not take this advantage: he paused until Robin should get upon his feet.
“Now by our Lady!” cried the outlaw, using his favorite oath, “you are the fairest swordsman that I have met in many a long day. I would beg a boon of you.”
“What is it?” said the other.
“Give me leave to set my horn to my mouth and blow three blasts thereon.”
“That will I do,” said the curtall friar, “blow till your breath fails, an it please you.”
Then, says the old ballad, Robin Hood set his horn to mouth and blew mighty blasts; and half a hundred yeomen, bows bent, came raking over the lee.
“Whose men are these,” said the friar, “that come so hastily?”
“These men are mine,” said Robin Hood, feeling that his time to laugh was come at last.
Then said the friar in his turn, “A boon, a boon, the like I gave to you. Give me leave to set my fist to my mouth and whistle three blasts thereon.”
“That will I do,” said Robin, “or else I were lacking in courtesy.”
The friar set his fist to his mouth and put the horn to shame by the piercing whistles he blew; whereupon half a hundred great dogs came running and jumping so swiftly that they had reached their bank as soon as Robin Hood’s men had reached his side.
Then followed a rare foolish conflict. Stutely, Much, Little John and the other outlaws began sending their arrows whizzing toward the opposite bank; but the dogs, which were taught of the friar, dodged the missiles cleverly and ran and fetched them back again, just as the dogs of to-day catch sticks.
“I have never seen the like of this in my days!” cried Little John, amazed.
“‘Tis rank sorcery and witchcraft.”
“Take off your dogs, Friar Tuck!” shouted Will Scarlet, who had but then run up, and who now stood laughing heartily at the scene.
“Friar Tuck!” exclaimed Robin, astounded. “Are you Friar Tuck? Then am I your friend, for you are he I came to seek.”
“I am but a poor anchorite, a curtall friar,” said the other, whistling to his pack, “by name Friar Tuck of Fountain’s Dale. For seven years have I tended the Abbey here, preached o’ Sundays, and married and christened and buried folk—and fought too, if need were; and if it smacks not too much of boasting, I have not yet met the knight or trooper or yeoman that I would yield before. But yours is a stout blade. I would fain know you.”
“‘Tis Robin Hood, the outlaw, who has been assisting you at this christening,” said Will Scarlet glancing roguishly at the two opponents’ dripping garments. And at this sally the whole bad burst into a shout of laughter, in which Robin and Friar Tuck joined.
“Robin Hood!” cried the good friar presently, holding his sides; “are you indeed that famous yeoman? Then I like you well; and had I known you earlier, would have both carried you across and shared my pasty pie with you.”
“To speak soothly,” replied Robin gaily, “‘twas that same pie that led me to be rude. Now, therefore, bring it and your dogs and repair with us to the greenwood. We have need of you—with this message came I to-day to seek you. We will build you a hermitage in Sherwood Forest, and you shall keep us from evil ways. Will you not join our band?”
“Marry, that will I!” cried Friar Tuck jovially. “Once more will I cross this much beforded stream, and go with you to the good greenwood!”
“What is thy name?” then said Robin Hood,“Come tell me, without any fail!”“By the faith o’ my body,” then said the young man,“My name it is Allan-a-Dale.”
Friar Tuck and Much the miller’s son soon became right good friends over the steaming stew they jointly prepared for the merry men that evening. Tuck was mightily pleased when he found a man in the forest who could make pasties and who had cooked for no less person than the High Sheriff himself. While Much marveled at the friar’s knowledge of herbs and simples and woodland things which savored a stew greatly. So they gabbled together like two old gossips and, between them, made such a tasty mess that Robin Hood and his stout followers were like never to leave off eating. And the friar said grace too, with great unction, over the food; and Robin said Amen! and that henceforth they were always to have mass of Sundays.
So Robin walked forth into the wood that evening with his stomach full and his heart, therefore, in great contentment and love for other men. He did not stop the first passer-by, as his manner often was, and desire a fight. Instead, he stepped behind a tree, when he heard a man’s voice in song, and waited to behold the singer. Perhaps he remembered, also, the merry chanting of Will Scarlet, and how he had tried to give it pause a few days before.
Like Will, this fellow was clad in scarlet, though he did not look quite as fine a gentleman. Nathless, he was a sturdy yeoman of honest face and a voice far sweeter than Will’s. He seemed to be a strolling minstrel, for he bore a harp in his hand, which he thrummed, while his lusty tenor voice rang out with—
“Hey down, and a down, and a down!I’ve a lassie back i’ the town;Come day, come night, Come dark or light,She will wed me, back i’ the town!”
Robin let the singer pass, caroling on his way.
“‘Tis not in me to disturb a light-hearted lover, this night,” he muttered, a memory of Marian coming back to him. “Pray heaven she may be true to him and the wedding be a gay one ‘back i’ the town!”’
So Robin went back to his camp, where he told of the minstrel.
“If any of ye set on him after this,” quoth he in ending, “bring him to me, for I would have speech with him.”
