All dreary was his semblance,And little was his pride,His onefoot in the stirrup stood,His other waved beside.His visor hung down o’er his eyes,He rode in single array,A sorrier man than he was oneRode never in summer’s day.
Little John came up to the knight and bade him stay; for who can judge of a man’s wealth by his looks? The outlaw bent his knee in all courtesy, and prayed him to accept the hospitality of the forest.
“My master expects you to dine with him, to-day,” quoth he, “and indeed has been fasting while awaiting your coming, these three hours.”
“Who is your master?” asked the knight.
“None other than Robin Hood,” replied Little John, laying his hand upon the knight’s bridle.
Seeing the other two outlaws approaching, the knight shrugged his shoulders, and replied indifferently.
“‘Tis clear that your invitation is too urgent to admit of refusal,” quoth he, “and I go with you right willingly, my friends. My purpose was to have dined to-day at Blyth or Doncaster; but nothing matters greatly.”
So in the same lackadaisical fashion which had marked all his actions that day, the knight suffered his horse to be led to the rendezvous of the band in the greenwood.
Marian had not yet had time to change her page’s attire, when the three escorts of the knight hove in sight. She recognized their captive as Sir Richard of the Lea, whom she had often seen at court; and fearing lest he might recognize her, she would have fled. But Robin asked her, with a twinkle, if she would not like to play page that day, and she in roguish mood consented to do so.
“Welcome, Sir Knight,” said Robin, courteously. “You are come in good time, for we were just preparing to sit down to meat.”
“God save and thank you, good master Robin,” returned the knight; “and all your company. It likes me well to break the fast with you.”
So while his horse was cared for, the knight laid aside his own heavy gear, and laved his face and hands, and sat down with Robin and all his men to a most plentiful repast of venison, swans, pheasants, various small birds, cake and ale. And Marian stood behind Robin and filled his cup and that of the guest.
After eating right heartily of the good cheer, the knight brightened up greatly and vowed that he had not enjoyed so good a dinner for nigh three weeks. He also said that if ever Robin and his fellows should come to his domains, he would strive to set them down to as good a dinner on his own behalf.
But this was not exactly the sort of payment which Robin had expected to receive. He thanked the knight, therefore, in set phrase, but reminded him that a yeoman like himself might hardly offer such a dinner to a knight as a gift of charity.
“I have no money, Master Robin,” answered the knight frankly. “I have so little of the world’s goods, in sooth, that I should be ashamed to offer you the whole of it.”
“Money, however little, always jingles merrily in our pockets,” said Robin, smiling. “Pray you tell me what you deem a little sum.”
“I have of my own ten silver pennies,” said the knight. “Here they are, and I wish they were ten times as many.”
He handed Little John his pouch, and Robin nodded carelessly.
“What say you to the total, Little John?” he asked as though in jest.
“‘Tis true enough, as the worthy knight hath said,” responded the big fellow gravely emptying the contents on his cloak.
Robin signed to Marian, who filled a bumper of wine for himself and his guest.
“Pledge me, Sir Knight!” cried the merry outlaw; “and pledge me heartily, for these sorry times. I see that your armor is bent and that your clothes are torn. Yet methinks I saw you at court, once upon a day, and in more prosperous guise. Tell me now, were you a yeoman and made a knight by force? Or, have you been a bad steward to yourself, and wasted your property in lawsuits and the like? Be not bashful with us. We shall not betray your secrets.”
“I am a Saxon knight in my own right; and I have always lived a sober and quiet life,” the sorrowful guest replied. “‘Tis true you have seen me at court, mayhap, for I was an excited witness of your shooting before King Harry—God rest his bones! My name is Sir Richard of the Lea, and I dwell in a castle, not a league from one of the gates of Nottingham, which has belonged to my father, and his father, and his father’s father before him. Within two or three years ago my neighbors might have told you that a matter of four hundred pounds one way or the other was as naught to me. But now I have only these ten pennies of silver, and my wife and son.”
“In what manner have you lost your riches?” asked Robin.
