The Outlaws of Sherwood by Robin McKinley
There was a very unpleasant noise, the man cried out, thrashed briefly, and went limp again. “That will do,” said Little John; and they headed back to camp.
Little John ended his description of the day’s events by reporting that Cecil had addressed himself to the experience of his first face-off with the king’s foresters “with what I am forced to call glee.”
Cecil, who knew he was being reprimanded, flushed to the roots of his ugly hair. The hat had finally come off a few days after the episode with Sir Miles, and the ragged mop then revealed was striking in its awfulness even among the outlaws, who were not noted for personal or sartorial elegance. “He must have chewed it off,” Much said to Robin.
“Yes,” said Robin. “It’s a pity one can’t offer to—er—tidy it for him. But I was challenged by him before on less pretext, and am not anxious to repeat the performance—particularly after Little John has had a fortnight’s training of him. He’s also our most reliable dish-washer if not disturbed. The hair will grow out.”
“He’s an odd young one,” said Much. “He seems to have hated growing up a young lord much worse than Will did.”
Meanwhile Cecil had scraped what was left of his hair into a short tail that looked like a small thornbush at the nape of his neck, from which little scraggly wisps escaped and were relentlessly pulled behind his ears and, whenever he was near water, plastered in place. As he bowed his head under the weight of Little John’s words, tufts of hair were sticking in all directions from his hairline.
Looking at the thornbush with some sympathy, Robin said, “He is obviously the most promising pupil you have had; I can’t recall your ever maligning any of the others for gleefulness.” Cecil looked up, blinking in surprise, and Robin smiled at him. “You don’t know Little John as I do. The more somber he gets, the better pleased he is.” A number of things passed very quickly across Cecil’s face, and his eyes turned to Little John; but Little John, at his most inscrutable, was rubbing grease into a leaky boot.
“But I take the warning seriously about the extra watch,” said Robin a little later. Cecil had gone off with a sigh in answer to a summons from Matilda; and Marian had just heard the tale of the day’s doings—from Robin, because Little John had responded only in a grunt when applied to. “He’s sulking because I’ve ruined his authority with Cecil,” Robin said cheerfully. “The boy did very well today, but Little John thinks praise is bad for the young.”
“As I recall,” said Little John, “the reason you prefer me to do the schooling of him is that you felt I was most likely to keep him in line.”
“I wouldn’t want him to think that he was not supposed to knock foresters on the head when the opportunity presents itself,” said Robin. “One does wish—cautiously, of course—to encourage certain attitudes. I didn’t invite Cecil to join us for his services only as a dish-washer.”
There was a glint of teeth in Little John’s beard, but he did not reply.
“The forest is as busy as an ant-hill someone has just stepped on,” said Marian. “I will be glad when the affair at hand is over—if for no other reason,” she went on, as she saw Robin’s mouth open, “than that I do not like to think of Sir Richard lying awake nights and knowing there is no hope for him.”
Robin was not distracted. “Perhaps you should stay away for a time—at least till this business is over.”
There was a little silence, and all the things that had lately grown harder and harder for them to say to each other hung in the air between them; Marian felt that she looked at him through a curtain. “I have heard,” she said, her voice light and easy, as if nothing dismayed her and as if her heart did not hurt in her breast, “that young Richard has been packed off to the Lionheart’s army; let them do with him what they can. But I hear too that the boy is shaken, at last, by the events he brought upon himself—and upon his father. The one virtue he does not lack is courage, so perhaps he may make a soldier.”
She stood up, and looked down at Robin’s dark head. He did not move. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I shall stay away from—from you—for a little time. Till this particular business is over.” Robin’s hands closed over the cup he was whittling from a knot of wood, and his knife stopped moving, but he did not look up.
“Good night, Robin Hood.”
She was too far away to hear him when he finally said, “Good night, Lady Marian.”
Cecil, standing in the shadows at a little distance from the circle of firelight, looked after Marian with an expression that would have made Much even more curious about his hatred toward his previous life; his hand touched his ragged hair, and then rubbed at his throat, as if he were having difficulty swallowing.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Marian was not seen in Sherwood for the next several days, but such an absence was not without precedent, and Robin chose not to think about it. She was being sensible, that was all, and staying out of the way till Sir Richard’s fate had been decided. The working out of that fate which Robin and his folk had in mind kept them all busy enough: the best way to Sir Richard’s castle had to be agreed upon and then spied out for traps, unexpected traps, and places where unexpected traps might be set between the present and the day to come. The recent forays of foresters and sheriff’s men into parts of Sherwood usually left alone suggested that the sheriff had thought of the possibility of Robin Hood’s scoundrels making trouble in defence of the last important Saxon lord in Nottinghamshire.
The outlaws’ collected booty also needed its value guessed with enough certainty that they might not make fools of themselves when they threw the mortgage payment at Beautement’s feet. “Or rather,” said Robin, “our reckoning must be so unmistakably in excess of the amount owed that Beautement dare not protest.”
