Outlaw (9 page)

“But I can’t. The king…”

“The king! The king! Always the king!” Marion
cried. “The king is not God, Robin. Have you forgotten that? Have you forgotten yourself entirely?”

And Robin knew then that he had, but his pride would not let him say so. “I stay with my king,” he said, turning away. “You go if you like.”

At dawn the next day Marion and little Martin and Robin’s father made ready to leave. Much was there to help them. “Take care of him, Much,” said Marion as she mounted her horse. “And bring him back to Sherwood when he’s himself again. Bring him home safe.”

“I should come with you,” said Much, lifting up little Martin and setting him astride the saddle in front of her. “But I cannot abandon him.”

“I know that,” Marion said, and she leant down and kissed him. “Tell him I love him and I’ll be
waiting for him in Sherwood. I have left him the silver arrow. He’ll know why. Don’t let him lose it.”

From an upper window Robin watched them leave, but could not bring himself to go down to say goodbye. As they rode away he lifted the silver arrow and waved it, but none of them saw it.

When they had gone, Much came into his room and found Robin sitting on his bed and crying like a child. The silver arrow lay on his lap. “You’re a fool, Robin Hood,” said Much.

“I know it,” replied Robin. “I know it.”

King Richard knighted him that same day, on the river meadow where the bowmen trained. but even as the blade rested on his shoulder, Robin felt no pleasure in it, no pride, only a deep longing for Marion and for Sherwood. The entire court was there, Prince John with them, looking as sour as ever. Two thousand bowmen waved their bows and
cheered Robin to the echo as he rose to his feet to be embraced by the king. He saw Much and Little John standing some way off, but in their eyes there was nothing but disappointment. He looked everywhere for Tuck, but could see him nowhere.

The king held him at arm’s length. “Well, Sir Robin of Locksley,” he began, “you have come a long, long way from your woods. And you shall go further too. I leave on my crusade in two weeks, if the winds are fair. Come with me as my Captain, Robin. With you beside me, we shall defeat Saladin and we shall march together through the gates of Jerusalem.”

“And your own kingdom, Sire?” said Robin. “What becomes of your kingdom while you are gone?”

“My brother, John, will manage without me. He has learnt his lesson, have you not, brother?” And
Prince John looked down at his feet and said nothing.

“Do we ever learn our lessons, I wonder, before it is too late, Sire?” said Robin. “I belong here. I belong in England.”

“So you will not come?” The king was suddenly angry.

“No, Sire, I will stay at home and guard your kingdom for you while you are gone. When a shepherd leaves his sheep, Sire, he does not leave them unguarded.”

“And I stay too, Sire,” said Little John. “I have made you all the swords you need for your crusade. Where Robin is, I must be.”

“Then go back to your woods, for all I care,” cried the king. “I shall take Jerusalem without you.” And he turned on his heel and walked away.

It took all that day for the three of them to find
Tuck. Little John knew most of his drinking haunts, but he was not to be found in any of them. Then one tavern keeper, who knew him well, told them that Tuck had left his tavern two days before, saying he had finished with drink for ever, that from then on he would be praying his way back to God. So they searched every church and chapel in London, and found him at last kneeling before the altar of St Bartholomew-the-Great in Smithfield. When he looked up and saw them, he covered his face with his hands and wept. “Take me home, boys,” he said. “Take me home.”

They set off at first light and rode north all day without stopping, making over forty miles by nightfall. Even so they still had not caught up with Marion and Robin’s father, as they had expected. “They cannot be far ahead of us now,” said Little John. “But if we ride at night we may ride past
them without knowing it. Let’s find somewhere to sleep. We’ll start out again early tomorrow morning. We’ll catch up with them soon enough.”

There were no inns nearby, or monasteries or priories, so they made camp in a wood and ate together around a fire as they had done so often before. It was a damp and foggy night, and they lay huddled close to the fire for warmth; but despite all they could do, Tuck would not stop shivering. By morning he had a fever and Much had to help him on to his horse. Slumped and silent in his saddle, Tuck rode on uncomplaining all through the next day, and the next, but they had to go at a walk now. And still there was no sign of Marion and the others on the road.

