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Robin Hood

by J. Walker McSpadden · English · Gutenberg #832 · 358,527 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Robin Hood

Author: J. Walker McSpadden


        
Release date: January 21, 2006 [eBook #832]
                Most recently updated: November 15, 2016

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/832

Credits: Produced by Joseph S. Miller and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROBIN HOOD ***




Produced by Joseph S. Miller and David Widger





ROBIN HOOD


by J. Walker McSpadden



     CHAPTER    I       How Robin Hood Became an Outlaw

     CHAPTER    II      How Robin Hood Met Little John

     CHAPTER    III     How Robin Hood Turned Butcher, and Entered the
                        Sheriff’s Service

     CHAPTER    IV      How Little John Entered the Sheriff’s Service

     CHAPTER    V       How the Sheriff Lost Three Good Servants, and
                        Found Them Again

     CHAPTER    VI      How Robin Hood Met Will Scarlett

     CHAPTER    VII     How Robin Hood Met Friar Tuck

     CHAPTER    VIII    How Allan-a-Dale’s Wooing Was Prospered

     CHAPTER    IX      How the Widow’s Three Sons Were Rescued

     CHAPTER    X       How a Beggar Filled the Public Eye

     CHAPTER    XI      How Robin Hood Fought Guy of Gisbourne

     CHAPTER    XII     How Maid Marion Came Back to Sherwood Forest;
                        Also, How Robin Hood Came Before Queen Eleanor

     CHAPTER    XIII    How the Outlaws Shot in King Harry’s Tourney

     CHAPTER    XIV     How Robin Hood Was Sought of the Tinker

     CHAPTER    XV      How Robin Hood Was Tanned of the Tanner

     CHAPTER    XVI     How Robin Hood Met Sir Richard of the Lea

     CHAPTER    XVII    How the Bishop Was Dined

     CHAPTER    XVIII   How the Bishop Went Outlaw-Hunting

     CHAPTER    XIX     How the Sheriff Held Another Shooting Match

     CHAPTER    XX      How Will Stutely Was Rescued

     CHAPTER    XXI     How Sir Richard of the Lea Repaid His Debt

     CHAPTER    XXII    How King Richard Came to Sherwood Forest

     CHAPTER    XXIII   How Robin Hood and Maid Marion Were Wed

     CHAPTER    XXIV    How Robin Hood Met His Death




CHAPTER I

HOW ROBIN HOOD BECAME AN OUTLAW

     List and hearken, gentlemen,
     That be of free-born blood,
     I shall you tell of a good yeoman,
     His name was Robin Hood.

     Robin was a proud outlaw,
     While as he walked on the ground.
     So courteous an outlaw as he was one
     Was never none else found.

In the days of good King Harry the Second of England--he of the warring
sons--there were certain forests in the north country set aside for the
King’s hunting, and no man might shoot deer therein under penalty of
death. These forests were guarded by the King’s Foresters, the chief
of whom, in each wood, was no mean man but equal in authority to the
Sheriff in his walled town, or even to my lord Bishop in his abbey.

One of the greatest of royal preserves was Sherwood and Barnesdale
forests near the two towns of Nottingham and Barnesdale. Here for some
years dwelt one Hugh Fitzooth as Head Forester, with his good wife and
son Robert. The boy had been born in Lockesley town--in the year 1160,
stern records say--and was often called Lockesley, or Rob of Lockesley.
He was a comely, well-knit stripling, and as soon as he was strong
enough to walk his chief delight was to go with his father into the
forest. As soon as his right arm received thew and sinew he learned to
draw the long bow and speed a true arrow. While on winter evenings his
greatest joy was to hear his father tell of bold Will o’ the Green, the
outlaw, who for many summers defied the King’s Foresters and feasted
with his men upon King’s deer. And on other stormy days the boy learned
to whittle out a straight shaft for the long bow, and tip it with gray
goose feathers.

The fond mother sighed when she saw the boy’s face light up at these
woodland tales. She was of gentle birth, and had hoped to see her son
famous at court or abbey. She taught him to read and to write, to doff
his cap without awkwardness and to answer directly and truthfully both
lord and peasant. But the boy, although he took kindly to these lessons
of breeding, was yet happiest when he had his beloved bow in hand and
strolled at will, listening to the murmur of the trees.

Two playmates had Rob in these gladsome early days. One was Will
Gamewell, his father’s brother’s son, who lived at Gamewell Lodge, hard
by Nottingham town. The other was Marian Fitzwalter, only child of the
Earl of Huntingdon. The castle of Huntingdon could be seen from the top
of one of the tall trees in Sherwood; and on more than one bright day
Rob’s white signal from this tree told Marian that he awaited her there:
for you must know that Rob did not visit her at the castle. His father
and her father were enemies. Some people whispered that Hugh Fitzooth
was the rightful Earl of Huntingdon, but that he had been defrauded out
of his lands by Fitzwalter, who had won the King’s favor by a crusade to
the Holy Land. But little cared Rob or Marian for this enmity, however
it had arisen. They knew that the great green--wood was open to them,
and that the wide, wide world was full of the scent of flowers and the
song of birds.

Days of youth speed all too swiftly, and troubled skies come all too
soon. Rob’s father had two other enemies besides Fitzwalter, in
the persons of the lean Sheriff of Nottingham and the fat Bishop of
Hereford. These three enemies one day got possession of the King’s ear
and whispered therein to such good--or evil--purpose that Hugh Fitzooth
was removed from his post of King’s Forester. He and his wife and Rob,
then a youth of nineteen, were descended upon, during a cold winter’s
evening, and dispossessed without warning. The Sheriff arrested the
Forester for treason--of which, poor man, he was as guiltless as you or
I--and carried him to Nottingham jail. Rob and his mother were sheltered
over night in the jail, also, but next morning were roughly bade to go
about their business. Thereupon they turned for succor to their only
kinsman, Squire George of Gamewell, who sheltered them in all kindness.

But the shock, and the winter night’s journey, proved too much for
Dame Fitzooth. She had not been strong for some time before leaving the
forest. In less than two months she was no more. Rob felt as though his
heart was broken at this loss. But scarcely had the first spring flowers
begun to blossom upon her grave, when he met another crushing blow in
the loss of his father. That stern man had died in prison before his
accusers could agree upon the charges by which he was to be brought to
trial.

Two years passed by. Rob’s cousin Will was away at school; and Marian’s
father, who had learned of her friendship with Rob, had sent his
daughter to the court of Queen Eleanor. So these years were lonely ones
to the orphaned lad. The bluff old Squire was kind to him, but secretly
could make nothing of one who went about brooding and as though seeking
for something he had lost. The truth is that Rob missed his old life
in the forest no less than his mother’s gentleness, and his father’s
companionship. Every time he twanged the string of the long bow against
his shoulder and heard the gray goose shaft sing, it told him of happy
days that he could not recall.

One morning as Rob came in to breakfast, his uncle greeted him with, “I
have news for you, Rob, my lad!” and the hearty old Squire finished his
draught of ale and set his pewter tankard down with a crash.

“What may that be, Uncle Gamewell?” asked the young man.

“Here is a chance to exercise your good long bow and win a pretty prize.
The Fair is on at Nottingham, and the Sheriff proclaims an archer’s
tournament. The best fellows are to have places with the King’s
Foresters, and the one who shoots straightest of all will win for prize
a golden arrow--a useless bauble enough, but just the thing for your lady
love, eh, Rob my boy?” Here the Squire laughed and whacked the table
again with his tankard.

Rob’s eyes sparkled. “‘Twere indeed worth shooting for, uncle mine,” he
said. “I should dearly love to let arrow fly alongside another man. And
a place among the Foresters is what I have long desired. Will you let me
try?”

“To be sure,” rejoined his uncle. “Well I know that your good mother
would have had me make a clerk of you; but well I see that the greenwood
is where you will pass your days. So, here’s luck to you in the bout!”
 And the huge tankard came a third time into play.

The young man thanked his uncle for his good wishes, and set about
making preparations for the journey. He traveled lightly; but his yew
bow must needs have a new string, and his cloth-yard arrows must be of
the straightest and soundest.

One fine morning, a few days after, Rob might have been seen passing
by way of Lockesley through Sherwood Forest to Nottingham town. Briskly
walked he and gaily, for his hopes were high and never an enemy had he
in the wide world. But ‘twas the very last morning in all his life
when he was to lack an enemy! For, as he went his way through Sherwood,
whistling a blithe tune, he came suddenly upon a group of Foresters,
making merry beneath the spreading branches of an oak-tree. They had a
huge meat pie before them and were washing down prodigious slices of it
with nut brown ale.

One glance at the leader and Rob knew at once that he had found
an enemy. ‘Twas the man who had usurped his father’s place as Head
Forester, and who had roughly turned his mother out in the snow. But
never a word said he for good or bad, and would have passed on his way,
had not this man, clearing his throat with a huge gulp, bellowed out:
“By my troth, here is a pretty little archer! Where go you, my lad, with
that tupenny bow and toy arrows? Belike he would shoot at Nottingham
Fair! Ho! Ho!”

A roar of laughter greeted this sally. Rob flushed, for he was mightily
proud of his shooting.

“My bow is as good as yours,” he retorted, “and my shafts will carry as
straight and as far. So I’ll not take lessons of any of ye.”

They laughed again loudly at this, and the leader said with frown:

“Show us some of your skill, and if you can hit the mark here’s twenty
silver pennies for you. But if you hit it not you are in for a sound
drubbing for your pertness.”

“Pick your own target,” quoth Rob in a fine rage. “I’ll lay my head
against that purse that I can hit it.”

“It shall be as you say,” retorted the Forester angrily, “your head for
your sauciness that you hit not my target.”

Now at a little rise in the wood a herd of deer came grazing by, distant
full fivescore yards. They were King’s deer, but at that distance seemed
safe from any harm. The Head Forester pointed to them.

“If your young arm could speed a shaft for half that distance, I’d shoot
with you.”

“Done!” cried Rob. “My head against twenty pennies I’ll cause yon fine
fellow in the lead of them to breathe his last.”

And without more ado he tried the string of his long bow, placed a shaft
thereon, and drew it to his ear. A moment, and the quivering string sang
death as the shaft whistled across the glade. Another moment and the
leader of the herd leaped high in his tracks and fell prone, dyeing the
sward with his heart’s blood.

A murmur of amazement swept through the Foresters, and then a growl of
rage. He that had wagered was angriest of all.

“Know you what you have done, rash youth?” he said. “You have killed a
King’s deer, and by the laws of King Harry your head remains forfeit.
Talk not to me of pennies but get ye gone straight, and let me not look
upon your face again.”

Rob’s blood boiled within him, and he uttered a rash speech. “I have
looked upon your face once too often already, my fine Forester. ‘Tis you
who wear my father’s shoes.”

And with this he turned upon his heel and strode away.

The Forester heard his parting thrust with an oath. Red with rage he
seized his bow, strung an arrow, and without warning launched it full
af’ Rob. Well was it for the latter that the Forester’s foot turned on a
twig at the critical instant, for as it was the arrow whizzed by his ear
so close as to take a stray strand of his hair with it. Rob turned upon
his assailant, now twoscore yards away.

“Ha!” said he. “You shoot not so straight as I, for all your bravado.
Take this from the tupenny bow!”

Straight flew his answering shaft. The Head Forester gave one cry, then
fell face downward and lay still. His life had avenged Rob’s father, but
the son was outlawed. Forward he ran through the forest, before the
band could gather their scattered wits--still forward into the great
greenwood. The swaying trees seemed to open their arms to the wanderer,
and to welcome him home.

Toward the close of the same day, Rob paused hungry and weary at the
cottage of a poor widow who dwelt upon the outskirts of the forest. Now
this widow had often greeted him kindly in his boyhood days, giving him
to eat and drink. So he boldly entered her door. The old dame was right
glad to see him, and baked him cakes in the ashes, and had him rest and
tell her his story. Then she shook her head.

“‘Tis an evil wind that blows through Sherwood,” she said. “The poor are
despoiled and the rich ride over their bodies. My three sons have been
outlawed for shooting King’s deer to keep us from starving, and now hide
in the wood. And they tell me that twoscore of as good men as ever drew
bow are in hiding with them.”

“Where are they, good mother?” cried Rob. “By my faith, I will join
them.”

“Nay, nay,” replied the old woman at first. But when she saw that there
was no other way, she said: “My sons will visit me to-night. Stay you
here and see them if you must.”

So Rob stayed willingly to see the widow’s sons that night, for they
were men after his own heart. And when they found that his mood was with
them, they made him swear an oath of fealty, and told him the haunt of
the band--a place he knew right well. Finally one of them said:

“But the band lacks a leader--one who can use his head as well as
his hand. So we have agreed that he who has skill enough to go to
Nottingham, an outlaw, and win the prize at archery, shall be our
chief.”

Rob sprang to his feet. “Said in good time!” cried he, “for I had
started to that self-same Fair, and all the Foresters, and all the
Sheriff’s men in Christendom shall not stand between me and the center
of their target!”

And though he was but barely grown he stood so straight and his eye
flashed with such fire that the three brothers seized his hand and
shouted:

“A Lockesley! a Lockesley! if you win the golden arrow you shall be
chief of outlaws in Sherwood Forest!”

So Rob fell to planning how he could disguise himself to go to
Nottingham town; for he knew that the Foresters had even then set a
price on his head in the market-place.

It was even as Rob had surmised. The Sheriff of Nottingham posted a
reward of two hundred pounds for the capture, dead or alive, of one
Robert Fitzooth, outlaw. And the crowds thronging the streets upon that
busy Fair day often paused to read the notice and talk together about
the death of the Head Forester.

But what with wrestling bouts and bouts with quarter-staves, and
wandering minstrels, there came up so many other things to talk about,
that the reward was forgotten for the nonce, and only the Foresters
and Sheriff’s men watched the gates with diligence, the Sheriff indeed
spurring them to effort by offers of largess. His hatred of the father
had descended to the son.

The great event of the day came in the afternoon. It was the archer’s
contest for the golden arrow, and twenty men stepped forth to shoot.
Among them was a beggar-man, a sorry looking fellow with leggings of
different colors, and brown scratched face and hands. Over a tawny shock
of hair he had a hood drawn, much like that of a monk. Slowly he limped
to his place in the line, while the mob shouted in derision. But the
contest was open to all comers, so no man said him nay.

Side by side with Rob--for it was he--stood a muscular fellow of swarthy
visage and with one eye hid by a green bandage. Him also the crowd
jeered, but he passed them by with indifference while he tried his bow
with practiced hand.

A great crowd had assembled in the amphitheater enclosing the lists. All
the gentry and populace of the surrounding country were gathered there
in eager expectancy. The central box contained the lean but pompous
Sheriff, his bejeweled wife, and their daughter, a supercilious young
woman enough, who, it was openly hinted, was hoping to receive the
golden arrow from the victor and thus be crowned queen of the day.

Next to the Sheriff’s box was one occupied by the fat Bishop of
Hereford; while in the other side was a box wherein sat a girl whose
dark hair, dark eyes, and fair features caused Rob’s heart to leap.
‘Twas Maid Marian! She had come up for a visit from the Queen’s court at
London town, and now sat demurely by her father the Earl of Huntingdon.
If Rob had been grimly resolved to win the arrow before, the sight of
her sweet face multiplied his determination an hundredfold. He felt his
muscles tightening into bands of steel, tense and true. Yet withal his
heart would throb, making him quake in a most unaccountable way.

Then the trumpet sounded, and the crowd became silent while the herald
announced the terms of the contest. The lists were open to all comers.
The first target was to be placed at thirty ells distance, and all those
who hit its center were allowed to shoot at the second target, placed
ten ells farther off. The third target was to be removed yet farther,
until the winner was proved. The winner was to receive the golden arrow,
and a place with the King’s Foresters. He it was also who crowned the
queen of the day.

The trumpet sounded again, and the archers prepared to shoot. Rob looked
to his string, while the crowd smiled and whispered at the odd figure
he cut, with his vari-colored legs and little cape. But as the first man
shot, they grew silent.

The target was not so far but that twelve out of the twenty contestants
reached its inner circle. Rob shot sixth in the line and landed fairly,
being rewarded by an approving grunt from the man with the green
blinder, who shot seventh, and with apparent carelessness, yet true to
the bull’s-eye.

The mob cheered and yelled themselves hoarse at this even marksmanship.
The trumpet sounded again, and a new target was set up at forty ells.

The first three archers again struck true, amid the loud applause of the
onlookers; for they were general favorites and expected to win. Indeed
‘twas whispered that each was backed by one of the three dignitaries
of the day. The fourth and fifth archers barely grazed the center. Rob
fitted his arrow quietly and with some confidence sped it unerringly
toward the shining circle.

“The beggar! the beggar!” yelled the crowd; “another bull for the
beggar!” In truth his shaft was nearer the center than any of the
others. But it was not so near that “Blinder,” as the mob had promptly
christened his neighbor, did not place his shaft just within the mark.
Again the crowd cheered wildly. Such shooting as this was not seen every
day in Nottingham town.

The other archers in this round were disconcerted by the preceding
shots, or unable to keep the pace. They missed one after another and
dropped moodily back, while the trumpet sounded for the third round, and
the target was set up fifty ells distant.