The very next day his wish was gratified. Little John and Much the miller’s son were out together on a foraging expedition when they espied the same young man; at least, they thought it must be he, for he was clad in scarlet and carried a harp in his hand. But now he came drooping along the way; his scarlet was all in tatters; and at every step he fetched a sigh, “Alack and a well-a-day!”
Then stepped forth Little John and Much the miller’s son.
“Ho! do not wet the earth with your weeping,” said Little John, “else we shall all have lumbago.”
No sooner did the young man catch sight of them than he bent his bow, and held an arrow back to his ear.
“Stand off! stand off!” he said; “what is your will with me?”
“Put by your weapon,” said Much, “we will not harm you. But you must come before our master straight, under yon greenwood tree.”
So the minstrel put by his bow and suffered himself to be led before Robin Hood.
“How now!” quoth Robin, when he beheld his sorry countenance, “are you not he whom I heard no longer ago than yesternight caroling so blithely about ‘a lassie back i’ the town’?”
“The same in body, good sir,” replied the other sadly; “but my spirit is grievously changed.”
“Tell me your tale,” said Robin courteously. “Belike I can help you.”
“That can no man on earth, I fear,” said the stranger; “nathless, I’ll tell you the tale. Yesterday I stood pledged to a maid, and thought soon to wed her. But she has been taken from me and is to become an old knight’s bride this very day; and as for me, I care not what ending comes to my days, or how soon, without her.”
“Marry, come up!” said Robin; “how got the old knight so sudden vantage?”
“Look you, worship, ‘tis this way. The Normans overrun us, and are in such great favor that none may say them nay. This old returned Crusader coveted the land whereon my lady dwells. The estate is not large, but all in her own right; whereupon her brother says she shall wed a title, and he and the old knight have fixed it up for to-day.”
“Nay, but surely—” began Robin.
“Hear me out, worship,” said the other. “Belike you think me a sorry dog not to make fight of this. But the old knight, look you, is not come-at-able. I threw one of his varlets into a thorn hedge, and another into a water-butt, and a third landed head-first into a ditch. But I couldn’t do any fighting at all.”
“‘Tis a pity!” quoth Little John gravely. He had been sitting cross-legged listening to this tale of woe. “What think you, Friar Tuck, doth not a bit of fighting ease a man’s mind?”
“Blood-letting is ofttimes recommended of the leeches,” replied Tuck.
“Does the maid love you?” asked Robin Hood.
“By our troth, she loved me right well,” said the minstrel. “I have a little ring of hers by me which I have kept for seven long years.”
“What is your name?” then said Robin Hood.
“By the faith of my body,” replied the young man, “my name is Allan-a-Dale.”
“What will you give me, Allan-a-Dale,” said Robin Hood, “in ready gold or fee, to help you to your true love again, and deliver her back unto you?”
“I have no money, save only five shillings,” quoth Allan; “but—are you not Robin Hood?”
Robin nodded.
“Then you, if any one, can aid me!” said Allan-a-Dale eagerly. “And if you give me back my love, I swear upon the Book that I will be your true servant forever after.”
“Where is this wedding to take place, and when?” asked Robin.
“At Plympton Church, scarce five miles from here; and at three o’ the afternoon.”
“Then to Plympton we will go!” cried Robin suddenly springing into action; and he gave out orders like a general: “Will Stutely, do you have four-and-twenty good men over against Plympton Church ‘gainst three o’ the afternoon. Much, good fellow, do you cook up some porridge for this youth, for he must have a good round stomach—aye, and a better gear! Will Scarlet, you will see to decking him out bravely for the nonce. And Friar Tuck, hold yourself in readiness, good book in hand, at the church. Mayhap you had best go ahead of us all.”
The fat Bishop of Hereford was full of pomp and importance that day at Plympton Church. He was to celebrate the marriage of an old knight—a returned Crusader—and a landed young woman; and all the gentry thereabout were to grace the occasion with their presence. The church itself was gaily festooned with flowers for the ceremony, while out in the church-yard at one side brown ale flowed freely for all the servitors.
Already were the guests beginning to assemble, when the Bishop, back in the vestry, saw a minstrel clad in green walk up boldly to the door and peer within. It was Robin Hood, who had borrowed Allan’s be-ribboned harp for the time.
“Now who are you, fellow?” quoth the Bishop, “and what do you here at the church-door with you harp and saucy air?”
“May it please your Reverence,” returned Robin bowing very humbly, “I am but a strolling harper, yet likened the best in the whole North Countree. And I had hope that my thrumming might add zest to the wedding to-day.”
“What tune can you harp?” demanded the Bishop.
“I can harp a tune so merry that a forlorn lover will forget he is jilted,” said Robin. “I can harp another tune that will make a bride forsake her lord at the altar. I can harp another tune that will bring loving souls together though they were up hill and down dale five good miles away from each other.”
“Then welcome, good minstrel,” said the Bishop, “music pleases me right well, and if you can play up to your prattle, ‘twill indeed grace your ceremony. Let us have a sample of your wares.”
“Nay, I must not put finger to string until the bride and groom have come. Such a thing would ill fortune both us and them.”
