Little John putteth on the robes of a gray friar, and he and Robin Hood set forth in quest of adventures.
“Tut, tut!” quoth Friar Tuck, nudging him with his elbow, “look not down in that way; raise thine eyes boldly, or else all will know thee to be a cheat, and ne‘er a lass will give thee a smile, and ne’er a goodwife a crust, in all the countryside.” At this all laughed again, swearing that never was there so strapping a friar in all merry England as Little John made.
And now Little John took up his stout staff, at the end of which hung a chubby little leathern pottle, such as palmers carry at the tips of their staves; but in it was something, I wot, more like good Malmsey than cold spring water, such as godly pilgrims carry. Then up rose Robin and took his stout staff in his hand, likewise, and slipped ten golden angels into his pouch; for no beggar’s garb was among the stores of the band, so he was fain to run his chance of meeting a beggar and buying his clothes of him.
So, all being made ready, the two yeomen set forth on their way, striding lustily along all in the misty morning. Thus they walked down the forest path until they came to the highway, and then along the highway till it split in twain, leading on one hand to Blyth and on the other to Gainsborough. Here the yeomen stopped.
Robin Hood and Little John part at the forking of the roads.
Quoth Jolly Robin, “Take thou the road to Gainsborough, and I will take that to Blyth. So, fare thee well, holy father, and mayst thou not ha’ cause to count thy beads in earnest ere we meet again.”
“Good den, good beggar that is to be,” quoth Little John, “and mayst thou have no cause to beg for mercy ere I see thee next.”
So each stepped sturdily upon his way until a green hill rose between them, and the one was hid from the sight of the other.
Little John walked along, whistling, for no one was nigh upon all the road. In the budding hedges the little birds twittered merrily, and on either hand the green hills swept up to the sky, the great white clouds of springtime sailing slowly over their crowns in lazy flight. Up hill and down dale walked Little John, the fresh wind blowing in his face and his robes fluttering behind him, and so at last he came to a cross-road that led to Tuxford. Here he met three pretty lasses, each bearing a basket of eggs to market. Quoth he, “Whither away, fair maids?” And he stood in their path, with his legs apart, holding his staff in front of them, to stop them.
Little John falleth in with three pretty lasses.
Then they huddled together and nudged one another, and one presently spake up and said, “We are going to the Tuxford market, holy Friar, to sell our eggs.”
“Now out upon it!” quoth Little John, looking upon them with his head on one side. “Surely, it is a pity that such fair lasses should be forced to carry eggs to market. Let me tell you, an I had the shaping of things in this world, ye should all three have been clothed in the finest silks, and ride upon milk-white horses, with pages at your side, and feed upon nothing but whipped cream and strawberries; for such a life would surely befit your looks.”
At this speech all three of the pretty maids looked down, blushing and simpering. One said, “La!” another, “Marry, a’ maketh sport of us!” and the third, “Listen, now, to the holy man!” but at the same time they looked at Little John from out the corners of their eyes.
“Nay,” quoth Little John, roundly, “holy man or no holy man, I know a fair lass when I see her, and if e’er a man hereabouts sayeth ye are not the fairest three in all Nottinghamshire, I’ll knock his vile teeth down his lying throat with this stout staff. Hear ye that, now!”
Then all the lasses cried, “La!” again.
“Now, look you,” said Little John, “I cannot see such dainty damsels as ye are carrying baskets along a highroad. Let me take them mine own self, and one of you, if ye will, may carry my staff for me.”
“Nay,” said one of the lasses, “but thou canst not carry three baskets all at one time.”
