Robin Hood: The Hooded Man

David Pilling

© David Pilling 2014.

David Pilling has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

First published in 2014.

This edition published in 2020 by Sharpe Books.

Contents

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

End Note.

Under the greenwood tree,

Who loves to lie with me

And tune his merry note

Unto the sweet bird’s throat

Come hither, come hither, come hither,

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather

- Amiens’ Song from As You Like It

1.

Taillebourg, Southwest France, 21st July 1242

The dash and fire of the French knights was irresistible. Led by their young king, Louis IX, they sallied from the castle of Taillebourg, overlooking the La Charente river on its lofty outcrop, and poured across the narrow stone bridge in a glittering tide.

Saint Denis! God for Louis! God for France!

Their war-shouts, mingled with the squalling trumpets and thundering hoofs, fell like a storm on the heads of the English footmen guarding the western end of the bridge.

“Hold them!” shouted Robin, straining his voice to make himself heard above the din, “stand fast, men of England. Hold your line!”

His spearmen were arranged in three ranks,  presenting a triple line of shields and stout ash spears to the onrushing French knights. If they stood firm, the wild charge might have been repelled.

Alas for faint hearts. Regardless of their captain’s shouts, the spearmen started to waver. Those in the front rank dropped their weapons and ran, determined to get away before the lances struck.

“Hold, damn you!” Robin screamed, though he knew it was so much wasted breath, “if you stand, you may live. If you run, you die. Come back, you cowards!”

It was no use, and Robin’s own courage faltered when he looked on that hurtling wave of steel and horseflesh. The arms of the French chivalry spun in his eyes, a bewildering menagerie of heraldic griffons and dragons, lions and grails and half-moons and other such devices. Above all flew the royal banner, the pattern of silver fleurs-de-lis against a rippling blue field.

The faces of the French knights were enclosed behind heavy casques. They were like so many demons, coming to claim a harvest in English souls. King Louis, a slender and heroic figure in his burnished silver mail, wore a golden crown on his helm. It caught the rays of the baking June sun, and for a moment Louis seemed to be crowned with a halo, suiting his intense piety.

“We are fighting an angel!” Robin heard someone wail, and then the French hit.

King Louis plunged fearlessly into the packed ranks of spears, swinging his heavy iron mace left and right. His destrier reared and bucked as she was trained to do, flailing her forelegs and snapping her teeth. One of her hoofs scraped down an Englishman’s face, churning it to bloodied ruin.

Her master clubbed down four men, crunching helms and cracking skulls, while his leading knights surged into the fray, spilling off the bridge and ploughing into the English. Cries of “Saint Denis!” and “King Louis!” filled the air as they impaled fleeing men on the tips of their heavy lances before switching to swords, axes and maces for the real butchery.

Robin’s command had collapsed like a hollow heap of sand. His horse was keen to bolt, panicked by the tide of fugitives streaming past her. He hauled back savagely on her reins and twisted in the saddle to look for reinforcements.

Behind him, fresh squadrons of English footmen were drawn up, mixed with French levies supplied by the King of England’s ally, Hugh of Lusignan.

They were in chaos. Marshals galloped back and forth, trying to scream and whip their men into a semblance of order. Only the Gascon crossbowmen kept their discipline, waiting in ordered lines for the order to advance and shoot.

Robin caught a glimpse of the royal banner of England, three golden pards against a red field, waving far to the rear of the army. Henry III himself was present. Unlike his rival, Henry skulked behind his troops, unwilling to risk his precious royal flesh in combat.

Fourteen years of soldiering had honed Robin’s instincts to a sword’s edge. He whipped around in time to see the Frenchman bearing down on him. A helmed and hauberked knight, faceless behind his bucket helm, red-painted lance dipped and aimed at Robin’s chest.

Robin flung himself out of the saddle, hitting the earth with a rib-jarring thump just as the knight’s lance skewered his horse’s neck. The unfortunate beast shrieked and rolled over in a spray of blood, part of the lance snapping off and remaining stuck in her flesh.

Bellowing muffled curses, her killer dropped the useless stump and reached for the axe hanging from his saddle-bow. Robin was already up, holding his spear in both hands and snarling as he thrust it at the knight’s helm.

His aim was true. The point of the spear passed through one of the eye-slits and stuck fast. There was a high-pitched shriek, and dark blood spat through the slit.

Robin jerked back on his spear, cast it away, and grabbed the knight’s flailing right hand. He pulled him out of the saddle and tried to leap aboard his destrier’s back. The big horse wanted none of him, and for a few moments beast and rider plunged in circles. Her hoofs accidentally trampled her master, lying prone in the dirt, while Robin struggled to climb athwart the saddle and seize the reins. 

After much cursing, he managed to get the horse under control and steer her head south, where the allied infantry were in full retreat.

The rout at the bridge had spread panic through the rest of the army. Louis and his knights pressed their advantage mercilessly, storming onto the field beyond the bridge and cutting down scores of terrified fugitives. The battle had become sport, with men as the game.

Since the bridge was too narrow to allow the whole of his force to cross, King Louis had ordered his infantry to launch an assault across the river using boats and pontoon bridges. While his knights did their bloody work, the French footmen crossed the river with all speed, careless of the missiles hurled at them by the Gascons and Brabant mercenaries drawn up on the opposite bank. 

Robin urged his stolen horse through the crumbling wreck of the allied army, leaning low over the beast’s neck and flaying her with his spurs. Long experience of war had taught him not to linger when the day was lost.

The allied banners still flew from the ridge overlooking the field, next to the village of Saint-James. If King Henry followed his rival’s example, put himself at the head of his household knights and led a counter-charge, something might yet be salvaged from this disaster. The combined weight of the English knights, along with the Lusignans and their allies, might be enough to throw back the French and drive their footmen into the river.

Robin’s faint hopes swiftly turned to despair. The Plantagenet banner started to move, not towards the fighting, but away from it, back down the road leading to the town of Saintes. Henry was quitting the field, his knights closing up around his person as they streamed away, kicking up great clouds of dust.

Hugh de Lusignan was not slow in following. He and his followers, lesser French barons who had joined his rebellion against King Louis, also departed the field without striking a blow. The disorderly mob of men and horses and banners galloped away as fast as they could, leaving their hapless levies and mercenaries to die.

Robin silently cursed them all, arrogant and cowardly noblemen who had brought their men here to fight and then abandoned them. He didn’t even truly understand the reasons for the war: some complex dispute over suzerainty with the King of France, with both sides resorting to force rather than reason, simply because it was easier.

Win or lose, it was all the same to the kings and their nobles. War was a game to them. Even if a knight was defeated and captured, he could always buy his freedom by paying a ransom. The common soldiers had no such options, and if captured were simply hanged or had their throats cut. 

Now he had to look to his own safety. “God preserve me,” he muttered, raking his spurs in harder until blood dripped from the horse’s flanks.

She was evidently used to such rough treatment from her former master, and found an extra burst of speed, carrying Robin through the dust-clouds swirling over the road.

Unlike the knights in their heavy armour, Robin was a mere captain, clad in a haubergeon and kettle hat, though the latter had fallen off during the fight. He was far lighter than the pursuing French knights and easily outpaced them. For a time he was alone on the road, keeping his horse at a hard gallop, with the banners of the fleeing allied knights in sight before him, the victorious French behind.

Robin had grown hardened to war and its wild swings of fortune, but was not immune to shame. 

“Curse me, but I am no better than those gutless whoresons who fled the battle,” he cried, slowing to a canter, “what of my men, who I left to be slaughtered like rats?”

He briefly considered turning back, to try and save what was left of his command, but what was the point? It was death to go back, and his men would be either slain or scattered. 

Some movement ahead, a half-mile or so down the road, caught his eye. A few of Henry’s knights were forming up into line of battle. Robin’s heart lifted at this late display of courage, and he shaded his eyes to make out the banner of their captain.

He knew the device instantly. A rearing white lion against a red field. Those were the arms of Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester and King Henry’s brother-in-law. His tall, spare figure was instantly recognisable.

De Montfort’s fame as a warrior and general without peer was already widespread. It was like him to take command of the rearguard in a desperate last-ditch defence, to stand firm while all others lost their heads and fled for safety.