“Have it as you will,” said the Bishop, “but here comes the party now.”
Then up the lane to the church came the old knight, preceded by ten archers liveried in scarlet and gold. A brave sight the archers made, but their master walked slowly leaning upon a cane and shaking as though in a palsy.
And after them came a sweet lass leaning upon her brother’s arm. Her hair did shine like glistering gold, and her eyes were like blue violets that peep out shyly at the sun. The color came and went in her cheeks like that tinting of a sea-shell, and her face was flushed as though she had been weeping. But now she walked with a proud air, as though she defied the world to crush her spirit. She had but two maids with her, finikin lasses, with black eyes and broad bosoms, who set off their lady’s more delicate beauty well. One held up the bride’s gown from the ground; the other carried flowers in plenty.
“Now by all the wedding bells that ever were rung!” quoth Robin boldly, “this is the worst matched pair that ever mine eyes beheld!”
“Silence, miscreant!” said a man who stood near.
The Bishop had hurriedly donned his gown and now stood ready to meet the couple at the chancel.
But Robin paid no heed to him. He let the knight and his ten archers pass by, then he strode up to the bride, and placed himself on the other side from her brother.
“Courage, lady!” he whispered, “there is another minstrel near, who mayhap may play more to your liking.”
The lady glanced at him with a frightened air, but read such honesty and kindness in his glance that she brightened and gave him a grateful look.
“Stand aside, fool!” cried the brother wrathfully.
“Nay, but I am to bring good fortune to the bride by accompanying her through the church-doors,” said Robin laughing.
Thereupon he was allowed to walk by her side unmolested, up to the chancel with the party.
“Now strike up your music, fellow!” ordered the Bishop.
“Right gladly will I,” quoth Robin, “an you will let me choose my instrument. For sometimes I like the harp, and other times I think the horn makes the merriest music in all the world.”
And he drew forth his bugle from underneath his green cloak and blew three winding notes that made the church—rafters ring again.
“Seize him!” yelled the Bishop; “there’s mischief afoot! These are the tricks of Robin Hood!”
The ten liveried archers rushed forward from the rear of the church, where they had been stationed. But their rush was blocked by the onlookers who now rose from their pews in alarm and crowded the aisles. Meanwhile Robin had leaped lightly over the chancel rail and stationed himself in a nook by the altar.
“Stand where you are!” he shouted, drawing his bow, “the first man to pass the rail dies the death. And all ye who have come to witness a wedding stay in your seats. We shall e’en have one, since we are come into the church. But the bride shall choose her own swain!”
Then up rose another great commotion at the door, and four-and-twenty good bowmen came marching in with Will Stutely at their head. And they seized the ten liveried archers and the bride’s scowling brother and the other men on guard and bound them prisoners.
Then in came Allan-a-Dale, decked out gaily, with Will Scarlet for best man. And they walked gravely down the aisle and stood over against the chancel.
“Before a maiden weds she chooses—an the laws of good King Harry be just ones,” said Robin. “Now, maiden, before this wedding continues, whom will you have to husband?”
The maiden answered not in words, but smiled with a glad light in her eyes, and walked over to Allan and clasped her arms about his neck.
“That is her true love,” said Robin. “Young Allan instead of the gouty knight. And the true lovers shall be married at this time before we depart away. Now my lord Bishop, proceed with the ceremony!”
“Nay, that shall not be,” protested the Bishop; “the banns must be cried three times in the church. Such is the law of our land.”
“Come here, Little John,” called Robin impatiently; and plucked off the Bishop’s frock from his back and put it on the yeoman.
Now the Bishop was short and fat, and Little John was long and lean. The gown hung loosely over Little John’s shoulders and came only to his waist. He was a fine comical sight, and the people began to laugh consumedly at him.
“By the faith o’ my body,” said Robin, “this cloth makes you a man. You’re the finest Bishop that ever I saw in my life. Now cry the banns.”
So Little John clambered awkwardly into the quire, his short gown fluttering gaily; and he called the banns for the marriage of the maid and Allan-a-Dale once, twice, and thrice.
“That’s not enough,” said Robin; “your gown is so short that you must talk longer.”
Then Little John asked them in the church four, five, six, and seven times.
“Good enough!” said Robin. “Now belike I see a worthy friar in the back of this church who can say a better service than ever my lord Bishop of Hereford. My lord Bishop shall be witness and seal the papers, but do you, good friar, bless this pair with book and candle.”
So Friar Tuck, who all along had been back in one corner of the church, came forward; and Allan and his maid kneeled before him, while the old knight, held an unwilling witness, gnashed his teeth in impotent rage; and the friar began with the ceremony.
When he asked, “Who giveth this woman?” Robin stepped up and answered in a clear voice:
“I do! I, Robin Hood of Barnesdale and Sherwood! And he who takes her from Allan-a-Dale shall buy her full dearly.”
So the twain were declared man and wife and duly blessed; and the bride was kissed by each sturdy yeoman beginning with Robin Hood.
Now I cannot end this jolly tale better than in the words of the ballad which came out of the happening and which has been sung in the villages and countryside ever since: