Outlaw (8 page)

“So you are Robin Hood,” said the duke, taking off his cloak and handing it to Robin. “I have heard of you, and know you to be a loyal and an honourable man. Your king does not deserve you, as you will one day find out.” These words echoed in Robin’s head time and again as they rode home. He was not to forget them.

Every day they travelled, every meal they ate, every night they slept, the king grew in strength. At night he would sit by the fire and tell them of his crusades to the Holy Land, of the battles he had won, the castles he had besieged, of his enemy, Saladin, of whom he spoke with more respect and even affection than his allies. They heard of the treachery of the Duke of Austria, and how the other crusading kings and princes quarrelled endlessly amongst themselves. He would not rest, he said, until Jerusalem was in Christian hands again. Then
Blondel would sing, and he would sing, and they would all sing. The king had scarcely been in England over the last ten years and as they rode he quizzed them endlessly on the state of his kingdom. They told him of the injustices wreaked on the people by Prince John and his sheriffs up and down the land, of the Sheriff of Nottingham in particular, and Sir Guy of Gisbourne, how they drove the people from their homes, of the starvation and deep poverty, of the torture and mutilation all done in the king’s name. And when alone with the king, Blondel spoke of all the good that Robin and his band of Outlaws had done.

The king listened to them all, but even while he was listening he seemed restless, looking past them or through them even as they spoke. He would deal with the Sheriff of Nottingham on his return, and Sir Guy of Gisbourne too, that much he did promise
them. Such terrible deeds could not and would not go unpunished; but his brother was his brother, and though he acknowledged he was weak, he would hear no more against him.

The crossing was calm this time, to Robin’s great relief, but he stayed out on deck all the same – he felt better that way. On the last morning at sea, he found the king suddenly beside him. “As soon as I can, Robin,” he said, “I will come to Sherwood. I owe you that and much more besides. I shall see to it that your Outlaws are free again. Their virtue and their courage will have its reward, have no fear. And the Sheriff of Nottingham and Sir Guy of Gisbourne will have their just deserts, I promise you.” He gazed out towards the white cliffs of Dover, and sighed deeply. “I was not born a king, Robin. Had he lived, my older brother would have been king in my place. I did not want the crown. I am a soldier, never
happier than in a fight, and no cause is more dear to me than the capture of Jerusalem. How else does a soldier find his way to heaven, unless he fights for God? I was not made for a comfortable court, for the niceties of diplomacy, nor the machinations of ambitious ministers and counsellors.”

“But your people,” said Robin. “They need you at home.”

The king shook his head. “No, they need people like you, Robin. You should have been a king, not me.” And he walked away.

It was the dawn of Christmas Day when they arrived at last in London, and rode through the silent streets up to the Tower. The guard at the gate stood staring open-mouthed. “I am no ghost, man. I am your king. Have the gate opened and send for my brother. He’ll be in bed. He always was a late riser.”

Sitting on his throne with Blondel at his feet, Richard the Lionheart waited for his brother in silence. On one side of him stood Robin and Much, on the other Little John and Friar tuck. They heard doors opening and closing upstairs, urgent whisperings, running feet, and then the solitary figure of Prince John on the staircase, wrapping himself in a sable-trimmed gown.

“Come on down, John,” said the king. “I shall not eat you. And neither will Robin Hood, though he has cause enough, I believe. I am home again, brother John, the ransom paid. What, are you not glad to see me? I have come home to wish you a happy Christmas. Don’t worry, I will not stay for long this time, for I have business in Sherwood Forest, urgent business that cannot wait. Don’t stand there gaping. Come and embrace your brother, John; or should I call you Judas?”

All this while in Nottingham Castle, Sir Guy of Gisbourne and the Abbess of Kirkleigh had been searching for some sure way of destroying Robin Hood and the Outlaws, but neither plotting nor prayers had come up with anything. Many of their own spies had themselves deserted and joined the Outlaw band. Bribery proved fruitless too. They doubled the price on Robin’s head, but no one came forward. As for the sheriff, he sat glowering in his castle, terrified of every creaking door, and seeing devils and portents in every flitting bat or screech owl.

