Much the miller’s son stepped forward. “It was promised to me, Sire,” he said. “Robin Hood promised me his death.”
“Then he is yours,” replied the king.
The king and the Outlaws stood at the edge of Sherwood and watched as Much led the whimpering sheriff away, down into the valley where the gibbet stood waiting. Suddenly the sky darkened overhead, as from all over Sherwood it seemed, the crows gathered. “Anything,” pleaded the sheriff, “anything you want. Please let me live. Please. I have gold, more gold than the king himself.” Much made no reply, to this or to any other of his entreaties, but fixed the rope quickly about his neck and hanged him high. Only when he was dead, with his legs swinging in the wind, did Much speak at last. “For my father,” he said.
As the Outlaws passed by the gibbet on their way into Nottingham that morning, every one of them looked their last on the hated Sheriff of Nottingham; and terrible though the sight was, it stirred no pity in their hearts. When the people of the city came out to greet their king, and the Outlaws were cheered all through the streets, from every doorstep, from every window, they could not help but feel sad, that at the moment of their greatest triumph, a golden time of great comradeship was coming to an end, that nothing would ever be quite the same again.
But spirits rose again that night as they all feasted together in the great hall of the castle, Robin and Marion on either side of King Richard. Friar Tuck blessed the venison, and then ate most of it himself. Much wrestled against all comers, and won every time, as everyone knew he would. Blondel sang for them, and as the castle rang to the sweet sound of “The Candlelight Song”, the people in the streets of Nottingham outside heard it and danced with joy. For them, as well as for the Outlaws, the cruel days, the dark days, were over at last.
Out in the moonlit countryside, far beyond the city walls, there was no such happiness. The sound of distant revelry was a bitter accompaniment to the Abbess of Kirkleigh, as she cut down the sheriff from the gibbet and, with her sisters, laid him alongside Sir Guy of Gisbourne in a cart. The sheriff’s army had simply drifted away and vanished. She had no hope left, only hate.
She lifted her face to the full moon. “Hear me, Robin Hood,” she screeched. “For what you have done, you shall pay with your life. Here lies my brother, and with him the only man I have loved on this earth. For their deaths, you will die, I swear it.” That same night, the two men were buried at Kirkleigh in the abbey graveyard, and even as the sisters were filling in their graves the abbess was upstairs in her room praying, and when she prayed now, it was not to God but to the devil. “Deliver me up Robin Hood,” she hissed, “and I am yours for life.”
The king did not stay long in Nottingham, but long enough to decree that all the Outlaws should live and work where they pleased, like other men and women; that all the property, houses, lands, goods and chattels should be restored to their rightful owners, and proper restitution made from the sheriff’s own fortune. “And lastly,” he declared, “I decree, that in recognition of their courageous resistance to recent tyrannies, Robin Hood and his Outlaws shall be able to hunt through the Royal Forest of Sherwood for the rest of their lives.” There was much rapturous cheering at this, and banging of tables. But the king had not finished. “However,” he went on, “for this consideration I want to borrow your leader, only for a while. I want Robin Hood to act as counsellor to me when I return to London. I have much need of men about me that I can trust. Well, Robin, will you come?”
Robin was flattered, but he did not want to go. Home had always been the forest. He wanted nothing else, to be nowhere else. He and Marion had always dreamed of living and farming on the edge of Sherwood, in the same house, the same land where he had grown up as a boy. But the king had asked him and he could not refuse. “I come with my friends and my family, Sire, or not at all,” he said.
“Agreed,” replied the king, and the two men embraced. But the hall had fallen stonily silent.
“No!” cried one of the Outlaws. “Stay with us, Robin.” And the cry echoed round the hall, the Outlaws all on their feet in protest.
Robin did all he could to appease them. “I’ll be back,” he said. “As Tuck would say it – by God’s good grace, I’ll be back.” But the joy had gone suddenly out of the feast.
“How could I say no to him?” said Robin later, when he and Marion were alone.
“You could not,” she replied. “But how I wish he had not asked.”