“Through folly and kindness,” said the knight, sighing. “I went with King Richard upon a crusade, from which I am but lately returned, in time to find my son—a goodly youth—grown up. He was but twenty, yet he had achieved a squire’s training and could play prettily in jousts and tournaments and other knightly games. But about this time he had the ill luck to push his sport too far, and did accidentally kill a knight in the open lists. To save the boy, I had to sell my lands and mortgage my ancestral castle; and this not being enough, in the end I have had to borrow money, at a ruinous interest, from my lord of Hereford.”
“A most worthy Bishop,” said Robin ironically. “What is the sum of your debt?”
“Four hundred pounds,” said Sir Richard, “and the Bishop swears he will foreclose the mortgage if they are not paid promptly.”
“Have you any friends who would become surety for you?”
“Not one. If good King Richard were here, the tale might be otherwise.”
“Fill your goblet again, Sir Knight,” said Robin; and he turned to whisper a word in Marian’s ear. She nodded and drew Little John and Will Scarlet aside and talked earnestly with them, in a low tone.
“Here is health and prosperity to you, gallant Robin,” said Sir Richard, tilting his goblet. “I hope I may pay your cheer more worthily, the next time I ride by.”
Will Scarlet and Little John had meanwhile fallen in with Marian’s idea, for they consulted the other outlaws, who nodded their heads. Thereupon Little John and Will Scarlet went into the cave near by and presently returned bearing a bag of gold. This they counted out before the astonished knight; and there were four times one hundred gold pieces in it.
“Take this loan from us, Sir Knight, and pay your debt to the Bishop,” then said Robin. “Nay, no thanks; you are but exchanging creditors. Mayhap we shall not be so hard upon you as the Christian Bishop; yet, again we may be harder. Who can tell?”
There were actual tears in Sir Richard’s eyes, as he essayed to thank the foresters. But at this juncture, Much, the miller’s son, came from the cave dragging a bale of cloth. “The knight should have a suit worthy of his rank, master—think you not so?”
“Measure him twenty ells of it,” ordered Robin.
“Give him a good horse, also,” whispered Marian. “‘Tis a gift which will come back four-fold, for this is a worthy man. I know him well.”
So the horse was given, also, and Robin bade Arthur-a-Bland ride with the knight as far as his castle, as esquire.
The knight was sorrowful no longer; yet he could hardly voice his thanks through his broken utterance. And having spent the night in rest, after listening to Allan-a-Dale’s singing, he mounted his new steed the following morning an altogether different man.
“God save you, comrades, and keep you all!” said he, with deep feeling in his tones; “and give me a grateful heart!”
“We shall wait for you twelve months from to-day, here in this place,” said Robin, shaking him by the hand; “and then you will repay us the loan, if you have been prospered.”
“I shall return it to you within the year, upon my honor as Sir Richard of the Lea. And for all time, pray count on me as a steadfast friend.”
So saying the knight and his esquire rode down the forest glade till they were lost to view.
“O what is the matter?” then said the Bishop,“Or for whom do you make this a-do?Or why do you kill the King’s venison,When your company is so few?”“We are shepherds,” quoth bold Robin Hood,“And we keep sheep all the year,And we are disposed to be merrie this day,And to kill of the King’s fat deer.”
Not many days after Sir Richard of the Lea came to Sherwood Forest, word reached Robin Hood’s ears that my lord Bishop of Hereford would be riding that way betimes on that morning. ‘Twas Arthur-a-Bland, the knight’s quondam esquire, who brought the tidings, and Robin’s face brightened as he heard it.
“Now, by our Lady!” quoth he, “I have long desired to entertain my lord in the greenwood, and this is too fair a chance to let slip. Come, my men, kill me a venison; kill me a good fat deer. The Bishop of Hereford is to dine with me today, and he shall pay well for his cheer.”
“Shall we dress it here, as usual?” asked Much, the miller’s son.
“Nay, we play a droll game on the churchman. We will dress it by the highway side, and watch for the Bishop narrowly, lest he should ride some other way.”