“Yea, but I can,” said Little John, “and that I will show you presently. I thank the good Saint Wilfred that he hath given me a pretty wit. Look ye, now. Here I take this great basket, so; here I tie my rosary around the handle, thus; and here I slip the rosary over my head and sling the basket upon my back, in this wise.” And Little John did according to his words, the basket hanging down behind him like a pedler’s pack; then, giving his staff to one of the maids, and taking a basket upon either arm, he turned his face toward Tuxford Town, and stepped forth merrily, a laughing maid on either side, and one walking ahead, carrying the staff. In this wise they journeyed along, and every one they met stopped and looked after them, laughing, for never had anybody seen such a merry sight as this tall, strapping Gray Friar, with robes all too short for him, laden with eggs, and tramping the road with three pretty lasses. For this Little John cared not a whit, but when such folks gave jesting words to him he answered back as merrily, speech for speech.
Little John turneth his wits to devising a plan whereby he may carry the three baskets of eggs.
So they stepped along toward Tuxford, chatting and laughing, until they came nigh to the town. Here Little John stopped and set down the baskets, for he did not care to go into the town lest he should, perchance, meet some of the Sheriffs men. “Alas! sweet chucks,” quoth he, “here I must leave you. I had not thought to come this way, but I am glad that I did so. Now, ere we part, we must drink sweet friendship.” So saying, he unslung the leathern pottle from the end of his staff, and, drawing the stopper therefrom, he handed it to the lass who had carried his staff, first wiping the mouth of the pottle upon his sleeve. Then each lass took a fair drink of what was within, and when it had passed all around, Little John finished what was left, so that not another drop could be squeezed from it. Then, kissing each lass sweetly, he wished them all good den, and left them. But the maids stood looking after him as he walked away whistling. “What a pity,” quoth one, “that such a stout, lusty lad should be in holy orders.”
Little John leaveth the lasses near Tuxford.
“Marry,” quoth Little John to himself, as he strode along, “yon was no such ill happening; Saint Dunstan send me more of the like.”
After he had trudged along for a time he began to wax thirsty again in the warmth of the day. He shook his leathern pottle beside his ear, but not a sound came therefrom. Then he placed it to his lips and tilted it high aloft, but not a drop was there. “Little John! Little John!” said he sadly to himself, shaking his head the while, “woman will be thy ruin yet, if thou dost not take better care of thyself.”
But at last he reached the crest of a certain hill, and saw below a sweet little thatched inn lying snugly in the dale beneath him, toward which the road dipped sharply. At the sight of this a voice within him cried aloud, “I give thee joy, good friend, for yonder is thy heart’s delight, to wit, a sweet rest and a cup of brown beer.” So he quickened his pace down the hill, and so came to the little inn, from which hung a sign with a stag’s head painted upon it. In front of the door a clucking hen was scratching in the dust with a brood of chickens about her heels, the sparrows were chattering of household affairs under the eaves, and all was so sweet and peaceful that Little John’s heart laughed within him. Beside the door stood two stout cobs with broad soft paddled saddles, well fitted for easy travelling, and speaking of rich guests in the parlor. In front of the door three merry fellows, a tinker, a pedler, and a beggar, were seated on a bench in the sun quaffing stout ale.
Little John cometh to an inn and findeth merry company thereat.
“I give you good den, sweet friends,” quoth Little John, striding up to where they sat.
“Give thee good den, holy father,” quoth the merry Beggar with a grin. “But look thee, thy gown is too short. Thou hadst best cut a piece off the top and tack it to the bottom, so that it may be long enough. But come, sit beside us here and take a taste of ale, if thy vows forbid thee not.”
“Nay,” quoth Little John, also grinning, “the blessed Saint Dunstan hat
h given me a free dispensation for all indulgence in that line.” And he thrust his hand into his pouch for money to pay his score.
“Truly,” quoth the Tinker, “without thy looks belie thee, holy friar, the good Saint Dunstan was wise, for without such dispensation his votary is like to ha’ many a penance to make. Nay, take thy hand from out thy pouch, brother, for thou shalt not pay this shot. Ho, landlord, a pot of ale!”
So the ale was brought and given to Little John. Then, blowing the froth a little away to make room for his lips, he tilted the bottom of the pot higher and higher, till it pointed to the sky, and he had to shut his eyes to keep the dazzle of the sunshine out of them. Then he took the pot away, for there was nothing in it, and heaved a full deep sigh, looking at the others with moist eyes and shaking his head solemnly.
