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Robin
Hood: Arrow of Justice
man and a boy drove their cart down the road
from Worksop to Nottingham. It was an old cart, much mended, and it moved
slowly because its creaking boards carried a heavy locked trunk. The chest was
fastened with an expensive padlock, a rarity seldom seen except to protect the
greatest of treasures. Around five miles out of Tickhill, where
the great forest pressed closest to the road, an arrow from the trees embedded
itself in the side of the wagon. A rough voice shouted “Stand!” The carter and his lad yelped and dived out
of their seats, taking shelter on the far side of the cart. A second arrow from
the other side of the road went wide and skittered along the track, but the
message was clear: the travellers were surrounded on both sides. “Don’t shoot!” the carter called, placing
his hands in the air. “I beg you, spare us!” His lad climbed right under the
cart and cowered there. The outlaws came from the forest, holding
their bows ready before them, swaggering at their victory. Their leader swung
down from a tree and landed neatly before the prisoners. “What have we here?” he wondered, looking
down at the trembling carter. “Two ragged men carrying a big sealed chest
through my forest? What’s in the box?” “P-please, sir, we don’t know,” stammered
the cringing driver. “Master, he told us to take it to Nottingham so we did.
Master’s man there, he has the key. We’re just doing what master told us!” The bandit leader looked discerningly down
at his captives. They seemed too scared to lie. “Break it open,” he called to
his men. It was a difficult job. The box was shod
with iron and the padlock was tempered steel. Eventually a dozen men, fully
half the band of wolfsheads that had waylaid the travellers, were called in to
demolish the chest. “Who are you?” the carter asked as the men
attacked his property. The bandit leader puffed his chest and
strutted. “They call me Tod Gallows, and I’m the outlaw king!” The young lad looked up curiously. He was
barely old enough to shave and his simple face looked puzzled. “King? I thought
the King of Sherwood was Robin i' th’ Hood?” Tod Gallows spat. “Hood? He’s nothing. Piss
and wind. Don’t you believe a word of him.” “They say Robin Hood killed Handsome Jack
himself,” noted the carter. “I don’t pay heed to any,” replied Gallows.
“They all fear me.” “They say Robin Hood robs from the rich and
gives the spoils to the poor,” the carter went on. “More fool him if it’s true,” spat Tod
Gallows. “I take what I want and no man tells me no.” The carter dropped down to squat beside the
lad beneath the cart. “Is that what you told that poor lass from Serlby last
week when you caught her on the road and left her for dead?” he asked; and his
tone had changed. Tod Gallows looked down at the carter.
Robin Hood looked back at him, holding the bow that Much the Miller’s Son had
passed him from its place of concealment under the cart. The string was drawn
back and a red-fletched arrow pointed right at Gallows’ throat. “You’re mad, carter,” the bandit murderer
growled. He still thought he’d found two helpless travellers and this was their
final act of defiance. “You’re outnumbered and surrounded.” The men on the cart
had seen what was happening and they stood ready to pounce. “I’m not a carter,” Robin told them. “And
I’m not outnumbered.” Much smiled happily as the villains that
surrounded him. “He’s Robin Hood,” he told them helpfully. “I’m Much.” A flight of arrows came in from both sides
of the road – but not from Gallows’ rogues. These shots were considerably
better aimed, landing between the legs of each of Gallows’ gang. “And those are my merry men,” smiled Robin
in the Hood. Gallows called to his own men in the
forest. There was no reply. “Anybody who moves now dies,” Robin advised
the bandits. “And by the way, you should always keep a watch behind you when
you take a traveller on the road. It’s a basic precaution.” Tod Gallows glared at the laughing outlaw.
