The Door in the Wall (6 page)

Brother Luke was ahead, still riding Bayard the horse, but here he stopped and changed places with John-go-in-the-Wynd.

The road continued to rise beyond the village, winding between hedgerows of hawthorn now starred with rosy fruit.

Robin drew his cloak around him, for the air was damp and chilly.

About a mile beyond the village, at the top of the hill,
they came to the fork in the road. Another cross to the memory of Queen Eleanor stood at the dividing point, but no signpost.

“Now, by my faith,” declared John-go-in-the-Wynd, “I know not which road to take.” He drew rein and waited for Brother Luke to come abreast of him.

“Nor do I,” said the friar, “never having traveled this way.”

“Did he not say the right fork?” asked Robin.

“The fellow said not which road leadeth to Oxford,” said John, “but I am for the right fork.”

“My memory serves me ill,” said the friar. “Whether he said one or the other I know not. Let us say the office here at the cross before we go on. Then we shall go to the right. But it may be that we shall not find the White Swan and shall have to sleep in a hedgerow.”

By the time they started on their way again the wind blew hard and spits of rain warned them of more to follow. Brother Luke drew his cowl over his head and unfolded a furred robe from the pack to put around Robin. For several miles they plodded on without speaking. The rain held off, but dark clouds scudded low, and the wind was searching.

A lonely peasant cottage stood back from the road, but as yet there was no sign of the White Swan. Robin grew very tired and wished the day’s journey had come to an end.

“Will it be soon, think you?” he asked, not wishing to say how his back ached.

“Whether it be soon or late, I know not,” answered the friar. “But these old legs need rest.” Then he shouted to John-go-in-the-Wynd, who was some distance ahead.

“What sayest thou, John? How goeth it? Are we near to the inn?” John shook his head and shouted back, turning
Bayard and waiting for the others to come up.

“We must have taken the wrong fork,” he said. “I see no inn, and night is nigh. Ahead lies a dark forest, and see ’tis raining now. Shall we seek shelter here by the road?”

“It is an ill thing for young Robin to sleep out in the damp, but if such be our fortune, then we must make the best of it.”

“Shall we sleep on the ground?” asked Robin. “What a lark! I have never yet in my life slept out of doors, though it may as well have been out of doors when the east wind blew through the wind hole.”

“We might go on to the forest and be more sheltered from wind and rain,” offered John-go-in-the-Wynd, “but that wild beasts do roam about and highwaymen lurk in the edge of it to leap out at passersby. I’m for staying here. I have flint and steel to make a fire.” He dismounted and led Bayard to the edge of the road where he could examine the lay of the land.

Said Brother Luke, “ ’Tis nought for me to sleep in Mother Nature’s arms. Many a night have I been grateful for the comfort of solid ground. And mayhap we can cover young Robin to keep him dry.” He followed john to the field’s edge.

“Why, here ’tis! The very thing!” he cried. “An ancient tree trunk fallen from age and hollowed with dry rot. It hath stood enough years to make it both wide and deep. We shall not be ill-found after all. Come, young master, let me help thee, for I know thou’rt galled by the saddle, be it ever so soft.” He helped Robin to get down from Jenny’s back and adjusted the crutches under his arms.

“It is good that the fullers do shrink and pound this cloth, for it is well-nigh rainproof,” the friar went on as he bustled about getting the saddlebags down, putting the furred
rug inside the great log, and leading Jenny to be tethered to the thicket.

John-go-in-the-Wynd tied Bayard beside her, leaving them both on a loose rein so they might crop the grass.

Robin stood with his back to the wind, holding his cloak about him. This was a real adventure. Even though he might never be a knight in armor and go to battle to defend England, he would know what it was like to make his bed on God’s earth, feel the prick of rain in his face, and instead of brocaded bed curtains, see dark clouds making a canopy over him.

John cleared a space shielded from the rain on the far side of the log where the ground was still dry, then set it about with stones, and searched for dry twigs to make his fire. Farther down the sloping meadow he found a ruined ox yoke left by a careless peasant which would burn long and well. A few dry leaves and some of the punky rotted wood served as tinder when steel and flint struck a spark in the shelter of the hollow log; and soon there was a cheerful fire which drove back the night and storm. They roasted apples in the fire, but ate the pasty cold, and hunger sauced it better than the finest cook could have done.

W
HEN
Robin woke next morning John-go-in-the-Wynd had a good fire going, even though rain fell at intervals and the wind was still blowing. He was grilling slices of bacon over the fire, and standing beside him was Brother Luke holding a large loaf from which he was cutting huge slices of bread. He heard Robin stirring and greeted him with his blessing.

“I hope thy log house kept thee dry,” he said.

“John has been inquiring of the shepherd yonder about the White Swan. He says we are beyond it and it is over on the other road.”

“I should have remembered,” said John. “But it is long since I came this way. We truly took the wrong turning.”

