Outlaw (3 page)

For some moments father and son clung together and wept silently. “Until now, Father,” said Robin, his voice hushed, “I have obeyed you in everything, but blind or not, I shall not leave you here to die.” And he loosened the rope around his father’s neck as he spoke. “We shall walk out of here, me as a sheriff’s man and you at the end of this rope as my prisoner. Just play the games I play, Father, and we shall both live.”

“What for? What is there to live for?”

“To fight. We will fight this tyrant, and we shall
bring him to his knees, I promise you – if it takes my whole lifetime.” He pulled gently on the rope. “Forgive me, Father, but from now on I must treat you as they would. It won’t be for long. And curse me back all you like, it’ll be all the better if you do.” He took a deep breath, and then shouted into his father’s face. “Up, you scum-bag! Up!” He threw open the door and dragged his father out past the guards.

“A bit early, aren’t you?” said one of them.

“Sir Guy of Gisbourne’s orders,” Robin said. “Come on, Samson, move yourself, you great oaf.” And Robin jerked on the rope and hauled his father up the winding stairs, across the great hall of the castle and out into the courtyard beyond. Through the arched gateway Robin could see the milling crowd in the market square, and the horse waiting, tied to one of the cages where he had left it. There
was still the wide courtyard to cross and then the drawbridge, and at the far end of it were the castle guards. Somehow Robin and his father had to get past them without arousing suspicion. Slipping past unnoticed would be impossible. Robin went around behind his father, drew his sword and jabbed him in the back, none too gently.

“When I kick you, Father,” he whispered, “fall over. Understand?” His father staggered forward across the courtyard, through the gateway and out on to the drawbridge, arms outstretched in front of him. Robin was taunting him and prodding him on, much to the delight of all the onlookers. “I’ll show you, Samson. Kill the king’s deer, would you!” Once on the drawbridge and close now to the guards, he stepped back and took a running kick at his father who stumbled to his knees, groping in front of him, cursing and crying at the same time.
Robin laid into him with the flat of his sword and kicked him again. “Up, you beggar. Get up.” Then he called out to the guards. “Here, give us a hand, will you? Sir Guy wants him paraded around the square before we put him in his cage. We’ll stick him up on that horse. They’ll see him better.” So, between them, the guards heaved him up on to the horse. “Once round the square and into his cage,” said Robin, taking the rein over the horse’s head to lead it. “That’s what Sir Guy said, so that’s what I’ll do. It’ll be the last time this one’ll be going to market.” The guards laughed at that and watched them go.

Robin walked away as slowly as he dared, calling out as he went. “Look at this! Look at this! See what happens to poachers. We put his eyes out and we’re hanging him at noon. Death to all poachers. Throw what you like at him. Just don’t hit me, that’s
all.” And the crowd howled with laughter and began to throw anything they could, rotten apples, turnips, even pig’s muck. Much of it missed, but enough found its target to encourage others to do the same. They were halfway round the market square now, at the furthest point from the sheriff’s men, who were still lounging by the bridge. Feigning to adjust the girth, Robin leapt nimbly up behind his father, put his heels to the horse’s side and rode off past the traders, through the crowd who seemed to see it as part of the fun, particularly when he caught a rotten apple and squeezed it over his father’s head.

Robin gave only one glance backwards as he turned out of the square and down the street. The sheriff’s men were just beginning to notice, one of them was running after him and shouting for him to stop. They would be after him soon enough now.
Robin just hoped and prayed he had enough of a headstart.

“Hold on, Father,” he cried. “Just hold on.” Scattering people and pigs and sheep in all directions, he thundered down the streets, through the city gate and out into the open country beyond. The guards at the gate could only gape. He was past them and gone before anyone could even try to stop him.

But now would come the real test. There were four or five miles of open farmland before they could reach the safety of Sherwood. A look over his shoulder, and Robin saw the chase was on. The sheriff’s men were through the city gates and already closer behind than he had thought possible, twenty of them, maybe more, and every time he looked they were gaining on them. The horse laboured under their weight, his head nodding lower and lower as
he drove his legs on. Sherwood lay up ahead, just the hill to climb, but it was a long hill and the horse could barely make a trot by now. Desperately Robin looked around for somewhere to hide, anywhere. But there was nothing but hedgerows and haystacks between them and the forest. They had to keep going. He could hear the pounding of the hooves behind him now and then the first arrow flew by, missing them, but he knew they were well in range. He pushed his father forward to lie over the horse’s neck and then lay on top of him. “We’ll make it,” he cried, but it was more in hope than in belief. The horse’s legs and flanks were white with lather. He had given his all, and Robin knew it.