Robin’s heart warmed to the man. He put his horse to the gallop again until he was inside shouting distance of de Montfort, who saw him coming and raised his right hand in a gesture to halt.

“You there,” cried the earl, “will you flee or fight? Too many of our common folk have died today. I will not compel another to do against his will.”

Robin slowed to a trot. This was the first time he had seen de Montfort at close quarters. The earl was still a youngish man, and handsome in a severe, ascetic sort of way, with a long nose, high cheekbones and sandy fair hair rapidly receding from a high forehead. He had put off his great helm, tucking it underarm while he put his knights in order, and his face was smeared with sweat and dust.

“I may be no knight, sir,” he said – Robin objected to calling any man save the king ‘lord’, and avoided it wherever possible – “but I have had my fill of running from these French dogs. I will stand with your men, if I may.”

De Montfort looked him up and down. Robin had heard tales of his stern piety, and wondered what he might say if he knew of Robin’s past, fighting alongside the Cathars in the Languedoc during the Albigensian Crusade. De Montfort’s father, another Simon, had been in command of the Crusading army charged with suppressing the heretical Cathars, and was killed by a stone during the siege of Toulouse.

Robin had absorbed the Cathar heresies and taken the illegal Sacrament of Consolation. Had he declared his heresy, de Montfort would have forgotten about the French and struck him dead on the spot.

Since the fall of Vereilles and Toulouse, the last Cathar strongholds, Robin had kept his beliefs locked in his heart, knowing they were unacceptable and disgusting to most. As ever, the mighty power of the Catholic church had crushed all opposition, putting to death or imprisonment all those who dared to offer a different interpretation of Christ.

“Join our ranks,” said de Montfort, “though it is a brave man who stands against mounted knights with naught but a rusting mail shirt between him and the hereafter. Someone give this man a shield.”

None of his knights moved to obey, so de Montfort made an impatient noise and beckoned Robin closer.

“Here,” he said, slipping his left arm out of the straps of his own shield, “take this. I will trust to my mail and the strength of my right arm to keep me safe.”

Taken aback by this generosity, Robin mumbled thanks and accepted the shield, clumsily fitting it to his own arm. It was heavier than the roundshields he was used to carrying, and large enough to protect the left side of his body from shoulder to knee.

Triangular in shape, a smaller version of the old kite shield, it was made of thin wood overlaid with a leather cover, and painted with the red and white arms of the de Montforts. Robin had to smile at the irony: he, a secret heretic, carrying the arms of one of the most fanatical enemies of his sect.

De Montfort had assembled some fifty knights and arranged them into two ranks. He trotted forward a few paces, rising a little in his stirrups to get a better view of the storm of dust rolling towards his position from the north.

“They come on fast,” he said, “too fast. Damn these French. Too much fire, too little discipline. They think us well beaten, and why not? We have showed little fight so far.”

He pulled up his mail coif and turned his head slightly. “Sirs, let us show them our true mettle,” he shouted, “there will be no ransom-taking here. Kill as many Frenchmen as possible. We must slow them enough to give King Henry time to escape.”

His knights raised their weapons and uttered a cry of ‘Saint George!’

De Montfort jammed his casque on his head, tied the laces, and lugged out his broadsword.

Robin took his place. None of the knights deigned to even look at him, never mind make space in their ranks, so he chose a spot on the extreme left of the front line. He drew his sword, a cheaper but no less efficient killing tool than the fine blade wielded by de Montfort, and waited.

The French were visible now. He counted sixty-eight of them, thundering down the road in no kind of order, more like huntsmen chasing deer than professional soldiers.

De Montfort raised his sword to signal the advance. His destrier shifted into a trot. The double line of knights surged forward behind him.

Robin kept pace with the second line. Bareheaded, mounted on a stolen horse he could scarce control and clutching a shield that affected his balance, he felt vulnerable. It would pay to be wary. 

De Montfort and his knights shifted into a canter. The ground quaked under the heavy tread of their horses. Something about the fury and courage of their charge infected Robin, making the blood pound in the veins of his neck.

“Saint George!” he roared, letting his warlike destrier have her head. She was trained for this, to carry her master into battle in a full-blooded gallop, regardless of danger, and required little urging to plunge into the fray.

De Montfort was already at hand-strokes with a French knight, their heavy blades striking sparks as they clanged together. Seeing the English advance, the French had closed ranks a little before both sides crashed together. 

Suddenly the road and its adjoining fields were a chaos of fighting men and neighing horses; the air full of dust and yells and screams, the clatter of steel and the thump of metal on wood, the occasional gasp or scream as steel plunged into flesh.

Few noticed Robin lurking on the edges of the fight. This was an affair for gentlemen of coat-armour, but the French were foolish to ignore him. He deliberately hung back and picked his targets, waiting for the initial fury to blow itself out.

He spied an English knight fighting for his life against two Frenchmen. They battered at him with mace and axe, raising splinters from his shield. The knight tried to strike back, but the axe chopped down on his mailed hand. Crying out in pain, he dropped his sword and bent over in the saddle, defenceless against their assault,

Robin spurred towards the smaller of the two Frenchmen, coming up behind him just as they were hacking at their victim’s helm, like smiths beating at a stubborn lump of metal.

He knew better than to use his sword’s edge against chainmail, and thrust the point at the French knight’s right arm, between his shoulder and elbow. The tip of the blade passed through the steel ringlets and the leather sleeve beneath, grinding on flesh and bone.

He yanked the sword free just as the Frenchman uttered a great yell of pain and wheeled his horse around, hot blood spurting down his arm. Robin gave him the point again, this time aiming for the links protecting the throat.

His aim was off, and the blade scraped harmlessly against chain mail. His wounded could not fight back, and took refuge behind his shield as Robin hacked and cut at him, trying to knock him from his seat. The unequal duel lasted a few more seconds until the Frenchman clapped spurs to his horse and galloped away, throwing up a spray of dust and earth.

Robin let him go and turned to deal with his comrade, but the battle had moved on. Knots of fighting men surged randomly across the field, like eddies in a fast-flowing river.

This was war how the nobility understood it, a glorified tourney with fair blows given and taken between men of equal valour and breeding.

Here, though, the pretty rules of chivalry were set aside. Robin saw an unhorsed knight, his left arm chopped off at the elbow, frenziedly beating the brains from a fallen opponent with the shattered remnant of a lance. Not far off, two men wielding broadswords hacked at each other. One proved quicker and fetched his foe a terrifying welt, carving his helm and the fragile skull inside clean in two, like a knife slicing through a pie.

“I have done my turn,” Robin muttered. He was about to get out of the melée before his luck expired, when he spotted the white lion banner lying crumpled on the ground.

Simon de Montfort’s standard bearer was down, lying sprawled with the life’s blood oozing from a sword-wound in his chest. De Montfort himself was isolated, unhorsed and fighting four Frenchmen at once.

They swarmed around him like hounds on a boar brought to bay, but the earl held his own with adroit skill. He turned and cut, thrust, hacked and parried, his sword dinted and dripping with French blood.

Without his shield, he was dangerously exposed. The ground under him was already speckled with his blood, dripping from minor wounds.

Robin’s instincts screamed at him to leave de Montfort, to get away, but for once he ignored them. His horse, however, had no interest in further heroics. Her flanks were slick with blood and sweat, and she whickered and tossed her head indignantly when he tried to urge her into another gallop.

Cursing, he slid from the saddle and ran towards de Montfort, weighed down by his heavy shield.

One of de Montfort’s assailants sensed his approach, and turned to face him. The Frenchman’s vision was severely restricted by the narrow eye-slit of his helm. Robin moved quickly, darting left and right, trying to strike at a weak point in his opponent’s armour.

The Frenchman was slow, but no fool. He got well behind his shield, staving off Robin’s wild blows and conserving his strength. He might have stood there until Doomsday, or at least until Robin ran out of breath, but reckoned without de Montfort.

The earl had felled two of his assailants, and the third was down on one knee, bleeding heavily. De Montfort spun around to deal with the fourth, and with a snarl of triumph thrust his sword through the man’s exposed back. It burst like a serpent’s tongue from his midriff, showering Robin with blood and entrails, before flickering out of sight.