“Let it be a lesson for us,” said the good friar. “We mind how the two roads were one where we stopped at the Eleanor cross. Yet so swiftly did the two forks divide that now we are several miles from the one we should have taken. So it goeth. God grant we may never be worse off than now when we take the wrong turning.”

Not far beyond the place where they had camped a path led through the wood. There they were somewhat sheltered from wind and rain. The shepherd had said to follow the path to a certain stream at the far side of the wood which would shortly lead them to the highroad. They found
it without difficulty. John-go-in-the-Wynd sang so heartily and made such music with the harp that the way seemed short.

When they reached the stream, Brother Luke said, “ ’Tis best for thee to go into the water as always, so off with thy clothes, Master Robin.”

“But it is cold, and flesh creeps at the thought of it,” said Robin, shivering.

“Come, my son. Doth thy father stop to say ‘I cannot go into battle for my King because arrows are sharp’? Off with thy clothes, I say, else thou’lt lose the strength and skill thou hast begun to have. ’Tis a long way from freezing.” While he spoke he lifted Robin down and helped him to undress and go into the river.

At first Robin’s teeth chattered, but in a few moments he was warmer and glad he had made the effort.

At noon the little company stopped at the sign of the Shepherd’s Bush for ale to go with their bread and cheese.
The host sat himself down beside the friar and asked how things went in London.

“Travelers from London be few since the plague,” he said. “Thinkest thou the plague is over?”

“ ’Tis quiet, at least,” answered Brother Luke. “And we believe ’tis gone.”

“And how go the wars? Be they going well? Hast heard how ’tis with my lord the King?”

“It goes hardly, but it goes our way,” said Robin importantly. “I have had a letter saying that the King hopes for a peace by the Feast of Christmas.”

“
Peace?
” said the host wonderingly. “Peace is what we all hope for. But we find it seldom. For if ’tis not the Welsh ’tis the Scots. If ’tis neither one nor the other, then ’tis neighbor against neighbor, or ’tis the lord of the manor againstthe peasants, begging thy pardon, young master.”

They set out again, and made good speed, reaching the village of Heathcot by dusk. There they found an inn at the edge of town, its thatch pulled down over its eyes of windows wherein could be seen a smoky light from the fire.

A creaking sign showed the picture of the White Hart.

“An innocent name,” said the friar. “But this place hath a fearsome look.”

John-go-in-the-Wynd held horse and jennet while the friar went in to inquire about lodging for themselves and their tired beasts.

When he came out, he said, “I have a doubt whether this be a good place to stay. There are ill-seeming ruffians sitting about the fire, and the goodwife hath a slatternly look, but we have no choice. Come, then.” He helped Robin to the ground and got him in to the fire, for he was cold and stiff from the long day in the saddle. John took the horse and jennet to the stable, a tumbledown affair at the back.

It was fortunate that there was food in the saddlebags, for the White Hart had none to offer. Leather noggins of ale were all that could be had, and when Brother Luke paid for it and for the room Robin saw the two strangers fasten their look on the money pouch Brother Luke carried for their journey.

He wished they could have slept out of doors, as they had done the night before. But he was chilled, and the fire felt good even though it smoked and made his eyes smart.

As soon as they had eaten the bread and cheese, Brother Luke helped Robin up the narrow stair and put him to bed on the straw pallet.

Brother Luke fell asleep as soon as he lay down. John was soon snoring, too. Robin could hear the wood in the door vibrate with the sound, for John lay just outside the room, to guard it.

Robin was so tired he felt as if every bone pushed through the straw to find the unyielding boards beneath him. He slept and woke, slept and woke, till it seemed as if it should be morning. The two evil-looking men still muttered below over their ale, getting louder as it grew later.

At first Robin didn’t notice what they were saying. Then something like “the minstrel’s hefty look” caught his ear, so he held his breath to listen, then heard one of them say,

“Come midnight, when ’tis darkest, I shall take yon minstrel, and thou the friar. Be sure to get the leather bag safe. The child will be nothing, for he cannot move fast, and he will sleep sound. He was like to die of weariness while he ate. Hark! The big one snores like a braying jack!”

They were planning to steal the money pouch. What should he do? He must do something and do it quickly. How could he wake the weary friar without noise? Or how warn John-go-in-the-Wynd without opening the door? Which
should he do first? Perhaps it would be better if he woke the friar first.

Softly, softly, Robin slid off the pallet, trying not to rustle the straw. He hitched himself along the floor, but the sound of his moving over the boards alarmed the two who were talking below.

“Hisst!” said the big one, for Robin knew it was he.

“What is that?”

They were still for a moment. So was Robin.

“ ’Tis nought,” answered the other scornfully. “Thou’rt easily frighted for so great a bully. ’Tis but a scurrying rat.’Tis nigh the mid of night,” he went on, “for I heard a cock crowing. Shall we start then?”

“Wait,” said the first voice. “Because they are city folk, the cock’s crow might wake them. So wait a little.”