“Ho, landlord!” cried the Pedler, “bring this good fellow another pot of ale, for truly it is a credit to us all to have one amongst us who can empty a canakin so lustily.”
So they talked among themselves merrily, until after a while quoth Little John, “Who rideth those two nags yonder?”
“Two holy men like thee, brother,” quoth the Beggar. “They are now having a goodly feast within, for I smelt the steam of a boiled pullet just now. The landlady sayeth they come from Fountain Abbey, in Yorkshire, and go to Lincoln on matters of business.”
The beggar telleth Little John of the brothers of Fountain Abbey.
“They are a merry couple,” said the Tinker, “for one is as lean as an old wife’s spindle, and the other as fat as a suet pudding.”
“Talking of fatness,” said the Pedler, “thou thyself lookest none too ill-fed, holy friar.”
“Nay, truly,” said Little John, “thou seest in me what the holy Saint Dunstan can do for them that serve him upon a handful of parched pease and a trickle of cold water.”
At this a great shout of laughter went up. “Truly, it is a wondrous thing,” quoth the Beggar; “I would have made my vow, to see the masterly manner in which thou didst tuck away yon pot of ale, that thou hadst not tasted clear water for a brace of months. Has not this same holy Saint Dunstan taught thee a goodly song or two?”
“Why, as for that,” quoth Little John, grinning, “mayhap he hath lent me aid to learn a ditty or so.”
“Then, prythee, let us hear how he hath taught thee,” quoth the Tinker.
Little John singeth a goodly sing.
At this Little John cleared his throat, and, after a word or two about a certain hoarseness that troubled him, sang thus:—
“Ah, pretty, pretty maid, whither dost thou go?
I prythee, prythee, wait for thy lover also,
And we’ll gather the rose
As it sweetly blows,
For the merry, merry winds are blo-o-o-wing.”
Now it seemed as though Little John’s songs were never to get sung, for he had got no farther than this when the door of the inn opened and out came the two brothers of Fountain Abbey, the landlord following them, and, as the saying is, washing his hands with humble soap. But when the brothers of Fountain Abbey saw who it was that sang, and how he was clad in the robes of a gray friar, they stopped suddenly, the fat little Brother drawing his heavy eyebrows together in a mighty frown, and the thin Brother twisting up his face as though he had sour beer in his mouth. Then, as Little John gathered his breath for a new verse, “How, now,” roared forth the fat Brother, his voice coming from him like loud thunder from a little cloud; “thou naughty fellow, is this a fit place for one in thy garb to tipple and sing profane songs?”
The brothers of Fountain Abbey check Little John in his singing.
“Nay,” quoth Little John, “sin’ I cannot tipple and sing, like your worship’s reverence, in such a goodly place as Fountain Abbey, I must e’en tipple and sing where I can.”
“Now, out upon thee,” cried the tall lean Brother in a harsh voice; “now, out upon thee, that thou shouldst so disgrace thy cloth by this talk and bearing.”
“Marry, come up!” quoth Little John. “Disgrace, sayest thou? Methinks it is more disgrace for one of our garb to wring hard-earned farthings out of the gripe of poor lean peasants. Is it not so, brother?”
At this the Tinker and the Pedler and the Beggar nudged one another, and all grinned, and the friars scowled blackly at Little John; but they could think of nothing further to say, so they turned to their horses. Then Little John arose of a sudden from the bench where he sat, and ran to where the brothers of Fountain Abbey were mounting. Quoth he, “Let me hold your horses’ bridles for you. Truly, your words have smitten my sinful heart, so that I will abide no longer in this den of evil, but will go forward with you. No vile temptation, I wot, will fall upon me in such holy company.”
Little John sayeth that he will go forward with the brothers.
“Nay, fellow,” said the lean Brother harshly, for he saw that Little John made sport of them, “we want none of thy company, so get thee gone.”