“What do you want, Hood? Forest’s big enough for both of us.” Robin shook his head. “It isn’t. It stopped
being big enough the day you raped Maude of Serlby then put a knife in her
belly. That’s when you forfeited your chance to join with me and signed your
death warrant.” “Murder me, is it?” sneered Gallows. “Is
that how you did for Handsome Jack as well?” A giant emerged from the treeline, hefting
a stave as tall as himself. “Robin killed Jack in fair combat,” Little John
announced to all. “I saw it. We all did.” He stepped up to Tod Gallows and
looked down at the bandit. “Robin’s not a coward who preys on the helpless and
murders little girls. He’s not scum deserving of death.” Gallows would have backed away from the
angry giant but Robin’s arrow was still aimed at him. “There’s a code,” Gallows
remembered. “A forest code. I can challenge Hood, as Hood challenged Handsome
Jack.” Robin’s smile turned wolfish. “Yes you
can,” he agreed. “Mortal combat, one on one.” “Then I challenge you,” Gallows answered.
“It’s time for you to die.” Robin’s men exchanged smug glances that
worried the killer bandit more than any boast could. Hood lowered his bow and drew his sword.
“There’s a new forest law in Sherwood now,” he announced. “My law. Your time
has gone.” Gallows lunged forward suddenly, almost catching
Robin with the edge of his blade. Hood swerved sideways, barely avoiding.
“That’s my trouble,” Robin said as he parried the next set of blows, “always
talking too much.” He came off the defensive and began to drive his opponent
backwards round the cart. “I mean “Die!” shouted Gallows, turning again and
trying to hold his ground. “Die you bastard!” “On the other hand, at least my dialogue is
interesting,” Robin continued, retreating a little before his enemy’s fury.
“I’d like to think that I could manage a little bit better then ‘die!’ when I’m
in mortal combat. What kind of last words are ‘die, bastard’?” “Shut up!” screeched Gallows, losing all
self-control. “Shut up and die!” “Again, the dying,” Robin scorned. “How can
I come up with sparkling repartee if you’re not going to do your part? Couldn’t
you try just a little bit hard…” And then Robin in the Hood slipped in the
mud, stumbling against the side of the cart. For a second his guard was down. “Die!” Gallows shrieked and brought
his longsword about in a high arc to cleave Robin’s skull. Robin slipped aside as he’d always
intended. Gallows’ blade bit deep into the side of the wagon and lodged in the
planks. Robin swung his own sword lightly, catching
Gallows as he tried to heave his weapon free from the wood. The tip of Robin’s
blade sliced neatly across Gallows’ throat. The rogue staggered to the side
then dropped to the dirt, clutching his throat where his windpipe had been
severed. Robin was suddenly grim. “You had your
chance to speak, to surrender, to beg forgiveness for Maude of Serlby. You
wasted it. May you rot in hell.” The stricken bandit crawled across the
muddy track leaving a bloody trail. Little John looked down at him. “Give him
mercy, Rob,” John asked. “More than he gave Maude,” replied Robin in
the Hood. He reversed his blade and ended all Tod Gallows’ troubles in this
world. Then he looked up at the men who’d followed Gallows. “Any more?” “Next one fights me,” offered Little John.
There were no takers. Little John and Much the Miller’s Son
divested the crestfallen robbers of their weapons and goods. Burly David of
Doncaster, three-times winner of the midsummer wrestling matches in his native
city, and Gilbert Whitehand, as proficient with cleaver in combat as he was
when he cooked the outlaws’ supper, came to assist. Will Stutely led Robin’s archers from the
trees, bringing with them the bound ambushers they’d captured; but the old
outlaw knew enough to leave a couple of men posted watch. Robin had just given
a potent demonstration of the need to keep a check on what was happening
behind. “What shall we do with these bravos and the scum you caught here?”
Stutely asked. “Don’t let them join us,” John advised.
“There’s none of ‘em I’d trust with a knife behind me and they’re all as bad as
their leader.” “They won’t be joining us,” Robin assured
his men. “But we’ll take them along with us. I have another use for them.”
ir Guy of
Gisborne tested the chains that held him. They were strong and new. The outlaws
knew their business. “Where am I?” he demanded now the hood had
been dragged from his head. He was red-faced and half suffocated. “Answer me,
peasants! Where have you taken me?” A fat friar perched on the low wall at the
front of the pig sty where they’d shackled the Prince’s courier. “I thought
you’d recognise a pen for swine,” said Brother Thomas – better known as Tuck. “You let me go now!” ordered Sir Guy.