“By my halidom you draw a good bow, young master,” said Rob’s queer
comrade to him in the interval allowed for rest. “Do you wish me to
shoot first on this trial?”

“Nay,” said Rob, “but you are a good fellow by this token, and if I win
not, I hope you may keep the prize from yon strutters.” And he nodded
scornfully to the three other archers who were surrounded by their
admirers, and were being made much of by retainers of the Sheriff, the
Bishop, and the Earl. From them his eye wandered toward Maid Marian’s
booth. She had been watching him, it seemed, for their eyes met; then
hers were hastily averted.

“Blinder’s” quick eye followed those of Rob. “A fair maid, that,” he
said smilingly, “and one more worthy the golden arrow than the Sheriff’s
haughty miss.”

Rob looked at him swiftly, and saw naught but kindliness in his glance.

“You are a shrewd fellow and I like you well,” was his only comment.

Now the archers prepared to shoot again, each with some little care. The
target seemed hardly larger than the inner ring had looked, at the first
trial. The first three sped their shafts, and while they were fair shots
they did not more than graze the inner circle.

Rob took his stand with some misgiving. Some flecking clouds overhead
made the light uncertain, and a handful of wind frolicked across the
range in a way quite disturbing to a bowman’s nerves. His eyes wandered
for a brief moment to the box wherein sat the dark-eyed girl. His heart
leaped! she met his glance and smiled at him reassuringly. And in that
moment he felt that she knew him despite his disguise and looked to him
to keep the honor of old Sherwood. He drew his bow firmly and, taking
advantage of a momentary lull in the breeze, launched the arrow straight
and true-singing across the range to the center of the target.

“The beggar! the beggar! a bull! a bull!” yelled the fickle mob,
who from jeering him were now his warm friends. “Can you beat that,
Blinder?”

The last archer smiled scornfully and made ready. He drew his bow with
ease and grace and, without seeming to study the course, released the
winged arrow. Forward it leaped toward the target, and all eyes followed
its flight. A loud uproar broke forth when it alighted, just without the
center and grazing the shaft sent by Rob. The stranger made a gesture
of surprise when his own eyes announced the result to him, but saw his
error. He had not allowed for the fickle gust of wind which seized the
arrow and carried it to one side. But for all that he was the first to
congratulate the victor.

“I hope we may shoot again,” quoth he. “In truth I care not for the
golden bauble and wished to win it in despite of the Sheriff for whom I
have no love. Now crown the lady of your choice.” And turning suddenly
he was lost in the crowd, before Rob could utter what it was upon his
lips to say, that he would shoot again with him.

And now the herald summoned Rob to the Sheriff’s box to receive the
prize.

“You are a curious fellow enough,” said the Sheriff, biting his lip
coldly; “yet you shoot well. What name go you by?”

Marian sat near and was listening intently.

“I am called Rob the Stroller, my Lord Sheriff,” said the archer.

Marian leaned back and smiled.

“Well, Rob the Stroller, with a little attention to your skin and
clothes you would not be so bad a man,” said the Sheriff. “How like you
the idea of entering my service.

“Rob the Stroller has ever been a free man, my Lord, and desires no
service.”

The Sheriff’s brow darkened, yet for the sake of his daughter and the
golden arrow, he dissembled.

“Rob the Stroller,” said he, “here is the golden arrow which has been
offered to the best of archers this day. You are awarded the prize. See
that you bestow it worthily.”

At this point the herald nudged Rob and half inclined his head toward
the Sheriff’s daughter, who sat with a thin smile upon her lips. But Rob
heeded him not. He took the arrow and strode to the next box where sat
Maid Marian.

“Lady,” he said, “pray accept this little pledge from a poor stroller
who would devote the best shafts in his quiver to serve you.”

“My thanks to you, Rob in the Hood,” replied she with a roguish twinkle
in her eye; and she placed the gleaming arrow in her hair, while the
people shouted, “The Queen! the Queen!”

The Sheriff glowered furiously upon this ragged archer who had refused
his service, taken his prize without a word of thanks, and snubbed his
daughter. He would have spoken, but his proud daughter restrained him.
He called to his guard and bade them watch the beggar. But Rob had
already turned swiftly, lost himself in the throng, and headed straight
for the town gate.

That same evening within a forest glade a group of men--some twoscore
clad in Lincoln green--sat round a fire roasting venison and making
merry. Suddenly a twig crackled and they sprang to their feet and seized
their weapons.

“I look for the widow’s sons,” a clear voice said, “and I come alone.”

Instantly the three men stepped forward.

“Tis Rob!” they cried; “welcome to Sherwood Forest, Rob!” And all the
men came and greeted him; for they had heard his story.

Then one of the widow’s sons, Stout Will, stepped forth and said:

“Comrades all, ye know that our band has sadly lacked a leader--one of
birth, breeding, and skill. Belike we have found that leader in this
young man. And I and my brothers have told him that the band would
choose that one who should bring the Sheriff to shame this day and
capture his golden arrow. Is it not so?”

The band gave assent.

Will turned to Rob. “What news bring you from Nottingham town?” asked
he.

Rob laughed. “In truth I brought the Sheriff to shame for mine own
pleasure, and won his golden arrow to boot. But as to the prize ye must
e’en take my word, for I bestowed it upon a maid.”

And seeing the men stood in doubt at this, he continued: “But I’ll
gladly join your band, and you take me, as a common archer. For there
are others older and mayhap more skilled than I.”

Then stepped one forward from the rest, a tall swarthy man. And Rob
recognized him as the man with the green blinder; only this was now
removed, and his freed eye gleamed as stoutly as the other one.

“Rob in the Hood--for such the lady called you,” said he, “I can vouch
for your tale. You shamed the Sheriff e’en as I had hoped to do; and we
can forego the golden arrow since it is in such fair hands. As to your
shooting and mine, we must let future days decide. But here I, Will
Stutely, declare that I will serve none other chief save only you.”

Then good Will Stutely told the outlaws of Rob’s deeds, and gave him his
hand of fealty. And the widow’s sons did likewise, and the other members
every one, right gladly; because Will Stutely had heretofore been the
truest bow in all the company. And they toasted him in nut brown ale,
and hailed him as their leader, by the name of Robin Hood. And he
accepted that name because Maid Marian had said it.

By the light of the camp-fire the band exchanged signs and passwords.
They gave Robin Hood a horn upon which he was to blow to summon them.
They swore, also, that while they might take money and goods from the
unjust rich, they would aid and befriend the poor and the helpless; and
that they would harm no woman, be she maid, wife, or widow. They swore
all this with solemn oaths, while they feasted about the ruddy blaze,
under the greenwood tree.

And that is how Robin Hood became an outlaw.




CHAPTER II

HOW ROBIN HOOD MET LITTLE JOHN

     “O here is my hand,” the stranger reply’d,
     “I’ll serve you with all my whole heart.
     My name is John Little, a man of good mettle,
     Ne’er doubt me for I’ll play my part.”

     “His name shall be altered,” quoth William Stutely,
     “And I will his godfather be:
     Prepare then a feast, and none of the least,
     For we will be merry,” quoth he.

All that summer Robin Hood and his merry men roamed in Sherwood Forest,
and the fame of their deeds ran abroad in the land. The Sheriff of
Nottingham waxed wroth at the report, but all his traps and excursions
failed to catch the outlaws. The poor people began by fearing them, but
when they found that the men in Lincoln green who answered Robin Hood’s
horn meant them no harm, but despoiled the oppressor to relieve the
oppressed, they ‘gan to have great liking for them. And the band
increased by other stout hearts till by the end of the summer fourscore
good men and true had sworn fealty.

But the days of quiet which came on grew irksome to Robin’s adventurous
spirit. Up rose he, one gay morn, and slung his quiver over his
shoulders.

“This fresh breeze stirs the blood, my lads,” quoth he, “and I would
be seeing what the gay world looks like in the direction of Nottingham
town. But tarry ye behind in the borders of the forest, within earshot
of my bugle call.”

Thus saying he strode merrily forward to the edge of the wood, and
paused there a moment, his agile form erect, his brown locks flowing
and his brown eyes watching the road; and a goodly sight he made, as the
wind blew the ruddy color into his cheeks.

The highway led clear in the direction of the town, and thither he
boldly directed his steps. But at a bend in the road he knew of a
by-path leading across a brook which made the way nearer and less open,
into which he turned. As he approached the stream he saw that it had
become swollen by recent rains into quite a pretty torrent. The log
foot-bridge was still there, but at this end of it a puddle intervened
which could be crossed only with a leap, if you would not get your feet
wet.

But Robin cared little for such a handicap. Taking a running start, his
nimble legs carried him easily over and balanced neatly upon the end of
the broad log. But he was no sooner started across than he saw a tall
stranger coming from the other side. Thereupon Robin quickened his pace,
and the stranger did likewise, each thinking to cross first. Midway they
met, and neither would yield an inch.

“Give way, fellow!” roared Robin, whose leadership of a band, I am
afraid, had not tended to mend his manners.

The stranger smiled. He was almost a head taller than the other.

“Nay,” he retorted, “fair and softly! I give way only to a better man
than myself.”

“Give way, I say”, repeated Robin, “or I shall have to show you a better
man.”

His opponent budged not an inch, but laughed loudly. “Now by my
halidom!” he said good-naturedly, “I would not move after hearing that
speech, even if minded to it before; for this better man I have sought
my life long. Therefore show him to me, an it please you.”

“That will I right soon,” quoth Robin. “Stay you here a little while,
till I cut me a cudgel like unto that you have been twiddling in your
fingers.” So saying he sought his own bank again with a leap, laid aside
his long bow and arrows, and cut him a stout staff of oak, straight,
knotless, and a good six feet in length. But still it was a full foot
shorter than his opponent’s. Then back came he boldly.

“I mind not telling you, fellow,” said he, “that a bout with archery
would have been an easier way with me. But there are other tunes in
England besides that the arrow sings.” Here he whirred the staff about
his head by way of practice. “So make you ready for the tune I am about
to play upon your ribs. Have at you! One, two--”

“Three!” roared the giant smiting at him instantly.

Well was it for Robin that he was quick and nimble of foot; for the blow
that grazed a hair’s breadth from his shoulder would have felled an ox.
Nevertheless while swerving to avoid this stroke, Robin was poising for
his own, and back came he forthwith--whack!

Whack! parried the other.

Whack! whack! whack! whack!

The fight waxed fast and furious. It was strength pitted against
subtlety, and the match was a merry one. The mighty blows of the
stranger went whistling around Robin’s ducking head, while his own swift
undercuts were fain to give the other an attack of indigestion. Yet each
stood firmly in his place not moving backward or forward a foot for a
good half hour, nor thinking of crying “Enough!” though some chance blow
seemed likely to knock one or the other off the narrow foot-bridge. The
giant’s face was getting red, and his breath came snorting forth like
a bull’s. He stepped forward with a furious onslaught to finish this
audacious fellow. Robin dodged his blows lightly, then sprang in swiftly
and unexpectedly and dealt the stranger such a blow upon the short ribs
that you would have sworn the tanner was trimming down his hides for
market.

The stranger reeled and came within an ace of falling, but regained his
footing right quickly.

“By my life, you can hit hard!” he gasped forth, giving back a blow
almost while he was yet staggering.

This blow was a lucky one. It caught Robin off his guard. His stick had
rested a moment while he looked to see the giant topple into the water,
when down came the other upon his head, whack! Robin saw more stars
in that one moment than all the astronomers have since discovered, and
forthwith he dropped neatly into the stream.

The cool rushing current quickly brought him to his senses, howbeit he
was still so dazed that he groped blindly for the swaying reeds to
pull himself up on the bank. His assailant could not forbear laughing
heartily at his plight, but was also quick to lend his aid. He thrust
down his long staff to Robin crying, “Lay hold of that, an your fists
whirl not so much as your head!”

Robin laid hold and was hauled to dry land for all the world like
a fish, except that the fish would never have come forth so wet and
dripping. He lay upon the warm bank for a space to regain his senses.
Then he sat up and gravely rubbed his pate.

“By all the saints!” said he, “you hit full stoutly. My head hums like a
hive of bees on a summer morning.”

Then he seized his horn, which lay near, and blew thereon three shrill
notes that echoed against the trees. A moment of silence ensued, and
then was heard the rustling of leaves and crackling of twigs like the
coming of many men; and forth from the glade burst a score or two of
stalwart yeomen, all clad in Lincoln green, like Robin, with good Will
Stutely and the widow’s three sons at their head.

“Good master,” cried Will Stutely, “how is this? In sooth there is not a
dry thread on your body.”

“Why, marry,” replied Robin, “this fellow would not let me pass the
footbridge, and when I tickled him in the ribs, he must needs answer by
a pat on the head which landed me overboard.”

“Then shall he taste some of his own porridge,” quoth Will. “Seize him,
lads!”

“Nay, let him go free,” said Robin. “The fight was a fair one and I
abide by it. I surmise you also are quits?” he continued, turning to the
stranger with a twinkling eye.

“I am content,” said the other, “for verily you now have the best end of
the cudgel. Wherefore, I like you well, and would fain know your name.”

“Why,” said Robin, “my men and even the Sheriff of Nottingham know me as
Robin Hood, the outlaw.”

“Then am I right sorry that I beat you,” exclaimed the man, “for I was
on my way to seek you and to try to join your merry company. But after
my unmannerly use of the cudgel, I fear we are still strangers.”

“Nay, never say it!” cried Robin, “I am glad I fell in with you; though,
sooth to say, I did all the falling!”

And amid a general laugh the two men clasped hands, and in that clasp
the strong friendship of a lifetime was begun.

“But you have not yet told us your name,” said Robin, bethinking
himself.

“Whence I came, men call me John Little.”

“Enter our company then, John Little; enter and welcome. The rites are
few, the fee is large. We ask your whole mind and body and heart even
unto death.”

“I give the bond, upon my life,” said the tall man.

Thereupon Will Stutely, who loved a good jest, spoke up and said: “The
infant in our household must be christened, and I’ll stand godfather.
This fair little stranger is so small of bone and sinew, that his old
name is not to the purpose.” Here he paused long enough to fill a horn
in the stream. “Hark ye, my son,”--standing on tiptoe to splash the
water on the giant--“take your new name on entering the forest. I
christen you Little John.”

At this jest the men roared long and loud.

“Give him a bow, and find a full sheath of arrows for Little John,”
 said Robin joyfully. “Can you shoot as well as fence with the staff, my
friend?”

“I have hit an ash twig at forty yards,” said Little John.

Thus chatting pleasantly the band turned back into the woodland and
sought their secluded dell, where the trees were the thickest, the moss
was the softest, and a secret path led to a cave, at once a retreat and
a stronghold. Here under a mighty oak they found the rest of the band,
some of whom had come in with a brace of fat does. And here they built
a ruddy fire and sat down to the meat and ale, Robin Hood in the center
with Will Stutely on the one hand and Little John on the other. And
Robin was right well pleased with the day’s adventure, even though he
had got a drubbing; for sore ribs and heads will heal, and ‘tis not
every day that one can find a recruit as stout of bone and true of soul
as Little John.




CHAPTER III

HOW ROBIN HOOD TURNED BUTCHER, AND ENTERED THE SHERIFF’S SERVICE

     The butcher he answered jolly Robin,
     “No matter where I do dwell,
     For a butcher am I, and to Nottingham
     Am I going, my flesh to sell.”

The next morning the weather had turned ill, and Robin Hood’s band
stayed close to their dry and friendly cave. The third day brought a
diversion in the shape of a trap by a roving party of the Sheriff’s men.
A fine stag had been struck down by one Of Will Stutely’s fellows, and
he and others had stepped forth from the covert to seize it, when twenty
bowmen from Nottingham appeared at the end of the glade. Down dropped
Will’s men on all fours, barely in time to hear a shower of arrows
whistle above their heads. Then from behind the friendly trees they
sent back such a welcome that the Sheriff’s men deemed it prudent not to
tarry in their steps. Two of them, in sooth, bore back unpleasant wounds
in their shoulders, from the encounter.

When they returned to town the Sheriff waxed red with rage.

“What,” he gasped, “do my men fear to fight this Robin Hood, face to
face? Would that I could get him within my reach, once. We should see
then; we should see!”

What it was the Sheriff would see, he did not state. But he was to have
his wish granted in short space, and you and I will see how he profited
by it.

The fourth day and the one following this friendly bout, Little John was
missing. One of his men said that he saw him talking with a beggar, but
did not know whither they had gone. Two more days passed. Robin grew
uneasy. He did not doubt the faith of Little John, but he was fearful
lest a roving band of Foresters had captured him.

At last Robin could not remain quiet. Up sprang he, with bow and arrows,
and a short sword at his side.

“I must away to Nottingham town, my men,” he cried. “The goodly Sheriff
has long desired to see me; and mayhap he can tell me tidings of the
best quarter-staff in the shire”--meaning Little John.

Others of the band besought him to let them go with him, but he would
not.

“Nay,” he said smilingly, “the Sheriff and I are too good friends to put
doubt upon our meeting. But tarry ye in the edge of the wood opposite
the west gate of the town, and ye may be of service ere to-morrow
night.”

So saying he strode forward to the road leading to Nottingham, and stood
as before looking up and down to see if the way was clear. Back at a
bend in the road he heard a rumbling and a lumbering, when up drove
a stout butcher, whistling gaily, and driving a mare that sped slowly
enough because of the weight of meat with which the cart was loaded.

“A good morrow to you, friend,” hailed Robin. “Whence come you and where
go you with your load of meat?”

“A good morrow to you,” returned the butcher, civilly enough. “No matter
where I dwell. I am but a simple butcher, and to Nottingham am I going,
my flesh to sell. ‘Tis Fair week, and my beef and mutton should fetch a
fair penny,” and he laughed loudly at his jest. “But whence come you?”

“A yeoman am I, from Lockesley town. Men call me Robin Hood.”

“The saints forefend that you should treat me ill!” said the butcher in
terror. “Oft have I heard of you, and how you lighten the purses of the
fat priests and knights. But I am naught but a poor butcher, selling
this load of meat, perchance, for enough to pay my quarter’s rent.”

“Rest you, my friend, rest you,” quoth Robin, “not so much as a silver
penny would I take from you, for I love an honest Saxon face and a fair
name with my neighbors. But I would strike a bargain with you.”

Here he took from his girdle a well-filled purse, and continued, “I
would fain be a butcher, this day, and sell meat at Nottingham town.
Could you sell me your meat, your cart, your mare, and your good-will,
without loss, for five marks?”

“Heaven bless ye, good Robin,” cried the butcher right joyfully, “that
can I!” And he leaped down forthwith from the cart, and handed Robin the
reins in exchange for the purse.

“One moment more,” laughed Robin, “we must e’en change garments for the
nonce. Take mine and scurry home quickly lest the King’s Foresters try
to put a hole through this Lincoln green.”

So saying he donned the butcher’s blouse and apron, and, climbing into
the cart, drove merrily down the road to the town.

When he came to Nottingham he greeted the scowling gate-keeper blithely
and proceeded to the market-place. Boldly he led his shuffling horse to
the place where the butchers had their stalls.

He had no notion of the price to ask for his meat, but put on a foolish
and simple air as he called aloud his wares:

     “Hark ye, lasses and dames, hark ye,
     Good meat come buy, come buy,
     Three pen’orths go for one penny,
     And a kiss is good, say I!”

Now when the folk found what a simple butcher he was, they crowded
around his cart; for he really did sell three times as much for one
penny as was sold by the other butchers. And one or two serving-lasses
with twinkling eyes liked his comely face so well that they willingly
gave boot of a kiss.

But the other butchers were wroth when they found how he was taking
their trade; and they accordingly put their heads together.

One said, “He is a prodigal and has sold his father’s land, and this is
his first venture in trading.”

Another said, “He is a thief who has murdered a butcher, and stolen his
horse and meat.”

Robin heard these sayings, but only laughed merrily and sang his song
the louder. His good-humor made the people laugh also and crowd round
his cart closely, shouting uproariously when some buxom lass submitted
to be kissed.

Then the butchers saw that they must meet craft with craft; and they
said to him, “Come, brother butcher, if you would sell meat with us, you
must e’en join our guild and stand by the rules of our trade.”

“We dine at the Sheriff’s mansion to-day,” said another, “and you must
take one of our party.”

     “Accurst of his heart,” said jolly Robin,
     “That a butcher will deny.
     I’ll go with you, my brethren true,
     And as fast as I can hie.”

Whereupon, having sold all his meat, he left his horse and cart in
charge of a friendly hostler and prepared to follow his mates to the
Mansion House.

It was the Sheriff’s custom to dine various guilds of the trade, from
time to time, on Fair days, for he got a pretty profit out of the fees
they paid him for the right to trade in the market-place. The Sheriff
was already come with great pomp into the banqueting room, when Robin
Hood and three or four butchers entered, and he greeted them all with
great condescension; and presently the whole of a large company was
seated at a table groaning beneath the good cheer of the feast.

Now the Sheriff bade Robin sit by his right hand, at the head of the
board; for one or two butchers had whispered to the official, “That
fellow is a right mad blade, who yet made us much sport to-day. He sold
more meat for one penny than we could sell for three; and he gave extra
weight to whatsoever lass would buss him.” And others said, “He is
some prodigal who knows not the value of goods, and may be plucked by a
shrewd man right closely.”

The Sheriff was will to pluck a prodigal with the next man, and he was
moreover glad to have a guest who promised to enliven the feast. So, as
I have told you, he placed Robin by his side, and he made much of him
and laughed boisterously at his jests; though sooth to say, the laugh
were come by easily, for Robin had never been in merrier mood, and his
quips and jests soon put the whole table at a roar.

Then my lord Bishop of Hereford came in, last of all, to say a ponderous
grace and take his seat on the other side of the Sheriff--the prelate’s
fat body showing up in goodly contrast to the other’s lean bones.

After grace was said, and while the servants clattered in with the meat
platters, Robin stood up and said:

“An amen say I to my lord Bishop’s thanks! How, now, my fine fellows, be
merry and drink deep; for the shot I’ll pay ere I go my way, though it
cost me five pounds and more. So my lords and gentlemen all, spare not
the wine, but fall to lustily.”

“Hear! hear!” shouted the butchers.

“Now are you a right jolly soul,” quoth the Sheriff, “but this feast is
mine own. Howbeit you must have many a head of horned beasts, and many
an acre of broad land, to spend from your purse so freely.”

“Aye, that have I,” returned Robin, his eyes all a twinkle, “five
hundred horned beasts have I and my brothers, and none of them have we
been able to sell. That is why I have turned butcher. But I know not the
trade, and would gladly sell the whole herd, an I could find a buyer.”

At this, the Sheriff’s greed ‘gan to rise. Since this fool _would_ be
plucked, thought he, why should not he do the plucking?

“Five hundred beasts, say you?” he queried sharply.

“Five hundred and ten fat beasts by actual count, that I would sell for
a just figure. Aye, to him who will pay me in right money, would I sell
them for twenty pieces of gold. Is that too much to ask, lording?”

Was there ever such an idiot butcher? thought the Sheriff; and he so far
forgot his dignity as to nudge the Bishop in his fat ribs.

“Nay, good fellow,” quoth he chuckling, “I am always ready to help
any in my shire. An you cannot find a buyer for your herd at this just
figure, I will e’en buy them myself.”

At this generosity Robin was quite overcome, and fell to praising the
Sheriff to the skies, and telling him that he should not have cause to
forget the kindness.

“Tut, tut,” said the Sheriff, “‘tis naught but a trade. Drive in your
herd tomorrow to the market-place and you shall have money down.”

“Nay, excellence,” said Robin, “that can I not easily do, for they are
grazing in scattered fashion. But they are over near Gamewell, not more
than a mile therefrom at most. Will you not come and choose your own
beasts tomorrow?”

“Aye, that I will,” said the Sheriff, his cupidity casting his caution
to the winds. “Tarry with me over night, and I will go with you in the
morning.”

This was a poser for Robin, since he liked not the idea of staying over
night at the Sheriff’s house. He had hoped to appoint a meeting-place
for the other, but now saw that this might excite doubt. He looked
around at the company. By this time, you must know, the feast had
progressed far, and the butchers were deep in their cups. The Sheriff
and Robin had talked in a low voice, and my lord Bishop was almost
asleep.

“Agreed,” said Robin presently, and the words were no sooner out of his
mouth than the door opened and a serving-man entered bearing tray of
mulled wine. At sight of the fellow’s face, Robin gave an involuntary
start of surprise which was instantly checked. The other also saw him,
stood still a moment, and as if forgetting something turned about and
left the hall.

It was Little John.

A dozen questions flashed across Robin’s mind, and he could find answer
for none of them. What was Little John doing in the Sheriff’s house? Why
had he not told the band? Was he true to them? Would he betray him?

But these questions of distrust were dismissed from Robin’s open mind
as soon as they had entered. He knew that Little John was faithful and
true.

He recovered his spirits and began again upon a vein of foolish banter,
for the amusement of the Sheriff and his guests, all being now merry
with wine.

“A song!” one of them shouted, and the cry was taken up round the table.
Robin mounted his chair and trolled forth:

     “A lass and a butcher of Nottingham
     Agreed ‘twixt them for to wed.
     Says he, ‘I’ll give ye the meat, fair dame,
     And ye will give me the bread.”

Then they joined in the chorus amid a pounding of cups upon the board:

     “With a hey and a ho
     And a hey nonny no,
     A butcher of Nottingham!”

While the song was at its height, Little John reappeared, with other
servants, and refilled the cups. He came up to Robin and, as if asking
him if he would have more wine, said softly, “Meet me in the pantry
to-night.”

Robin nodded, and sang loudly. The day was already far spent, and
presently the company broke up with many hiccupy bows of the Sheriff and
little notice of the drowsy Bishop.

When the company was dispersed, the Sheriff bade a servant show Robin to
his room, and promised to see him at breakfast the next day.

Robin kept his word and met Little John that night, and the sheriff next
day; but Little John has been doing so much in the meantime that he must
be allowed a chapter to himself.

So let us turn to another story that was sung of, in the ballads of
olden time, and find out how Little John entered the Sheriff’s service.




CHAPTER IV

HOW LITTLE JOHN ENTERED THE SHERIFF’S SERVICE

     List and hearken, gentlemen,
     All ye that now be here,
     Of Little John, that was Knight’s-man,
     Good mirth ye now shall hear.

It had come around another Fair day at Nottingham town, and folk crowded
there by all the gates. Goods of many kinds were displayed in gaily
colored booths, and at every cross-street a free show was in progress.
Here and there, stages had been erected for the play at quarter-staff, a
highly popular sport.

There was a fellow, one Eric of Lincoln, who was thought to be the
finest man with the staff for miles around. His feats were sung about in
ballads through all the shire. A great boaster was he withal, and to-day
he strutted about on one of these corner stages, and vaunted of his
prowess, and offered to crack any man’s crown for a shilling. Several
had tried their skill with Eric, but he had soon sent them spinning in
no gentle manner, amid the jeers and laughter of the onlookers.

A beggar-man sat over against Eric’s stage and grinned every time a pate
was cracked. He was an uncouth fellow, ragged and dirty and unshaven.
Eric caught sight of his leering face at one of his boasts--for there
was a lull in the game, because no man else wanted to come within reach
of Eric’s blows. Eric, I say, noticed the beggar-man grinning at him
rather impudently, and turned toward him sharply.

“How now, you dirty villain!” quoth he, “mend your manners to your
betters, or, by our Lady, I’ll dust your rags for you.”

The beggar-man still grinned. “I am always ready to mend my manners to
my betters,” said he, “but I am afraid you cannot teach me any better
than you can dust my jacket.”

“Come up! Come up!” roared the other, flourishing his staff.

“That will I,” said the beggar, getting up slowly and with difficulty.
“It will pleasure me hugely to take a braggart down a notch, an some
good man will lend me a stout quarter-staff.”

At this a score of idlers reached him their staves--being ready enough
to see another man have his head cracked, even if they wished to save
their own--and he took the stoutest and heaviest of all. He made a sorry
enough figure as he climbed awkwardly upon the stage, but when he had
gained it, he towered full half a head above the other, for all his
awkwardness. Nathless, he held his stick so clumsily that the crowd
laughed in great glee.

Now each man took his place and looked the other up and down, watching
warily for an opening. Only a moment stood they thus, for Eric, intent
on teaching this rash beggar a lesson and sweeping him speedily off the
stage, launched forth boldly and gave the other a sounding crack on the
shoulder. The beggar danced about, and made as though he would drop his
staff from very pain, while the crowd roared and Eric raised himself for
another crushing blow. But just then the awkward beggar came to life.
Straightening himself like a flash, he dealt Eric a back-handed blow,
the like of which he had never before seen. Down went the boaster to the
floor with a sounding thump, and the fickle people yelled and laughed
themselves purple; for it was a new sight to see Eric of Lincoln eating
dust.

But he was up again almost as soon as he had fallen, and right quickly
retreated to his own ringside to gather his wits and watch for an
opening. He saw instantly that he had no easy antagonist, and he came in
cautiously this time.

And now those who stood around saw the merriest game of quarter-staff
that was ever played inside the walls of Nottingham town. Both men
were on their guard and fenced with fine skill, being well matched in
prowess. Again and again did Eric seek to force an opening under the
other’s guard, and just as often were his blows parried. The beggar
stood sturdily in his tracks contenting himself with beating off the
attack. For a long time their blows met like the steady crackling of
some huge forest fire, and Eric strove to be wary, for he now knew that
the other had no mean wits or mettle. But he grew right mad at last, and
began to send down blows so fierce and fast that you would have sworn
a great hail-storm was pounding on the shingles over your head. Yet he
never so much as entered the tall beggar’s guard.

Then at last the stranger saw his chance and changed his tune of
fighting. With one upward stroke he sent Eric’s staff whirling through
the air. With another he tapped Eric on the head; and, with a third
broad swing, ere the other could recover himself, he swept him clear off
the stage, much as you would brush a fly off the window pane.

Now the people danced and shouted and made so much ado that the
shop-keepers left their stalls and others came running from every
direction. The victory of the queer beggar made him immensely popular.
Eric had been a great bully, and many had suffered defeat and insult
at his hands. So the ragged stranger found money and food and drink
everywhere at his disposal, and he feasted right comfortably till the
afternoon.

Then a long bow contest came on, and to it the beggar went with some of
his new friends. It was held in the same arena that Robin had formerly
entered; and again the Sheriff and lords and ladies graced the scene
with their presence, while the people crowded to their places.

When the archers had stepped forward, the herald rose and proclaimed the
rules of the game: how that each man should shoot three shots, and to
him who shot best the prize of a yoke of fat steers should belong.
A dozen keen-eyed bowmen were there, and among them some of the best
fellows in the Forester’s and Sheriff’s companies. Down at the end of
the line towered the tall beggar-man, who must needs twang a bow-string
with the best of them.

The Sheriff noted his queer figure and asked: “Who is that ragged
fellow?”

“‘Tis he that hath but now so soundly cracked the crown of Eric of
Lincoln,” was the reply.

The shooting presently began, and the targets soon showed a fine
reckoning. Last of all came the beggar’s turn.

“By your leave,” he said loudly, “I’d like it well to shoot with any
other man here present at a mark of my own placing.” And he strode down
the lists with a slender peeled sapling which he stuck upright in the
ground. “There,” said he, “is a right good mark. Will any man try it?”

But not an archer would risk his reputation on so small a target.

Whereupon the beggar drew his bow with seeming carelessness and split
the wand with his shaft.

“Long live the beggar!” yelled the bystanders.

The Sheriff swore a full great oath, and said: “This man is the best
archer that ever yet I saw.” And he beckoned to him, and asked him: “How
now, good fellow, what is your name, and in what country were you born?”

“In Holderness I was born,” the man replied; “men call me Reynold
Greenleaf.”

“You are a sturdy fellow, Reynold Greenleaf, and deserve better apparel
than that you wear at present. Will you enter my service? I will give
you twenty marks a year, above your living, and three good suits of
clothes.”

“Three good suits, say you? Then right gladly will I enter your service,
for my back has been bare this many a long day.”

Then Reynold turned him about to the crowd and shouted: “Hark ye, good
people, I have entered the Sheriff’s service, and need not the yoke of
steers for prize. So take them for yourselves, to feast withal.”

At this the crowd shouted more merrily than ever, and threw their caps
high into the air. And none so popular a man had come to Nottingham town
in many a long day as this same Reynold Greenleaf.

Now you may have guessed, by this time, who Reynold Greenleaf really
was; so I shall tell you that he was none other than Little John. And
forth went he to the Sheriff’s house, and entered his service. But it
was a sorry day for the Sheriff when he got his new man. For Little John
winked his shrewd eye and said softly to himself: “By my faith, I shall
be the worst servant to him that ever yet had he!”

Two days passed by. Little John, it must be confessed, did not make
a good servant. He insisted upon eating the Sheriff’s best bread and
drinking his best wine, so that the steward waxed wroth. Nathless the
Sheriff held him in high esteem, and made great talk of taking him along
on the next hunting trip.

It was now the day of the banquet to the butchers, about which we have
already heard. The banquet hall, you must know, was not in the main
house, but connected with it by a corridor. All the servants were
bustling about making preparations for the feast, save only Little John,
who must needs lie abed the greater part of the day. But he presented
himself at last, when the dinner was half over; and being desirous
of seeing the guests for himself he went into the hall with the other
servants to pass the wine. First, however, I am afraid that some of
the wine passed his own lips while he went down the corridor. When he
entered the banqueting hall, whom should he see but Robin Hood himself.
We can imagine the start of surprise felt by each of these bold fellows
upon seeing the other in such strange company. But they kept their
secrets, as we have seen, and arranged to meet each other that same
night. Meanwhile, the proud Sheriff little knew that he harbored the two
chief outlaws of the whole countryside beneath his roof.

After the feast was over and night was beginning to advance, Little John
felt faint of stomach and remembered him that he had eaten nothing all
that day. Back went he to the pantry to see what eatables were laid by.
But there, locking up the stores for the night, stood the fat steward.

“Good Sir Steward,” said Little John, “give me to dine, for it is long
for Greenleaf to be fasting.”

The steward looked grimly at him and rattled the keys at his girdle.

“Sirrah lie-abed,” quoth he, “‘tis late in the day to be talking of
eating. Since you have waited thus long to be hungry, you can e’en take
your appetite back to bed again.”

“Now by mine appetite, that will I not do,” cried Little John. “Your
own paunch of fat would be enough for any bear to sleep on through the
winter. But my stomach craves food, and food it shall have!”

Saying this he brushed past the steward and tried the door, but it
was locked fast; whereat the fat steward chuckled and jangled his keys
again.

Then was Little John right mad, and he brought down his huge fist on the
door-panel with a sledge-hammer blow that shivered an opening you could
thrust your hand into. Little John stooped and peered through the hole
to see what food lay within reach, when crack! went the steward’s keys
upon his crown, and the worthy danced around him playing a tattoo that
made Little John’s ears ring. At this he turned upon the steward and
gave him such a rap that his back went nigh in two, and over went the
fat fellow rolling on the floor.

“Lie there,” quoth Little John, “till ye find strength to go to bed.
Meanwhile, I must be about my dinner.” And he kicked open the buttery
door without ceremony and brought to light a venison pasty and cold
roast pheasant--goodly sights to a hungry man. Placing these down on a
convenient shelf he fell to with right good will. So Little John ate and
drank as much as he would.

Now the Sheriff had in his kitchen a cook, a stout man and bold, who
heard the rumpus and came in to see how the land lay. There sat Little
John eating away for dear life, while the fat steward was rolled under
the table like a bundle of rags.

“I make my vow!” said the cook, “you are a shrewd hind to dwell thus in
a household, and ask thus to dine.” So saying he laid aside his spit and
drew a good sword that hung at his side.

“I make my vow!” said Little John, “you are a bold man and hardy to come
thus between me and my meat. So defend yourself and see that you prove
the better man.” And he drew his own sword and crossed weapons with the
cook.

Then back and forth they clashed with sullen sound. The old ballad which
tells of their fight says that they thought nothing for to flee, but
stiffly for to stand. There they fought sore together, two miles away
and more, but neither might the other harm for the space of a full hour.

“I make my vow!” cried Little John, “you are the best swordsman that
ever yet I saw. What say you to resting a space and eating and drinking
good health with me. Then we may fall to again with the swords.”

“Agreed!” said the cook, who loved good fare as well as a good fight;
and they both laid by their swords and fell to the food with hearty
will. The venison pasty soon disappeared, and the roast pheasant flew
at as lively a rate as ever the bird itself had sped. Then the warriors
rested a space and patted their stomachs, and smiled across at
each other like bosom friends; for a man when he as dined looks out
pleasantly upon the world.

“And now good Reynold Greenleaf,” said the cook, “we may as well settle
this brave fight we have in hand.”

“A true saying,” rejoined the other, “but first tell me, friend--for
I protest you are my friend henceforth--what is the score we have to
settle?”

“Naught save who can handle the sword best,” said the cook. “By my troth
I had thought to carve you like a capon ere now.”

“And I had long since thought to shave your ears,” replied Little John.
“This bout we can settle in right good time. But just now I and my
master have need of you, and you can turn your stout blade to better
service than that of the Sheriff.”

“Whose service would that be?” asked the cook.

“Mine,” answered a would-be butcher entering the room, “and I am Robin
Hood.”




CHAPTER V

HOW THE SHERIFF LOST THREE GOOD SERVANTS AND FOUND THEM AGAIN

     “Make good cheer,” said Robin Hood.
     “Sheriff! for charity!
     And for the love of Little John
     Thy life is granted thee!”

The cook gasped in amazement. This Robin Hood! and under the Sheriff’s
very roof!

“Now by my troth you are a brave fellow,” he said. “I have heard great
tales of your prowess, and the half has not been told. But who might
this tall slasher be?”

“Men do call me Little John, good fellow.”

“Then Little John, or Reynold Greenleaf, I like you well, on my honor as
Much the miller’s son; and you too, bold Robin Hood. An you take me, I
will enter your service right gladly.”

“Spoken like a stout man!” said Robin, seizing him by the hand. “But I
must back to my own bed, lest some sleepy warden stumble upon me, and
I be forced to run him through. Lucky for you twain that wine flowed
so freely in the house to-day; else the noise of your combat would have
brought other onlookers besides Robin Hood. Now if ye would flee the
house to-night, I will join you in the good greenwood to-morrow.”

“But, good master,” said the cook, “you would not stay here over night!
Verily, it is running your head into a noose. Come with us. The Sheriff
has set strict watch on all the gates, since ‘tis Fair week, but I know
the warden at the west gate and could bring us through safely. To-morrow
you will be stayed.” “Nay, that will I not,” laughed Robin, “for I shall
go through with no less escort than the Sheriff himself. Now do you,
Little John, and do you, Much the miller’s son, go right speedily. In
the borders of the wood you will find my merry men. Tell them to kill
two fine harts against to-morrow eve, for we shall have great company
and lordly sport.”

And Robin left them as suddenly as he had come.

“Comrade,” then said Little John, “we may as well bid the Sheriff’s roof
farewell. But ere we go, it would seem a true pity to fail to take such
of the Sheriff’s silver plate as will cause us to remember him, and also
grace our special feasts.”

“‘Tis well said indeed,” quoth the cook.

Thereupon they got a great sack and filled it with silver plate from the
shelves where it would not at once be missed, and they swung the sack
between them, and away they went, out of the house, out of the town, and
into the friendly shelter of Sherwood Forest.

The next morning the servants were late astir in the Sheriff’s house.
The steward awoke from a heavy sleep, but his cracked head was still in
such a whirl that he could not have sworn whether the Sheriff had ever
owned so much as one silver dish. So the theft went undiscovered for the
nonce.

Robin Hood met the Sheriff at breakfast, when his host soon spoke of
what was uppermost in his heart--the purchase of the fine herd of cattle
near Gamewell. ‘Twas clear that a vision of them, purchased for twenty
paltry gold pieces, had been with him all through the night, in his
dreams. And Robin again appeared such a silly fellow that the Sheriff
saw no need of dissembling, but said that he was ready to start at once
to look at the herd.

Accordingly they set forth, Robin in his little butcher’s cart, behind
the lean mare, and the Sheriff mounted on a horse. Out of Nottingham
town, through gates open wide, they proceeded, and took the hill road
leading through Sherwood Forest. And as they went on and plunged deeper
among the trees, Robin whistled blithely and sang snatches of tunes.

“Why are you so gay, fellow?” said the Sheriff, for, sooth to say, the
silence of the woods was making him uneasy.

“I am whistling to keep my courage up,” replied Robin.

“What is there to fear, when you have the Sheriff of Nottingham beside
you?” quoth the other pompously.

Robin scratched his head.

“They do say that Robin Hood and his men care little for the Sheriff,”
 he said.

“Pooh!” said the Sheriff. “I would not give _that_ for their lives, if
I could once lay hands upon them.” And he snapped his fingers angrily.
“But Robin Hood himself was on this very road the last time I came to
town,” said the other.

The Sheriff started at the crackling of a twig under his horse’s feet,
and looked around.

“Did you see him?” he asked.

“Aye, that did I! He wanted the use of this mare and cart to drive to
Nottingham. He said he would fain turn butcher. But see!”

As he spoke he came to a turn in the road, and there before them stood a
herd of the King’s deer, feeding. Robin pointed to them and continued:

“There is my herd of cattle, good Master Sheriff! How do you like them?
Are they not fat and fair to see?”

The Sheriff drew rein quickly. “Now fellow,” quoth he, “I would I were
well out of this forest, for I care not to see such herds as these, or
such faces as yours. Choose your own way, therefore, whoever you be, and
let me go mine.”

“Nay,” laughed Robin, seizing the Sheriff’s bridle, “I have been at too
much pains to cultivate your company to forego it now so easily. Besides
I wish you to meet some of my friends and dine with me, since you have
so lately entertained me at your board.”

So saying he clapped a horn on his lips and winded three merry notes.
The deer bounded away; and before the last of them was seen, there came
a running and a rustling, and out from behind covert and tree came full
twoscore of men, clad in Lincoln green, and bearing good yew bows in
their hands and short swords at their sides. Up they ran to Robin Hood
and doffed their caps to him respectfully, while the Sheriff sat still
from very amazement.

“Welcome to the greenwood!” said one of the leaders, bending the knee
with mock reverence before the Sheriff.

The Sheriff glared. It was Little John.

“Woe the worth, Reynold Greenleaf,” he said, “you have betrayed me!”

“I make my vow,” said Little John, “that you are to blame, master. I was
misserved of my dinner, when I was at your house. But we shall set you
down to a feast we hope you will enjoy.”

“Well spoken, Little John,” said Robin Hood. “Take you his bridle and
let us do honor to the guest who has come to feast with us.”

Then turning abruptly the whole company plunged into the heart of the
forest.

After twisting and turning till the Sheriff’s bewildered head sat
dizzily upon his shoulders, the greenwood men passed through a narrow
alley amid the trees which led to a goodly open space flanked by
wide-spreading oaks. Under the largest of these a pleasant fire was
crackling, and near it two fine harts lay ready for cooking. Around the
blaze were gathered another company of yeomen quite as large as that
which came with Robin Hood. Up sprang they as the latter advanced and
saluted their leader with deference, but with hearty gladness to see him
back again.

That merry wag Will Stutely was in command; and when he saw the
palefaced Sheriff being led in like any culprit, he took his cloak and
laid it humbly upon the ground and besought the Sheriff to alight upon
it, as the ground of Sherwood was unused to such dignitaries.

“Bestir yourselves, good fellows!” cried Robin Hood; “and while our new
cook, whom I see with us, is preparing a feast worthy of our high guest,
let us have a few games to do him honor!”

Then while the whole glade was filled with the savory smell of roasting
venison and fat capons, and brown pasties warmed beside the blaze,
and mulled wine sent forth a cordial fragrance, Robin Hood placed the
Sheriff upon a knoll beneath the largest oak and sat himself down by
him.

First stepped forward several pairs of men armed with the quarter-staff,
the widow’s sons among them, and so skilfully did they thrust and parry
and beat down guards, that the Sheriff, who loved a good game as well as
any man, clapped his hands, forgetting where he was, and shouted, “Well
struck! well struck! Never have I seen such blows at all the Fairs of
Nottingham!”

Then the best archers of the band set up a small wand at eightscore
paces distant, and thereon they affixed a wreath of green. And the
archers began to shoot; and he who shot not through the garland without
disturbing its leaves and tendrils was fain to submit to a good sound
buffet from Little John. But right cunning was the shooting, for the
men had spent a certain time in daily practice, and many were the shafts
which sped daintily through the circle. Nathless now and again some
luckless fellow would shoot awry and would be sent winding from a long
arm blow from the tall lieutenant while the glade roared with laughter.
And none more hearty a guffaw was given than came from the Sheriff’s own
throat, for the spirit of the greenwood was upon him.

But presently his high mood was dashed. The company sat down to meat,
and the guest was treated to two more disturbing surprise. The cook came
forward to serve the food, when the Sheriff beheld in him his own former
servant, and one whom he supposed was at the moment in the scullery at
Nottingham.

Much the miller’s son grinned by way of answer to the Sheriff’s
amazement, and served the plates, and placed them before the party. Then
did the Sheriff gasp and fairly choke with rage. The service was his own
silverware from the Mansion House!

“You rascals! you rogues!” he spluttered. “Was it not enough to defraud
me out of three of my servants, that you must also rob me of my best
silver service? Nay, by my life, but I will not touch your food!”

But Robin Hood bade him pause.

“Gramercy!” quoth he, “servants come and go, in merry England, and so
does service. The platters are but used to do your worship honor. And as
for your life, it is forfeit to your eagerness to buy my herd of cattle
so cheaply. Now sit you down again and make good cheer, Sheriff, for
charity! And for the love of Little John your life is granted you!”

So the Sheriff sat him down again, with the best face he could assume,
and soon the cook’s viands were disappearing down his gullet as rapidly
as the next man’s. And they feasted royally and clinked each other’s
cups until the sun had ceased to print the pattern of the leaves upon
the forest carpet.

Then the Sheriff arose and said: “I thank you, Robin Hood, one-time
butcher, and you, Little John, one-time beggar, and you, Much, one-time
cook, and all you good men who have entertained me in Sherwood so well.
Promises I make not as to how I shall requite you when next you come to
Nottingham, for I am in the King’s service. So for the present the score
rests with you. But the shadows grow long and I must away, if you will
be pleased to pilot me to the road.”

Then Robin Hood and all his men arose and drank the Sheriff’s health,
and Robin said: “If you must needs go at once we will not detain
you--except that you have forgotten two things.”

“What may they be?” asked the Sheriff, while his heart sank within him.

“You forget that you came with me to-day to buy a herd of horned beasts;
likewise that he who dines at the Greenwood Inn must pay the landlord.”

The Sheriff fidgeted like a small boy who has forgotten his lesson.

“Nay, I have but a small sum with me,” he began apologetically.

“What is that sum, gossip?” questioned Little John, “for my own wage
should also come out of it!”

“And mine!” said Much.

“And mine!” smiled Robin.

The Sheriff caught his breath. “By my troth, are all these silver dishes
worth anything?”

The outlaws roared heartily at this.

“I’ll tell you what it is, worship,” said Robin, “we three rascally
servants will compound our back wages for those plates. And we will keep
the herd of cattle free for our own use--and the King’s. But this little
tavern bill should be settled! Now, what sum have you about you?”

“I have only those twenty pieces of gold, and twenty others,” said the
Sheriff: and well it was that he told the truth for once, for Robin
said:

“Count it, Little John.”

Little John turned the Sheriff’s wallet inside out. “‘Tis true enough,”
 he said.

“Then you shall pay no more than twenty pieces for your entertainment,
excellence,” decreed Robin. “Speak I soothly, men of greenwood?”

“Good!” echoed the others.

“The Sheriff should swear by his patron saint that he will not molest
us,” said Will Stutely; and his addition was carried unanimously.

“So be it, then,” cried Little John, approaching the sheriff. “Now swear
by your life and your patron saint--”

“I will swear it by St. George, who is patron of us all,” said the
Sheriff vigorously, “that I will never disturb or distress the outlaws
in Sherwood.”

“But let me catch any of you _out_ of Sherwood!” thought he to himself.

Then the twenty pieces of gold were paid over, and the Sheriff once more
prepared to depart.

“Never had we so worshipful a guest before,” said Robin; “and as the new
moon is beginning to silver the leaves, I shall bear you company myself
for part of the way. ‘Twas I who brought you into the wood.”

“Nay, I protest against your going needlessly far,” said Sheriff.

“But I protest that I am loath to lose your company,” replied Robin.
“The next time I may not be so pleased.”

And he took the Sheriff’s horse by the bridle rein, and led him through
the lane and by many a thicket till the main road was reached.

“Now fare you well, good Sheriff,” he said, “and when next you think to
despoil a poor prodigal, remember the herd you would have bought over
against Gamewell. And when next you employ a servant, make certain that
he is not employing you.”

So saying he smote the nag’s haunch, and off went the Sheriff upon the
road to Nottingham.

And that is how--you will find from many ballads that came to be sung
at the Sheriff’s expense, and which are known even to the present
day--that, I say, is how the Sheriff lost three good servants and found
them again.




CHAPTER VI

HOW ROBIN HOOD MET WILL SCARLET

     The youngster was clothed in scarlet red
     In 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, ‘_that_ for 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 meant _head_,” 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.




CHAPTER VII

HOW ROBIN HOOD MET FRIAR TUCK

     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!”




CHAPTER VIII

HOW ALLAN-A-DALE’S WOOING WAS PROSPERED

     “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:

     “And thus having end of this merry wedding,
     The bride lookt like a queen;
     And so they returned to the merry greenwood
     Amongst the leaves so green.”



CHAPTER IX

HOW THE WIDOW’S THREE SONS WERE RESCUED

     Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone,
     With a link a down and a down,
     And there he met with the proud Sheriff,
     Was walking along the town.

The wedding-party was a merry one that left Plympton Church, I ween; but
not so merry were the ones left behind. My lord Bishop of Hereford
was stuck up in the organ-loft and left, gownless and fuming. The ten
liveried archers were variously disposed about the church to keep him
company; two of them being locked in a tiny crypt, three in the belfry,
“to ring us a wedding peal,” as Robin said; and the others under
quire seats or in the vestry. The bride’s brother at her entreaty was
released, but bidden not to return to the church that day or interfere
with his sister again on pain of death. While the rusty old knight was
forced to climb a high tree, where he sat insecurely perched among the
branches, feebly cursing the party as it departed.

It was then approaching sundown, but none of the retainers or villagers
dared rescue the imprisoned ones that night, for fear of Robin Hood’s
men. So it was not until sunup the next day, that they were released.
The Bishop and the old knight, stiff as they were, did not delay longer
than for breakfast, but so great was their rage and shame--made straight
to Nottingham and levied the Sheriff’s forces. The Sheriff himself was
not anxious to try conclusions again with Robin in the open. Perhaps he
had some slight scruples regarding his oath. But the others swore that
they would go straight to the King, if he did not help them, so he was
fain to consent.