Heavy rain and a fierce, whipping wind forced them to stop early on the third day. Tuck was coughing almost continuously by this time, and
Robin knew that to go on would be the death of him. He needed rest. He needed a doctor. So when they came to a nunnery on the outskirts of a small village, they hammered on the door and asked for shelter, for help. The nuns took them in and did all they could. For two nights and two days, Tuck tossed and turned in his fever, near to death. They bled him with leeches, but that did not help. They bathed him in cold water to cool him, but that only seemed to make him worse. The nuns worked tirelessly, but Tuck sank into a deep sleep and would not wake. His breathing became shallow and rasping. Much and Little John and Robin sat by his bed praying, and waiting for the end. One of the nuns came in to pray with them. As she was about to leave the room, she said, “I don’t know much about these things, and I don’t want to raise false hopes; but I do know of someone, an abbess,
a healer, who lives nearby. She has been known to heal when all other remedies have failed.”

“Then send for her,” cried Robin. “And hurry, please hurry.”

That evening, an unseen face peered through the grille of the cell where Tuck lay surrounded by his companions, all on their knees and praying. The face smiled, but it was a cold and venomous smile. Then the face vanished.

The same nun brought their supper to the cell, leek soup. “The abbess. The healer,” said Robin. “Where is she? Will she be long?”

“In the kitchens,” replied the nun, “preparing a medicine for him. She won’t be long. You should eat your soup. It’ll give you strength. And besides, all waste is wicked in the Lord’s eyes.” And with that, she left. Little John tried the soup first. It was good and peppery, he said. Robin drank it, more
to warm himself than anything else, for his feet were frozen. Only Much refused it. He sat closest to Tuck, his eyes never leaving Tuck’s face, not for an instant. Minutes later the door opened and the nun was there again.

“I have the good friar’s medicine,” she said, “and the abbess said I was to pour it down his throat. I will need you to lift him for me, else he may choke.”

“But if she has not seen him,” Robin asked, “how does she know what to give him?”

“I asked her the same thing,” replied the nun. “She says it is a universal remedy; and she is a holy woman. We must have faith.” And with Much holding Tuck in his arms, she poured the medicine into Tuck’s mouth and wiped his lips afterwards. “He’s in God’s hands now,” she said, crossing herself. And then she left them.

She had been gone only a few moments when
Robin began to feel his head swirling, a gripping pain in his stomach, and a sickly taste in his mouth that reminded him of the terrible sea-voyage he had made. He clutched at the bed to stop himself from falling, but he could not. When he opened his eyes he saw Little John crawling beside him on the floor. He was reaching out towards him, his face contorted with pain, his eyes wide with fear.

“The soup,” whispered Little John. “We are poisoned. We are dead men.” And Robin felt the first shudder of death come over him, and knew it too.

Much was bending over him, trying to lift him. “Help me up, Much,” said Robin. “I want to see trees once more before I die. And I will die standing, looking my God in the face.” He stood by the window, looking out, the colour draining from his cheeks. He leant back on Much and looked his last
at the trees and the sky. “The abbess. It was the abbess. I should have known. Too late, too late. The Abbess of Kirkleigh, it could be no one else. She has done for us, Much. You did not eat your soup, did you?”

“No, Robin.”

“Dear Much. Always wise,” Robin breathed. “Wise and silent. Give me my bow now, and Marion’s silver arrow. I shall shoot one last time through this window, and where the arrow lies, there you must bury us. Tell her I am sorry, and that I love her. Care for them as you have cared for me.”

He had not the strength to draw the bow himself; but with Much’s help, he lifted it, felt his thumb knuckle touch his nose, looked along the arrow to its silver tip and let fly. He never saw where it landed, for he was dead.

Much the miller’s son laid Robin in his grave the next morning, his horn, his bow and his silver arrow beside him. And on either side of him, he dug two other graves, one for Little John and one for Friar Tuck. Above each he placed a cross of English oak, but with no inscription, for Much could not write. The nuns sang over him, blessed them and wished them to heaven. Then they left them where they lay. As Much was about to leave, a rust-red squirrel ran along a branch above him, and dropped a nut at his feet, an acorn. He planted it in the soft, cold earth of Robin’s grave. “So I’ll always know where to find you, Robin,” he said. “I have to go now, back to Sherwood; but first to Kirkleigh.”

He was there by noon, and waiting in the shadows of the cloisters. The abbess, still exulting, did not see him until he stepped out in front of her. Then she knew him at once, and what he had
come for. She tried to escape, but Much held her fast. “You ate Deadly Nightshade and you lived!” she cried.