“You’ll have no trouble with Beautement himself,” said Friar Tuck. “He’s afraid of raindrops and falling leaves and clouds across the sun—and sees signs and omens in all of them. He has a taster at his elbow for every meal, I understand, although no one has as yet cared to make the attempt to poison so miserable a fellow.”
“He sounds the sheriff’s favourite kind of tool,” said Robin; “the kind that has no mind of its own to distract it.”
“Exactly,” said the friar.
“You here?” said Will, coming upon them. “There must be fresh venison for dinner.”
“Your respect for my grey hairs never fails to astonish me,” said the friar. “It is no wonder I prefer the less taxing companionship of my dogs.”
Much appeared at this moment, bearing a wooden plate, and Marjorie followed him, bearing another. “It was baking day,” said Much, “and I felt that we should have the opportunity to try as much of what there is to try as we can—in honour of our guest, of course. Matilda has much respect for a man in orders—even if such respect is a little thin elsewhere in our company. You could put that down there,” he said to Marjorie.
“I thought,” she said shyly, glancing at Robin, “that you would tell me if these are—are acceptable.” Between the two trays there were three loaves and a mound of rolls and buns enough for the Lionheart’s army.
“I’m sure you have learnt to bake,” said Robin mildly. “But you have not learnt to handle Much. The phrases that you need, my lady, are ‘No’; ‘No, you can’t’; and ‘No, get out of here before I throw something at you.’”
She put her shoulders back. “I am not ‘my lady’ here,” she said. “I am an outlaw, and an outlaw’s wife.” The spirit went out of her again and she said, a little wistfully, “Alan doesn’t care about food, you know; I think he would eat the leaves off trees if they would nourish him enough to go on writing songs. And Matilda is very kind, and no one else will—will tell me anything.”
“Sit down and have a roll,” said Much. “Have you tried eating one yourself?”
“No, I—” She sounded surprised. She glanced over her shoulder. “I should go back. Matilda will miss me.”
“Not for a quarter hour. Take dinner with y
“Is it?” she said hopefully.
There was a small commotion, swiftly quelled, from the direction of the kitchen area, and Marjorie started. “I must go,” she muttered, and fled.
Will caught Robin’s look and said involuntarily, “Good God, man! That timid little thing is nothing like Marian!”
“True,” said Much, with his mouth full. “Marian can’t cook.”
Whether or not Robin would have had anything to say to this was to remain unknown; there was a low, urgent whistle from just beyond Greentree’s environs, and all heads snapped around as Eva burst into view. “Bartlemey’s been hurt,” she said, panting; “oh, friar, good fortune that you are here tonight.”
“Is it bad, then?” said Robin, standing up and beckoning to a few of the faces turned toward them; Much and Will had already reached for their bows.
She shook her head. “I do not know for sure; I hope not. I fear … We were surprised by a group of foresters. Seven or eight of them, I believe, and we only three.” She tried to smile. “Of course the losing party always sees two enemies for every one. But there were more of them than us. We knocked them down and got away; one of them has an arrow through his leg. But so does Bartlemey. Gilbert is with him; I came ahead for help.”
Bartlemey was carried to Greentree white and sweating, but the friar pulled the shaft out easily and declared the wound shallow, “as such things go. You will come to no lasting harm, my friend, though you find it hard to believe now, if you follow my instructions.” And he gave his orders for the making of a poultice.
It was deep night by this time, and the friar agreed to stay: “I am too tired to walk far, and I would like besides to see Bartlemey once more before I leave him to your doubtful mercies.” Room was made for him, and a blanket found, not too threadbare nor too troubled by its life in a damp cave and its memories of the sheep who had originally worn it.
There should not have been foresters prowling—particularly in such numbers—through that bit of Sherwood where Eva and Gilbert and Bartlemey had been, any more than there should have been foresters where Cecil and Little John had met them only a few days before. Robin’s outlaws were too many to remain invisible and too few to withstand a determined effort to get rid of them. Robin knew he would not be able to sleep soon that night. He returned to the fireside and poked a corner of the low-burning embers to make them catch again. He stood staring at the little tongue of flame, and then picked up the cup he had been whittling when Marian had last visited Greentree; he had not touched it since. There was not enough light to see accurately; but his fingers knew the shape of both cup and blade—and not all of the outlaws’ drinking vessels sat straight anyway. At least he would not cut himself. Probably. He could not bear to sit doing nothing, and he was too tired to stand an extra watch and let someone sleep who could. Everyone else had gone either to bed or back on guard; the camp was very quiet, except for an occasional pop from the fire and the scrape of knife against wood. So he heard the almost silent tread behind him; and then Will Scarlet dropped down beside him with a sigh.
“I’ve never known you unable to sleep,” said Robin, after a minute.