A force of an hundred picked men from the Royal Foresters and swordsmen
of the shire was gathered together and marched straightway into the
greenwood. There, as fortune would have it, they surprised some score of
outlaws hunting, and instantly gave chase. But they could not surround
the outlaws, who kept well in the lead, ever and anon dropping behind
a log or boulder to speed back a shaft which meant mischief to the
pursuers. One shaft indeed carried off the Sheriff’s hat and caused
that worthy man to fall forward upon his horse’s neck from sheer terror;
while five other arrows landed in the fleshy parts of Foresters’ arms.

But the attacking party was not wholly unsuccessful. One outlaw in his
flight stumbled and fell; when two others instantly stopped and helped
to put him on his feet again. They were the widow’s three sons, Stout
Will, and Lester, and John. The pause was an unlucky one for them, as
a party of Sheriff’s men got above them and cut them off from their
fellows. Swordsmen came up in the rear, and they were soon hemmed in on
every side. But they gave good account of themselves, and before they
had been overborne by force of numbers they had killed two and disabled
three more.

The infuriated attackers were almost on the point of hewing the stout
outlaws to pieces, when the Sheriff cried:

“Hold! Bind the villains! We will follow the law in this and take them
to the town jail. But I promise ye the biggest public hanging that has
been seen in this shire for many changes of the moon!”

So they bound the widow’s three sons and carried them back speedily to
Nottingham.

Now Robin Hood had not chanced to be near the scene of the fight, or
with his men; so for a time he heard nothing of the happening.

But that evening while returning to the camp he was met by the widow
herself, who came weeping along the way.

“What news, what news, good woman?” said Robin hastily but courteously;
for he liked her well.

“God save ye, Master Robin!” said the dame wildly. “God keep ye from the
fate that has met my three sons! The Sheriff has laid hands on them and
they are condemned to die.”

“Now, by our Lady! That cuts me to the heart! Stout Will, and Lester,
and merry John! The earliest friends I had in the band, and still among
the bravest! It must not be! When is this hanging set?”

“Middle the tinker tells me that it is for tomorrow noon,” replied the
dame.

“By the truth o’ my body,” quoth Robin, “you could not tell me in better
time. The memory of the old days when you freely bade me sup and dine
would spur me on, even if three of the bravest lads in all the shire
were not imperiled. Trust to me, good woman!”

The old widow threw herself on the ground and embraced his knees.

“‘Tis dire danger I am asking ye to face,” she said weeping; “and yet I
knew your brave true heart would answer me. Heaven help ye, good Master
Robin, to answer a poor widow’s prayers!”

Then Robin Hood sped straightway to the forest-camp, where he heard the
details of the skirmish--how that his men had been out-numbered five to
one, but got off safely, as they thought, until a count of their members
had shown the loss of the widow’s three sons.

“We must rescue them, my men!” quoth Robin, “even from out the shadow of
the rope itself!”

Whereupon the band set to work to devise ways and means.

Robin walked apart a little way with his head leaned thoughtfully upon
his breast--for he was sore troubled--when whom should he meet but an
old begging palmer, one of a devout order which made pilgrimages and
wandered from place to place, supported by charity.

This old fellow walked boldly up to Robin and asked alms of him; since
Robin had been wont to aid members of his order.

“What news, what news, thou foolish old man?” said Robin, “what news, I
do thee pray?”

“Three squires in Nottingham town,” quoth the palmer, “are condemned
to die. Belike that is greater news than the shire has had in some
Sundays.”

Then Robin’s long-sought idea came to him like a flash.

“Come, change thine apparel with me, old man,” he said, “and I’ll give
thee forty shillings in good silver to spend in beer or wine.”

“O, thine apparel is good,” the palmer protested, “and mine is ragged
and torn. The holy church teaches that thou should’st ne’er laugh an old
man to scorn.”

“I am in simple earnest, I say. Come, change thine apparel with mine.
Here are twenty pieces of good broad gold to feast they brethren right
royally.”

So the palmer was persuaded; and Robin put on the old man’s hat, which
stood full high in the crown; and his cloak, patched with black and
blue and red, like Joseph’s coat of many colors in its old age; and
his breeches, which had been sewed over with so many patterns that the
original was scarce discernible; and his tattered hose; and his shoes,
cobbled above and below. And while as he made the change in dress he
made so many whimsical comments also about a man’s pride and the dress
that makes a man, that the palmer was like to choke with cackling
laughter.

I warrant you, the two were comical sights when they parted company that
day. Nathless, Robin’s own mother would not have known him, had she been
living.

The next morning the whole town of Nottingham was early astir, and as
soon as the gates were open country-folk began to pour in; for a triple
hanging was not held there every day in the week, and the bustle almost
equated a Fair day.

Robin Hood in his palmer’s disguise was one of the first ones to enter
the gates, and he strolled up and down and around the town as though he
had never been there before in all his life. Presently he came to the
market-place, and beheld thereon three gallows erected.

“Who are these builded for, my son?” asked he of a rough soldier
standing by.

“For three of Robin Hood’s men,” answered the other. “And it were Robin
himself, ‘twould be thrice as high I warrant ye. But Robin is too smart
to get within the Sheriff’s clutches again.”

The palmer crossed himself.

“They say that he is a bold fellow,” he whined.

“Ha!” said the soldier, “he may be bold enough out behind stumps i’ the
forest, but the open market-place is another matter.”

“Who is to hang these three poor wretches?” asked the palmer.

“That hath the Sheriff not decided. But here he comes now to answer his
own questions.” And the soldier came to stiff attention as the Sheriff
and his body-guard stalked pompously up to inspect the gallows.

“O, Heaven save you, worshipful Sheriff!” said the palmer. “Heaven
protect you! What will you give a silly old man to-day to be your
hangman?”

“Who are you, fellow?” asked the Sheriff sharply.

“Naught save a poor old palmer. But I can shrive their souls and hang
their bodies most devoutly.”

“Very good,” replied the other. “The fee to-day is thirteen pence; and
I will add thereunto some suits of clothing for that ragged back of
yours.”

“God bless ye!” said the palmer. And he went with the soldier to the
jail to prepare his three men for execution.

Just before the stroke of noon the doors of the prison opened and the
procession of the condemned came forth. Down through the long lines of
packed people they walked to the market-place, the palmer in the lead,
and the widow’s three sons marching firmly erect between soldiers.

At the gallows foot they halted. The palmer whispered to them, as though
offering last words of consolation; and the three men, with arms bound
tightly behind their backs, ascended the scaffold, followed by their
confessor.

Then Robin stepped to the edge of the scaffold, while the people grew
still as death; for they desired to hear the last words uttered to the
victims. But Robin’s voice did not quaver forth weakly, as formerly,
and his figure had stiffened bolt upright beneath the black robe that
covered his rags.

“Hark ye, proud Sheriff!” he cried. “I was ne’er a hangman in all my
life, nor do I now intend to begin that trade. Accurst be he who first
set the fashion of hanging! I have but three more words to say. Listen
to them!”

And forth from the robe he drew his horn and blew three loud blasts
thereon. Then his keen hunting-knife flew forth and in a trice, Stout
Will, Lester, and merry John were free men and had sprung forward and
seized the halberds from the nearest soldiers guarding the gallows.

“Seize them! ‘Tis Robin Hood!” screamed the Sheriff, “an hundred pounds
if ye hold them, dead or alive!”

“I make it two hundred!” roared the fat Bishop.

But their voices were drowned in the uproar that ensued immediately
after Robin blew his horn. He himself had drawn his sword and leaped
down the stairs from the scaffold, followed by his three men. The guard
had closed around them in vain effort to disarm them, when “A rescuer”
 shouted Will Stutely’s clear voice on one side of them, and “A
rescue!” bellowed Little John’s on the other; and down through the
terror-stricken crowd rushed fourscore men in Lincoln green, their force
seeming twice that number in the confusion. With swords drawn they fell
upon the guard from every side at once. There was a brief clash of hot
weapons, then the guard scattered wildly, and Robin Hood’s men formed in
a compact mass around their leader and forced their way slowly down the
market-place.

“Seize them! In the King’s name!” shrieked the Sheriff. “Close the
gates!”

In truth, the peril would have been even greater, had this last order
been carried out. But Will Scarlet and Allan-a-Dale had foreseen that
event, and had already overpowered the two warders.

So the gates stood wide open, and toward them the band of outlaws
headed.

The soldiers rallied a force of twice their number and tried resolutely
to pierce their center. But the retreating force turned thrice and sent
such volleys of keen arrows from their good yew bows, that they kept a
distance between the two forces.

And thus the gate was reached, and the long road leading up the hill,
and at last the protecting greenwood itself. The soldiers dared come no
farther. And the widow’s three sons, I warrant you, supped more heartily
that night than ever before in their whole lives.




CHAPTER X

HOW A BEGGAR FILLED THE PUBLIC EYE

     Good Robin accost him in his way,
     To see what he might be;
     If any beggar had money,
     He thought some part had he.

One bright morning, soon after the stirring events told in the last
chapter, Robin wandered forth alone down the road to Barnesdale, to see
if aught had come of the Sheriff’s pursuit. But all was still and
serene and peaceful. No one was in sight save a solitary beggar who came
sturdily along his way in Robin’s direction. The beggar caught sight
of Robin, at the same moment, as he emerged from the trees, but gave no
sign of having seen him. He neither slackened nor quickened his pace,
but jogged forward merrily, whistling as he came, and beating time by
punching holes in the dusty road with the stout pike-staff in his hand.

The curious look of the fellow arrested Robin’s attention, and he
decided to stop and talk with him. The fellow was bare-legged and
bare-armed, and wore a long shift of a shirt, fastened with a belt.
About his neck hung a stout, bulging bag, which was buckled by a good
piece of leather thong.

     He had three hats upon his head,
     Together sticked fast,
     He cared neither for the wind nor wet,
     In lands where’er he past.

The fellow looked so fat and hearty, and the wallet on his shoulder
seemed so well filled, that Robin thought within himself,

“Ha! this is a lucky beggar for me! If any of them have money, this is
the chap, and, marry, he should share it with us poorer bodies.”

So he flourished his own stick and planted himself in the traveler’s
path.

“Sirrah, fellow!” quoth he; “whither away so fast? Tarry, for I would
have speech with ye!”

The beggar made as though he heard him not, and kept straight on with
his faring.

“Tarry, I say, fellow!” said Robin again; “for there’s a way to make
folks obey!”

“Nay, ‘tis not so,” answered the beggar, speaking for the first time; “I
obey no man in all England, not even the King himself. So let me pass on
my way, for ‘tis growing late, and I have still far to go before I can
care for my stomach’s good.”

“Now, by my troth,” said Robin, once more getting in front of the other,
“I see well by your fat countenance, that you lack not for good food,
while I go hungry. Therefore you must lend me of your means till we meet
again, so that I may hie to the nearest tavern.”

“I have no money to lend,” said the beggar crossly. “Methinks you are as
young a man as I, and as well able to earn a supper. So go your way, and
I’ll go mine. If you fast till you get aught out of me, you’ll go hungry
for the next twelvemonth.”

“Not while I have a stout stick to thwack your saucy bones!” cried
Robin. “Stand and deliver, I say, or I’ll dust your shirt for you; and
if that will not teach you manners, then we’ll see what a broad arrow
can do with a beggar’s skin!”

The beggar smiled, and answered boast with boast. “Come on with your
staff, fellow! I care no more for it than for a pudding stick. And as
for your pretty bow--_that_ for it!”

And with amazing quickness, he swung his pike-staff around and knocked
Robin’s bow clean out of his hand, so that his fingers smarted with
pain. Robin danced and tried to bring his own staff into action; but
the beggar never gave him a chance. Biff! whack! came the pike-staff,
smiting him soundly and beating down his guard.

There were but two things to do; either stand there and take a sound
drubbing, or beat a hasty retreat. Robin chose the latter--as you or I
would probably have done--and scurried back into the wood, blowing his
horn as he went.

“Fie, for shame, man!” jeered the bold beggar after him. “What is your
haste? We had but just begun. Stay and take your money, else you will
never be able to pay your reckoning at the tavern!”

But Robin answered him never a word. He fled up hill and down dale till
he met three of his men who were running up in answer to his summons.

“What is wrong?” they asked.

“‘Tis a saucy beggar,” said Robin, catching his breath. “He is back
there on the highroad with the hardest stick I’ve met in a good many
days. He gave me no chance to reason with him, the dirty scamp!”

The men--Much and two of the widow’s sons--could scarce conceal their
mirth at the thought of Robin Hood running from a beggar. Nathless, they
kept grave faces, and asked their leader if he was hurt.

“Nay,” he replied, “but I shall speedily feel better if you will fetch
me that same beggar and let me have a fair chance at him.”

So the three yeomen made haste and came out upon the highroad and
followed after the beggar, who was going smoothly along his way again,
as though he were at peace with all the world.

“The easiest way to settle this beggar,” said Much, “is to surprise
him. Let us cut through yon neck of woods and come upon him before he is
aware.”

The others agreed to this, and the three were soon close upon their
prey.

“Now!” quoth Much; and the other two sprang quickly upon the beggar’s
back and wrested his pike-staff from his hand. At the same moment Much
drew his dagger and flashed it before the fellow’s breast.

“Yield you, my man!” cried he; “for a friend of ours awaits you in the
wood, to teach you how to fight properly.”

“Give me a fair chance,” said the beggar valiantly, “and I’ll fight you
all at once.”

But they would not listen to him. Instead, they turned him about and
began to march him toward the forest. Seeing that it was useless to
struggle, the beggar began to parley.

“Good my masters,” quoth he, “why use this violence? I will go with ye
safe and quietly, if ye insist, but if ye will set me free I’ll make
it worth your while. I’ve a hundred pounds in my bag here. Let me go my
way, and ye shall have all that’s in the bag.”

The three outlaws took council together at this.

“What say you?” asked Much of the others. “Our master will be more glad
to see this beggar’s wallet than his sorry face.”

The other two agreed, and the little party came to a halt and loosed
hold of the beggar.

“Count out your gold speedily, friend,” said Much. There was a brisk
wind blowing, and the beggar turned about to face it, directly they had
unhanded him.

“It shall be done, gossips,” said he. “One of you lend me your cloak and
we will spread it upon the ground and put the wealth upon it.”

The cloak was handed him, and he placed his wallet upon it as though
it were very heavy indeed. Then he crouched down and fumbled with
the leather fastenings. The outlaws also bent over and watched the
proceeding closely, lest he should hide some of the money on his person.
Presently he got the bag unfastened and plunged his hands into it. Forth
from it he drew--not shining gold--but handfuls of fine meal which he
dashed into the eager faces of the men around him. The wind aided him
in this, and soon there arose a blinding cloud which filled the eyes,
noses, and mouths of the three outlaws till they could scarcely see or
breathe.

While they gasped and choked and sputtered and felt around wildly for
that rogue of a beggar, he finished the job by picking up the cloak
by its corners and shaking it vigorously in the faces of his suffering
victims. Then he seized a stick which lay conveniently near, and began
to rain blows down upon their heads, shoulders, and sides, all the time
dancing first on one leg, then on the other, and crying,

“Villains! rascals! here are the hundred pounds I promised. How do you
like them? I’ faith, you’ll get all that’s in the bag.”

Whack! whack! whack! whack! went the stick, emphasizing each word. Howls
of pain might have gone up from the sufferers, but they had too much
meal in their throats for that. Their one thought was to flee, and they
stumbled off blindly down the road, the beggar following them a little
way to give them a few parting love-taps.

“Fare ye well, my masters,” he said finally turning the other way; “and
when next I come along the Barnesdale road, I hope you will be able to
tell gold from meal dust!”

With this he departed, an easy victor, and again went whistling on his
way, while the three outlaws rubbed the meal out of their eyes and began
to catch their breath again.

As soon as they could look around them clearly, they beheld Robin
Hood leaning against a tree trunk and surveying them smilingly. He had
recovered his own spirits in full measure, on seeing their plight.

“God save ye, gossips!” he said, “ye must, in sooth, have gone the wrong
way and been to the mill, from the looks of your clothes.”

Then when they looked shamefaced and answered never a word, he went on,
in a soft voice,

“Did ye see aught of that bold beggar I sent you for, lately?”

“In sooth, master,” responded Much the miller’s son, “we heard more of
him than we saw him. He filled us so full of meal that I shall sweat
meal for a week. I was born in a mill, and had the smell of meal in my
nostrils from my very birth, you might say, and yet never before did I
see such a quantity of the stuff in so small space.”

And he sneezed violently.

“How was that?” asked Robin demurely.

“Why we laid hold of the beggar, as you did order, when he offered to
pay for his release out of the bag he carried upon his back.”

“The same I coveted,” quoth Robin as if to himself.

“So we agreed to this,” went on Much, “and spread a cloak down, and he
opened his bag and shook it thereon. Instantly a great cloud of meal
filled the air, whereby we could neither see nor breathe; and in the
midst of this cloud he vanished like a wizard.”

“But not before he left certain black and blue spots, to be remembered
by, I see,” commented Robin.

“He was in league with the evil one,” said one of the widow’s sons,
rubbing himself ruefully.

Then Robin laughed outright, and sat him down upon the gnarled root of a
tree, to finish his merriment.