“Alas,” quoth Little John, “I am truly sorry that ye like me not nor my company, but as for leaving you it may not be, for my heart is so moved, that, willy-nilly, I must go with you for the sake of your holy company.”
Now at this talk all the good fellows on the bench grinned till their teeth glistened, and even the landlord could not forbear to smile. As for the friars, they looked at one another with a puzzled look, and knew not what to do in the matter. They were so proud that it made them feel sick with shame to think pf riding along the high-road with a strolling friar, in robes all too short for him, running beside them, but yet they could not make Little John stay against his will, for they knew he could crack the bones of both of them in a twinkling were he so minded. Then up spake the fat Brother more mildly than he had done before. “Nay, good brother,” said he, “we will ride fast, and thou wilt tire to death at the pace.”
“Truly, I am grateful to thee for the thought of me,” quoth Little John; “but have no fear, brother; my limbs are stout, and I could run like a hare from here to Gainsborough.”
At these words a sound of laughing came from the bench, whereat the lean Brother’s wrath boiled over, like water into the fire, with great fuss and noise. “Now, out upon thee, thou naughty fellow!” he cried. “Art thou not ashamed to bring disgrace so upon our cloth? Bide thee here, thou sot, with these porkers. Thou art no fit company for us.”
“La ye there now!” quoth Little John. “Thou hearest, landlord; thou art not fit company for these holy men; go back to thine ale-house. Nay, if these most holy brothers of mine do but give me the word, I’ll beat thy head with this stout staff till it is as soft as whipped eggs.”
At these words a great shout of laughter went up from those on the bench, and the landlord’s face grew red as a cherry from smothering his laugh in his stomach; but he kept his merriment down, for he wished not to bring the ill-will of the brothers of Fountain Abbey upon him by unseemly mirth. So the two brethren, as they could do naught else, having mounted their nags, turned their noses toward Lincoln, and rode away.
“I cannot stay longer, sweet friends,” quoth Little John, as he pushed in betwixt the two cobs, “therefore I wish you good den. Off we go, we three.” So saying, he swung his stout staff over his shoulder and trudged off, measuring his pace with that of the two nags.
Little John and the two brothers of Fountain Abbey leave the inn.
The two brothers glowered at Little John when he so pushed himself betwixt them, then they drew as far away from him as they could, so that the yeoman walked in the middle of the road, whilst they rode on the footpath on either side of the way. As they so went away, the Tinker, the Pedler, and the Beggar ran skipping out into the middle of the highway, each with a pot in his hand, and looked after them laughing.
Whilst they were in sight of those at the inn the two brothers walked their horses soberly, not caring to make ill matters worse by seeming to run away from Little John, for they could not but think how it would sound in folks’ ears when they heard
how the brethren of Fountain Abbey scampered away from a strolling friar, like the Ugly One, when the blessed Saint Dunstan loosed his nose from the red-hot tongs where he had held it fast; but when they had crossed the crest of the hill and the inn was lost to sight, quoth the fat Brother to the thin Brother, “Brother Ambrose, had we not better mend our pace?”
“Why truly, gossip,” spoke up Little John, “methinks it would be well to boil our pot a little faster, for the day is passing on. So if it will not jolt thy fat too much, onward, say I.”
At this the two friars said nothing, but they glared again on Little John with baleful looks; then, without another word, they clucked to their horses, and both broke into a canter. So they galloped for a mile and more, and Little John ran betwixt them as lightly as a stag, and never turned a hair with the running. At last the fat Brother drew his horse’s rein with a groan, for he could stand the shaking no longer. “Alas,” said Little John, with not so much as a catch in his breath, “I did sadly fear that the roughness of this pace would shake thy poor old fat paunch.”
To this the fat Friar said never a word, but he stared straight before him, and he gnawed his nether lip. And now they travelled forward more quietly, Little John in the middle of the road whistling merrily to himself, and the two friars in the footpath on either side saying never a word.