“Release me and I might yet be merciful.” Friar Tuck finished the chicken leg he’d
been gnawing on and threw the remnant to the fat black sow in the adjacent
stall. “Merciful like you were to the villages you wrecked? Like you were to
the headman at Kinsley? Like you were when your ordered Kinsley
burned? I don’t think I like your mercy.” “Like it or not I’m an envoy of Prince John
of England. Restraining me is treason, and you’ll die bloody for it. Hot coals
and quartering until you beg to die.” The monk sniffed the top of a wineskin. He
seemed to find the aroma satisfactory since he allowed himself a generous sup.
“I don’t serve Prince John,” Tuck told the black knight. “My Prince isn’t of
this world and he doesn’t need to burn villages to command the hearts of his
subjects. But keep on giving orders. It’s not every day I’m threatened by a
naked madman in a pig-sty.” Yesterday Gisbourne had gone to battle
against Robin Hood. His great mistake had been taking his soldiers into the
forest. Now he was captured, stripped and beaten and chained in hog-filth. He
tried his bonds again but the back wall of the enclosure was stone, maybe even
old Roman work, and the ring that secured his shackles was firm and unmoveable. “Every servant of God has a duty to the
crown,” Gisbourne persuaded. “And even a holy friar could benefit from the
reward a Prince would give.” “You think the Prince will want you back,
then?” Tuck wondered. “Robin and I were a little bit worried about that. You
see we’re not convinced that John Lackland thinks enough of any of his minions
to actually pay out good coin for them – and Robin has such good uses he could
put your ransom to.” “Bribing the poor?” sneered Sir Guy.
“They’ll take his money then turn on him with their next breath.” “What he gives them’s better than coin,”
Tuck promised. “I’ll see him dead. I’ll see you dead. I’ll
be revenged.” “Not if there’s any justice in this world,
you won’t,” replied the monk. He reluctantly sealed up the wineskin and tucked
it at his belt. “Prince John’s justice rules this land
now,” Gisbourne warned. “You’ll learn it at your cost.” “In Sherwood we look to Robin Hood for
justice,” declared Friar Tuck. “You’ve already learned that to yours.”
sdric the
Gatherer left Scaftworth on time, his wagon full of the tithes and taxes he’d
taken for the Sheriff. The hard stares of the villagers meant nothing to him.
He was well protected by a dozen armed guards who’d not hesitate to break the
head of any serf or peasant[1] that got in
his way. Besides, the men of Scaftworth had plenty of reason to wish him ill
after this visit; the new Sheriff of Nottingham had been very clear that he
wanted no quarter given to defaulters. The last house in Scaftworth was a little
way outside the village hedge, a small holding rented by a farmer named Dain.
He was due to render nine shillings[2] for his
tenancy and one penny for every sheep, pig, or goat, and for every dozen
poultry. Another two shillings bought him the right to brew ale and bake bread. There was no sign of life around the wooden
farmhouse. Esdric was hardly surprised. Being out when the taxman called was an
old ploy. Sometimes when the gatherer was in a hurry it even worked; the
collector would seize some item of approximate value – a sheep or a butt of
ale, say – and take that without looking to an exact accounting. Sadly for
Dain, the Sheriff’s affeeror[3] had been
very clear that this time every household paid by the book. Esdric hammered on the door so hard it
almost came off its bindings. “Open up in the Sheriff’s name!” shouted the
taxman. “Open or I’ll send for fire!” That usually worked, and this time it was
no different. Esdric heard the sound of a bar being slid away and the door
opened a fraction. “What is it?” asked a frightened woman peering through the
gap. Esdric kicked the door back so the woman
had to step aside or be hit by it. She gasped and retreated a pace, allowing
the taxman onto the threshold. The interior of the hovel was dark and pungent
like all those peasant huts. “Who are you?” the woman demanded, looking
over Esdric’s shoulder at the guards flanking him. “I’m the Sheriff’s man, here for what he’s
due. Who are you? Where’s Dain?” The woman bit her bottom lip and looked
stricken. “Dain’s dead. He caught a fever these three months since. I’m his
wife. His widow.” She looked up defiantly. “I holds this land now.” Esdric shook his head. “Not without a writ
of transfer, you don’t. There’s a body tax to be paid on all Dain’s goods and a
new charter to be bought to carry on tenure. You should have talked to the
steward and the affeeror long before now.” The woman looked stricken. “More fees?