So Robin gave his orders, and the main body of his men dispersed to different parts of the forest, under Will Stutely and Little John, to watch other roads; while Robin Hood himself took six of his men, including Will Scarlet, and Much, and posted himself in full view of the main road. This little company appeared funny enough, I assure you, for they had disguised themselves as shepherds. Robin had an old wool cap, with a tail to it, hanging over his ear, and a shock of hair stood straight up through a hole in the top. Besides there was so much dirt on his face that you would never have known him. An old tattered cloak over his hunter’s garb completed his make-up. The others were no less ragged and unkempt, even the foppish Will Scarlet being so badly run down at the heel that the court ladies would hardly have had speech with him.
They quickly provided themselves with a deer and made great preparations to cook it over a small fire, when a little dust was seen blowing along the highway, and out of it came the portly Bishop cantering along with ten men-at-arms at his heels. As soon as he saw the fancied shepherds he spurred up his horse, and came straight toward them.
“Who are ye, fellows, who make so free with the King’s deer?” he asked sharply.
“We are shepherds,” answered Robin Hood, pulling at his forelock awkwardly.
“Heaven have mercy! Ye seem a sorry lot of shepherds. But who gave you leave to cease eating mutton?”
“‘Tis one of our feast days, lording, and we were disposed to be merry this day, and make free with a deer, out here where they are so many.”
“By me faith, the King shall hear of this. Who killed yon beast?”
“Give me first your name, excellence, so that I may speak where ‘tis fitting,” replied Robin stubbornly.
“‘Tis my lord Bishop of Hereford, fellow!” interposed one of the guards fiercely. “See that you keep a civil tongue in your head.”
“If ‘tis a churchman,” retorted Will Scarlet, “he would do better to mind his own flocks rather than concern himself with ours.”
“Ye are saucy fellows, in sooth,” cried the Bishop, “and we will see if your heads will pay for your manners. Come! quit your stolen roast and march along with me, for you shall be brought before the Sheriff of Nottingham forthwith.”
“Pardon, excellence!” said Robin, dropping on his knees. “Pardon, I pray you. It becomes not your lordship’s coat to take so many lives away.”
“Faith, I’ll pardon you!” said the Bishop. “I’ll pardon you, when I see you hanged! Seize upon them, my men!”
But Robin had already sprung away with his back against a tree. And from underneath his ragged cloak he drew his trusty horn and winded the piercing notes which were wont to summon the band.
The Bishop no sooner saw this action than he knew his man, and that there was a trap set; and being an arrant coward, he wheeled his horse sharply and would have made off down the road; but his own men, spurred on the charge, blocked his way. At almost the same instant the bushes round about seemed literally to become alive with outlaws. Little John’s men came from one side and Will Stutely’s from the other. In less time than it takes to tell it, the worthy Bishop found himself a prisoner, and began to crave mercy from the men he had so lately been ready to sentence.
“O pardon, O pardon,” said the Bishop,“O pardon, I you pray.For if I had known it had been you,I’d have gone some other way.”
“I owe you no pardon,” retorted Robin, “but I will e’en treat you better than you would have treated me. Come, make haste, and go along with me. I have already planned that you shall dine with me this day.”
So the unwilling prelate was dragged away, cheek by jowl, with the half-cooked venison upon the back of his own horse; and Robin and his band took charge of the whole company and led them through the forest glades till they came to an open space near Barnesdale.
Here they rested, and Robin gave the Bishop a seat full courteously. Much the miller’s son fell to roasting the deer afresh, while another and fatter beast was set to frizzle on the other side of the fire. Presently the appetizing odor of the cooking reached the Bishop’s nostrils, and he sniffed it eagerly. The morning’s ride had made him hungry; and he was nothing loath when they bade him come to the dinner. Robin gave him the best place beside himself, and the Bishop prepared to fall to.
“Nay, my lord, craving your pardon, but we are accustomed to have grace before meat,” said Robin decorously. “And as our own chaplain is not with us to-day, will you be good enough to say it for us?”
The Bishop reddened, but pronounced grace in the Latin tongue hastily, and then settled himself to make the best of his lot. Red wines and ale were brought forth and poured out, each man having a horn tankard from which to drink.
Laughter bubbled among the diners, and the Bishop caught himself smiling at more than one jest. But who, in sooth, could resist a freshly broiled venison streak eaten out in the open air to the tune of jest and good fellowship? Stutely filled the Bishop’s beaker with wine each time he emptied it, and the Bishop got mellower and mellower as the afternoon shades lengthened on toward sunset. Then the approaching dusk warned him of his position.