Robin was quite used to gore, and treading on the innards of the dying, but shuddered with revulsion as he wiped the filth from his face. He felt sick, and rested for a moment, leaning on his blade, until the nausea passed.

“God help me,” he said, watching the dying Frenchman squirm and squeal in unspeakable pain, “what a slaughter.”

De Montfort was finishing off the last of his opponents.

“Mercy!” the fallen man begged, writhing on the ground under de Montfort’s foot, but the earl had none. He worked the tip of his sword into the Frenchman’s visor and rammed it home, leaning his entire weight on the blade.

“Done,” he said, nodding with grim satisfaction, his voice echoing inside the hollow chamber of his helm.

De Montfort’s personal victory seemed to demoralise the French. Already reeling under the ferocity of the English counter-attack, they started to peel away and retreat, back the way they had come. The bravest stayed to fight it out, choosing death over showing their backs to the enemy.

The fighting rapidly petered out into a few scattered combats, individual knights slugging wearily at each other. A few had collapsed, overwhelmed by heat and exhaustion, unable to draw adequate breath inside their stifling helms.

Now the battle was won, the English knights remembered the code of chivalry and moved about the field, helping to unlace the helms of those French knights that had succumbed to fatigue. One or two had already suffocated. Robin almost laughed at the sight of an English knight, kneeling next to an unconscious foe and attempting to revive him by slapping and blowing on his face.

De Montfort had tugged off his own helm and stood breathing hard, his long face puce with exertion.

“Good work,” he said, nodding at Robin, “two of these French rogues attacked me, and I had the beating of them. At three to one, we were well matched. At four to one, I found myself at something of a disadvantage. Your help is appreciated.”

The earl moved to inspect the corpse of his standard bearer.

“Poor Adam,” he said, shifting his sword into his left hand and making the sign of the cross, “he was a brave squire, and would have made a good knight.”

He looked ruefully across the reeking field. “Plenty of good knights have died today, or will never fight again. Rather more of theirs than ours, praise God.”

A bareheaded English knight cantered up to de Montfort. His surcoat was liberally splashed with blood and dirt. Robin failed to recognise the arms under it, three white fleurs-de-lys against a red field.

“What now, lord?” this man panted, wiping his brow, “the French are driven off, but their entire host will soon come thundering down this road.”

“I’m well aware of that,” said de Montfort, “all we can do is follow the king south, to Saintes.”

The knight shook his head. “We will never be able to hold Saintes, lord. Not against the power of the French and their siege engines. King Henry will have to retreat into Gascony.”

“Then we must follow him,” de Montfort replied irritably, “and back to England, if need be. The conduct of this war is not in my hands.”

But you wish it was, thought Robin as de Montfort turned to address him. Other than piety and courage, the earl’s other famous trait was arrogance.

“Name?” he snapped. Robin hesitated before giving it, but chose to set aside caution. His outlaw past was another world, fast receding into the mists of time. 

“Robin Hood, sir,” he replied. To his slight disappointment (now he had to smile at his own vanity) de Montfort showed no sign of recognising the name.

“The Lord put you in my way, Robin,” he said, offering his hand, “I am in your debt. How came you to be fighting in this mess today?”

Robin took the other’s hand and carefully shook it. “I was serving as a captain of archers in the garrison at Bordeaux, sir. When the King landed in Gascony, I quit my post and rode to join him. After so many years living among Frenchmen, I wanted to hear English voices again.”

De Montfort withdrew his hand and studied Robin, as he had done before the fight.

“Why should an Englishman who misses his countrymen stay out of England?” he mused, scratching his chin, “you have a villainous look about you, Robin. I have looked into the eyes of many such men, thieves and cut-purses and the like, before hanging them. I would lay odds there is a cold dungeon and a high gallows waiting for you back home.”

De Montfort laughed at Robin’s carefully blank expression.

“Never mind,” he said cheerfully, “your history is none of my concern, and wars would be brief affairs if we hanged every soldier with a criminal past.”

The laugh wrought a startling change in de Montfort, melting the iron in his demeanour and making him a more human, attractive figure.

“You will accompany us to Saintes,” he said, in a friendly but commanding tone, “where I will discharge my debt. A hefty purse of gold, perhaps, or the captaincy of some garrison in a quiet part of France. Which would you prefer?”

“Both, sir,” Robin replied. De Montfort laughed again and clapped him on the shoulder.

2.

The English rearguard rode with all haste to Saintes, only to find that King Henry had already quit the town and fled into Gascony. He left a small garrison to defend the walls against the inevitable French siege. The captain informed de Montfort of Henry’s furious quarrel with his ally, Hugh de Lusignan.

“The King blamed the Comte de la Marche for the defeat at Taillebourg,” the captain said when he met de Montfort outside the gates of the town, “and the Comte de la Marche blamed the King. Eventually they parted ways, taking the best part of their followers and leaving us here to await the onslaught of the French.”

He was clearly a frightened man, and Robin had considerable sympathy for him: another expendable no-mark, deserted by his noble masters and told to spill his blood in their futile, self-serving cause.

De Montfort’s pale face turned paler still as he listened to the tale. “King Henry is an even worse soldier than his father, whom men called Softsword,” he growled, turning his head to spit in contempt, “even John would have put up a better fight than this. Henry has retreated into Gascony, then?”

“Yes, lord,” replied the other, though he looked shocked at the careless treason of de Montfort’s words, “to Bordeaux.” 

“You might as well have stayed at your old post,” de Montfort said wryly, turning to Robin, “I wager you didn’t expect to return to Bordeaux so soon.”

The earl lingered for a parting word with the captain. “When the French arrive, I advise you to surrender immediately,” he said, “you cannot hold the town against King Louis, or hope for any relief from Henry. Louis is a good and soft-hearted man. He will allow you and your men quarter. God be with you.”

“And you, lord,” the other man said gratefully. De Montfort gave the order for his knights to turn about and led them south, following the highway to Bordeaux. 

They arrived to find the port city in a state of flux. The streets were packed with English soldiers, many of whom had imbibed too freely of the wine for which the city and its surrounding region was famous.

Groups of drunken infantrymen roamed the city, picking fights with the natives and taking what they liked, smashing in shop doors and windows and dragging out the goods inside. Others lay slumped on the steps of inns and wine-shops, insensible with stolen drink. 

The look of disgust on De Montfort’s face deepened as he led his knights towards the Abbey of Saint André, where the pious King Henry had taken residence. Robin found it difficult to tell what angered the earl more: the calamitous lack of discipline among the English troops, or Henry’s failure to enforce any.

The towering facade of the huge abbey rose before them, its twin spires thrusting towards Heaven. Robin had spent some nine months in the city, and was aware that Eleanor of Aquitaine had been married here, to the French king Louis VII. Their marriage had ended in disaster, and Eleanor had eloped with Henry of Anjou, later Henry II of England.

Henry’s progeny still ruled England and the pathetic rump of his once-mighty empire in France. King Henry the Third was not forged of the same steel as his famous ancestor, and had fled here, to the refuge of a church, from the fury of his enemies.

Robin had to force himself to follow de Montfort into the huge, echoing nave of the abbey. He had always hated churches and churchmen. His acceptance of Catharism had only fuelled that hatred.

Why does Christ allow the princes of the Catholic church to make themselves so wealthy and powerful, he thought, and live in these obscene palaces? Why does He permit them to flout the rules of Saint Peter?

These were questions he had wrestled with in recent years, before finally rejecting the simple love of the Virgin Mary that had defined his youth. According to Cathar belief, the doctrine of the virgin birth was false: Christ was pure spirit, and had never existed in any base, physical form. Material things of the body were by their nature and essence corrupt, and thus Christ was never crucified or underwent any form of bodily resurrection.

Robin had been drawn to Catharism due to its rejection of the earthly trappings of wealth and power. However, he was a practical man at heart, and did not share many of the more extreme beliefs of many of his fellow heretics. The rejection of sex, as a continuation of the human soul’s entrapment in physical evil, and the belief in marriage as a form of prostitution, he found difficult to accept. As an active fighting soldier, he also could not renounce violence or share in the frugal diet of many Cathars, who refused to consume meat, eggs, cheese and any form of fat save vegetable oil and fish.