“Four bold outlaws, put to rout by a sorry beggar!” cried he. “I can
laugh at ye, my men, for I am in the same boat with ye. But ‘twould
never do to have this tale get abroad--even in the greenwood--how that
we could not hold our own with the odds in our favor. So let us have
this little laugh all to ourselves, and no one else need be the wiser!”

The others saw the point of this, and felt better directly, despite
their itching desire to get hold of the beggar again. And none of the
four ever told of the adventure.

But the beggar must have boasted of it at the next tavern; or a little
bird perched among the branches of a neighboring oak must have sung
of it. For it got abroad, as such tales will, and was put into a right
droll ballad which, I warrant you, the four outlaws did not like to
hear.




CHAPTER XI

HOW ROBIN HOOD FOUGHT GUY OF GISBORNE

     “I dwell by dale and down,” quoth he,
     “And Robin to take I’m sworn;
     And when I am called by my right name,
     I am Guy of good Gisborne.”

Some weeks passed after the rescue of the widow’s three sons; weeks
spent by the Sheriff in the vain effort to entrap Robin Hood and his
men. For Robin’s name and deeds had come to the King’s ears, in London
town, and he sent word to the Sheriff to capture the outlaw, under
penalty of losing his office. So the Sheriff tried every manner of means
to surprise Robin Hood in the forest, but always without success. And he
increased the price put upon Robin’s head, in the hope that the best men
of the kingdom could be induced to try their skill at a capture.

Now there was a certain Guy of Gisborne, a hireling knight of the King’s
army, who heard of Robin and of the price upon his head. Sir Guy was one
of the best men at the bow and the sword in all the King’s service.
But his heart was black and treacherous. He obtained the King’s leave
forthwith to seek out the forester; and armed with the King’s scroll he
came before the Sheriff at Nottingham.

“I have come to capture Robin Hood,” quoth he, “and mean to have him,
dead or alive.”

“Right gladly would I aid you,” answered the Sheriff, “even if the
King’s seal were not sufficient warrant. How many men need you?”

“None,” replied Sir Guy, “for I am convinced that forces of men can
never come at the bold robber. I must needs go alone. But do you hold
your men in readiness at Barnesdale, and when you hear a blast from this
silver bugle, come quickly, for I shall have the sly Robin within my
clutches.”

“Very good,” said the Sheriff. “Marry, it shall be done.” And he set
about giving orders, while Guy of Gisborne sallied forth disguised.

Now as luck would have it, Will Scarlet and Little John had gone to
Barnesdale that very day to buy suits of Lincoln green for certain of
the yeomen who had come out at the knees and elbows. But not deeming it
best for both of them to run their necks into a noose, together, they
parted just outside the town, and Will went within the gates, while John
tarried and watched at the brow of the hill on the outside.

Presently whom should he see but this same Will flying madly forth from
the gates again, closely pursued by the Sheriff and threescore men. Over
the moat Will sprang, through the bushes and briars, across the swamp,
over stocks and stones, up the woodland roads in long leaps like a
scared jack rabbit. And after him puffed the Sheriff and his men, their
force scattering out in the flight as one man would tumble head-first
into a ditch, another mire up in the swamp, another trip over a rolling
stone, and still others sit down on the roadside and gasp for wind like
fish out of water.

Little John could not forbear laughing heartily at the scene, though
he knew that ‘twould be anything but a laughing matter if Will should
stumble. And in truth one man was like to come upon him. It was
William-a-Trent, the best runner among the Sheriff’s men. He had come
within twenty feet of Scarlet and was leaping upon him with long bounds
like a greyhound, when John rose up quickly, drew his bow and let fly
one of his fatal shafts. It would have been better for William-a-Trent
to have been abed with sorrow--says the ballad--than to be that day in
the greenwood slade to meet with Little John’s arrow. He had run his
last race.

The others halted a moment in consternation, when the shaft came
hurtling down from the hill; but looking up they beheld none save Little
John, and with a cry of fierce joy they turned upon him. Meanwhile Will
Scarlet had reached the brow of the hill and sped down the other side.

“I’ll just send one more little message of regret to the Sheriff,” said
Little John, “before I join Will.”

But this foolhardy deed was his undoing, for just as the arrow left the
string, the good yew bow that had never before failed him snapped in
twain.

“Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood, that ere thou grew on a
tree!” cursed Little John, and planted his feet resolutely in the earth
resolved to sell the path dearly; for the soldiers were now so close
upon him that he dared not turn.

And a right good account of himself he gave that day, dealing with
each man as he came up according to his merit. And so winded were the
pursuers when they reached the top of the hill that he laid out the
first ten of them right and left with huge blows of his brawny fist.

But if five men can do more than three, a score can overcome one.

A body of archers stood off at a prudent distance and covered Little
John with their arrows.

“Now yield you!” panted the Sheriff. “Yield you, Little John, or Reynold
Greenleaf, or whatever else name you carry this day! Yield you, or some
few of these shafts will reach your heart!”

“Marry, my heart has been touched by your words ere now,” said Little
John; “and I yield me.”

So the Sheriff’s men laid hold of Little John and bound him fast with
many cords, so fearful were they lest he should escape. And the Sheriff
laughed aloud in glee, and thought of how he should avenge his stolen
plate, and determined to make a good day’s work of it.

“By the Saints!” he said, “you shall be drawn by dale and down, and
hanged high on a hill in Barnesdale this very day.”

“Hang and be hanged!” retorted the prisoner. “You may fail of your
purpose if it be Heaven’s will.”

Back down the hill and across the moor went the company speedily, for
they feared a rescue. And as they went the stragglers joined them. Here
a man got up feebly out of the ditch and rubbed his pate and fell in
like a chicken with the pip going for its dinner. Yonder came hobbling
a man with a lame ankle, or another with his shins torn by the briars or
another with his jacket all muddy from the marsh. So in truth it was
a tatterdemalion crew that limped and straggled and wandered back into
Barnesdale that day. Yet all were merry, for the Sheriff had promised
them flagons of wine, and moreover they were to hang speedily the
boldest outlaw in England, next to Robin Hood himself.

The gallows was quickly put up and a new rope provided.

“Now up with you!” commanded the Sheriff, “and let us see if your
greenwood tricks will avail you to-morrow.”

“I would that I had bold Robin’s horn,” muttered poor John; “methinks
‘tis all up with me even as the Sheriff hath spoken.”

In good sooth the time was dire and pressing. The rope was placed around
the prisoner’s neck and the men prepared to haul away.

“Are you ready?” called the Sheriff. “One--two--”

But before the “three” left his lips the faint sound of a silver bugle
came floating over the hill.

“By my troth, that is Sir Guy of Gisborne’s horn,” quoth the Sheriff;
“and he bade me not to delay answering its summons. He has caught Robin
Hood.”

“Pardon, Excellency,” said one of his men; “but if he has caught Robin
Hood, this is a merry day indeed. And let us save this fellow and build
another gallows and hang them both together.”

“That’s a brave thought!” said the Sheriff slapping his knee. “Take the
rascal down and bind him fast to the gallows-tree against our return.”

So Little John was made fast to the gallows-tree, while the Sheriff and
all his men who could march or hobble went out to get Robin Hood and
bring him in for the double hanging.

Let us leave talking of Little John and the Sheriff, and see what has
become of Robin Hood.

In the first place, he and Little John had come near having a quarrel
that self-same morning because both had seen a curious looking yeoman,
and each wanted to challenge him singly. But Robin would not give way to
his lieutenant, and that is why John, in a huff, had gone with Will to
Barnesdale.

Meanwhile Robin approached the curious looking stranger. He seemed to be
a three-legged creature at first sight, but on coming nearer you would
have seen that ‘twas really naught but a poorly clad man, who for a
freak had covered up his rags with a capul-hide, nothing more nor less
than the sun-dried skin of a horse, complete with head, tail, and mane.
The skin of the head made a helmet; while the tail gave the curious
three-legged appearance.

“Good-morrow, good fellow,” said Robin cheerily, “methinks by the bow
you bear in your hand that you should be a good archer.”

“Indifferent good,” said the other returning his greeting; “but ‘tis not
of archery that I am thinking this morning, for I have lost my way and
would fain find it again.”

“By my faith, I could have believed ‘twas your wits you’d lost!” thought
Robin smiling. Then aloud: “I’ll lead you through the wood,” quoth
he, “an you will tell me your business. For belike your speech is much
gentler than your attire.”

“Who are you to ask me my business?” asked the other roughly.

“I am one of the King’s Rangers,” replied Robin, “set here to guard his
deer against curious looking strollers.”

“Curious looking I may be,” returned the other, “but no stroller. Hark
ye, since you are a Ranger, I must e’en demand your service. I am on the
King’s business and seek an outlaw. Men call him Robin Hood. Are you one
of his men?”--eyeing him keenly.

“Nay, God forbid!” said Robin; “but what want you with him?”

“That is another tale. But I’d rather meet with that proud outlaw than
forty good pounds of the King’s money.”

Robin now saw how the land lay.

“Come with me, good yeoman,” said he, “and belike, a little later in the
day, I can show you Robin’s haunts when he is at home. Meanwhile let us
have some pastime under the greenwood tree. Let us first try the mastery
at shooting arrows.”

The other agreed, and they cut down two willow wands of a summer’s
growth that grew beneath a brier, and set them up at a distance of
threescore yards.

“Lead on, good fellow,” quoth Robin. “The first shot to you.”

“Nay, by my faith,” said the other, “I will follow your lead.”

So Robin stepped forth and bent his bow carelessly and sent his
shaft whizzing toward the wand, missing it by a scant inch. He of the
horse-hide followed with more care yet was a good three-fingers’ breadth
away. On the second round, the stranger led off and landed cleverly
within the small garland at the top of the wand; but Robin shot far
better and clave the wand itself, clean at the middle.

“A blessing on your heart!” shouted Capul-Hide; “never saw I such
shooting as that! Belike you are better than Robin Hood himself. But you
have not yet told me your name.”

“Nay, by my faith,” quoth Robin, “I must keep it secret till you have
told me your own.”

“I do not disdain to tell it,” said the other. “I dwell by dale and
down, and to take bold Robin am I sworn. This would I tell him to his
face, were he not so great a craven. When I am called by my right name,
I am Guy of Gisborne.”

This he said with a great show of pride, and he strutted back and forth,
forgetful that he had just been beaten at archery.

Robin eyed him quietly. “Methinks I have heard of you elsewhere. Do you
not bring men to the gallows for a living?”

“Aye, but only outlaws such as Robin Hood.”

“But pray what harm has Robin Hood done you?”

“He is a highway robber,” said Sir Guy, evading the question.

“Has he ever taken from the rich that he did not give again to the
poor? Does he not protect the women and children and side with weak and
helpless? Is not his greatest crime the shooting of a few King’s deer?”

“Have done with your sophistry,” said Sir Guy impatiently. “I am more
than ever of opinion that you are one of Robin’s men yourself.”

“I have told you I am not,” quoth Robin briefly. “But if I am to help
you catch him, what is your plan?”

“Do you see this silver bugle?” said the other. “A long blast upon it
will summon the Sheriff and all his men, when once I have Robin within
my grasp. And if you show him to me, I’ll give you the half of my forty
pounds reward.”

“I would not help hang a man for ten times forty pounds,” said the
outlaw. “Yet will I point out Robin to you for the reward I find at my
sword’s point. I myself am Robin Hood of Sherwood and Barnesdale.”

“Then have at you!” cried the other springing swiftly into action. His
sword leaped forth from beneath the horse’s hide with the speed born of
long practice, and before Robin had come to guard, the other had smitten
at him full and foul. Robin eluded the lunge and drew his own weapon.

“A scurvy trick!” quoth he grimly, “to strike at a man unprepared.”

Then neither spoke more, but fell sternly to work--lunge and thrust and
ward and parry--for two full hours the weapons smote together sullenly,
and neither Robin Hood nor Sir Guy would yield an inch. I promise you
that if you could have looked forth on the fight from behind the trunk
of some friendly tree, you would have seen deadly sport such as few
men beheld in Sherwood Forest. For the fighters glared sullenly at each
other, the fires of hatred burning in their eyes. One was fighting for
his life; the other for a reward and the King’s favor.

Still circled the bright blades swiftly in the air--now gleaming in the
peaceful sunlight--again hissing like maddened serpents. Neither had yet
touched the other, until Robin, in an unlucky moment, stumbled over
the projecting root of a tree; when Sir Guy, instead of giving him the
chance to recover himself, as any courteous knight would have done,
struck quickly at the falling man and wounded him in the left side.

“Ah, dear Lady in Heaven,” gasped Robin uttering his favorite prayer,
“shield me now! ‘Twas never a man’s destiny to die before his day.”

And adroitly he sprang up again, and came straight at the other with an
awkward but unexpected stroke. The knight had raised his weapon high to
give a final blow, when Robin reached beneath and across his guard.
One swift lunge, and Sir Guy of Gisborne staggered backward with a deep
groan, Robin’s sword through his throat.

Robin looked at the slain man regretfully.

“You did bring it upon yourself,” said he; “and traitor and hireling
though you were, I would not willingly have killed you.”

He looked to his own wound. It was not serious, and he soon staunched
the blood and bound up the cut. Then he dragged the dead body into the
bushes, and took off the horse’s hide and put it upon himself. He placed
his own cloak upon Sir Guy, and marked his face so none might tell who
had been slain. Robin’s own figure and face were not unlike the other’s.

Pulling the capul-hide well over himself, so that the helmet hid most
of his face, Robin seized the silver bugle and blew a long blast. It was
the blast that saved the life of Little John, over in Barnesdale, for
you and I have already seen how it caused the fond Sheriff to prick up
his ears and stay the hanging, and go scurrying up over the hill and
into the wood with his men in search of another victim.

In five-and-twenty minutes up came running a score of the Sheriff’s best
archers.

“Did you signal us, lording?” they asked, approaching Robin.

“Aye,” said he, going to meet the puffing Sheriff.

“What news, what news, Sir Guy?” said that officer.

“Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne had a fight; and he that wears Robin’s
cloak lies under the covert yonder.”

“The best news I have heard in all my life!” exclaimed the Sheriff
rubbing his hands. “I would that we could have saved him for the
hanging--though I cannot now complain.”

“The hanging?” repeated Robin.

“Yes. This is our lucky day on the calendar. After you left me we
narrowly missed running one of the fellows--I believe ‘twas Will
Scarlet--to earth; and another who came to his relief we were just about
to hang, when your horn blew.”

“Who was the other?” asked the disguised outlaw.

“Whom do you suppose?” laughed the Sheriff. “The best man in the
greenwood, next to Robin Hood himself--Little John, Reynold Greenleaf!”
 For the Sheriff could not forget the name Little John had borne under
his own roof at Nottingham.

“Little John!” thought Robin with a start. Verily that was a lucky
blast of the bugle! “But I see you have not escaped without a scratch,”
 continued the Sheriff, becoming talkative through pure glee. “Here, one
of you men! Give Sir Guy of Gisborne your horse; while others of you
bury that dog of an outlaw where he lies. And let us hasten back to
Barnesdale and finish hanging the other.”

So they put spurs to their horses, and as they rode Robin forced himself
to talk merrily, while all the time he was planning the best way to
succor Little John.

“A boon, Sheriff,” he said as they reached the gates of the town.

“What is it, worthy sir? You have but to speak.”

“I do not want any of your gold, for I have had a brave fight. But now
that I have slain the master, let me put an end to the man; so it shall
be said that Guy of Gisborne despatched the two greatest outlaws of
England in one day.”

“Have it as you will,” said the Sheriff, “but you should have asked a
knight’s fee and double your reward, and it would have been yours. It
isn’t every man that can take Robin Hood.” “No, Excellency,” answered
Robin. “I say it without boasting, that no man took Robin Hood yesterday
and none shall take him to-morrow.”

Then he approached Little John, who was still tied to the gallows-tree;
and he said to the Sheriff’s men, “Now stand you back here till I see if
the prisoner has been shrived.” And he stooped swiftly, and cut Little
John’s bonds, and thrust into his hands Sir Guy’s bow and arrows, which
he had been careful to take.

“‘Tis I, Robin!” he whispered. But in truth, Little John knew it
already, and had decided there was to be no hanging that day.

Then Robin blew three loud blasts upon his own horn, and drew forth his
own bow; and before the astonished Sheriff and his men could come to
arms the arrows were whistling in their midst in no uncertain fashion.

And look! Through the gates and over the walls came pouring another
flight of arrows! Will Scarlet and Will Stutely had watched and planned
a rescue ever since the Sheriff and Robin rode back down the hill. Now
in good time they came; and the Sheriff’s demoralized force turned tail
and ran, while Robin and Little John stood under the harmless gallows,
and sped swift arrows after them, and laughed to see them go.

Then they joined their comrades and hasted back to the good greenwood,
and there rested. They had got enough sport for one day.




CHAPTER XII

HOW MAID MARIAN CAME BACK TO SHERWOOD FOREST; ALSO, HOW ROBIN HOOD CAME
BEFORE QUEEN ELEANOR.

     But Robin Hood, he himself had disguis’d,
     And Marian was strangely attir’d,
     That they proved foes, and so fell to blows,
     Whose valor bold Robin admir’d.

     And when he came at London’s court,
     He fell down on his knee.
     “Thou art welcome, Lockesley,” said the Queen,
     “And all thy good yeomandree.”