Robin looked up. The road narrowed ahead as it entered the forest. Just a minute more, maybe two. But all the while the horse was slowing,
weaving. At this rate, even if they reached the forest ahead of the sheriff’s men, even if they were not hit by a lucky arrow, the sheriff’s men would be so close behind that there would be no escape, even in Sherwood. The horse was staggering, his lungs wheezing. Any further and he would die under them. Still short of the forest Robin dismounted quickly, helped his father down, and then hand in hand they ran for the trees. More arrows flew past them, some far too close for comfort. Robin wanted to dodge and swerve as his father had taught him, but with his father stumbling beside him, he could not. Speed was all that would save them.

Then they were in under the trees and swallowed by shade. For just a few brief moments, Robin knew they would be invisible to the sheriff’s men as they followed them out of the sunlight into the dark of the forest. Hauling his father behind him, he
plunged into the undergrowth and then went to ground in a thicket, lying still as fawns do. There were voices in the forest now, barking commands, the jingle of harness, horses breathing hard, pawing the ground. Robin looked up into the trees above him. Something had caught his eye, a white moon in the branches that suddenly fell out and downwards. A great whooping filled the forest and there were men crying out, their screams cut suddenly short. By the time Robin stood up moments later, the slaughter was over. The bodies of the sheriff’s men lay where they had been struck down. Their terrified horses could still be heard galloping away into the forest. And from out of the trees all around him came the Outlaws, Will Scarlett amongst them. “We shouldn’t have been here but for Marion,” he said, looking around in horror at the dead.

“Where is she?” Robin asked.

“Behind you, Robin,” said Will, and when Robin turned he saw she was leading his father towards him.

Robin took his father’s hands in his. “I’m here, Father, I’m here.”

“Who are these people?” his father asked.

“Outlaws,” Robin said. “But they are my friends, Father, and your friends too, I think. And if they will have us, Father, then we shall live with them in Sherwood. Together we shall become strong, strong enough to put the fear of God into the sheriff and Sir Guy of Gisbourne. For what the sheriff has done to you, to Mother, and to these good people, he must be punished. And I will not wait for King Richard to do it. Today we struck a blow for freedom, but only the first blow.”

There was a commotion, and through the crowd came one of the sheriff’s men, his head bloodied,
his eyes darting with terror. He was being dragged along by two triumphant Outlaws. “Shall we cut his throat for him, Will?” said one of them.

Will Scarlett looked long at Robin before he spoke, and then he handed him his hunting horn. “Ask Robin,” he said. “I think Robin speaks for us all now. If we are to fight this monster, and when I look on Robin’s father it seems we must, then I am not the man to lead you. I am a man of peace. I am too old, too tired. Robin may be young, he may not yet have a wise head on his shoulders; but after what he has done today, we cannot doubt his courage. I say he is the man we need if we are to bring down this butcher of Nottingham. He speaks for me.”

“And for me,” said Marion quietly.

“And me! And me!” came the clamouring chorus from all around him.

Robin knew then as he looked at Marion that it was not only faith and trust he saw in her eyes, it was the glow of love, and he knew too it was a reflected glow. The love that surged between them, although unspoken, gave him heart. With Marion beside him he could do anything, be anyone. No more a boy, no more a mere son, at that moment as he gazed at her he grew into himself. He needed only his father’s blessing.

“What do you say, Father?” Robin asked.

“I say you saved my life, Robin. I say you speak for me, and by the sounds of it you speak for us all, but only so long as we all want you to. The other way lies tyranny. Be warned of that, my son.”

Robin turned then to the sheriff’s man. “We shall not kill you, friend,” he began. “But tell the sheriff from me, tell Sir Guy of Gisbourne, tell everyone in Nottingham, that the Outlaws rule here in
Sherwood, that we rule in the king’s name. We will eat what we can kill, the king’s deer and the king’s salmon, for we are the king’s subjects and we need to eat. Tell him this too, that if he or his lackeys or anyone comes through Sherwood, then they pay taxes to us. Tell him that unlike him we shall take only what a man can afford to pay. Tell him that with the taxes we take, we shall feed the hungry and clothe the poor. And tell the sheriff this too, that when our good King Richard returns from the holy wars, he shall know of the sheriff’s tyranny, for I shall tell him myself face to face. Go now.”

The sheriff’s man backed away but did not turn to run. “Who are you?” he breathed.

“I am Robin of Sherwood, Robin Hood, son of Martin, whose eyes the sheriff has blinded for ever. Now go, and go quickly before I change my mind.”

The man turned and stumbled out of the forest,
looking again and again over his shoulder, expecting an arrow in his back at any moment and unable to believe his luck.

“Well Robin,” said Will Scarlett, putting an arm around Robin’s shoulder, “you have well and truly set the cat among the pigeons, haven’t you?”

“But we are not pigeons any more, Will,” said Robin. “We are hawks, and like hawks we will come at them out of the sun, strike hard and soar away out of sight. But first we have to sharpen our talons, for they will be back, and back with a vengeance too. We must be ready for them.”

Never had the king’s venison tasted as sweet as it did that night. To the Outlaws every mouthful only served to feed their new-found defiance. The tale of the battle was told and told, again and again, until they had killed a hundred of the sheriff’s men and not a mere twenty. If they made Robin tell
them once how he had rescued his father, then they made him tell them a dozen times, and each time the laughter rang louder through the trees. Marion, though, was not there to hear it. Amongst the Outlaws, it was only she who had the healing powers, so she took Robin’s father aside and bathed his eyes and dressed them. Then she sat with him until he slept. Only then did she leave him and seek out Robin. She found him sitting alone, away from the fire, his back against a tree, his father’s bow at his side. He held out a hand to her and she sat down beside him.

“He is sleeping,” she said. “The pain of it must be terrible, but he never speaks of it. He speaks only of you.”

Robin looked at her. “Without you, I do not think I can do this thing,” he said.

“Then you can do it, Robin,” she replied, brushing
his hair from his eyes and then holding his face in her hands. “For you will never be without me. I will be with you, always, just so long as you never change, Robin. Be always as you are now.”

“I will try,” Robin replied, kissing the palm of her hand. “I will try.”

It was just as Will Scarlett had always feared. For years the Outlaws had cowered deep in Sherwood Forest, known of and feared too, as sprites and spriggans and devils were feared. But unlike now they had always kept themselves to themselves, and for the most part they had been left in peace. They were a threat to no one. Now all that had changed. The story of how Robin Hood had snatched away his blind father from right under the sheriff’s nose, of how the Outlaws had ambushed his men in Sherwood and left all but one of them dead, had
spread through the city of Nottingham like wildfire and out into every village and hamlet for miles around. For most of those who heard it, it was a tale to be told again and again, and revelled in, for it gave some glimmer of hope of freedom from the hated tyrant. But for the sheriff himself, for Sir Guy of Gisbourne, his lieutenant and companion in cruelty, for the lords and ladies, priors and abbesses, who had all grown rich and fat on the sheriff’s plunder of the poor, this was an outrage, a rebellion that had to be put down savagely, before the flames of it engulfed them and destroyed them all.

For weeks and months afterwards, the sheriff sent Sir Guy of Gisbourne and his soldiers searching through the forest; but the soldiers too had heard the stories of Robin and the Outlaws, an invisible, silent enemy that fell on you from the trees above, how you would never ever see the one that cut
your throat. Neither the soldiers nor Sir Guy of Gisbourne himself had much stomach for such a fight, so they kept close to the tracks and would never dare to venture far into the forest. Every patrol returned empty-handed and the sheriff of Nottingham fulminated in his castle, for he knew the people were laughing at him secretly. And no tyrant can ever bear to be laughed at.

But worse was still to come for him. Travellers on their way north from London had to pass through Sherwood. There was no other road. They would arrive almost daily in Nottingham with terrifying stories of how they had been robbed in Sherwood Forest, how they had been stopped and forced to surrender all they had – jewels, money, even their clothes sometimes. They spoke of a young man dressed, as the robbers all were, in Lincoln green There was a girl with him too, a cagot, with hair
as white as snow. There were dozens of them, some said hundreds, a small army of dwarfs and jibberers and more albino cagots; men, women and children with hunchbacks and harelips, and lepers too. And this young man, their leader he seemed to be, was always very polite. He introduced himself as Robin Hood, and often asked to be remembered to the Sheriff of Nottingham and Sir Guy of Gisbourne. He would tell them, as he sent them on their way, that if they were good Christian folk that they should be happy to give away all they had, for everything they gave would go to the poor and needy. He called it “The Sherwood Tax”. It was the Outlaws that ruled in Sherwood now, he said, so in future all taxes were to be paid to them and not to the sheriff. Some he even invited to eat with the Outlaws around the fire. The toast at the end of the meal was
always the same: “To the return of good King Richard!”