“I wish, mine host,” quoth he gravely to Robin, who had soberly drunk but one cup of ale, “that you would now call a reckoning. ‘Tis late, and I fear the cost of this entertainment may be more than my poor purse can stand.”
For he bethought himself of his friend, the Sheriff’s former experience.
“Verily, your lordship,” said Robin, scratching his head, “I have enjoyed your company so much, that I scarce know how to charge for it.”
“Lend me your purse, my lord,” said Little John, interposing, “and I’ll give you the reckoning by and by.” The Bishop shuddered. He had collected Sir Richard’s debt only that morning, and was even then carrying it home.
“I have but a few silver pennies of my own,” he whined; “and as for the gold in my saddle-bags, ‘tis for the church. Ye surely would not levy upon the church, good friends.”
But Little John was already gone to the saddle-bags, and returning he laid the Bishop’s cloak upon the ground, and poured out of the portmantua a matter of four hundred glittering gold pieces. ‘Twas the identical money which Robin had lent Sir Richard a short while before!
“Ah!” said Robin, as though an idea had but just then come to him. “The church is always willing to aid in charity. And seeing this goodly sum reminds me that I have a friend who is indebted to a churchman for this exact amount. Now we shall charge you nothing on our own account; but suffer us to make use of this in aiding my good friend.”
“Nay, nay,” began the Bishop with a wry face, “this is requiting me ill indeed. Was this not the King’s meat, after all, that we feasted upon? Furthermore, I am a poor man.”
“Poor forsooth!” answered Robin in scorn. “You are the Bishop of Hereford, and does not the whole countryside speak of your oppression? Who does not know of your cruelty to the poor and ignorant—you who should use your great office to aid them, instead of oppress? Have you not been guilty of far greater robbery than this, even though less open? Of myself, and how you have pursued me, I say nothing; nor of your unjust enmity against my father. But on account of those you have despoiled and oppressed, I take this money, and will use it far more worthily than you would. God be my witness in this! There is an end of the matter, unless you will lead us in a song or dance to show that your body had a better spirit than your mind. Come, strike up the harp, Allan!”
“Neither the one nor the other will I do,” snarled the Bishop.
“Faith, then we must help you,” said Little John; and he and Arthur-a-Bland seized the fat struggling churchman and commenced to hop up and down. The Bishop being shorter must perforce accompany them in their gyrations; while the whole company sat and rolled about over the ground, and roared to see my lord of Hereford’s queer capers. At last he sank in a heap, fuddled with wine and quite exhausted.
Little John picked him up as though he were a log of wood and carrying him to his horse, set him astride facing the animal’s tail; and thus fastened him, leading the animal toward the highroad and, starting the Bishop, more dead than alive, toward Nottingham.
The Bishop he came to the old woman’s house,And called with furious mood,“Come let me soon see, and bring unto meThat traitor, Robin Hood.”
The easy success with which they had got the better of the good Bishop led Robin to be a little careless. He thought that his guest was too great a coward to venture back into the greenwood for many a long day; and so after lying quiet for one day, the outlaw ventured boldly upon the highway, the morning of the second. But he had gone only half a mile when, turning a sharp bend in the road, he plunged full upon the prelate himself.
My lord of Hereford had been so deeply smitten in his pride, that he had lost no time in summoning a considerable body of the Sheriff’s men, offering to double the reward if Robin Hood could be come upon. This company was now at his heels, and after the first shock of mutual surprise, the Bishop gave an exultant shout and spurred upon the outlaw.
It was too late for Robin to retreat by the way he had come, but quick as a flash he sprang to one side of the road, dodged under some bushes, and disappeared so suddenly that his pursuers thought he had truly been swallowed up by magic.
“After him!” yelled the Bishop; “some of you beat up the woods around him, while the rest of us will keep on the main road and head him off on the other side!”
For, truth to tell, the Bishop did not care to trust his bones away from the highroad.