Now it fell out that one day not long thereafter, Robin was minded to
try his skill at hunting. And not knowing whom he might meet in his
rambles, he stained his face and put on a sorry-looking jacket and a
long cloak before he sallied forth. As he walked, the peacefulness of
the morning came upon him, and brought back to his memory the early days
so long ago when he had roamed these same glades with Marian. How sweet
they seemed to him now, and how far away! Marian, too, the dainty friend
of his youth--would he ever see her again? He had thought of her very
often of late, and each time with increasing desire to hear her clear
voice and musical laugh, and see her eyes light up at his coming.

Perhaps the happiness of Allen-a-Dale and his lady had caused Robin’s
heart-strings to vibrate more strongly; perhaps, too, the coming of
Will Scarlet. But, certes, Robin was anything but a hunter this bright
morning as he walked along with head drooping in a most love-lorn way.

Presently a hart entered the glade in full view of him, grazing
peacefully, and instantly the man of action awoke. His bow was drawn
and a shaft all but loosed, when the beast fell suddenly, pierced by a
clever arrow from the far side of the glade.

Then a handsome little page sprang gleefully from the covert and ran
toward the dying animal. This was plainly the archer, for he flourished
his bow aloft, and likewise bore a sword at his side, though for all
that he looked a mere lad.

Robin approached the hart from the other side.

“How dare you shoot the King’s beasts, stripling?” he asked severely.

“I have as much right to shoot them as the King himself,” answered the
page haughtily. “How dare you question me?”

The voice stirred Robin strongly. It seemed to chime into his memories
of the old days. He looked at the page sharply, and the other returned
the glance, straight and unafraid.

“Who are you, my lad?” Robin said more civilly.

“No lad of yours, and my name’s my own,” retorted the other with spirit.

“Softly! Fair and softly, sweet page, or we of the forest will have to
teach you manners!” said Robin.

“Not if _you_ stand for the forest!” cried the page, whipping out his
sword. “Come, draw, and defend yourself!”

He swung his blade valiantly; and Robin saw nothing for it but to draw
likewise. The page thereupon engaged him quite fiercely, and Robin found
that he had many pretty little tricks at fencing.

Nathless, Robin contented himself with parrying, and was loth to exert
all his superior strength upon the lad. So the fight lasted for above a
quarter of an hour, at the end of which time the page was almost spent
and the hot blood flushed his cheeks in a most charming manner.

The outlaw saw his distress, and to end the fight allowed himself to be
pricked slightly on the wrist.

“Are you satisfied, fellow?” asked the page, wincing a little at sight
of the blood.

“Aye, honestly,” replied Robin; “and now perhaps you will grant me the
honor of knowing to whom I owe this scratch?”

“I am Richard Partington, page to Her Majesty, Queen Eleanor,” answered
the lad with dignity; and again the sound of his voice troubled Robin
sorely.

“Why come you to the greenwood alone, Master Partington?”

The lad considered his answer while wiping his sword with a small lace
kerchief. The action brought a dim confused memory to Robin. The lad
finally looked him again in the eye.

“Forester, whether or no you be a King’s man, know that I seek one Robin
Hood, an outlaw, to whom I bring amnesty from the Queen. Can you tell me
aught of him?” And while awaiting his answer, he replaced the kerchief
in his shirt. As he did so, the gleam of a golden trophy caught the
outlaw’s eye.

Robin started forward with a joyful cry.

“Ah! I know you now! By the sight of yon golden arrow won at the
Sheriff’s tourney, you are she on whom I bestowed it, and none other
than Maid Marian!”

“You--are--?” gasped Marian, for it was she; “not Robin!”

“Robin’s self!” said he gaily; and forthwith, clad as he was in rags,
and stained of face, he clasped the dainty page close to his breast, and
she forsooth yielded right willingly.

“But Robin!” she exclaimed presently, “I knew you not, and was rude, and
wounded you!”

“‘Twas nothing,” he replied laughingly, “so long as it brought me you.”

But she made more ado over the sore wrist than Robin had received for
all his former hurts put together. And she bound it with the little
kerchief, and said, “Now ‘twill get well!” and Robin was convinced she
spoke the truth, for he never felt better in all his life. The whole
woods seemed tinged with a roseate hue, since Marian had come again.

But she, while happy also, was ill at ease; and Robin with a man’s slow
discernment at last saw that it was because of her boy’s attire. He
thought bluntly that there was naught to be ashamed of, yet smilingly
handed her his tattered long cloak, which she blushingly put on, and
forthwith recovered her spirits directly.

Then they began to talk of each other’s varied fortunes, and of the many
things which had parted them; and so much did they find to tell that the
sun had begun to decline well into the afternoon before they realized
how the hours sped.

“I am but a sorry host!” exclaimed Robin, springing to his feet. “I have
not once invited you to my wild roof.”

“And I am but a sorry page,” replied Marian; “for I had clean forgot
that I was Richard Partington, and really did bring you a message from
Queen Eleanor!”

“Tell me on our way home, and there you shall be entrusted to Mistress
Dale. While the first of my men we meet will I send back for your deer.”

So she told him, as they walked back through the glade, how that the
fame of his prowess had reached Queen Eleanor’s ears, in London town.
And the Queen had said, “Fain would I see this bold yeoman, and behold
his skill at the long-bow.” And the Queen had promised him amnesty if
he and four of his archers would repair to London against the next
tournament the week following, there to shoot against King Henry’s
picked men, of whom the King was right vain. All this Marian told in
detail, and added:

“When I heard Her Majesty say she desired to see you, I asked leave
to go in search of you, saying I had known you once. And the Queen was
right glad, and bade me go, and sent this gold ring to you from off her
finger, in token of her faith.”

Then Robin took the ring and bowed his head and kissed it loyally. “By
this token will I go to London town,” quoth he, “and ere I part with
the Queen’s pledge, may the hand that bears it be stricken off at the
wrist!” By this time they were come to the grove before the cave,
and Robin presented Maid Marian to the band, who treated her with the
greatest respect. Will Scarlet was especially delighted to greet again
his old time friend, while Allan-a-Dale and his good wife bustled about
to make her welcome in their tiny thatched cottage.

That evening after they had supped royally upon the very hart that
Marian had slain, Allan sang sweet songs of Northern minstrelsy to the
fair guest as she sat by Robin’s side, the golden arrow gleaming in
her dark hair. The others all joined in the chorus, from Will Scarlet’s
baritone to Friar Tuck’s heavy bass. Even Little John essayed to sing,
although looked at threateningly by Much the miller’s son.

Then Robin bade Marian repeat her message from the Queen, which Marian
did in a way befitting the dignity of her royal mistress. After which
the yeomen gave three cheers for the Queen and three more for her page,
and drank toasts to them both, rising to their feet.

“Ye have heard,” quoth Robin standing forth, “how that Her Majesty--whom
God preserve!--wishes but four men to go with me. Wherefore, I choose
Little John and Will Stutely, my two lieutenants, Will Scarlet, my
cousin, and Allan-a-Dale, my minstrel. Mistress Dale, also, can go with
her husband and be company for the Queen’s page. We will depart with
early morning, decked in our finest. So stir ye, my lads! and see that
not only your tunics are fresh, but your swords bright and your bows
and arrows fit. For we must be a credit to the Queen as well as the good
greenwood. You, Much, with Stout Will, Lester, and John, the widow’s
three sons, shall have command of the band while we are away; and Friar
Tuck shall preside over the needs of your souls and stomachs.”

The orders were received with shouts of approval, and toasts all around
were drunk again in nut-brown ale, ere the company dispersed to rest
after making ready for the journey.

The next morning was as fine a summer’s day as ever you want to see, and
the green leaves of the forest made a pleasing background for the gay
picture of the yeomen setting forth. Says the old ballad--it was a
seemly sight to see how Robin Hood himself had dressed, and all his
yeomanry. He clothed his men in Lincoln green, and himself in scarlet
red, with hats of black and feathers white to bravely deck each head.
Nor were the two ladies behind-hand, I ween, at the bedecking.

Thus the chosen party of seven sallied forth being accompanied to the
edge of the wood by the whole band, who gave them a merry parting and
Godspeed!

The journey to London town was made without incident. The party
proceeded boldly along the King’s highroad, and no man met them who was
disposed to say them nay. Besides, the good Queen’s warrant and ring
would have answered for them, as indeed it did at the gates of London.
So on they sped and in due course came to the palace itself and awaited
audience with the Queen.

Now the King had gone that day to Finsbury Field, where the tourney was
soon to be held, in order to look over the lists and see some of his
picked men whom he expected to win against all comers. So much had he
boasted of these men, that the Queen had secretly resolved to win a
wager of him. She had heard of the fame of Robin Hood and his yeomen, as
Marian had said; and Marian on her part had been overjoyed to be able to
add a word in their favor and to set out in search of them.

To-day the Queen sat in her private audience-room chatting pleasantly
with her ladies, when in came Mistress Marian Fitzwalter attired again
as befitted her rank of lady-in-waiting. She courtesied low to the Queen
and awaited permission to speak.

“How now!” said the Queen smiling; “is this my lady Marian, or the page,
Richard Partington?”

“Both, an it please Your Majesty. Richard found the man you sought,
while Marian brought him to you.”

“Where is he?” asked Queen Eleanor eagerly.

“Awaiting your audience--he and four of his men, likewise a lady of
whose wooing and wedding I can tell you a pretty story at another time.”

“Have them admitted.”

So Marian gave orders to a herald, and presently Robin Hood and his
little party entered the room.

Now the Queen had half-expected the men to be rude and uncouth in
appearance, because of their wild life in the forest; but she was
delightfully disappointed. Indeed she started back in surprise and
almost clapped her hands. For, sooth to say, the yeomen made a brave
sight, and in all the court no more gallant men could be found. Marian
felt her cheeks glow with pride, at sight of the half-hidden looks of
admiration sent forth by the other ladies-in-waiting.

Robin had not forgot the gentle arts taught by his mother, and he wore
his fine red velvet tunic and breeches with the grace of a courtier.
We have seen, before, what a dandified gentleman Will Scarlet was; and
Allan-a-Dale, the minstrel, was scarcely less goodly to look upon.
While the giant Little John and broad-shouldered Will Stutely made up in
stature what little they lacked in outward polish. Mistress Dale, on her
part, looked even more charming, if possible, than on the momentous day
when she went to Plympton Church to marry one man and found another.

Thus came the people of the greenwood before Queen Eleanor, in her own
private audience room. And Robin advanced and knelt down before her, and
said:

“Here I am, Robin Hood--I and my chosen men! At Your Majesty’s bidding
am I come, bearing the ring of amnesty which I will protect--as I would
protect Your Majesty’s honor--with my life!”

“Thou art welcome, Lockesley,” said the Queen smiling graciously.

“Thou art come in good time, thou and all thy brave yeomanry.”

Then Robin presented each of his men in turn, and each fell on his
knee and was greeted with most kindly words. And the Queen kissed fair
Mistress Dale upon the cheek, and bade her remain in the palace with her
ladies while she was in the city. And she made all the party be seated
to rest themselves after their long journey. Fine wines were brought,
and cake, and rich food, for their refreshment. And as they ate and
drank, the Queen told them further of the tourney to be held at Finsbury
Field, and of how she desired them to wear her colors and shoot for her.
Meantime, she concluded, they were to lie by quietly and be known of no
man.

To do all this, Robin and his men pledged themselves full heartily. Then
at the Queen’s request, they related to her and her ladies some of their
merry adventures; whereat the listeners were vastly entertained, and
laughed heartily. Then Marian, who had heard of the wedding at Plympton
Church, told it so drolly that tears stood in the Queen’s eyes from
merriment.

“My lord Bishop of Hereford!” she said, “‘Twas indeed a comical business
for him! I shall keep that to twit his bones, I promise you! So this is
our minstrel?” she added presently, turning to Allan-a-Dale. “Methinks I
have already heard of him. Will he not harp awhile for us to-day?”

Allan bowed low, and took a harp which was brought to him, and he
thrummed the strings and sang full sweetly the border songs of the North
Countree. And the Queen and all her ladies listened in rapt silence till
all the songs were ended.




CHAPTER XIII

HOW THE OUTLAWS SHOT IN KING HARRY’S TOURNEY

     The King is into Finsbury Field
     Marching in battle ‘ray,
     And after follows bold Robin Hood,
     And all his yeomen gay.

The morning of the great archery contest dawned fair and bright,
bringing with it a fever of impatience to every citizen of London town,
from the proudest courtier to the lowest kitchen wench. Aye, and all the
surrounding country was early awake, too, and began to wend their way to
Finsbury Field, a fine broad stretch of practice ground near Moorfields.
Around three sides of the Field were erected tier upon tier of seats,
for the spectators, with the royal boxes and booths for the nobility
and gentry in the center. Down along one end were pitched gaily colored
tents for the different bands of King’s archers. There were ten of
these bands, each containing a score of men headed by a captain of great
renown; so to-day there were ten of the pavilions, each bearing aloft
the Royal Arms and vari-colored pennants which fluttered lightly in the
fresh morning breeze.

Each captain’s flag was of peculiar color and device. First came the
royal purple streamer of Tepus, own bow-bearer to the King, and esteemed
the finest archer in all the land. Then came the yellow of Clifton of
Buckinghamshire; and the blue of Gilbert of the White Hand--he who was
renowned in Nottinghamshire; and the green of Elwyn the Welshman; and
the White of Robert of Cloudesdale; and, after them, five other captains
of bands, each a man of proved prowess. As the Queen had said aforetime,
the King was mightily proud of his archers, and now held this tourney to
show their skill and, mayhap, to recruit their forces.

The uprising tiers of seats filled early, upon this summer morning, and
the merry chatter of the people went abroad like the hum of bees in a
hive. The royal party had not yet put in an appearance, nor were any
of the King’s archers visible. So the crowd was content to hide its
impatience by laughing jibes passed from one section to another, and
crying the colors of their favorite archers. In and out among the seats
went hawkers, their arms laden with small pennants to correspond with
the rival tents. Other vendors of pie and small cakes and cider also did
a thrifty business, for so eager had some of the people been to get good
seats, that they had rushed away from home without their breakfast.

Suddenly the gates at the far end, next the tents, opened wide, and a
courier in scarlet and gold, mounted upon a white horse, rode in
blowing lustily upon the trumpet at his lips; and behind him came six
standard-bearers riding abreast. The populace arose with a mighty cheer.
King Harry had entered the arena. He bestrode a fine white charger
and was clad in a rich dark suit of slashed velvet with satin and gold
facings. His hat bore a long curling ostrich plume of pure white and he
doffed it graciously in answer to the shouts of the people. By his
side rode Queen Eleanor, looking regal and charming in her long brocade
riding-habit; while immediately behind them came Prince Richard and
Prince John, each attired in knightly coats of mail and helmets. Lords
and ladies of the realm followed; and finally, the ten companies of
archers, whose progress round the field was greeted with hardly less
applause than that given the King himself.

The King and Queen dismounted from their steeds, ascended the steps
of the royal box, and seated themselves upon two thrones, decked with
purple and gold trapping, upon a dais sheltered by striped canvas. In
the booths at each side the members of the Court took their places;
while comely pages ran hither and thither bearing the royal commands.
‘Twas a lordly sight, I ween, this shifting of proud courtiers, flashing
of jeweled fans, and commingling of bright colors with costly gems!

Now the herald arose to command peace, and soon the clear note of his
bugle rose above the roar of the crowd and hushed it to silence. The
tenscore archers ranged themselves in two long rows on each side of
the lists--a gallant array--while their captains, as a special mark of
favor, stood near the royal box.

“Come hither, Tepus,” said the King to his bow-bearer. “Come, measure me
out this line, how long our mark must be.”

“What is the reward?” then asked the Queen.

“That will the herald presently proclaim,” answered the King. “For first
prize we have offered a purse containing twoscore golden pounds; for
second, a purse containing twoscore silver pennies; and for third a
silver bugle, inlaid with gold. Moreover, if the King’s companies keep
these prizes, the winning companies shall have, first, two tuns of
Rhenish wine; second, two tuns of English beer; and, third, five of
the fattest harts that run on Dallom Lea. Methinks that is a princely
wager,” added King Harry laughingly.

Up spake bold Clifton, secure in the King’s favor. “Measure no marks for
us, most sovereign liege,” quoth he; “for such largess as that, we’ll
shoot at the sun and the moon.”

“‘Twill not be so far as that,” said the King. “But get a line of good
length, Tepus, and set up the targets at tenscore paces.”

Forthwith, Tepus bowed low, and set up ten targets, each bearing the
pennant of a different company, while the herald stood forth again and
proclaimed the rules and prizes. The entries were open to all comers.
Each man, also, of the King’s archers should shoot three arrows at the
target bearing the colors of his band, until the best bowman in each
band should be chosen. These ten chosen archers should then enter a
contest for an open target--three shots apiece--and here any other
bowman whatsoever was asked to try his skill. The result at the open
targets should decide the tourney.

Then all the people shouted again, in token that the terms of the
contest pleased them; and the archers waved their bows aloft, and
wheeled into position facing their respective targets.