“You killed the best heart in all of England,” said Much. “But I will not kill you here in this holy place, nor will you ever lie in sanctified ground. You lived for the devil and now you can go to him.” He took her away, far from the abbey, and hanged her from a wych elm tree, and buried her deep in the corner of a field of stubble where no one would ever find her and her body would not taint the corn.

By the time Much came to Sherwood again, there was snow on the ground. He found the house on the edge of the forest, saw the smoke rising from the chimney, saw little Martin pottering by the door with Robin’s father, and Marion chopping wood. For weeks he lived out in the cold, keeping watch over them but never wanting to make himself
known, for he knew what news he would have to tell her. In the end, it was she who found him. She was out hunting early one morning, stalking a deer, when she came across him crouching over a dying fire. He looked into her eyes, unable to speak.

“I know,” she said. “I have known for weeks. If he was alive he’d have come home. I know he would.” She held out her hands to him. “Did he tell you to look after us?” she asked, smiling. “I thought so. Then come with me, Much, and do as he says.” They walked a little while together in silence. “Never tell me how it happened,” she said, taking his arm. “It’s in life I want to remember him, not in death.”

When I woke I found myself on my side in the mud, and cold; and in my hand still tightly grasped, the silver arrowhead. A jay cackled somewhere
nearby and brought me to my senses. I sat up and remembered. I remembered the hurricane of the night before, sheltering with Gran under the stairs, the roe deer by the stream. But it all seemed to have happened such a long time ago. I saw about me the devastated forest, and my tree, my poor dead tree. And there were the bones in the earth beside me, and the skull I had dropped, the cow’s horn and the long curved stick. But I knew there was more, much more, that I should have remembered, but could not. I felt there was an echo of a dream inside me, but that it was unreachable now and always would be.

I struggled to my feet and looked about me. God knows how long I had been there. Clouds scudded across the sky, chasing away the storm. It felt like midday. Gran would be out of her mind with worry. I had to get back.

I buried the bones where I had found them, scooped the earth over hurriedly, and left. I took the horn and the silver arrowhead and the long curved stick with me – it seemed a pity just to bury them. I would take them home and clean them up. Maybe, I thought, maybe I could take them to the British Museum and find out how old they were. I would come back later and fill in the crater properly so that no one would ever find the bones. It was my tree so they were my bones. Later though, I would do it all later.

I was halfway down the hill when I saw the berries. There were a dozen or more, black and as big as cherries. I felt suddenly hungry. I filled my hand with them and walked on. I would have eaten them there and then, but I hadn’t a hand free to do it. Anyway, they would be good in yoghurt with a lot of sugar on top. I would save them and have
a feast when I got home. I hurried on, dropping one or two of the berries as I went.

I hid my treasures away in the back of the garage before I went in. I said I was sorry I had been so long, but Gran said she didn’t know what I was talking about, that I had only been gone half an hour at the most. She rolled the berries from hand to hand, smelt them, and looked at me anxiously over her glasses. “You haven’t eaten any of these, have you?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

She took a deep breath. “Well, thank goodness for that. This is Deadly Nightshade.
Atropa Belladonna
. Poisonous, deadly poisonous. You’d better wash your hands, and the rest of you while you’re about it. Lord, you’re a mess. Mud all over you. Look at you. What you need it a good bath. Upstairs.”

I washed everything in the bath, my hands first, then my treasures. There was a lot of mud in the bath by the time I had finished. So I ran it out, and ran another one. Then Gran called upstairs and told me to turn it off, that what with the electricity off, all the hot water we were going to get for a while was in the tank; and what was I doing having two baths anyway? So I washed the rest of me in the basin and scrubbed my treasures till they were as clean as I could get them. I put my tongue out at myself in the mirror. “Idiot,” I said to me. “You could have killed yourself.” Once in my bedroom, I hid away all my treasures, the stick behind my cupboard, the arrowhead and the cow’s horn under my shirts in my chest of drawers.

Every day after that I took a spade and went back to the woods to fill in the crater left by my tree. It was a mammoth task of shovelling and
hacking and shovelling again, but after a week or so I had filled it right in and stamped it down. I was sure now that no one would ever find the bones again. They were safe, safe from the timber men who would, no doubt, soon be moving in with their heavy machinery, and safe from grave-robbers.