Will smiled a little. “The good friar takes up the space of two men—and that’s you and me, I guess. I’m grateful it won’t rain tonight, for it’s a tree for us.” He paused. “Besides … I have wanted to say something to you.”
Robin’s knife seemed at a loss; it groped its way over the surface of the knot, but found no chip ready to be cut out.
“You might want to know,” said Will. “Or you might throw me into the fire. But you might want to know—”
“Out with it, man,” said Robin to his knife.
Will looked at his hands as if he wished for something to chop at also. “Marian has a suitor. She has had them since she was fourteen, I know—but the years draw by, and her father grows older, and … the months pass and nothing seems to change. Marian is from home a little more often is all, but not so much more often that a man who does not want to know cannot ignore it. And so his thoughts ease back into the well-worn way that is most comfortable to him.”
A curl of shaving fell at Robin’s feet. “Go on.”
Will sighed again. “This suitor is a man named Nigel. His father was a Norman, but his mother was Saxon, and wife to his father. He levies the taxes that the sheriff requires, but he keeps his lands in good repair, and his people have a fair chance. None goes hungry. Marian’s father would be pleased if she accepted him.”
The cup was taking shape. “How do you know all this?”
“The whole camp knows of it,” said Will, a trifle grimly. “I know a bit more, for Marian has long been my friend, and often I can read her face when she will not speak; and I am the only one of us who knew her father well.… I knew Nigel too, long ago, when we were all children.”
“The whole camp knows, you say,” said Robin. “I did not.”
“Who would tell you?” said Will. “You of all of us are the most dependent on the tales others bring here. The fate of Marian’s father’s lands is not without interest in Nottingham, and so the fate of Marian herself as his only child is not without interest.” He paused again. “I would have kept silence—Marian would not love me for telling you, did she know—but I think perhaps her father is pressing her. She was used to laugh about Nigel; but she has not laughed about him lately.”
Robin was silent for so long that Will yawned involuntarily. “Time for you to go looking for that tree,” said Robin. “I can recommend the ash over there,” he said, pointing with his knife. “There is a hump of root on the south-western side that might almost have grown there to be a headrest.”
“Oh,” said Will, and yawned again. Robin’s head had bowed again over the cup in his hands. “Um. Thank you.” He stood up uncertainly, but Robin said nothing more.
Marian’s other piece of news proved correct also: there was to be a grand fair in Nottingham, and an archery contest was to be a central attraction. There had often been archery contests at previous fairs, and they always drew a good crowd, both of archers and of onlookers; but the prize of the golden arrow made this contest unusual. It was not only that the prize was, to the sort of folk most likely to be shooting, of less interest than the usual one of a sheep or pig; it was that everyone knew that the sheriff was determined that this contest would trick the outlaws of Sherwood into exposing themselves.
“He wants a rumour put about that good shooting will win a pardon and—this is the best part—an honest job with the foresters, specially arranged by himself. But the right sort of folk don’t talk to the sheriff’s men, so that is precisely how the rumour goes: that he wants it put about. And then the man who tells you this grins, and you grin back, and you both know what the sheriff’s pardon is worth, which is almost as much as a place with the king’s foresters,” said Rafe.
“There will be plenty who’ll be glad to shoot for the other prizes, though,” said Simon; “there’s still a sheep and a cow and a horse.…” He sighed. Greentree had several times found itself sheltering sick or wounded or lost baby animals that Simon brought back with him. Robin had once found him hastily building a rabbit-hutch for the nest of baby rabbits he’d found a fortnight before the day he rescued a fox-cub. He’d scowled at his leader. “I’m not on duty!” he’d said. “I’m free the rest of today!”
“Did I say anything?” said Robin. “At least animals are quiet. I am, however, admiring your work. I will remember this talent of yours, you know.”
The scowl lifted, and Simon rubbed his sweaty forehead. “Oh, well, Jocelin showed me what to do, first.”
The fox-cub was no longer a cub, but it showed no inclination to leave an easy life of fireside supper-scraps. (The rabbits had been released when they reached adult size, to Much’s disgust, who felt that the proper fate of
“That golden arrow is likely to make the best archers shoot a little awry,” said Little John. “Who wouldn’t prefer a sheep?”
“What I fail to understand is why he thinks an archery contest is going to lure me anywhere,” said Robin. “It was common knowledge when I was a forester that I could hit the broad side of a barn only if it wasn’t walking away too quickly.”
“I don’t think the good sheriff remembers you as that young forester,” said Much thoughtfully. “You weren’t a major public nuisance and private terror to him then; therefore you are somebody else.”
Little John grunted. “By that reasoning, all any of us need do is trim our hair, wear some of the fancy clothes we take off their owners, call ourselves by other names, and walk gaily down the main street of Nottingham.”
“It would be amusing, would it not?” said Robin.
“My favourite amusement takes the form of knocking fat Normans off their horses and stealing their purses,” said Will. “I am sorry I missed Sir Miles.”