The three of them huddled close to the fire that Christmas night, the wind whining and moaning in the chimney. All of them were brooding darkly about the same thing, the same man. Yet another Christmas had come and gone, and Robin Hood still lived. In his fury and frustration, Sir Guy of Gisbourne kicked out at a sprig of holly and sent it flying into the red heat of the fire where it crackled, roared and then vanished in a shower of sparks up the chimney. Behind them, his eyes shining the darkness at the back of the room, stood a servant holding a ewer of wine, a trusted servant; but unknown to them, an Outlaw and a spy.

“Numbskulls,” said the abbess suddenly. “We have been numbskulls. May I burn in hellfire if I have not found the perfect way! We’ll smoke them out, brother. We’ll burn Sherwood round their ears,
burn it to the ground so there’s nowhere left for them to hide.”

“But you can’t,” the sheriff protested. “It’s the king’s forest.”

“The king, dear brother, is hundreds of miles away in an Austrian dungeon, is he not? For God’s sake, he’s very probably dead and buried by now. And besides, brother, you speak for the king in Nottingham, so you are the king in Nottingham.”

“It could work,” said Sir Guy of Gisbourne, springing to his feet. “It could really work. We wait for a wind from the west. We have all our men, every one of them, ready and waiting on the east side of the forest. We light the fire and the rats will run straight into our trap. It’s so simple, so beautiful.”

All through the night of New Year’s Eve, the sheriff’s men lay in wait in their hundreds along
the eastern edge of Sherwood, every quiver full, every sword and spear and axe sharpened for the kill. Hidden in the woods behind them, the horsemen waited and watched. Nothing had been left to chance. Not a single Outlaw was to be left alive. In the grey dark of dawn, with just a dozen men to help them, the sheriff and Sir Guy rode out of Nottingham, torches in hand. The wind was perfect, gusting from the west, and the forest was dry from weeks of frost. It would burn like a sprig of holly. They timed it to the minute, reaching the forest just as the dawn was breaking.

“We have him now,” said the sheriff, riding forward with his blazing torch.

As he spoke, a shadow moved and stepped out from the trees. “Drop the torch, my Lord.” The shadow spoke, and became Robin Hood. “I have an arrow pointing at your heart, Lord Sheriff.”
The sheriff did not hesitate for a moment, but threw down the torch at Robin’s feet. Then there were other shadows flitting through the trees, dozens of them, hundreds of them. All the sheriff’s men but one threw down their torches at once. With a scream of rage, Sir Guy of Gisbourne charged his horse towards the nearest tree. He threw himself flat along the neck of his horse, the torch thrust out ahead of him like a lance. Robin wheeled round as he passed and let loose his arrow. It took Sir Guy of Gisbourne through the neck and lifted him clean from the saddle. He was dead before he hit the ground.

When the body was still at last, the sheriff looked up. The man standing before him was not dressed like Robin and the others, in Lincoln green. His red cloak bore on it the crest of the three golden lions rampant, the arms of the king of England, of
King Richard the Lionheart. He recognised the face now, and from that moment he knew he was going to die. He was hauled unceremoniously from his horse and thrown down before the king.

“Have mercy, Sire,” he begged, grasping the king’s feet.

“Once before you were shown mercy,” said the king. “Never again. These last few days I have lived with the Outlaws. I have heard each of their stories. I go to fight a Holy War, for God and country, and while I am gone, men like you play the petty tyrant. You thieve from the people, you pillage, you corrupt, and you do it in my name too. You were going to burn down my forest, and massacre these brave people so despised by you, so maltreated. The holy book says: ‘Ye reap what ye sow’. Within the hour you shall hang by the neck like the common criminal you are. Not a man, not a
woman, not a child in this company, nor in this world I think, will mourn your death. Take him to the gibbet.”

Much the miller’s son stepped forward. “It was promised to me, Sire,” he said. “Robin Hood promised me his death.”

“Then he is yours,” replied the king.