Infuriated by every such report, and vowing he would not rest till he had the head of Robin Hood, the sheriff sent to London, to his friend Prince John, for help. With King Richard, his elder brother, away on a crusade to capture the holy city of Jerusalem from the Saracens and unlikely to return for some time, if ever, Prince John was effectively king in his place. A callous, greedy and scheming man, he had only one idea in his head, to usurp his brother’s throne while he was away, and by any means. Chief amongst his fellow conspirators was the Sheriff of Nottingham, so when the call came for help to put down a band of rebels who were openly loyal to King Richard, he not only agreed at once, but came himself at the head of five hundred soldiers. So that the people would know
once and for all who ruled in Sherwood, and in England too, the prince and the sheriff joined forces and rode together through Sherwood, a thousand men or more. The Outlaws laid low and watched unseen from the trees. But the sheriff had something else in mind too. He sent the soldiers far and wide to burn out the homes of suspected sympathisers: yeomen, foresters, farmers, charcoal-burners, anyone. A few resisted and were hanged in the market square below Nottingham Castle, “to teach everyone a lesson they won’t ever forget”, as the sheriff put it. And as they hung there that evening, Prince John proclaimed from the castle walls that the man called Robin Hood was condemned as a criminal, as were all Outlaws. They were to be hunted down like the animals they were, and a hundred pounds would be paid for Robin Hood, dead or alive.

When word of the price on Robin’s head reached
the Outlaws’ encampment deep in Sherwood, Robin merely laughed it off. But no one else did, least of all Marion. Will Scarlett was fearful too, and said so. “We must be careful, Robin. We have stirred up a hornets’ nest and made them mad. Why don’t we just hide ourselves away again, like we used to? Let them forget about us. Let’s make them think we’re not here, that they’ve won. Why not let everyone pass freely through the forest, for a while at least?”

And Robin’s father spoke up too. “Will is right, Robin. We can still feed the hungry. We can still help the poor. We just do it by night, secretly, that’s all – like I used to, remember?”

Robin listened to them both and saw at once the wisdom in what they said, but there were others amongst the Outlaws urging him to attack the castle, and now, whilst Prince John was still there.

“Kill two birds with one stone!”

“Three. Don’t forget Guy of Gisbourne.”

“The people will rise up with us, Robin. Strike now!”

“We should string them up, the three of them, side by side, like common criminals.”

“And give the crows a good feasting!”

All evening the Outlaws argued back and forth, and Robin listened until he could stand it no more. He went off by himself to his tree as he often did when he needed to think things out on his own. He knew they would all do just what he decided, out of love, out of loyalty, and without question. But the responsibility of it lay heavily on his young shoulders. As he sat there under his tree, his head told him that Will was right, that his father was right; but in his heart he longed to seek out the sheriff and Prince John and Sir Guy of Gisbourne
and punish them for their cruel reprisals. Marion came to find him as the last of the evening sun left the sky.

“They are right, all of them are right,” she said, knowing his thoughts so well, as she always did. “That’s what makes it so difficult. So maybe we should do everything they say.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe we should hide ourselves away as Will says, lie low. But we shouldn’t just hide. You said it once yourself. We should make ourselves strong. We are only fifty, seventy with the children. No one can hide better than we can. We know every inch of the forest; but as we are, we are no match for the sheriff’s men in open combat. We can ambush, yes, strike quickly and fade away into the forest again. But to do more than that, and we will have to, we need to learn how to shoot straight, how to
handle a sword. And we need more fighters alongside us too, the best we can find. We need weapons, more weapons, better weapons. Then we can attack the wolf in his lair, but we have to wait until we are ready. When the time comes to strike, Robin, you will know it.”

Robin drew her down beside him. “But will the time ever come, Marion?”

“If God wills it,” she replied. “And He will, if we have faith, if we are true to Him and do His work. After all, He brought us to safety in the forest, didn’t He? And He brought us together, didn’t He?”

“Yes,” said Robin, reaching out to touch her hair. “So white. So white.”

She caught his hand and held it against her cheek. “Do you wish my hair were black, raven black? Are you thinking I have the eyes of a ferret?”