Robin’s selective attitude towards the faith had enraged the perfecti or ‘perfect ones’, the unofficial priests of Catharism. At the siege of Vereilles they condemned his acceptance of the Sacrament of Consolation for a lie, and ordered him to quit the town on pain of death. Ironically, this decision saved his life, but not theirs. When the town finally fell, the Crusaders butchered every heretic they found inside.

His heavy thoughts were distracted by the sight of the King, standing in the centre of the transept at the end of the great nave. Robin had only seen him from a distance before, but recognised the stocky figure, still wearing his armour and an open-faced helm crowned by a golden circlet. His crimson surcoat displayed the three golden pards of the Plantagenets, their lustre slightly dimmed by the dust of the road.

Henry was surrounded by priests, courtiers and barons, all jabbering at him and each other like a pack of excited geese. He appeared to have no control over them, and listened with almost saintly patience to their wildly conflicting advice.

The voices died down as all eyes turned to de Montfort, stalking towards Henry with a grim look in his eye. All but two of de Montfort’s knights had remained outside. Robin took care to lag behind these three, using them as a buffer between him and the royal presence.

“You!” de Montfort shouted, pointing his long arm at Henry like a spear, “for this day’s bungling you deserve to share the fate of Charles the Simple - thrown into prison and kept there, by God, until you learn some sense!”

Robin had no idea who Charles the Simple was, but de Montfort’s plain speech took his breath away. No-one, not even a belted earl, spoke like that towards the King of England unless they wanted to court death. De Montfort possessed no obvious suicidal tendencies, so Robin could only assume the earl’s rage had got the better of him.

The vaulted ceiling of the abbey echoed to the gasps of Henry’s followers. Robin tensed, waiting for an explosion of royal wrath and indignation. Henry was said to be a milder man than his father, the monstrous King John, but he could hardly swallow such an insult in public.

To Robin’s amazement, the king did just that. “It’s not my fault,” Henry whined, looking and sounding like a spoiled child, “that traitor Lusignan promised we would meet with greater support in France. I wasn’t to know he was lying. Half the French barons who fought for King Louis today were supposed to be on our side. I was betrayed!”

“You were a fool!” de Montfort shouted, “if we lacked the numbers to face Louis, why did you give battle? Hundreds of good Englishmen now lie dead, their bodies scattered beside the La Charente, thanks to your poor judgment!”

A man stepped forward from the ranks of Henry’s supporters. He was remarkably similar in appearance to the king, though brown-haired where Henry was fair, and also wore the pards on his breast. Robin guessed him to be Henry’s younger brother, Richard, Earl of Cornwall, reputed to be far more intelligent than his sibling.

“This wrangling is unseemly,” he said in a gentle balm of a voice, holding up his hands, “especially here, in this holy place. Regardless of the causes, we have suffered a defeat, and must now mend the damage as best we may.”

Henry stamped his foot, his mailed foot ringing on the flagstone. “I will discuss policy in private council,” he said huffily, “not in the open, chattering away like a pack of magpies. Simon, you are dismissed. Come and speak to us again this evening, when your temper has cooled.”

That might have been the end of it, but Robin saw his opportunity. As the king turned away, he pushed forward and touched de Montfort’s arm.

“Sir,” he said urgently, “I would ask you to discharge your debt to me now. Let me speak to the king.”

De Montfort glanced at him in surprise. The earl’s cheeks were still pale with anger, but he coughed and appeared to make a great effort to master his temper.

“A moment, sire,” he said, “there is a man here who wishes to speak with you. He saved my life in battle today.”

Henry turned back, his plump face wrinkling with irritation. Robin knelt before him and bowed his head.

“Well, what is it?” the king said impatiently, “out with it, fellow. You are after some reward, I suppose.”

Robin drew in a breath before replying. He had waited fourteen years for this. Fourteen long, hard years, weighed down by guilt and hardship. Now God had seen fit to place him on a knife-edge, with death yearning at him on one side, life and freedom the other.

“Pardon, sire,” he said, “grant me and my wife Matilda pardon for our crimes. We were both outlawed in England.”

“I thought as much,” remarked de Montfort. Henry ignored him.

“An outlaw,” he said indifferently, “you have some impudence, kneeling before me and demanding pardon. Still, you are not the only wolfshead to take service in my army. What is your name?”

Robin shut his eyes. “I am Robin Hood, sire.”

Silence. Henry seemed nonplussed, and then gave a false little laugh. “Robin Hood,” he said, “poor man, you are unfortunate enough to carry the same name as another outlaw. He used to haunt the northern parts of England, years ago. Perhaps your father named you after him. No, you are too old. God’s bones, did you take your name in honour of the villain?”

Robin felt the presence of Christ, there, in that false church, a temple piled up to the vanity and wickedness of priests. He drew strength and comfort from the holy spirit, enough to look up and meet the king’s eyes.

Mild blue eyes, soft and gentle, but capable of blazing with heat if their owner was crossed.

“No sire,” he replied calmly, “I was not given his name, nor did I take it. I am the Robin Hood you speak of. Fourteen years back I led a band of outlaws in Barnsdale and Sherwood.”

The royal eyes widened, the royal eyebrows shot up, and another gasp rippled through the ranks of courtiers.

“You lie,” said Henry, “The Hooded Man is dead. Fulk Fitzwarin brought me his head, all those years ago.”

“Not my head, sire. Lord Fitzwarin betrayed you. He executed a man who looked like me, a poacher from his manors in Shropshire, and sent you his head in place of mine.”

“Another lie. Why would Fitzwarin have risked the wrath of his king and spared the likes of you, a common outlaw?”

“Because I helped him, sire. Like the good earl who stands behind me, he was in my debt. He thought to placate you and discharge his debt to me at the same time.”

Henry chewed his bottom lip, his mind clearly struggling with this unexpected development. “Get up, man,” he commanded, “I can’t think with you kneeling there, staring up at me like a dog waiting for a treat.”

Robin rose and stepped back to stand beside de Montfort. The earl’s anger was quite vanished. He stood with arms folded, looking with amused interest from Robin to the king. Richard of Cornwall was also listening intently, his smooth, rounded face carefully stripped of emotion.

“The only mercy you deserve is a quick hanging,” Henry said at last, “you and your men robbed priests on the highway and raided barns belonging to the church, selling off the grain cheap or giving it away to the poor. You expect to be given a free pardon for these outrages?”

Robin held his nerve. “In those respects I was no different from any of your northern barons, sire,” he said, “I could name several who came to me in the forest, pledging money and armed support to fight the greed and tyranny of Roman clergymen. A few of them, or their sons, are serving with you here in France. I have seen their banners. Should I list them?”

“No!” Henry barked hurriedly, “you will hold your accursed tongue, or lose it.” 

Cornwall chose this moment to intervene. “Did you not humiliate the papal inquisitor, Odo de Sablé?” he asked, “and send him back to London, tarred and feathered and strapped to the back of a donkey?”

“I did, sir,” Robin replied, noting with relief the smile playing on Cornwall’s lips. No-one save the most committed slave to piety could have held any affection for de Sablé, a ruthless and murderous agent of the Holy See, who had sent innocent men to the stake. 

 Robin sensed a coldness in de Montfort. The earl’s famous piety was genuine – there were rumours he wore a hair shirt under his night-clothes – and would prevent him from approving of Robin’s attacks on Italian clergy.

“You slew an agent of the Pope?” he asked, looking at Robin with new eyes, filled with horror.

“Not slew, sir,” Robin answered, “I scattered his followers but spared his life. I sought to teach him some Christian humility, and respect for his fellow beings.”

Cornwall snorted. “You failed. De Sablé is still alive, and doing what he pleases to call God’s work in Germany. They say he will wear a Cardinal’s hat one day. Perhaps his zeal for setting fire to heretics may lift him even higher.”

Robin said nothing. He was painfully aware of de Sablé’s continued existence, and had often dreamed of hunting the man down, but lacked the means. Despite his failure in England, the inquisitor still stood high in the favour of the Pope, and travelled everywhere with a large retinue of Hospitallers.

“I recommend you spare this man,” said Cornwall to the King, “and grant him the pardons he asks for. His crimes are all long in the past, and he has done a service today.”
Robin detected a hidden meaning to Cornwall’s words. It would be far simpler and easier to grant a pardon, than risk breaking open old wounds. Robin had not been the only northerner to revolt against King Henry’s imposition of foreign clergy in England. Many of his fellow rebels had been men of power and substance.