About a mile away, on the other side of this neck of woods, wherein Robin had been trapped, was a little tumbledown cottage. ‘Twas where the widow lived, whose three sons had been rescued. Robin remembered the cottage and saw his one chance to escape.
Doubling in and out among the underbrush and heather with the agility of a hare, he soon came out of the wood in the rear of the cottage, and thrust his head through a tiny window.
The widow, who had been at her spinning wheel, rose up with a cry of alarm.
“Quiet, good mother! ‘Tis I, Robin Hood. Where are your three sons?”
“They should be with you, Robin. Well do you know that. Do they not owe their lives to you?”
“If that be so, I come to seek payment of the debt,” said Robin in a breath. “The Bishop is on my heels with many of his men.”
“I’ll cheat the Bishop and all!” cried the woman quickly. “Here, Robin, change your raiment with me, and we will see if my lord knows an old woman when he sees her.”
“Good!” said Robin. “Pass your gray cloak out the window, and also your spindle and twine; and I will give you my green mantle and everything else down to my bow and arrows.”
While they were talking, Robin had been nimbly changing clothes with the old woman, through the window, and in a jiffy he stood forth complete, even to the spindle and twine.
Presently up dashed the Bishop and his men, and, at sight of the cottage and the old woman, gave pause. The crone was hobbling along with difficulty, leaning heavily upon a gnarled stick and bearing the spindle on her other arm. She would have gone by the Bishop’s company, while muttering to herself, but the Bishop ordered one of his men to question her. The soldier laid his hand upon her shoulder.
“Mind your business!” croaked the woman, “or I’ll curse ye!”
“Come, come, my good woman,” said the soldier, who really was afraid of her curses. “I’ll not molest you. But my lord Bishop of Hereford wants to know if you have seen aught of the outlaw, Robin Hood?”
“And why shouldn’t I see him?” she whined. “Where’s the King or law to prevent good Robin from coming to see me and bring me food and raiment? That’s more than my lord Bishop will do, I warrant ye!”
“Peace, woman!” said the Bishop harshly. “We want none of your opinions. But we’ll take you to Barnesdale and burn you for a witch if you do not instantly tell us when you last saw Robin Hood.”
“Mercy, good my lord!” chattered the crone, falling on her knees.
“Robin is there in my cottage now, but you’ll never take him alive.”
“We’ll see about that,” cried the Bishop triumphantly. “Enter the cottage, my men. Fire it, if need be. But I’ll give a purse of gold pieces, above the reward, to the man who captures the outlaw alive.”
The old woman, being released, went on her way slowly. But it might have been noticed that the farther she got away from the company and the nearer to the edge of the woods, the swifter and straighter grew her pace. Once inside the shelter of the forest she broke into a run of surprising swiftness.
“Gadzooks!” exclaimed Little John who presently spied her. “Who comes here? Never saw I witch or woman run so fast. Methinks I’ll send an arrow close over her head to see which it is.”
“O hold your hand! hold your hand!” panted the supposed woman. “‘Tis I, Robin Hood. Summon the yeomen and return with me speedily. We have still another score to settle with my lord of Hereford.”
When Little John could catch his breath from laughing, he winded his horn.
“Now, mistress Robin,” quoth he, grinning. “Lead on! We’ll be close to your heels.”
Meanwhile, back at the widow’s cottage the Bishop was growing more furious every moment. For all his bold words, he dared not fire the house, and the sturdy door had thus far resisted all his men’s efforts.
“Break it down! Break it down!” he shouted, “and let me soon see who will fetch out that traitor, Robin Hood!”
At last the door crashed in and the men stood guard on the threshold. But not one dared enter for fear a sharp arrow should meet him halfway.
“Here he is!” cried one keen-eyed fellow, peering in. “I see him in the corner by the cupboard. Shall we slay him with our pikes?”
“Nay,” said the Bishop, “take him alive if you can. We’ll make the biggest public hanging of this that the shire ever beheld.”
But the joy of the Bishop over his capture was short lived. Down the road came striding the shabby figure of the old woman who had helped him set the trap; and very wrathy was she when she saw that the cottage door had been battered in.
“Stand by, you lazy rascals!” she called to the soldiers. “May all the devils catch ye for hurting an old woman’s hut. Stand by, I say!”