“I was just thinking that I love you.”

“I know you were,” Marion laughed. “I just wanted to hear you say it.”

So for the next few years Robin and the Outlaws hid themselves away in deepest Sherwood, and sure enough, as Will Scarlett had hoped, the sheriff came to believe his problems in Sherwood Forest were over. He trumpeted it about in Nottingham, and at the court of Prince John, that Robin Hood must be dead, or even if he wasn’t, then he was too frightened of the Sheriff of Nottingham to dare show his face again. But Sir Guy of Gisbourne knew better for he had his spies everywhere, and they told him how in the markets and taverns, and around the fires at night, the people still talked of Robin Hood and his Outlaws in the forest. All the while the poor were being fed, somehow. Burned
down houses were rebuilt, their stolen animals replaced, somehow. Sir Guy of Gisbourne had little doubt that Robin Hood was still perfectly alive, and kicking too. He told the sheriff so, time and time again, but the sheriff brushed him aside haughtily, preferring to believe what he wanted to believe. “Don’t you worry yourself, Guy,” he would crow. “Robin Hood is down among the worms. We’ve seen the last of him, I tell you – unless, of course, you believe in ghosts.”

All this time neither Robin nor the Outlaws had wasted a moment. His father, blind though he was, had taken it upon himself to tutor every one of them in the longbow. There was not one who could not now fashion a bow from the yew, and their own arrows from the ash. And they could use them too. Boy or girl, young or old, Robin’s father made them all practise every day, so that by now every single
Outlaw who could hold a bow could shoot straight and true, some of them almost as well as Robin himself. With Will Scarlett for his eyes, Robin’s father was never happier than when he was teaching some young Outlaw how to judge the arc of flight, how to let fly without jerking. Left alone for too long he was inclined to moods of dark despair, so the Outlaws saw to it that he always had someone with him. All of them had known despair at one time or another, so they knew instinctively when they were needed. He treasured the time particularly when Marion would sit by him and tell him the stories her family had brought with them from France a hundred years before: stories of great mountains that touched the sky, of bears and wolves. He would listen to her stories for ever, he could never hear enough of them. He knew without seeing what everyone else knew, that Robin and
Marion had become inseparable. Marion spoke of it one day when Robin was out hunting. “It’s not just me that loves him,” she said, “we all do.”

“Maybe, but I love him as a father loves his sons, and you love him as a woman loves a man. For the rest, they worship him and I wish they would not. Worship is for God, not man. I fear it will be too much for him. Stay close to him, Marion. He will need you, as a man needs his eyes.”

Each year there were fewer stags to be found in the forest, so that Robin and the Outlaws had to travel further and further from home in their search for meat. Hinds there were, and in plenty, but Robin had forbidden all killing of hinds unless they were old or wounded. It was June and the trees were in full leaf, and the deer difficult to spot in the dappled shadows of the forest. They had gone for days without a kill. They were all weary of it and wanted
to go home. Robin wanted to be on his own for a while, to collect his thoughts. More and more he found he could only be himself with Marion, that he tired of playing the leader, of smiling when he did not wish to. “We’ll split up, twos and threes, south, north, east and west. Maybe we’ll be lucky. But be careful. We’re close to the edge of the forest here, so keep an eye out for the sheriff’s men. You never know. Be back by sunset and I’ll meet you down by the river over there.” And off they went.

Robin had it in mind to hide down by the river and wait for a stag to come down to drink. But he was about to break all his golden rules. No one should ever sleep unless guarded. No one should ever be without a weapon. No one should be without a horn to call for help. Quite forgetting all this, Robin squatted down under the shade of a great alder tree overhanging the river and waited.
Kingfishers flitted up and down the river, flashes of fire in the sunlight. A heron landed nearby and waded on his stick legs into the shallows to fish. No stag came, but there were footprints enough to keep Robin hopeful. After a while, though, he became thirsty. He left his bow, his arrows and his horn under the tree and went down to the river to drink, cupping his hands in the water. The water was so cold and so inviting. He didn’t think twice. He took off his jerkin and jumped in. It was not that far to the other side and the current seemed gentle enough. So he swam across and stretched out on the bank in the warmth of the sun to get his breath back. He closed his eyes against the glare of the sunlight and was drifting off into a welcome sleep, when he felt a cold shadow come over him. He looked up into a round, red, grinning face, and there was a sword at his throat.