Henry was clearly struggling to make a decision. His mouth worked, and he plucked nervously at the fingers of the gauntlet on his left hand.

“Oh, by the Face of Lucca!” he cried in exasperation, “I have enough to do without wrangling over the lives of a couple of miserable outlaws. De Montfort, you brought this man to me, and I give him back to you. I charge you with holding him in custody until I have decided his fate.”

 He turned and hurried away, followed by his brother and the rabble of courtiers. Before he went, Cornwall gave Robin a conspiratorial wink.

A heavy hand landed on Robin’s shoulder. “Had I known you were an enemy of holy church,” de Montfort said sternly, “I might have thought twice before bringing you into the king’s presence. What were you thinking, admitting such a past before your monarch?”

Robin faced the earl without fear. “I have lived long enough in exile,” he replied quietly, “and want to see England, and my wife, again before I die. I did not tell the king everything.”

De Montfort looked at him in disbelief. “My God!” he exclaimed, “you’re an uncomfortable man. There is more?”

“Yes, sir. I left England because Lord Fitzwarin had my wife in custody, and threatened to kill her if I ever returned. She was an outlaw, like me, and could be slain with impunity. A royal pardon would change everything. Fitzwarin and his son betrayed us, but I do not believe they would commit murder.”

De Montfort rubbed his face and exchanged baffled glances with his knights. “I should not like to have your enemies,” he said, “papal inquisitors and barons of the realm, and no doubt more besides. You have done well to live this long. How do you know your wife is still alive and in Fitzwarin’s keeping?”

Robin shrugged. “I don’t, sir. The king’s pardon would allow me the opportunity to return home and look for her.”

“As to the pardon,” said de Montfort, “that is down to the King, though you seem to have made a friend in Cornwall. One shameless rogue calling to another.”

“Take this man to my quarters,” he ordered his knights, “and place him under guard in the cellar. If he tries anything clever, kill him.”

Robin obediently marched towards the abbey doors, flanked by de Montfort’s men. They watched him warily, hands resting on the pommels of their swords.

He had no interest in escaping. It was his choice to leave the Bordeaux garrison and join the royal army, and his choice to fight alongside de Montfort in the rearguard action near Taillebourg. The war had come at an opportune moment. Only by distinguishing himself in the eyes of the King, and thereby winning a pardon, could he obtain the means to see England again.

England, and Matilda. 

*

Robin was held prisoner in de Montfort’s quarters, a fine stone house near the centre of Bordeaux, for three days. Confined to an empty cellar, he was treated well enough, and given regular meals and watered wine to drink.

His attempts at striking up conversation with his gaolers fell flat, and he suspected that de Montfort had ordered his servants not to speak to the prisoner. A hard man and a hard master, was his assessment of the Earl of Leicester, but not an unfair one. 

On the third evening the heavy door of the cellar swung open, and three men entered. Robin grimaced in distaste at the first, a priest wearing the brown robe of the Carmelites. His face was pinched and sallow, with a high, arched nose and a mean little mouth.

The men behind him were soldiers, men-at-arms wearing the white lion of de Montfort on their surcoats. Their beefy faces wore an impassive look that Robin knew well: he had worn it often enough himself. Whatever happened in the cellar, no matter how unpleasant, these men would claim they were merely following orders.

The cellar was lit by a single arched window, narrow and barred, set high in one wall. Dusk was falling, and the reddish light of the setting sun slanted through the bars, falling on the priest’s face and lending him a devilish aspect.

“His lordship should have clapped this wretch in irons,” he said, halting when he spied Robin sitting on a pile of old straw in the corner, “beware, lest he springs for our throats.”

Robin grinned, deliberately exposing his teeth. “Good evening to you, brother,” he said, “have you come to pray over my soul?”

He wondered if de Montfort had sent the priest to take his confession, which would mean he was condemned to hang after all. Robin had lived in the shadow of death long enough not to care overmuch for himself. He did feel pang of guilt for Matilda, the woman he had deserted and would never see again.

“Speak not of your soul,” the priest replied, withdrawing one hand from its heavy sleeve to make the sign of the cross, “it is in the Evil One’s keeping, though he shall have to wait for it a while longer. The Earl of Leicester has sent me here to inform you that the King has granted your pardon.”

  Relief and excitement swept through Robin, but he was not safe yet.

“Why did he send you to tell me?” he demanded, rising slowly into a crouch, arms hanging loosely by his sides. The soldiers stepped forward, half-drawing their swords.

The priest smiled thinly. “His Majesty grants no free pardons to enemies of holy mother church, even if their crimes are long in the past. There is a price for your remission. You will be taken to the Abbey of Saint André and flogged within sight of the altar until not an inch of whole skin remains on your back. Afterwards, in the presence of my lord the king and the abbot, you will swear on a reliquary to break no more laws, and commit no more sinful outrages against God.”

Robin fought to keep a straight face. The flogging he could stand – his body was already covered in old scars, so a few more made no odds – and the oath on a reliquary, a jewelled box containing the bones of dead saints, meant nothing to him.

To a Cathar, the physical remains of so-called saints were irrelevant. Mere chaff. To regard them as in some way precious, or imbued with any kind of power, was absurd.

The priest was staring at him expectantly, as though waiting for some sign of fear or contrition. Robin was something of a play-actor, and thought it best to indulge him.

“Praise be to God,” he cried, falling to his knees and clasping his hands in mock prayer, “praise be for my deliverance, and the mercy of kings.”

3.

Nottinghamshire, England 

The High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire was an extremely busy man. He enjoyed little time for pleasure, and spent as much of it as possible hunting inside the royal forests of Sherwood or the High Peak. 

When in Sherwood, he stayed at King John’s old hunting lodge in Clipstone, a comfortable residence where he could relax after the day’s sport and swap tales with his huntsmen and foresters. 

“The air in the forest is pure,” he would say, “and serves to cleanse my palate after a long, tedious day in the courtroom, listening to the lies of poachers and thieves.”

The sheriff’s name was William de Cantilupe. He had followed the usual path of Anglo-Norman barons, serving faithfully on King Henry’s various doomed French expeditions before being entrusted with a shrievalty.

Privately, de Cantilupe was a very different creature to most of his peers. Born with a questioning intellect, he had deliberately buried it in the hard physical exercise of war and the chase. He appreciated that those who questioned the world around them were destined never to progress in it, and put themselves at risk.

While in France he had witnessed a Cathar heretic being torn apart by wild horses for the amusement of a cheering mob. De Cantilupe’s nights were haunted by the memory of the poor wretch, screeching defiance even as his limbs were wrenched from their sockets, and taken it as a salutary lesson: a man must obey the law of king and church, or face destruction.

Having set aside his intellect, his conscience went with it, and he presided over the executions of men who stole to feed their families without a qualm. Now in his mid-forties, de Cantilupe congratulated himself on steering a wise path through life, and looked forward to sliding gently into a peaceful and prosperous old age.

One particularly fine summer’s morning, he rode forth from the lodge with a hawk on his wrist and a brace of hounds at his heels. His spirits rode as high as the sun, hanging like a bronze shield in a cloudless sky, and his blood thrilled to the wild yelping of the hounds and the promise of a day’s bloodletting to come.

The hawk had other ideas. A young, yellow-breasted peregrine, she had only recently had her eyes unsealed. Fancying himself an expert huntsman, the Sheriff had taken her from the falconer too quickly.

De Cantilupe spotted a brace of pigeons flying overhead, and halted to peel the hood from the hawk’s eyes.

“Away!” he cried, raising his arm to fling the bird high into the sky. Instead she hopped up his arm and sank her talons into his flesh.

The Sheriff’s hunting cry turned into a yell of pain. He waved his arm frantically, trying to shake off the stubborn bird. She in turn panicked, flapping her wings and pecking at his eyes.

De Cantilupe was rescued by two of his huntsmen, who galloped up and coaxed the hawk from his arm, though they could do nothing to soothe their lord’s temper.

“I’ll have the damn thing plucked and roasted!” he roared, “look – she has torn chunks from my arm! What in God’s name do I pay Gervase for? He is supposed to train birds to hunt game, not their masters!”