But…” she bit back tears. “I’m hardly holding on as it is. It’s so hard. I
can’t pay no more!” Esdric regarded the widow. He hadn’t even
known Dain was married. Dain’s wife was a deal younger than the dead farmer,
perhaps twenty, and she was a good looking piece. “It’s the law,” the tax-collector observed.
“You have to pay. And now there’ll be fines, too, for not keeping to proper
procedure.” “F-fines? What fines?” “That’s for the court to decide,” Esdric
told her, “based upon my recommendation. Ten shillings, perhaps, or a year’s
income.” The widow trembled. “I can’t pay that! I
don’t have it.” “A flogging then, and cast out onto the
road.” The pretty woman stared at the floor,
desperate and floundering. “What shall I do? What can I do?” she asked herself.
She began to cry properly. Esdric stared openly at her ample bosom as
it trembled at her sobbing. “Well, it’s on my recommendation, as I say. I have
some leeway to help you.” The widow looked up hopefully. “You do? You
would?” “I might,” the tax gatherer offered, “but
you’ll have to convince me.” “Convince you how? Oh…” Now the woman
understood his meaning, recognised his expression. She bit her lip again and
looked away. “Well then…” she said slowly, “you’d better come in.” She stepped
away from the door, retreating into the blackness. “Take a rest for a while,” Esdric told his
grinning guards. “I’ll be examining the estate.” He slipped into the hut’s
interior and barred the door. “And now, my little darling…” Robin Hood pressed a blade to his throat.
“Yes, my sweetheart?” he replied. “Don’t make a sound or my big friend here
will tear your head off.” “And spit down your neck,” offered Little
John. Behind them Ros of Waltham shed her role as
Dain of Scaftworth’s widow and brought forward ropes to bind the taxman. “I
don’t really fancy you,” she told Esdric. “Eyes too close together and a breath
that reeks.” Esdric didn’t dare protest as Little John
hogtied him. He was laid at the back of the hovel beside another bound prisoner
that he recognised as the farmer Dain. “What are your guards’ names?” Robin
demanded. “The two big fellows you had by the door?” “Hardstan and Rufus.” “Call them in. Don’t let them think there’s
any reason to be suspicious. If there’s a fight Ros will prick your eyes out
with her poignard.” “I will an’ all,” promised the outlaw
woman. “Bring them here,” Robin ordered, sliding
the bar back. Esdric had no choice but to obey. The two
guards entered the dark hovel and were overcome before their eyes even adjusted
to the gloom. “And so on,” grinned Robin in the Hood.
“This guard captain calls in more men and we keep going until they’re all our
guests. And then we’ll see about a little bit of accounting.”
can’t believe we did this,” Little John
admitted as the last of Esdric’s party was hobbled and tied in Dain’s hut. “I get that a lot,” admitted Robin Hood.