So it was with heavy hearts that they left the next day for London, Robin alongside the king, little Martin on his saddle clinging to the pommel; and behind them Blondel and Much and Tuck and Little John, and Marion leading his father. But as they rode through the market place, the Outlaws surrounded them and would not let them pass. Will Scarlett spoke up, as he had done all those years before when Robin had first met them. “May God keep you, good Robin,” he said. “And may he bring you and yours back safe and sound.” Will looked suddenly old and frail, and Robin knew then he should not be leaving him, nor his Outlaws. But there was no turning back.
“Take care, Will,” he said, and the crowd parted reluctantly and watched them leave, their eyes filled with tears.
Robin had thought that in London he would pine for the open skies, for the trees, but he did not. He and his family lacked for nothing; they had the best food, servants, fine clothes. Their house was warm. There were those at first who mocked their country ways and country talk, but never more than once. And when it was learnt who they were, they were fêted like royalty themselves. Marion saw at once that Robin was liking it far too much for his own good, but said nothing, hoping that the newness of it all would soon wear off. Unlike Robin, she longed for the simplicities of Sherwood.
On the banks of the Thames, Robin and his father taught the king’s bowmen how to split a wand at a hundred paces. And Much saw to it that every soldier was fit in wind and limb, and he was a hard taskmaster. Little John busied himself in the king’s armoury, but they saw little of him these days. As for Tuck, they hardly saw him at all. Time lay heavily on him, and he seemed to be spending most of his time in the taverns.
The king called his council together each week, but Robin soon saw that there was little point in his being there. The king talked of nothing but his next crusade. He seemed completely disinterested in anything that did not serve that single purpose. He needed two thousand more good men. He wanted Robin to recruit them and train them. He needed to raise taxes for the campaign. “But the people have been taxed enough for foreign wars, Sire,” Robin said. “They need their king at home.”
Richard smiled at him, but there was an edge to his tone. You stick to what you’re good at, Robin,” he said. “Find me soldiers. Train them as well as you trained your Outlaws, that’s all I ask.” And Robin did as he was asked, although he was beginning to wonder why his advice on all other matters was so often ignored.
Amongst his soldiers, amongst the people of London, he was a hero, he was Robin of Sherwood, he was a legend. His exploits in Sherwood, his rescue of the king were the talk of the taverns. Amongst the courtiers, though, he was just a jumped-up common forester with a white-haired cagot for a wife, but all the same a man to beware of and to flatter, for they knew he was as close to the king as anyone. So wherever he went, in court or out of it, he was fawned on and lionised.
Marion looked on helpless as Robin changed before her eyes. His fame and fortune were going to his head and he did not seem even to notice it. He was beginning to believe in the legend. She confided her fears to Robin’s father. “I am losing him,” she said. “He’s never home. Something is always more important, even than little Martin.”
But Robin’s father could be of little comfort to her. He too no longer knew his own son. “He does not listen to me any more, nor to anyone but the king,” he said. “He treats his faithful Much as if he is not there. He leaves poor Tuck to drink himself into a stupor in the taverns, and always his mind seems to be elsewhere. If we could only go home
to Sherwood, then he would find himself again, I know he would.”
One night Robin came bursting in, later even than usual. Marion and his father were sitting before the fire. He could not contain himself. “You’ll never guess,” he cried. “I am to be made a knight. Robin Hood, Outlaw and outcast, is to be made a knight. What do you think of that? Tomorrow I shall be Sir Robin of Locksley – the king let me choose my title. And you shall be my Lady Marion.”
Marion looked him straight in the eye as she spoke. “Never, Robin, never, as long as I live. I am no Lady. I am Marion, mother of our child and your companion in life. I have stayed long enough in this place. It is too comfortable, and full of sycophants and title-seekers. There is corruption in the very air we breathe. Tomorrow I shall go home to Sherwood, and I shall take little Martin with me. We do not belong here.”
“But why?” said Robin, unable to believe what he was hearing.
“I was the wife of Robin Hood, a fair man, a kind man, a thinking man, who sought only good for others, who loved his friends and was loved by them. Now he has become someone else, someone I cannot love, cannot live with.”
“I too will go home, Robin,” said his father, “home to Sherwood where we all belong. We are fish out of water here. See what has become of Tuck. See what has become of you. Listen to us, Robin. Come with us now, before it is too late.”
“But I can’t. The king…”
“The king! The king! Always the king!” Marion cried. “The king is not God, Robin. Have you forgotten that? Have you forgotten yourself entirely?”
And Robin knew then that he had, but his pride would not let him say so. “I stay with my king,” he said, turning away. “You go if you like.”
At dawn the next day Marion and little Martin and Robin’s father made ready to leave. Much was there to help them. “Take care of him, Much,” said Marion as she mounted her horse. “And bring him back to Sherwood when he’s himself again. Bring him home safe.”
“I should come with you,” said Much, lifting up little Martin and setting him astride the saddle in front of her. “But I cannot abandon him.”
“I know that,” Marion said, and she leant down and kissed him. “Tell him I love him and I’ll be waiting for him in Sherwood. I have left him the silver arrow. He’ll know why. Don’t let him lose it.”
From an upper window Robin watched them leave, but could not bring himself to go down to say goodbye. As they rode away he lifted the silver arrow and waved it, but none of them saw it.
When they had gone, Much came into his room and found Robin sitting on his bed and crying like a child. The silver arrow lay on his lap. “You’re a fool, Robin Hood,” said Much.
“I know it,” replied Robin. “I know it.”
King Richard knighted him that same day, on the river meadow where the bowmen trained. but even as the blade rested on his shoulder, Robin felt no pleasure in it, no pride, only a deep longing for Marion and for Sherwood. The entire court was there, Prince John with them, looking as sour as ever. Two thousand bowmen waved their bows and cheered Robin to the echo as he rose to his feet to be embraced by the king. He saw Much and Little John standing some way off, but in their eyes there was nothing but disappointment. He looked everywhere for Tuck, but could see him nowhere.
The king held him at arm’s length. “Well, Sir Robin of Locksley,” he began, “you have come a long, long way from your woods. And you shall go further too. I leave on my crusade in two weeks, if the winds are fair. Come with me as my Captain, Robin. With you beside me, we shall defeat Saladin and we shall march together through the gates of Jerusalem.”
“And your own kingdom, Sire?” said Robin. “What becomes of your kingdom while you are gone?”
“My brother, John, will manage without me. He has learnt his lesson, have you not, brother?” And Prince John looked down at his feet and said nothing.
“Do we ever learn our lessons, I wonder, before it is too late, Sire?” said Robin. “I belong here. I belong in England.”
“So you will not come?” The king was suddenly angry.
“No, Sire, I will stay at home and guard your kingdom for you while you are gone. When a shepherd leaves his sheep, Sire, he does not leave them unguarded.”
“And I stay too, Sire,” said Little John. “I have made you all the swords you need for your crusade. Where Robin is, I must be.”
“Then go back to your woods, for all I care,” cried the king. “I shall take Jerusalem without you.” And he turned on his heel and walked away.
It took all that day for the three of them to find Tuck. Little John knew most of his drinking haunts, but he was not to be found in any of them. Then one tavern keeper, who knew him well, told them that Tuck had left his tavern two days before, saying he had finished with drink for ever, that from then on he would be praying his way back to God. So they searched every church and chapel in London, and found him at last kneeling before the altar of St Bartholomew-the-Great in Smithfield. When he looked up and saw them, he covered his face with his hands and wept. “Take me home, boys,” he said. “Take me home.”
They set off at first light and rode north all day without stopping, making over forty miles by nightfall. Even so they still had not caught up with Marion and Robin’s father, as they had expected. “They cannot be far ahead of us now,” said Little John. “But if we ride at night we may ride past them without knowing it. Let’s find somewhere to sleep. We’ll start out again early tomorrow morning. We’ll catch up with them soon enough.”
There were no inns nearby, or monasteries or priories, so they made camp in a wood and ate together around a fire as they had done so often before. It was a damp and foggy night, and they lay huddled close to the fire for warmth; but despite all they could do, Tuck would not stop shivering. By morning he had a fever and Much had to help him on to his horse. Slumped and silent in his saddle, Tuck rode on uncomplaining all through the next day, and the next, but they had to go at a walk now. And still there was no sign of Marion and the others on the road.
Heavy rain and a fierce, whipping wind forced them to stop early on the third day. Tuck was coughing almost continuously by this time, and Robin knew that to go on would be the death of him. He needed rest. He needed a doctor. So when they came to a nunnery on the outskirts of a small village, they hammered on the door and asked for shelter, for help. The nuns took them in and did all they could. For two nights and two days, Tuck tossed and turned in his fever, near to death. They bled him with leeches, but that did not help. They bathed him in cold water to cool him, but that only seemed to make him worse. The nuns worked tirelessly, but Tuck sank into a deep sleep and would not wake. His breathing became shallow and rasping. Much and Little John and Robin sat by his bed praying, and waiting for the end. One of the nuns came in to pray with them. As she was about to leave the room, she said, “I don’t know much about these things, and I don’t want to raise false hopes; but I do know of someone, an abbess, a healer, who lives nearby. She has been known to heal when all other remedies have failed.”
“Then send for her,” cried Robin. “And hurry, please hurry.”
That evening, an unseen face peered through the grille of the cell where Tuck lay surrounded by his companions, all on their knees and praying. The face smiled, but it was a cold and venomous smile. Then the face vanished.
The same nun brought their supper to the cell, leek soup. “The abbess. The healer,” said Robin. “Where is she? Will she be long?”
“In the kitchens,” replied the nun, “preparing a medicine for him. She won’t be long. You should eat your soup. It’ll give you strength. And besides, all waste is wicked in the Lord’s eyes.” And with that, she left. Little John tried the soup first. It was good and peppery, he said. Robin drank it, more to warm himself than anything else, for his feet were frozen. Only Much refused it. He sat closest to Tuck, his eyes never leaving Tuck’s face, not for an instant. Minutes later the door opened and the nun was there again.
; “I have the good friar’s medicine,” she said, “and the abbess said I was to pour it down his throat. I will need you to lift him for me, else he may choke.”
“But if she has not seen him,” Robin asked, “how does she know what to give him?”
“I asked her the same thing,” replied the nun. “She says it is a universal remedy; and she is a holy woman. We must have faith.” And with Much holding Tuck in his arms, she poured the medicine into Tuck’s mouth and wiped his lips afterwards. “He’s in God’s hands now,” she said, crossing herself. And then she left them.
She had been gone only a few moments when Robin began to feel his head swirling, a gripping pain in his stomach, and a sickly taste in his mouth that reminded him of the terrible sea-voyage he had made. He clutched at the bed to stop himself from falling, but he could not. When he opened his eyes he saw Little John crawling beside him on the floor. He was reaching out towards him, his face contorted with pain, his eyes wide with fear.
“The soup,” whispered Little John. “We are poisoned. We are dead men.” And Robin felt the first shudder of death come over him, and knew it too.
Much was bending over him, trying to lift him. “Help me up, Much,” said Robin. “I want to see trees once more before I die. And I will die standing, looking my God in the face.” He stood by the window, looking out, the colour draining from his cheeks. He leant back on Much and looked his last at the trees and the sky. “The abbess. It was the abbess. I should have known. Too late, too late. The Abbess of Kirkleigh, it could be no one else. She has done for us, Much. You did not eat your soup, did you?”
“No, Robin.”
“Dear Much. Always wise,” Robin breathed. “Wise and silent. Give me my bow now, and Marion’s silver arrow. I shall shoot one last time through this window, and where the arrow lies, there you must bury us. Tell her I am sorry, and that I love her. Care for them as you have cared for me.”
He had not the strength to draw the bow himself; but with Much’s help, he lifted it, felt his thumb knuckle touch his nose, looked along the arrow to its silver tip and let fly. He never saw where it landed, for he was dead.