Gervase was the name of his falconer, and there was indeed blood running down his upper arm, where the hawk’s talons had clawed him.

His day’s sport ruined, de Cantilupe returned to the lodge in a foul mood, to wash and dress his wound. He arrived to find a messenger waiting for him in the form of a thin-faced Carmelite priest.

De Cantilupe was always nervous in the presence of churchmen. They were the enforcers of God’s law, and enjoyed access to those divine mysteries that had always troubled him. In the darkest, innermost recesses of his soul, he had sometimes experienced doubts: doubts that would certainly condemn him to the fire, if he was ever fool enough to express them.

He hid his nervousness under a bluff, irritable demeanour. “Come to preach me a sermon, brother?” he snapped, wincing as he dipped his bleeding arm into a bowl of water.

“No, lord,” the other replied smoothly, “my name is Brother Frances of Bordeaux. I have journeyed here from Gascony, carrying a message for you from the Earl of Leicester.”

The Sheriff started, upsetting the bowl. Leicester was one of the most powerful men in England. De Cantilupe had seen him on occasion, in London and Winchester, but the two had never spoken.

“What does the earl want with me?” he demanded, regarding the priest with loathing. Why did this damned shaveling have to come here and disturb his peace?

“I know not, lord,” replied Brother Frances in the same smooth tone, “I am merely his envoy.” 

He withdrew a piece of folded vellum from his sleeve. De Cantilupe snatched it and checked the seal, silently cursing as he recognised the lion of de Montfort.

Taking deep breaths to quell his panic, he broke open the seal and unfolded the vellum. Inside, written in a neat, businesslike hand, was a brief note:

“To Sir William de Cantilupe, High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire and the Royal Forests, greetings from Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester.

Know, my lord, that The Hooded Man is unchained. Beware.”

De Cantilupe’s brow wrinkled. “The Hooded Man,” he said, “that old legend. Why in God’s name is de Montfort bothering me with it? The war in France should be claiming his attention.”

“Legend, my lord?” said Brother Frances.

“Yes…oh, well, there is some truth to it. Many years ago, an outlaw calling himself The Hooded Man made trouble for one of my predecessors. A Yorkshireman, I believe. He’s dead, but the tales of his exploits are still popular among the people. There have been four or five Hooded Men since. Peasant boys, trying to ape their dead hero. I hanged one a few months ago.”

Brother Frances gave a little cough. “My lord, I fear you have been misinformed. The one you call The Hooded Man is not dead. With my own hand, I recently helped to flog the skin from his back in the Abbey of Saint André in Bordeaux.”

De Cantilupe stared at him. “This is a bad joke,” he said, failing to hide the quaver in his voice, “you come here and waste my valuable time with some foolish tale of resurrection. The man you flogged, was his name Lazarus? The Hooded Man’s head has been rotting on a pole over the Tower for the past fourteen years. What in hells was his true name? Robin, that was it. Robin Hood.”

“No, my lord,” said the priest, giving another of his irritating little coughs and wagging his head, “the villain confessed all in the presence of the king himself. Robin Hood is alive, and has spent these past fourteen years in exile in France. His Majesty ought to have hanged him from the nearest tree, but instead gave him a pardon. His only punishment was a whipping, and being made to swear on holy relics not to sin again.”

“Now he is on his way back to England,” he added, “de Montfort had no reason to hold him a prisoner any longer. He may already be on English soil.”

De Cantilupe clutched his head. “Why has de Montfort contacted me?” he asked slowly.

“The good earl was in part responsible for the outlaw’s pardon. He didn’t realise, until it was too late, that Robin Hood was an enemy of holy church. He seeks to make amends.”

Make amends. De Cantilupe could have choked on the weasel phrase. “Speak plain, brother,” he growled, “what you mean is that de Montfort wants me to kill him.”

“He merely sends you a warning, lord Sheriff,” said Brother Frances, unabashed, “this outlaw caused your predecessor a deal of trouble, and could do the same again for you. He will never hold to his oath. The King was naïve to think that such a rogue cares a whit for saint’s bones.”

“So I am to be made a murderer. Think, you fool. Robin Hood carries a royal pardon. All his past crimes are forgiven. I have no lawful reason to lay hands on him.”

“As I said, I am merely the messenger,” Brother Frances said stiffly, “the matter rests with you.”

The sheriff’s mind grappled with the problem. He was caught between Scylla and Charybdis. If he failed to do what the wretched note implied, and put an end to Robin Hood, he risked making an enemy of the Earl of Leicester. If he slew the man, with no formal trial, the foul crime of murder would lie on his conscience, such as it was.

On the other hand…Robin Hood had once posed a serious threat to the peace of the realm. From the sound of it, he was still young and strong enough to resume his troublesome ways. Homicide was sometimes justified in the interests of the realm.

De Cantilupe liked an easy life, but he was no dilettante. The Hooded Man would not return to Sherwood, not while he was Sheriff.

“You may go back to Gascony,” he said, “inform the Earl of Leicester that I thank him for his warning, and shall deal with the problem.”

The Sheriff set out from Clipstone shortly after the midday meal, and barely an hour later rode through the gates of Nottingham Castle. Tossing the reins of his lathered horse to a groom, he stalked up the timber steps into the keep and retired to a private chamber, to think with the assistance of a quart of Rhenish wine.

First, he tried to recall who was Sheriff when Robin Hood vanished.

“Not counting myself, there have been four Sheriffs since those days,” he muttered, “let me see. Hugh Fitz Ralph, Robert de Vavasour, Brian de Lisle, Eustace of Lowdham.”

He snapped his fingers. Eustace of Lowdham. That was the man. The former High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire - and Yorkshire as well for a time - was an old man now, living out an enviable retirement in Lowdham, his birthplace, where he had built a fine manor house for himself and his family.

De Cantilupe briefly considered sending for Lowdham to question him about The Hooded Man, but dismissed the idea. If Lowdham had been halfway competent, instead of the jumped-up clerk he was, Robin Hood would be safely rotting in the ground.

Besides, the less people who knew about Robin’s survival, the better. Murder was always a grubby and secretive affair, and Brother Frances had told him some disquieting things about the outlaw’s former allies. It seemed he had fought alongside a number of important men, the Percies among them.

The Sheriff shuddered. Richard de Percy, that ageing warrior, needed little excuse to take up arms against royal authority again. There were others, stubborn, rebellious northern barons, forever seething with discontent at the king’s heavy taxes and futile foreign wars. The return of Robin Hood might be akin to a flaming brand landing on a pile of dry tinder. 

“De Montfort is no fool after all,” said de Cantilupe, staring out of the arrow-slit window, “the man has to go.”

His mind switched to the means of disposal. There were sixty men in the Nottingham garrison, but this task required more subtle weapons than swords and crossbows.

Every Sheriff employed spies and secret agents, otherwise they wouldn’t last long in the job. De Cantilupe currently had six on his payroll. He flitted through their names and abilities, mulling over which was best suited to put a knife between Robin Hood’s shoulders.

One name rose above all. Part of de Cantilupe, the tiny part he had not buried under ambition and expediency, rebelled at the thought of using this one’s services again. 

It was disgusting. It was repellent. It had to be done.

“For the good of the realm,” he muttered, and reached for a quill.

4.

It was a stiff-backed former outlaw who paid for a berth aboard one of the many merchant vessels set to carry wine from Bordeaux to Southampton, and wearily lay in his narrow cot below deck.

The monks of Saint André had not stinted with their whips. Watched by the King, two of them had taken it in turns to give Robin forty strokes. During the flogging he knelt, stripped to the waist, and kept his eyes fixed on the great silver crucifix adorning the altar.

His mind was elsewhere. While the lengths of knotted leather bit cruelly into his naked back, Robin prayed to Christ, the true Christ of the spirit, He who waited to embrace all human souls when they had finally escaped their corrupted prisons of flesh.

The pain was worse than he had imagined. He did his best not to try out, knowing what satisfaction it would give his tormentors, but a few involuntary yells still escaped his lips. The flogging seemed to last an eternity, each blow worse than the last, pain piling on pain until the blood sheeted down his back and dripped onto the flagstones.