The king and the Outlaws stood at the edge of Sherwood and watched as Much led the whimpering sheriff away, down into the valley where the gibbet stood waiting. Suddenly the sky darkened overhead, as from all over Sherwood it seemed, the crows gathered. “Anything,” pleaded the sheriff, “anything you want. Please let me live. Please. I have gold, more gold than the king himself.” Much made no reply, to this or to any other of his entreaties, but fixed the rope quickly about his neck and hanged him high. Only when he was dead, with his legs
swinging in the wind, did Much speak at last. “For my father,” he said.

As the Outlaws passed by the gibbet on their way into Nottingham that morning, every one of them looked their last on the hated Sheriff of Nottingham; and terrible though the sight was, it stirred no pity in their hearts. When the people of the city came out to greet their king, and the Outlaws were cheered all through the streets, from every doorstep, from every window, they could not help but feel sad, that at the moment of their greatest triumph, a golden time of great comradeship was coming to an end, that nothing would ever be quite the same again.

But spirits rose again that night as they all feasted together in the great hall of the castle, Robin and Marion on either side of King Richard. Friar Tuck blessed the venison, and then ate most of it himself.
Much wrestled against all comers, and won every time, as everyone knew he would. Blondel sang for them, and as the castle rang to the sweet sound of “The Candlelight Song”, the people in the streets of Nottingham outside heard it and danced with joy. For them, as well as for the Outlaws, the cruel days, the dark days, were over at last.

Out in the moonlit countryside, far beyond the city walls, there was no such happiness. The sound of distant revelry was a bitter accompaniment to the Abbess of Kirkleigh, as she cut down the sheriff from the gibbet and, with her sisters, laid him alongside Sir Guy of Gisbourne in a cart. The sheriff’s army had simply drifted away and vanished. She had no hope left, only hate.

She lifted her face to the full moon. “Hear me, Robin Hood,” she screeched. “For what you have done, you shall pay with your life. Here lies my
brother, and with him the only man I have loved on this earth. For their deaths, you will die, I swear it.” That same night, the two men were buried at Kirkleigh in the abbey graveyard, and even as the sisters were filling in their graves the abbess was upstairs in her room praying, and when she prayed now, it was not to God but to the devil. “Deliver me up Robin Hood,” she hissed, “and I am yours for life.”

The king did not stay long in Nottingham, but long enough to decree that all the Outlaws should live and work where they pleased, like other men and women; that all the property, houses, lands, goods and chattels should be restored to their rightful owners, and proper restitution made from the sheriff’s own fortune. “And lastly,” he declared, “I decree, that in recognition of their courageous resistance to recent tyrannies, Robin Hood and his
Outlaws shall be able to hunt through the Royal Forest of Sherwood for the rest of their lives.” There was much rapturous cheering at this, and banging of tables. But the king had not finished. “However,” he went on, “for this consideration I want to borrow your leader, only for a while. I want Robin Hood to act as counsellor to me when I return to London. I have much need of men about me that I can trust. Well, Robin, will you come?”

Robin was flattered, but he did not want to go. Home had always been the forest. He wanted nothing else, to be nowhere else. He and Marion had always dreamed of living and farming on the edge of Sherwood, in the same house, the same land where he had grown up as a boy. But the king had asked him and he could not refuse. “I come with my friends and my family, Sire, or not at all,” he said.

“Agreed,” replied the king, and the two men embraced. But the hall had fallen stonily silent.

“No!” cried one of the Outlaws. “Stay with us, Robin.” And the cry echoed round the hall, the Outlaws all on their feet in protest.

Robin did all he could to appease them. “I’ll be back,” he said. “As Tuck would say it – by God’s good grace, I’ll be back.” But the joy had gone suddenly out of the feast.

“How could I say no to him?” said Robin later, when he and Marion were alone.

“You could not,” she replied. “But how I wish he had not asked.”

So it was with heavy hearts that they left the next day for London, Robin alongside the king, little Martin on his saddle clinging to the pommel; and behind them Blondel and Much and Tuck and Little John, and Marion leading his father. But as
they rode through the market place, the Outlaws surrounded them and would not let them pass. Will Scarlett spoke up, as he had done all those years before when Robin had first met them. “May God keep you, good Robin,” he said. “And may he bring you and yours back safe and sound.” Will looked suddenly old and frail, and Robin knew then he should not be leaving him, nor his Outlaws. But there was no turning back.