The shooting now began, upon all the targets at once, and the multitude
had so much ado to watch them, that they forgot to shout. Besides,
silence was commanded during the shooting. Of all the fine shooting that
morning, I have not now space to tell you. The full score of men shot
three times at each target, and then three times again to decide a tie.
For, more than once, the arrow shot by one man would be split wide
open by his successor. Every man’s shaft bore his number to ease the
counting; and so close would they stick at the end of a round, that the
target looked like a big bristle hairbrush. Then must the spectators
relieve their tense spirits by great cheering; while the King looked
mighty proud of his skilled bowmen.

At last the company targets were decided, and Tepus, as was expected,
led the score, having made six exact centers in succession. Gilbert
of the White Hand followed with five, and Clifton with four. Two other
captains had touched their center four times, but not roundly. While in
the other companies it so chanced that the captains had been out-shot by
some of the men under them.

The winners then saluted the King and Queen, and withdrew for a space to
rest and renew their bow-strings for the keenest contest of all; while
the lists were cleared and a new target--the open one--was set up at
twelvescore paces. At the bidding of the King, the herald announced
that the open target was to be shot at, to decide the title of the best
archer in all England; and any man there present was privileged to try
for it. But so keen had been the previous shooting, that many yeomen who
had come to enter the lists now would not do so; and only a dozen men
stepped forth to give in their names.

“By my halidom!” said the King, “these must be hardy men to pit
themselves against my archers!”

“Think you that your ten chosen fellows are the best bowmen in all
England?” asked the Queen.

“Aye, and in all the world beside,” answered the King; “and thereunto I
would stake five hundred pounds.”

“I am minded to take your wager,” said the Queen musingly, “and will
e’en do so if you grant me a boon.”

“What is it?” asked the King.

“If I produce five archers who can out-shoot your ten, will you grant my
men full grace and amnesty?”

“Assuredly!” quoth the King in right good humor. “Nathless, I tell you
now, your wager is in jeopardy, for there never were such bowmen as
Tepus and Clifton and Gilbert!”

“Hum!” said the Queen puckering her brow, still as though lost in
thought. “I must see if there be none present to aid me in my wager.
Boy, call hither Sir Richard of the Lea and my lord Bishop of Hereford!”

The two summoned ones, who had been witnessing the sport, came forward.

“Sir Richard,” said she, “thou art a full knight and good. Would’st
advise me to meet a wager of the King’s, that I can produce other
archers as good as Tepus and Gilbert and Clifton?”

“Nay, Your Majesty,” he said, bending his knee. “There be none present
that can match them. Howbeit,”--he added dropping his voice--“I have
heard of some who lie hid in Sherwood Forest who could show them strange
targets.”

The Queen smiled and dismissed him.

“Come hither, my lord Bishop of Hereford,” quoth she, “would’st thou
advance a sum to support my wager ‘gainst the King?”

“Nay, Your Majesty,” said the fat Bishop, “an you pardon me, I’d not lay
down a penny on such a bet. For by my silver mitre, the King’s archers
are men who have no peers.”

“But suppose I found men whom _thou knewest_ to be masters at the bow,”
 she insisted roguishly, “would’st thou not back them? Belike, I have
heard that there be men round about Nottingham and Plympton who carry
such matters with a high hand!”

The Bishop glanced nervously around, as if half expecting to see Robin
Hood’s men standing near; then turned to find the Queen looking at him
with much amusement lurking in her eyes.

“Odds bodikins! The story of my misadventure must have preceded me!” he
thought, ruefully. Aloud he said, resolved to face it out,

“Your Majesty, such tales are idle and exaggerated. An you pardon me, I
would add to the King’s wager that his men are invincible.”

“As it pleases thee,” replied the Queen imperturbably. “How much?”

“Here is my purse,” said the Bishop uneasily. “It contains fifteen score
nobles, or near a hundred pounds.”

“I’ll take it at even money,” she said, dismissing him; “and Your
Majesty”--turning to the King who had been conversing with the two
princes and certain of the nobles--“I accept your wager of five hundred
pounds.”

“Very good,” said the King, laughing as though it were a great jest.
“But what had minded you to take such interest in the sport, of a
sudden?”

“It is as I have said. I have found five men whom I will pit against any
you may produce.”

“Then we will try their skill speedily,” quoth the King. “How say you,
if first we decide this open target and then match the five best thereat
against your unknown champions?”

“Agreed,” said the Queen. Thereupon she signed to Maid Marian to
step forward, from a near-by booth where she sat with other
ladies-in-waiting, and whispered something in her ear. Marian courtesied
and withdrew.

Now the ten chosen archers from the King’s bands came forth again and
took their stand; and with them stood forth the twelve untried men from
the open lists. Again the crowd was stilled, and every eye hung upon the
speeding of the shafts. Slowly but skilfully each man shot, and as
his shaft struck within the inner ring a deep breath broke from the
multitude like the sound of the wind upon the seashore. And now Gilbert
of the White Hand led the shooting, and ‘twas only by the space of a
hairsbreadth upon the line that Tepus tied his score. Stout Elwyn, the
Welshman, took third place; one of the private archers, named Geoffrey,
come fourth; while Clifton must needs content himself with fifth.

The men from the open lists shot fairly true, but nervousness and fear
of ridicule wrought their undoing.

The herald then came forward again, and, instead of announcing the
prize-winners, proclaimed that there was to be a final contest. Two
men had tied for first place, declared His Majesty the King, and three
others were entitled to honors. Now all these five were to shoot
again, and they were to be pitted against five other of the Queen’s
choosing--men who had not yet shot upon that day.

A thrill of astonishment and excitement swept around the arena. “Who
were these men of the Queen’s choosing?” was upon every lip. The hubbub
of eager voices grew intense; and in the midst of it all, the gate at
the far end of the field opened and five men entered and escorted a lady
upon horseback across the arena to the royal box. The lady was instantly
recognized as Mistress Marian of the Queen’s household, but no one
seemed to know the faces of her escort. Four were clad in Lincoln green,
while the fifth, who seemed to be the leader, was dressed in a brave
suit of scarlet red. Each man wore a close fitting cap of black, decked
with a curling white feather. For arms, they carried simply a stout bow,
a sheaf of new arrows, and a short hunting-knife.

When the little party came before the dais on which the King and Queen
sat, the yeomen doffed their caps humbly, while Maid Marian was assisted
to dismount.

“Your Gracious Majesty,” she said, addressing the Queen, “these be the
men for whom you sent me, and who are now come to wear your colors and
service you in the tourney.”

The Queen leaned forward and handed them each a scarf of green and gold.

“Lockesley,” she said in a clear voice, “I thank thee and thy men for
this service. Know that I have laid a wager with the King that ye can
outshoot the best five whom he has found in all his bowmen.” The five
men pressed the scarfs to their lips in token of fealty.

The King turned to the Queen inquiringly.

“Who are these men you have brought before us?” asked he.

Up came the worthy Bishop of Hereford, growing red and pale by turns.

“Your pardon, my liege lord!” cried he; “But I must denounce these
fellows as outlaws. Yon man in scarlet is none other than Robin Hood
himself. The others are Little John and Will Stutely and Will Scarlet
and Allan-a-Dale--all famous in the North Countree for their deeds of
violence.”

“As my lord Bishop personally knows!” added the Queen significantly.

The King’s brows grew dark. The name of Robin Hood was well known to
him, as to every man there present.

“Is this true?” he demanded sternly.

“Aye, my lord,” responded the Queen demurely. “But, bethink you--I have
your royal promise of grace and amnesty.”

“That will I keep,” said the King, holding in check his ire by a mighty
effort. “But, look you! Only forty days do I grant of respite. When this
time has elapsed, let these bold outlaws look to their safety!”

Then turning to his five victorious archers, who had drawn near, he
added, “Ye have heard, my men, how that I have a wager with the Queen
upon your prowess. Now here be men of her choosing--certain free shafts
of Sherwood and Barnesdale. Wherefore look well to it, Gilbert and Tepus
and Geoffrey and Elwyn and Clifton! If ye outshoot these knaves, I will
fill your caps with silver pennies--aye, and knight the man who stands
first. But if ye lose, I give the prizes, for which ye have just
striven, to Robin Hood and his men, according to my royal word.”

“Robin Hood and his men!” the saying flew round the arena with the speed
of wild-fire, and every neck craned forward to see the famous fellows
who had dared to brave the King’s anger, because of the Queen.

Another target was now set up, at the same distance as the last, and
it was decided that the ten archers should shoot three arrows in turn.
Gilbert and Robin tossed up a penny for the lead, and it fell to the
King’s men. So Clifton was bidden to shoot first.

Forth he stood, planting his feet firmly, and wetting his fingers before
plucking the string. For he was resolved to better his losing score of
that day. And in truth he did so, for the shaft he loosed sped true, and
landed on the black bull’s-eye, though not in the exact center. Again he
shot, and again he hit the black, on the opposite rim. The third shaft
swerved downward and came within the second ring, some two fingers’
breadths away. Nathless, a general cry went up, as this was the best
shooting Clifton had done that day.

Will Scarlet was chosen to follow him, and now took his place and
carefully chose three round and full-feathered arrows.

“Careful, my sweet coz!” quoth Robin in a low tone. “The knave has left
wide space at the center for all of your darts.”

But Robin gave Will the wrong caution, for over-much care spoiled
his aim. His first shaft flew wide and lodged in the second ring even
further away than the worst shot of Clifton.

“Your pardon, coz!” quoth Robin hastily. “Bid care go to the bottom of
the sea, and do you loose your string before it sticks to your fingers!”

And Will profited by this hint, and loosed his next two shafts as
freely as though they flew along a Sherwood glade. Each struck upon the
bull’s-eye, and one even nearer the center than his rival’s mark. Yet
the total score was adjudged in favor of Clifton. At this Will Scarlet
bit his lip, but said no word, while the crowd shouted and waved yellow
flags for very joy that the King’s man had overcome the outlaw. They
knew, also, that this demonstration would please the King.

The target was now cleared for the next two contestants--Geoffrey and
Allan-a-Dale. Whereat, it was noticed that many ladies in the Queen’s
booths boldly flaunted Allan’s colors, much to the honest pride which
glowed in the cheeks of one who sat in their midst.

“In good truth,” said more than one lady to Mistress Dale, “if thy
husband can handle the longbow as skilfully as the harp, his rival has
little show of winning!”

The saying augured well. Geoffrey had shot many good shafts that day;
and indeed had risen from the ranks by virtue of them. But now each of
his three shots, though well placed in triangular fashion around the rim
of the bull’s-eye, yet allowed an easy space for Allan to graze within.
His shooting, moreover, was so prettily done, that he was right heartily
applauded--the ladies and their gallants leading in the hand-clapping.

Now you must know that there had long been a friendly rivalry in Robin
Hood’s band as to who was the best shot, next after Robin himself. He
and Will Stutely had lately decided their marksmanship, and Will had
found that Robin’s skill was now so great as to place the leader at the
head of all good bowmen in the forest. But the second place lay between
Little John and Stutely, and neither wished to yield to the other. So
to-day they looked narrowly at their leader to see who should shoot
third. Robin read their faces at a glance, and laughing merrily, broke
off two straws and held them out.

“The long straw goes next!” he decided; and it fell to Stutely.

Elwyn the Welshman was to precede him; and his score was no whit better
than Geoffrey’s. But Stutely failed to profit by it. His besetting sin
at archery had ever been an undue haste and carelessness. To-day these
were increased by a certain moodiness, that Little John had outranked
him. So his first two shafts flew swiftly, one after the other, to
lodging places outside the Welshman’s mark.

“Man! man!” cried Robin entreatingly, “you do forget the honor of the
Queen, and the credit of Sherwood!”

“I ask your pardon, master!” quoth Will humbly enough, and loosing as he
spoke his last shaft. It whistled down the course unerringly and struck
in the exact center--the best shot yet made.

Now some shouted for Stutely and some shouted for Elwyn; but Elwyn’s
total mark was declared the better. Whereupon the King turned to the
Queen. “What say you now?” quoth he in some triumph. “Two out of the
three first rounds have gone to my men. Your outlaws will have to shoot
better than that in order to save your wager!”

The Queen smiled gently.

“Yea, my lord,” she said. “But the twain who are left are able to do the
shooting. You forget that I still have Little John and Robin Hood.”

“And you forget, my lady, that I still have Tepus and Gilbert.”

So each turned again to the lists and awaited the next rounds in silent
eagerness. I ween that King Harry had never watched the invasion of an
enemy with more anxiety than he now felt.

Tepus was chosen to go next and he fell into the same error with Will
Scarlet. He held the string a moment too long, and both his first and
second arrows came to grief. One of them, however, came within the black
rim, and he followed it up by placing his third in the full center,
just as Stutely had done in his last. These two centers were the fairest
shots that had been made that day; and loud was the applause which
greeted this second one. But the shouting was as nothing to the uproar
which followed Little John’s shooting. That good-natured giant seemed
determined to outdo Tepus by a tiny margin in each separate shot; for
the first and the second shafts grazed his rival’s on the inner side,
while for the third Little John did the old trick of the forest: he
shot his own arrow in a graceful curve which descended from above upon
Tepus’s final center shaft with a glancing blow that drove the other out
and left the outlaw’s in its place.

The King could scarce believe his eyes. “By my halidom!” quoth he, “that
fellow deserves either a dukedom or a hanging! He must be in league with
Satan himself! Never saw I such shooting.”

“The score is tied, my lord,” said the Queen; “we have still to see
Gilbert and Robin Hood.”

Gilbert now took his stand and slowly shot his arrows, one after
another, into the bull’s-eye. ‘Twas the best shooting he had yet
done, but there was still the smallest of spaces left--if you looked
closely--at the very center.

“Well done, Gilbert!” spoke up Robin Hood. “You are a foeman worthy of
being shot against.” He took his own place as he spoke. “Now if you had
placed one of your shafts _there_”--loosing one of his own--“and another
_there_”--out sped the second--“and another _there_”--the third was
launched--“mayhap the King would have declared you the best bowman in
all England!”

But the last part of his merry speech was drowned in the wild tumult
of applause which followed his exploit. His first two shafts had packed
themselves into the small space left at the bull’s-eye; while his third
had split down between them, taking half of each, and making all three
appear from a distance, as one immense arrow.

Up rose the King in amazement and anger.

“Gilbert is not yet beaten!” he cried. “Did he not shoot within the mark
thrice? And that is allowed a best in all the rules of archery.”

Robin bowed low.

“As it please Your Majesty!” quoth he. “But may I be allowed to place
the mark for the second shooting?”

The King waved his hand sullenly.. Thereupon Robin prepared another old
trick of the greenwood, and got him a light, peeled willow wand which he
set in the ground in place of the target.

“There, friend Gilbert,” called he gaily; “belike you can hit that!”

“I can scarce see it from here,” said Gilbert, “much less hit it.
Nathless, for the King’s honor, I will try.”

But this final shot proved his undoing, and his shaft flew harmlessly
by the thin white streak. Then came Robin to his stand again, and picked
his arrow with exceeding care, and tried his string. Amid a breathless
pause he drew the good yew bow back to his ear, glanced along the shaft,
and let the feathered missile fly. Straight it sped, singing a keen note
of triumph as it went. The willow wand was split in twain, as though it
had met a hunter’s knife.

“Verily, I think your bow is armed with witchcraft!” cried Gilbert. “For
I did not believe such shooting possible.”

“You should come to see our merry lads in the greenwood,” retorted Robin
lightly. “For willow wands do not grow upon the cobblestones of London
town.”

Meanwhile the King in great wrath had risen to depart, first signing the
judges to distribute the prizes. Never a word said he, of good or
ill, to the Queen, but mounted his horse and, followed by his sons and
knights, rode off the field. The archers dropped upon one knee as he
passed, but he gave them a single baleful look and was gone.

Then the Queen beckoned the outlaws to approach, and they did so and
knelt at her feet.

“Right well have ye served me,” she said, “and sorry am I that the
King’s anger is aroused thereby. But fear ye not. His word and grace
hold true. As to these prizes ye have gained, I add others of mine
own--the wagers I have won from His Majesty the King and from the lord
Bishop of Hereford. Buy with some of these moneys the best swords ye
can find in London, for all your band, and call them the swords of the
Queen. And swear with them to protect all the poor and the helpless and
the women--kind who come your way.”

“We swear,” said the five yeomen solemnly.

Then the Queen gave each of them her hand to kiss, and arose and
departed with all her ladies. And after they were gone, the King’s
archers came crowding around Robin and his men, eager to get a glimpse
of the fellows about whom they had heard so much. And back of them came
a great crowd of the spectators pushing and jostling in their efforts to
come nearer.

“Verily!” laughed Little John, “they must take us for a Merry Andrew
show!”

Now the judges came up, and announced each man his prize, according
to the King’s command. To Robin was give the purse containing twoscore
golden pounds; to Little John the twoscore silver pennies; and to
Allan-a-Dale the fine inlaid bugle, much to his delight, for he was
skilled at blowing sweet tunes upon the horn hardly less than handling
the harp strings. But when the Rhenish wine and English beer and harts
of Dallom Lea were spoken of, Robin said:

“Nay, what need we of wine or beer, so far from the greenwood? And
‘twould be like carrying coals to Newcastle, to drive those harts to
Sherwoo

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