When they were done, Robin was made to stand and swear an oath on the reliquary, held reverently by the abbot. Two soldiers had to prop him up while he stretched out a trembling hand and laid it on lid of the elaborate jewel-encrusted box.

The ship’s captain was in a hurry, and wasted no time in hoisting sail and steering his ship out of port. Robin gasped as the pitch and roll of the deck caused the half-healed scars on his back to throb.

To take his mind off the pain, he recalled the words of the oath they made him utter: “I swear, on the finger-bone of Saint Dunstan, never again to break the law of man and God, upon pain of the destruction of mine body and soul, so help me God, amen.”

Robin smiled. The oath was ludicrous, a typical church abomination. As if a finger-bone belonging to Dunstan, whoever he might have been, had the power to constrain the living!

He pictured the pale, solemn faces of the monks, and the look of constipated piety on the face of King Henry, and laughed out loud.

It had taken Robin five days to recover from the flogging. Five days and nights, lying on his front in the backroom of a tavern owned by an ex-comrade of his from the garrison. The Frenchman’s wife had tenderly salved the stripes on his back with spirits of wine, soft ointments and bandages, and thanks to her skilful treatment Robin recovered quicker than he thought possible.

Now he was on his way to England. The two royal pardons, one for him and one for Matilda, written out by a royal clerk and bearing the royal seal, were tucked safely inside the lining of his belt.

His thoughts turned to home. Home, after fourteen years of exile and hard soldiering. In all that time, he had not heard from his wife, or from any of the men he had once led as outlaws in Barnsdale and Sherwood.

They all think I am dead, he thought, shifting uncomfortably as the ship gave another lurch, what will they think when they see me? How many are still alive?  

Robin had left England out of necessity, but many of his followers would not see it like that. They would accuse him of desertion. Betrayal. He had fled the country, leaving them to face the rough justice of the law.

Robin had long since wearied of arguing with his conscience. “I had no choice,” he said aloud, as he had done countless times in the past fourteen years, “I had no choice.”

He stayed below for most of the crossing to Southampton, which was thankfully quick and smooth. While the wine casks were unloaded, he shook hands with the captain and walked stiffly down the gangplank onto the jetty.

“English air,” he said, stretching his arms until his shoulders clicked, “God be thanked.”

The air on a dockside was none too pure, but Robin sucked in great lungfuls of the stuff, as though the stench of rotting fish and unwashed sailors and all the muck of a busy harbour was fragrant perfume.

It was raining, and the sky was clouded over with thick smears of grey cloud. Robin tilted his face upwards until the rain soaked through his hair and beard and down his back.

“Home,” he whispered, and set off to find a halfway reputable horse-dealer.

God continued to smile on Robin. Shortly afterwards he was riding north, on the highway leading to Reading. Before leaving France he had obtained his back pay from the Bordeaux garrison, along with his wages for serving in the royal army, and had been able to afford a fine dappled grey mare.

She was young and strong, with good wind, and Robin reckoned he would reach Nottingham in four or five days if he kept her at a steady canter.

The weather was going to be a problem. Robin had forgotten how it could rain in England, and how the lowering skies could remain the same miserable, slate-grey colour for days on end.

His initial joy on feeling English rain and wind on his face quickly soured. The wide, rutted highway was already churned up by the regular passage of men, horses and carts, and the pelting rain turned the surface into a quagmire. Huddled up in his thick cloak and hooded mantle, Robin had no choice but to endure the tempest.

He spent the night at an inn on the outskirts of Reading, nursing a cup of mulled wine and listening quietly to the talk of the other guests. They were merchants, mostly, small cloth and wool traders from the Midlands. Their shopkeeper’s talk was of scant interest to him.

He was drowsing in his stall, and just contemplating trudging up to bed, when a name caught his attention.

“I have three wagonloads of Scarlet’s wool outside,” remarked one of the men in the stall behind him, “he’ll have my bloody hide if it doesn’t reach Calais on time, but these roads are impossible.”

“Hard master, is he?” his companion asked sympathetically. 

“A tyrant. Always looking for a reason to take a penny or two off our wages. Not as bad as his father, mind. Old John Scarlet was as sour-faced a miser as ever drew breath.”

Robin got up and approached their stall. “Your pardon for the interruption,” he said courteously, “I could not help but overhear your talk. Is it Will Scarlet you speak of?”

They glared at him suspiciously, as well they might. Robin was an intimidating figure, well over six feet tall, brown-skinned and scarred from his long years of soldiering in France. His mail shirt, and the broadsword and dagger stuck into his belt marked him out as a fighter, and someone not to be crossed.

“That’s right,” the first speaker replied nervously, a plump, balding little man, “William Scarlet, wool merchant of Blidworth, is my master.”

Blidworth was a small hamlet, a few miles north of Nottingham, and Will Scarlet’s birthplace. Scarlet had been one of Robin’s followers in the old days. Evidently he had shed his outlaw past and taken up his father’s rather more respectable profession.

“Thriving, is he?” Robin asked.

“I should say,” the little man replied with a bitter laugh, “the bugger has a gift for spinning wool into coin. One of the most prosperous traders in Nottinghamshire, or anywhere in England, for that matter.”

“My thanks,” said Robin, and returned to his seat.

Blidworth, he thought, now I have something to aim for. I will visit Will and ask what he knows of Matilda’s fate.

Three days later he was on the Great North Road as it passed through Charnwood Forest in Leicestershire. Much of the so-called forest had been cleared and given over to farmland, but there were still stretches of thick woodland.

Robin was ambushed while riding over a wooded stretch of high ground. The woods to his left were dominated by a rocky overhang, twice the height of a man. He had his eye on it as a possible hiding place, and sure enough a hooded figure dropped from the ledge and sprang onto the road in front of him.

“Halt!” cried the figure in the warbling voice of adolescence. The string of his shortbow shuddered as he pulled it back to his chest.

Robin had already eased his mare to a halt. He relaxed, hands folded on the pommel of his saddle, and quickly studied the archer.

Young, he thought, too young for this work. A serf. Bare legs and barefoot under an old smock, tied at the waist with a bit of string. His hood is a piece of old sacking. He handles the bow clumsily. I can see no other weapon. A concealed knife, perhaps.

Robin heaved a sigh. This was going to be difficult.

“That purse at your belt,” said the archer, “throw it at my feet. Slowly. Do it, or I’ll shoot you down.”

With agonising slowness, Robin started to untie the strings of his heavy leather purse.

“You have the advantage of me, boy,” he said in a conversational tone, “might I know your name?”

The archer brayed with laughter – a nervous, high-pitched noise. “As if I would tell you my name, pig! All you need know is that I am The Hooded Man, and lord of the forest.”

Robin weighed his purse carefully. “The hooded what?”

“You heard me well enough! Now toss me that purse, unless you want an arrow in your eye.”

A vision flashed through Robin’s mind of a freezing winter’s morning outside Linton, fifteen years gone, and an arrow shot from his bow sticking in the eye of Sir Gui de Gisburne.

The blinding of Gisburne was Robin’s first act on the path to outlawry and, apparently, fame. He struggled to believe that memories of The Hooded Man had endured so long. England was an unhappy land, worked by slaves under the cruel lash of foreign masters, and desperately in need of heroes.

“Do it!” screamed the archer, taking a step closer, “or you’re dead!”

Robin gently tossed the purse onto the road, about halfway between them. It fell open when it landed, spilling pennies. 

The sight of so much gleaming silver was too much for the archer. He lowered his bow and loped eagerly towards the money, stretching out his grimy right hand to snatch it up.

Robin drove in his spurs, urging his mare forward, and took his left foot out of the stirrup. He brought up his heel and slammed it against the archer’s brow, knocking him onto his back.

Seconds later Robin was out of the saddle and standing over him, broadsword levelled at the archer’s throat.

“Now,” he said, panting a little, “let’s have a look at you.”

He thrust the tip of his sword under the crude hood and pushed it back.

As he feared, the face underneath was terrifyingly young: freckles, a snub nose, doe-like brown eyes blazing with hatred and filling up with tears.

“Go on, then,” the boy sobbed, “kill me. That’s what your kind do, isn’t it?”

“My kind?” said Robin, mystified.

