The Chronicles of Robin Hood (21 page)

Gloomy silence descended on the whole company. Everybody knew that it was only too true. Free men, and even serfs, could not be condemned without trial by jury; but an outlaw had no rights. He was wolfsheaded—every man’s hand against him. He did not have to be tried. If he was caught he was hanged—there was no more to be said about it.

George the Potman had set solidly to work, righting the overturned benches and trestles, and presently the guests sat down again to finish their interrupted meal—though indeed they had little taste left for the food.

A little later, while carving a cold chine of bacon on the side-chest, the landlored managed to get his head close to George’s and whisper: ‘Geordie lad, go up to the sheriff’s house and wait about with your ears open until you hear when Will Stukely is to hang, and where; then take word of it to Robin Hood. You know the road.’

‘Aye,’ whispered back George, hacking slices from a great loaf. ‘I’ve travelled it often enough before now, Master.’

So about an hour before sunset, George the Potman strode out through the northern gate and took the Worksop road to carry news to the outlaw band that Will Stukely had been taken prisoner by the sheriff’s men and
was to hang at dawn to-morrow outside the Bridlesmith Gate (even as Jon of Kirkby had foretold).

Several times before he had made the journey between Nottingham and Dunwold Scar, carrying news or a warning, and he knew the way well; yet the forest looked strange in its wintry covering of snow, and stranger still when the sun had gone and the moon came creeping up into the eerie darkness. He lost his way two or three times and had to retrace his steps. Once he blundered into a straying forest pony, and, as the creature sprang away, thought for one terrible moment that the Phantom Horse of Barnesdale had strayed south. But he pressed on, and at last, towards midnight, he came out into Dunwold Glade and caught the faint flicker of firelight shining through a chink in the deerskin apron over the main cave doorway.

Standing on the edge of the glade, he lifted up his voice in a strange, long-drawn cry, the seeking-cry of the outlaws, which they used when searching for each other, because of the long distance it would carry. The next moment arose a wild uproar of baying, the deerskin was thrust aside and a score of great hounds came pouring down from the cave and streaked across the snow towards him.

George called them by name: ‘Gelert!—Beaufort!—Keri!—Breon! Good lads!’ And as they came rushing up he thrust out his clenched fists for them to smell at. They crowded round him, their baying dying out into friendly whining as they sniffed his fists and then his boots; and the next instant Robin himself leaped down from the cave doorway, and was striding across the snow, with Little John and Will Scarlet behind him.

‘Who comes here?’ he demanded.

‘It is I, George the Potman from the “Salutation”,’ called back George.

‘George! Do you bring a message? Come in, lad, for it’s cold out here.’

George followed the three outlaws, with the dogs flowing all about him, scrambled up the steep bank, dived under the deerskin apron, and stood blinking in the warmth and firelight of the great cave.

The outlaws were later than usual that night, in honour of its being Christmas time, but they had been on the point of seeking their beds of dried fern when they had heard the seeking-cry, and the hounds had rushed baying into the night. They stood round the fire, ready for action, every man facing the cave doorway; but when George the Potman appeared they sat down again.

‘You bring me a message from Will Stukely?’ Robin asked quickly, for he had expected Will back before dark and had been growing steadily more anxious about him for some hours past.

‘Not
from
him, Master, but
of
him,’ replied George, standing solidly in front of the outlaw captain. ‘He do be taken prisoner by the sheriff’s cut-throats, and will hang at dawn to-morrow outside the Bridlesmith Gate.’

A gasp, a groan, rose from the outlaws. Robin caught George the Potman by the shoulders and turned him fully to the light. ‘Is this true?’ he demanded, in a harsh voice. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Sure as fate, Master! I saw him taken, and I stood among the folks before the sheriff’s house and heard the sheriff himself give the order.’

Robin dropped his hands and swung round on his men.
‘Roger, Diggery, Jon, Hugh, Lightfoot, David, Hob, Ket—you will remain here to garrison the Scar. The rest of you make ready to start for Nottingham at once. Much, see to the issue of clothyard shafts—eight shafts to each man.’

In grim silence the outlaws set about preparing for the venture. Little John, his bow already in his hands, looked down on them from his greater height, with the blue light of battle beginning to flicker in his eyes.

‘We’ll save old Will if we have to pull down the walls of Nottingham, stone by stone, to get him,’ he said to Robin; ‘but it’ll be a stiffish job!’

‘No, John, I have a better plan than that,’ replied Robin, and his eyes crinkled a little in a half smile, though his mouth was very grim. ‘Come with me now,’ and followed by his tall lieutenant, he turned and strode across to the dark mouth of the store-cave.

When they came back Little John carried a bundle under his arm. They found the outlaw band standing ready: the eight who were being left behind were still sitting round the fire, and a little apart from them sat Jonathan the Blacksmith, with hunched shoulders and drooping head. He looked up as Robin entered, saying miserably: ‘Oh, Master, it be all
my
fault!’

Robin put his hand for an instant on his shoulder. ‘Never say that. Besides, we shall save him, and no harm done.’

So the brotherhood set out on the long march that was to end at the gates of Nottingham.

Now on the side of Nottingham on which the wall was pierced by the Bridlesmith Gate, a spinney of birch and
witchen trees and ancient oaks grew not much more than a bowshot from the town. It had been left there when the forest was cleared back for pastureland, because it belonged to the Good People, the Wee Folk, who would be sure to bring ill luck upon anyone who interfered with it. And there, in the dark hour before the dawn, close on a hundred silent-moving men of the forest took cover among the dense tangle of hazel, brambles and old-man’s-beard which formed the undergrowth.

Robin squatted down with his ready-strung bow across his knees, one hand twisted in the collar of Breon, the old pack-leader of the outlaws’ dogs, who crouched beside him. On his left was Will Scarlet; and on his right Much-the-Miller’s-Son crouched with his bow beside him and one arm round the neck of Keri—Breon’s son. Beyond them on either side, and behind, in the deeps of the spinney, Robin knew that the rest of his band crouched unseen, each with his bow beside him, and many of them with a hand on the collar of a great dog—for many puppies had been born in the forest, and the few ban-dogs which had come with Friar Tuck on that autumn evening more than seven years ago had become a pack of fully a score.

So they waited, men and dogs together, gazing out from their cover across the snow-blanketed open ground towards the walls of Nottingham, while slowly the darkness thinned, and a growing radiance began to spread across the eastern sky.

Meanwhile, a ragged palmer came trudging down the road from Worksop, and after pausing to glance up at the stark outline of the gibbet which had been set up near the gates on the evening before, shook his head, and
went to sit on the patch of bare ground where the snow had drifted back from the wall. Very patiently he sat there, with his back propped against the great stones of the town wall, drawing his patched and tattered cloak close about him to keep out the bitter cold of winter dawn. As the light grew, it might be seen that he was a very giant of a man, head and shoulders taller than most other men, and huge-boned in proportion. He seemed to be waiting for the gates to open so that he might enter the town; and as he sat there he turned often to look up at the stark, ugly shape of the gallows, which was beginning to stand out clearly against the growing lightness in the sky.

Dawn came at last—a low dawn showing but a bar of gold far down in the east between the dark rampart of the forest and the grey cloud-roof overhead.

With the dawn there began the sounds of life from within the walls of Nottingham, and in a short while the gates were swung open and a company of men-at-arms came out. One of them went straight to the gallows to make sure that the rope was truly fixed and had not been tampered with; and to him the palmer addressed himself: ‘Tell me, young man, what poor soul is to be hanged here this day?’

‘A notorious outlaw—one that followed Robin Hood himself,’ the man replied. ‘A very desperate fellow, who fought like a cornered wolf before he was taken, so I’ve heard say. But he’ll be quiet enough when we have done with him!’

‘And his name?’ asked the palmer.

‘Will-the-Bowman, they do call him.’

The palmer gave a great cry, and exclaimed: ‘It was
so they nicknamed Will Stukely. Ah, good sir, is it Will Stukely that you hang this day?’

‘That is he!’ cut in another man, with a brutal laugh. ‘If he be a friend of yours you’d better not own it, lest we hang you too!’

‘Alas! and alas!’ murmured the palmer, sadly, not seeming to heed him. ‘His mother and mine were sisters, and we often played together when we were little; and now he has come to this, poor lad! Indeed this be a sad home-coming for me, after so many years in the Holy Land!’