“Hold your tongue!” ordered the Bishop. “These are my men and carrying out my orders.”
“God-mercy!” swore the beldame harshly. “Things have come to a pretty pass when our homes may be treated like common gaols. Couldn’t all your men catch one poor forester without this ado? Come! clear out, you and your robber, on the instant, or I’ll curse every mother’s son of ye, eating and drinking and sleeping!”
“Seize on the hag!” shouted the Bishop, as soon as he could get in a word. “We’ll see about a witch’s cursing. Back to town she shall go, alongside of Robin Hood.”
“Not so fast, your worship!” she retorted, clapping her hands.
And at the signal a goodly array of greenwood men sprang forth from all sides of the cottage, with bows drawn back threateningly. The Bishop saw that his men were trapped again, for they dared not stir. Nathless, he determined to make a fight for it.
“If one of you but budge an inch toward me, you rascals,” he cried, “it shall sound the death of your master, Robin Hood! My men have him here under their pikes, and I shall command them to kill him without mercy.”
“Faith, I should like to see the Robin you have caught,” said a clear voice from under the widow’s cape; and the outlaw chief stood forth with bared head, smilingly. “Here am I, my lord, in no wise imperiled by your men’s fierce pikes. So let us see whom you have been guarding so well.”
The old woman who, in the garb of Robin Hood, had been lying quiet in the cottage through all the uproar, jumped up nimbly at this. In the bald absurdity of her disguise she came to the doorway and bowed to the Bishop.
“Give you good-den, my lord Bishop,” she piped in a shrill voice; “and what does your Grace at my humble door? Do you come to bless me and give me alms?”
“Aye, that does he,” answered Robin. “We shall see if his saddle-bags contain enough to pay you for that battered door.”
“Now by all the saints—” began the Bishop.
“Take care; they are all watching you,” interrupted Robin; “so name them not upon your unchurchly lips. But I will trouble you to hand over that purse of gold you had saved to pay for my head.”
“I’ll see you hanged first!” raged the Bishop, stating no more than what would have been so, if he could do the ordering of things. “Have at them, my men, and hew them down in their tracks!”
“Hold!” retorted Robin. “See how we have you at our mercy.” And aiming a sudden shaft he shot so close to the Bishop’s head that it carried away both his hat and the skull-cap which he always wore, leaving him quite bald.
The prelate turned as white as his shiny head and clutched wildly at his ears. He thought himself dead almost.
“Help! Murder!” he gasped. “Do not shoot again! Here’s your purse of gold!”
And without waiting for further parley he fairly bolted down the road.
His men being left leaderless had nothing for it but to retreat after him, which they did in sullen order, covered by the bows of the yeomen. And thus ended the Bishop of Hereford’s great outlaw-hunt in the forest.
“To tell the truth, I’m well informedYon match it is a wile;The Sheriff, I know, devises thisUs archers to beguile.”
Now the Sheriff was so greatly troubled in heart over the growing power of Robin Hood, that he did a very foolish thing. He went to London town to lay his troubles before the King and get another force of troops to cope with the outlaws. King Richard was not yet returned from the Holy Land, but Prince John heard him with scorn.
“Pooh!” said he, shrugging his shoulders. “What have I to do with all this? Art thou not sheriff for me? The law is in force to take thy course of them that injure thee. Go, get thee gone, and by thyself devise some tricking game to trap these rebels; and never let me see thy face at court again until thou hast a better tale to tell.”
So away went the Sheriff in sorrier pass than ever, and cudgeled his brain, on the way home, for some plan of action.
His daughter met him on his return and saw at once that he had been on a poor mission. She was minded to upbraid him when she learned what he had told the Prince. But the words of the latter started her to thinking afresh.
“I have it!” she exclaimed at length. “Why should we not hold another shooting-match? ‘Tis Fair year, as you know, and another tourney will be expected. Now we will proclaim a general amnesty, as did King Harry himself, and say that the field is open and unmolested to all comers. Belike Robin Hood’s men will be tempted to twang the bow, and then—”
“And then,” said the Sheriff jumping up with alacrity, “we shall see on which side of the gate they stop over-night!”