“But we’ve taken an armed tax train without a single drop of blood shed and I
consider that a good day’s work.” “I’ve never robbed a taxman before,”
admitted Ros proudly. “It’s nice.” Robin imitated a bird call to summon Much
and David from the woods. “Get the wagon out of here,” he told them. “Herd the
confiscated animals into the forest too for now. We’ll return them when the hue
and cry’s died down.” “Right you are, Robin,” agreed the miller’s
son. He’d never doubted that the plan would work. His faith in Robin was
absolute. “Where do you want those bandits we took earlier?” “Have Stutlely bring ‘em here and truss
them next to Esdric’s guards and scribes. It’s going to get quite crowded in
this little hut.” The young outlaw pondered for a moment then ordered that Dain
be dragged outside. He waited until the bound peasant was out of sight of the
prisoners before cutting the man loose. “I can’t believe you did that,” said Dain
of Scaftworth. “He gets that a lot,” laughed Little John. “It’s done, anyway,” Robin said. “If anyone
asks we took you outside to beat you till you told us where you’d buried your
hoard. We’ll be long gone before anyone even starts to look for us. Nobody can
blame you for what we did today.” “They’ll find a way,” Dain predicted
gloomily. He looked over at Ros hopefully. “You could leave that one behind if
she’d a mind to play my wife any longer.” Ros chuckled as John bristled. “I’ve
already got one baby to look after in the forest,” she told the farmer. “And
enough men to wash and sew for till we’ve found more womenfolk who need a
refuge. I don’t know as I’d make a good farmer’s wife any more.” Dain eyed the pretty widow regretfully then
turned back to Robin. “You’re really going to give those goods back to the
village?” “To all the places Esdric took from,” the
young outlaw promised. “Look for a fat wandering friar in a few days time when
the hue and cry’s died down.” “Why?” asked the farmer. “Because there’ll be searches when the
soldiers respond at last and they can’t plunder what’s not here.” That wasn’t what Dain had meant. “No. I
mean why are you giving us our things back? It makes no sense.” “That’s what I keep telling him,” Will
Stutely chipped in. “I mean, we could live like kings on a haul like this. A
few more jobs as successful and we could retire, clear off to Lincoln or York
and start a new life, all set up like. But no, Robin i’ th’ Hood has to go
giving to the poor.” “We’re hungry but virtuous,” Robin teased
the old bandit. “We’re storing up our riches in heaven.” “I’m sure Tuck would be able to tell you
why that’s not quite right,” puzzled Little John. “But it does feel good to be
able to help folks.” “Stealing from the Sheriff,” shuddered
Dain, “He won’t like it.” “He’s welcome to send me a very stern
letter,” answered Robin in the Hood. “Oh, and speaking of letters, I’ve a
missive that needs to go to the good Sheriff as well. When you finally manage
to ‘break free’ from your ropes I’d like you to give it to Esdric to pass on.” “A bandit is sending letters to the Lord
High Sheriff?” “It’s hardly a love letter,” Little John
revealed. “More by way of a ransom note.” “That Guy of Gisbourne,” guessed Dain. Word
travelled fast between the villages and Robin Hood was hot news. “They said as
how you’d taken him alive.” “We should have hung him high for what he
did to our brothers and sisters,” grumbled Stutely. “We still might if we don’t get silver for
him,” Robin declared. “But really right now he’s worth more to us alive than
dead. His ransom will comfort a lot of widows and orphans – and maybe help out
Marion with her brother’s fine.” “I can’t just hand in a ransom note to the
Sheriff of Nottingham,” objected Dain. “They’d put me to the rack.” Robin held up a finger to stop the farmer’s
complaint. “They won’t torture you. They’ll be too busy rewarding you.” “Rewarding me?” Robin gestured back to the crowded hovel.
“The men we just stacked in there on top of Esdric and his thugs are the gang
that ran with Tod Gallows, the brave boys who ravaged Maude of Serlby. They’re
outlaws all with prices on their heads. Turn them in. When the reward’s paid
keep your fair share and pass the rest on to your neighbours. Handing in a
score of murderous raping cut-throats should make sure you’re in good standing
with the Sheriff.” “It… probably will,” agreed Dain, his mind
slowly catching up with Robin’s agile wit. Little John laughed at the farmer’s
expression. “He’s got that look on his face, Stutely,” he noted. “The one we
all get when Robin tells us his plans.” “The one when you realise
it’s too late to escape?” Stutely quipped back. “I know it well.” Robin glared at them with mock annoyance. “Don’t you two have some banditry to do?” *** *** [1] Serfs or
villeins were men and women “tied” to the land they worked, the lowest social
class above actual slave. The majority of people in England in 1190 were serfs.
Their property and lands all belonged to their feudal lord. A serf could not
move from his estate nor even marry without his lord’s permission. A peasant
was a free man of humble stock, and had more rights in law than a serf but was
still subject to a landlord’s will. [2] A shilling
was twelve pennies, roughly two weeks’ wages for a basic hired labourer. At this
time the economy still functioned largely on barter so most taxes were paid in
goods to the value of the amount due. [3] An affeeror
was an official appointed to ensure that court fines were paid, but they also
kept track of taxes due and other legal obligations. |
Continued in "Robin Hood: Arrow of Justice"