But the men-at-arms had turned their backs upon him, and were busied about the gibbet; and the palmer, finding that they were no longer watching him, stopped shaking his head and sighing, and sat—watching them.

Soon came the sheriff—a lean, black-browed man with a savage face, shivering in his thick-furred gown; and with him walked a short, burly knight in chain-mail, with a golden griffon on the breast of his blue surcoat. And this was Sir Hugo de Razeby, Lord of Nottingham Castle.

A few moments later, out from the shadows of the gatehouse came some three-score men-at-arms—sheriff’s men and castle men, marching in two separate companies. In their midst strode Will Stukely, with his hands bound behind him and his head held very high; and by his side shambled an aged priest, mouthing prayers and determined to save his soul whether he would or no.

Will Stukely paid no heed to the priest, but when he was halted beneath the gallows, turned to face the sheriff, saying earnestly: ‘Master Sheriff, my Captain never yet had a man of his hanged on a gallows tree. Do not make me the first of our brotherhood to die a felon’s death.’

‘Listen to him!’ cried the sheriff, with a jeering laugh. ‘Listen to the scoundrel praying for his life!’

An angry flush rose to Will’s cheek, and he raised his head higher yet. ‘I do not pray for my life, for I would not take it as a gift from such as you! I ask only that my hands may be unbound and a good keen blade put into them; then let all your men-at-arms come upon me at once, and I will go down fighting.’

Sir Hugo looked as though, if it were for him to decide, he would grant the outlaw’s request (for he was a kindly man and disliked the whole ugly business). But it was for the sheriff to decide, and the sheriff was enjoying the humiliation of his enemy to the depths of his small black soul. He laughed gloatingly. ‘No, no, my fine-stomached gentleman! Hang you shall—and so should your hedge-creeping master if he were here! I’ll not waste my good men-at-arms upon such carrion as you!’

‘If you are afraid that I should spoil so many of them,’ said Will-the-Bowman, ‘unbind my hands and give me no weapon. Let me face your men with my hands empty but free—and if I be hanged this day, Hell may have my soul!’

‘Save your breath,’ replied the sheriff. ‘It will serve you better for your prayers!’

Then Will Stukely shut his mouth and scorned to plead any more. The old priest was hovering round him, gabbling prayers; but Will heeded him no more than if he had been a buzzing fly. He was looking his last on the world that he loved.

The light was strong now, and the low sunshine slanting under the cloud-roof lay level over the snowy countryside; and Will Stukely gazed wide-eyed out across the
whitened meadowland towards the dark rim of the forest that would never shelter him again. He had forgotten bitter nights and weary marches, hunger and the smart of old wounds; and he was remembering mornings when spring ran like green flame through the forest; warm, dark summer nights, and misty autumn days on the hunting-trail; and the laughter and companionship round the camp fires when the day’s work was over… .

A very few moments more, and the noose would have been about his neck; then the palmer, who had been quite unnoticed by the gate all this while, got up and made his way towards the sheriff.

‘Good Master Sheriff,’ cried he in a trembling voice, ‘this is my mother’s sister’s son that you are about to hang. Often we played together as little lads, and now I return from the Holy Land to find him in this sorry plight. Let me bid him good-bye, I beg you, for old time’s sake.’

‘If it pleases you to speak with such as he, you may do so,’ said the sheriff, with an evil smile. ‘But be quick about it, and afterwards—we will inquire into this fondness of yours for a condemned wolfshead.’

The tall palmer bent his head submissively, and, turning, went to where Will Stukely stood ready beneath the gallows. ‘Ah, my cousin, this is a terrible thing!’ said the palmer, edging in between the captive and the still jabbering priest.

Will-the-Bowman started at the sound of the other’s voice, and wrenched himself round to stare into his eyes; but already the tall palmer had leaped behind him.

‘Your hands, lad! Hold steady!’

Will felt a sharp pain as the blade which severed his
bonds also gashed his wrist; then he was free! It was all so swift that the startled men-at-arms had no time to realize what was happening. Something bright flashed out from under the palmer’s ragged cloak, and the next moment the two men had whirled round, and stood back to back, each with a naked broadsword in his hand.

Like a pack of hounds pulling down a deer, the sheriff’s men hurled themselves upon the two, who met them with flickering, deadly sword-points.