So the Sheriff lost no time in proclaiming a tourney, to be held that same Fall at the Fair. It was open to all comers, said the proclamation, and none should be molested in their going and coming. Furthermore, an arrow with a golden head and shaft of silver-white should be given to the winner, who would be heralded abroad as the finest archer in all the North Countree. Also, many rich prizes were to be given to other clever archers.
These tidings came in due course to Robin Hood, under the greenwood tree, and fired his impetuous spirit.
“Come, prepare ye, my merry men all,” quoth he, “and we’ll go to the Fair and take some part in this sport.”
With that stepped forth the merry cobbler, David of Doncaster.
“Master,” quoth he, “be ruled by me and stir not from the greenwood. To tell the truth, I’m well informed yon match is naught but a trap. I know the Sheriff has devised it to beguile us archers into some treachery.”
“That word savors of the coward,” replied Robin, “and pleases me not. Let come what will, I’ll try my skill at that same archery.”
Then up spoke Little John and said: “Come, listen to me how it shall be that we will not be discovered.”
“Our mantles all of Lincoln-greenBehind us we will leave;We’ll dress us all so several,They shall not us perceive.”“One shall wear white, another red,One yellow, another blue;Thus in disguise to the exerciseWe’ll go, whate’er ensue.”
This advice met with general favor from the adventurous fellows, and they lost no time in putting it into practice. Maid Marian and Mistress Dale, assisted by Friar Tuck, prepared some vari-colored costumes, and ‘gainst the Fair day had fitted out the sevenscore men till you would never have taken them for other than villagers decked for the holiday.
And forth went they from the greenwood, with hearts all firm and stout, resolved to meet the Sheriff’s men and have a merry bout. Along the highway they fell in with many other bold fellows from the countryside, going with their ruddy-cheeked lasses toward the wide-open gates of Nottingham.
So in through the gates trooped the whole gay company, Robin’s men behaving as awkwardly and laughing and talking as noisily as the rest; while the Sheriff’s scowling men-at-arms stood round about and sought to find one who looked like a forester, but without avail.
The herald now set forth the terms of the contest, as on former occasions, and the shooting presently began. Robin had chosen five of his men to shoot with him, and the rest were to mingle with the crowd and also watch the gates. These five were Little John, Will Scarlet, Will Stutely, Much, and Allan-a-Dale’.
The other competitors made a brave showing on the first round, especially Gilbert of the White Hand, who was present and never shot better. The contest later narrowed down between Gilbert and Robin. But at the first lead, when the butts were struck so truly by various well known archers, the Sheriff was in doubt whether to feel glad or sorry. He was glad to see such skill, but sorry that the outlaws were not in it.
Some said, “If Robin Hood were here,And all his men to boot,Sure none of them could pass these men,So bravely do they shoot.”
“Aye,” quoth the Sheriff, and scratched his head,“I thought he would be here;I thought he would, but tho’ he’s bold,He durst not now appear.”
This word was privately brought to Robin by David of Doncaster, and the saying vexed him sorely. But he bit his lip in silence.
“Ere long,” he thought to himself, “we shall see whether Robin Hood be here or not!”
Meantime the shooting had been going forward, and Robin’s men had done so well that the air was filled with shouts.
One cried, “Blue jacket!” another cried, “Brown!”And a third cried, “Brave Yellow!”But the fourth man said, “Yon man in redIn this place has no fellow.”For that was Robin Hood himself,For he was clothed in red,At every shot the prize he got,For he was both sure and dead.
Thus went the second round of the shooting, and thus the third and last, till even Gilbert of the White Hand was fairly beaten. During all this shooting, Robin exchanged no word with his men, each treating the other as a perfect stranger. Nathless, such great shooting could not pass without revealing the archers.
The Sheriff thought he discovered, in the winner of the golden arrow, the person of Robin Hood without peradventure. So he sent word privately for his men-at-arms to close round the group. But Robin’s men also got wind of the plan.
To keep up appearances, the Sheriff summoned the crowd to form in a circle; and after as much delay as possible the arrow was presented. The delay gave time enough for the soldiers to close in. As Robin received his prize, bowed awkwardly, and turned away, the Sheriff, letting his zeal get the better of his discretion, grasped him about the neck and called upon his men to arrest the traitor.