“Take care, Will,” he said, and the crowd parted reluctantly and watched them leave, their eyes filled with tears.

Robin had thought that in London he would pine for the open skies, for the trees, but he did not. He and his family lacked for nothing; they had the best food, servants, fine clothes. Their house was warm. There were those at first who mocked their country ways and country talk, but never more
than once. And when it was learnt who they were, they were fêted like royalty themselves. Marion saw at once that Robin was liking it far too much for his own good, but said nothing, hoping that the newness of it all would soon wear off. Unlike Robin, she longed for the simplicities of Sherwood.

On the banks of the Thames, Robin and his father taught the king’s bowmen how to split a wand at a hundred paces. And Much saw to it that every soldier was fit in wind and limb, and he was a hard taskmaster. Little John busied himself in the king’s armoury, but they saw little of him these days. As for Tuck, they hardly saw him at all. Time lay heavily on him, and he seemed to be spending most of his time in the taverns.

The king called his council together each week, but Robin soon saw that there was little point in his being there. The king talked of nothing but his
next crusade. He seemed completely disinterested in anything that did not serve that single purpose. He needed two thousand more good men. He wanted Robin to recruit them and train them. He needed to raise taxes for the campaign. “But the people have been taxed enough for foreign wars, Sire,” Robin said. “They need their king at home.”

Richard smiled at him, but there was an edge to his tone. You stick to what you’re good at, Robin,” he said. “Find me soldiers. Train them as well as you trained your Outlaws, that’s all I ask.” And Robin did as he was asked, although he was beginning to wonder why his advice on all other matters was so often ignored.

Amongst his soldiers, amongst the people of London, he was a hero, he was Robin of Sherwood, he was a legend. His exploits in Sherwood, his rescue of the king were the talk of the taverns.
Amongst the courtiers, though, he was just a jumped-up common forester with a white-haired cagot for a wife, but all the same a man to beware of and to flatter, for they knew he was as close to the king as anyone. So wherever he went, in court or out of it, he was fawned on and lionised.

Marion looked on helpless as Robin changed before her eyes. His fame and fortune were going to his head and he did not seem even to notice it. He was beginning to believe in the legend. She confided her fears to Robin’s father. “I am losing him,” she said. “He’s never home. Something is always more important, even than little Martin.”

But Robin’s father could be of little comfort to her. He too no longer knew his own son. “He does not listen to me any more, nor to anyone but the king,” he said. “He treats his faithful Much as if he is not there. He leaves poor Tuck to drink himself
into a stupor in the taverns, and always his mind seems to be elsewhere. If we could only go home to Sherwood, then he would find himself again, I know he would.”

One night Robin came bursting in, later even than usual. Marion and his father were sitting before the fire. He could not contain himself. “You’ll never guess,” he cried. “I am to be made a knight. Robin Hood, Outlaw and outcast, is to be made a knight. What do you think of that? Tomorrow I shall be Sir Robin of Locksley – the king let me choose my title. And you shall be my Lady Marion.”

Marion looked him straight in the eye as she spoke. “Never, Robin, never, as long as I live. I am no Lady. I am Marion, mother of our child and your companion in life. I have stayed long enough in this place. It is too comfortable, and full of
sycophants and title-seekers. There is corruption in the very air we breathe. Tomorrow I shall go home to Sherwood, and I shall take little Martin with me. We do not belong here.”

“But why?” said Robin, unable to believe what he was hearing.

“I was the wife of Robin Hood, a fair man, a kind man, a thinking man, who sought only good for others, who loved his friends and was loved by them. Now he has become someone else, someone I cannot love, cannot live with.”

“I too will go home, Robin,” said his father, “home to Sherwood where we all belong. We are fish out of water here. See what has become of Tuck. See what has become of you. Listen to us, Robin. Come with us now, before it is too late.”