But the moment the Sheriff touched Robin, he received such a buffet on the side of his head that he let go instantly and fell back several paces. Turning to see who had struck him, he recognized Little John.
“Ah, rascal Greenleaf, I have you now!” he exclaimed springing at him. Just then, however, he met a new check.
“This is from another of your devoted servants!” said a voice which he knew to be that of Much the miller’s son; and “Thwack!” went his open palm upon the Sheriff’s cheek sending that worthy rolling over and over upon the ground.
By this time the conflict had become general, but the Sheriff’s men suffered the disadvantage of being hampered by the crowd of innocent on-lookers, whom they could not tell from the outlaws and so dared not attack; while the other outlaws in the rear fell upon them and put them in confusion.
For a moment a fierce rain of blows ensued; then the clear bugle-note from Robin ordered a retreat. The two warders at the nearest gate tried to close it, but were shot dead in their tracks. David of Doncaster threw a third soldier into the moat; and out through the gate went the foresters in good order, keeping a respectful distance between themselves and the advancing soldiery, by means of their well-directed shafts.
But the fight was not to go easily this day, for the soldiery, smarting from their recent discomfiture at the widow’s cottage, and knowing that the eyes of the whole shire were upon them, fought well, and pressed closely after the retreating outlaws. More than one ugly wound was given and received. No less than five of the Sheriff’s men were killed outright, and a dozen others injured; while four of Robin’s men were bleeding from severe flesh cuts.
Then Little John, who had fought by the side of his chief, suddenly fell forward with a slight moan. An arrow had pierced his knee. Robin seized the big fellow with almost superhuman strength.
Up he took him on his back,And bare him well a mile;Many a time he laid him down,And shot another while.
Meanwhile Little John grew weaker and closed his eyes; at last he sank to the ground, and feebly motioned Robin to let him lie. “Master Robin,” said he, “have I not served you well, ever since we met upon the bridge?”
“Truer servant never man had,” answered Robin.
“Then if ever you loved me, and for the sake of that service, draw your bright brown sword and strike off my head; never let me fall alive into the hand of the Sheriff of Nottingham.”
“Not for all the gold in England would I do either of the things you suggest.”
“God forbid!” cried Arthur-a-Bland, hurrying to the rescue. And packing his wounded kinsman upon his own broad shoulders, he soon brought him within the shelter of the forest.
Once there, the Sheriff’s men did not follow; and Robin caused litters of boughs to be made for Little John and the other four wounded men. Quickly were they carried through the wood until the hermitage of Friar Tuck was reached, where their wounds were dressed. Little John’s hurt was pronounced to be the most serious of any, but he was assured that in two or three weeks’ time he could get about again; whereat the active giant groaned mightily.
That evening consternation came upon the hearts of the band. A careful roll-call was taken to see it all the yeomen had escaped, when it was found that Will Stutely was missing, and Maid Marian also was nowhere to be found. Robin was seized with dread. He knew that Marian had gone to the Fair, but felt that she would hardly come to grief. Her absence, however, portended some danger, and he feared that it was connected with Will Stutely. The Sheriff would hang him speedily and without mercy, if he were captured.
The rest of the band shared their leader’s uneasiness, though they said no word. They knew that if Will were captured, the battle must be fought over again the next day, and Will must be saved at any cost. But no man flinched from the prospect.
That evening, while the Sheriff and his wife and daughter sat at meat in the Mansion House, the Sheriff boasted of how he would make an example of the captured outlaw; for Stutely had indeed fallen into his hands.
“He shall be strung high,” he said, in a loud voice; “and none shall dare lift a finger. I now have Robin Hood’s men on the run, and we shall soon see who is master in this shire. I am only sorry that we let them have the golden arrow.”
As he spoke a missive sped through a window and fell clattering upon his plate, causing him to spring back in alarm.
It was the golden arrow, and on its feathered shaft was sewed a little note which read:
“This from one who will take no gifts from liars; and who henceforth will show no mercy. Look well to yourself. R.H.”