“You’re a knight, aren’t you? Sworn to protect the weak and defenceless. Liars and hypocrites, all of you. You hunt in the forests, filling your bellies with pork and venison, while making it a crime for poor men to take enough to feed their families. You live in fine stone castles and make slaves of the people, working us like cattle until we drop.”
His voice crackled with genuine passion. Robin listened sadly. This boy was the ghost of his former self, come back to haunt him.

“There will come a time, you whoreson, when the people of this land rise up and strike off their shackles. Then you will know what it is like to live like a slave, to feel the pinch of hunger in your belly, to listen to the wails of your loved ones as they starve. Your castles will burn, and all your fine churches and palaces, all of it will burn, burn, burn…”

The boy’s voice trailed off, choked by snot and tears and impotent rage. Robin removed his foot and stepped back.

Is this my legacy? he thought, whey-faced boys dressing up as The Hooded Man and risking their lives as highwaymen?

He suddenly felt sick, and old before his time.

“I’m no knight, lad,” he said, “and no rich man either. Those coins in my purse are all I have in the world, so I can’t let you take them.”

The boy looked surprised at his reprieve, but wasted no time taking advantage of it. He scrambled away on all fours like a frightened animal and squatted on his haunches in the verge, staring at Robin with a mixture of hostility and confusion.

“Run home to your mother,” said Robin, not unkindly, “and never play at highwayman again. It can only end one way.”

“I’ll remember you, pig,” the boy spat, before turning and vanishing into the trees.

You already have, Robin thought.

He picked up the hunting bow, dropped in the brief scuffle, and turned it over in his hands. It was a shoddy bit of work, made from an inferior piece of yew, slightly warped and badly shaped.

Robin snapped it over his knee, tossed away the broken pieces and went to fetch his horse. The beast had panicked and cantered a little away down the road.

He made soothing noises, stroking her neck, and climbed stiffly into the saddle. Giving the reins a twitch, he rode on.

To Nottingham.

5.

A plump and heavily be-ringed fist smashed into Robin’s jaw, stretching him out on the costly Flemish rug. He had made no attempt to avoid the blow, and lay rubbing his jaw while Will Scarlet raged at him.

“Liar!” Scarlet yelled, “my father saved me. My family’s money saved me. What about all those poor boys without rich fathers? Their bones lie in a refuse pit outside Nottingham, where the citizens throw their rubbish.”

The passage of years had robbed Scarlet’s arm of some of its strength, else Robin would have been nursing a broken jaw.

Time had not been kind to Scarlet in other ways. The lithe young outlaw had vanished, replaced by a portly, thoroughly respectable and more than slightly pompous figure. Most of Scarlet’s flaming red hair was rubbed from his scalp, and the bloodshot eyes and broken veins in his flabby cheeks hinted at an over-indulgence in rich food and strong wine.

“God’s teeth,” said Robin, rising to a sitting position, “I have taken some hard knocks of late. First a flogging, and then a punch to the jaw.”

Scarlet stood glowering at him. The two had been arguing furiously ever since a servant had admitted Robin to the entrance hall of Scarlet’s house, a fine two-storey affair, tiled and gabled and half-timbered. It was quite the most splendid dwelling in Blidworth, otherwise a poor and unremarkable hamlet in the western part of Sherwood Forest.

“No more than you deserve,” Scarlet growled, “I should take my stick to you. By God, maybe I will!”

He was distracted by the patter of feet on the wooden stair leading to the bedchambers. Two pale little faces peered over the banister. A little boy and girl, both with an abundance of their father’s red hair.

“What is happening, father?” piped the boy.

“Back to bed, the pair of you!” Scarlet roared, shaking his bruised fist at them, “and don’t let me see you again until I send your nurse up to fetch you down!”

The children vanished, clattering back up the steps. A door banged somewhere on the upper floor. Breathing heavily, Scarlet turned his attention back to his unwanted guest.

“Why can you not understand?” said Robin before the other man could resume his tirade, “I had to leave, all those years ago. We could never have survived for long in Sherwood. Everyone was against us. King, church, barons. All of them. I am sorry for those who were caught and hanged after I left, but they chose to follow The Hooded Man. They knew the risks. I forced no man to do anything against his will.”

“Think, Will,” he added, spreading his hands, “if I had stayed, you would have ended on a gallows with me. Your father would never have bought your pardon, and you would not have become William Scarlet, prosperous wool merchant of Blidworth, with this beautiful house, servants and a growing family. Where is your wife, by the way?”

“Away visiting her kin in Lincoln, thank God,” said Scarlet. Some of the anger seemed to go out of him. He puffed out his heavy cheeks and stumped over to the dining table.

“It was a shock,” he said, letting his weight subside into a high-backed chair, “seeing your face again, after all this time. We all thought you were dead. Matilda told us the Fitzwarins had taken your head to the King.”

Robin slowly picked himself up. “A necessary deceit,” he said, and explained how Fulk Fitzwarin had threatened to kill Matilda if Robin ever returned to England.

Scarlet listened, toying with the gold ring on his index finger, his face inscrutable.

“All right,” he said when Robin was done, “it all fits, I won’t deny that. Even if it is the truth, I don’t want you here. The follies of my youth are buried in the past. My father saw to that. I don’t need you coming back to dredge everything up again. You’re like some damned ghost, standing on the carpet in my hall, stinking of blood and mischief.”

He ran a jaundiced eye over his former master. “You’ve not gained an ounce of flesh since I last saw you. The years have left their mark, though. There is a light dusting of snow in your beard, and lines on your face that should not be there for many years yet.”

“You should see the scars,” said Robin with a grin, but Scarlet’s face remained set in stone. There would be no tearful renewal of old comradeship here. He hadn’t really expected it either.

“I only came here to ask after Matilda,” he said, “and the rest of the band. Do any of them still live?”

Will sniffed and sat back in his chair, resting his big hands on the arms. “Littiljohn got away,” he replied, “when the Sheriff came into Sherwood to round us all up, he fought his way clear. The last I heard, he had set up as a smith in Derbyshire. Some little village. I forget the name. Much also escaped. God knows what became of him. The others were caught.”

“Even Tuck?”

Will nodded. “Tuck couldn’t run anyway. He never recovered from the blow on his head Fitzwarin’s whelp gave him. The Abbot of Fountains, Tuck’s old master, pleaded for his life at trial. It looked bad for the church, see, a priest being hanged with a lot of common outlaws. In consideration of that, and Tuck’s helpless state, the Sheriff spared the prisoner’s life and gave him over to the care of the abbot. He may still be at Fountains for all I know.” 

Robin thought of the young priest he had known, full of fire and wisdom beyond his years, and pictured him as a helpless invalid, reliant on the charity of monks. Tuck had always despised monks, hating their corruption and hypocrisy, and had left Fountains to live as a true holy man in the woods.

“Poor Tuck,” he murmured, “the man I knew would rather have died than accept such a fate. What of Matilda?”

He looked anxiously at Will, who closed his eyes for a few seconds before replying.

“Kirklees,” he said at last, “the last I heard. she was at Kirklees Priory.”

Kirklees Priory lay inside the manor of Wakefield in West Yorkshire. Robin dimly remembered the Prioress. She was a distant cousin of Matilda’s.

“That was seven years ago, mind,” Will added, “I have heard nothing since. Nor do I ask. As I said, my past is buried.”

“Kirklees, then,” said Robin, “I shall look for her there, and trespass on your hospitality no longer.”

“You know where the door is,” Will replied bluntly, making no move from his chair.

Robin nodded sadly. “Tell me,” he said, pausing with one hand on the latch, “how much did your pardon cost?”

Some of the angry colour flooded back to Will’s cheeks. “The cost of it almost beggared my father,” he growled, “I swore to him that I would make his losses good. I have done so, and more. English wool. The merchants of Flanders can’t get enough of the stuff.”

Robin couldn’t resist a parting jibe. “And so you grow fat and prosper, while the bones of your old comrades whiten in the earth, and the English continue to starve.”

Will was instantly on his feet. “I have done more for the English than you ever did, you old brigand!” he roared, flecks of spittle flying from his lips, “all my servants and workmen are English, and my trade brings money into England. Money honestly earned, not ripped from the hands of innocent travellers on the roadside.”

He pointed a shaking finger at the door. “Get out! Out, this instant, before I throw aside sentiment and have my servants clap you in irons! Never let me see your face again!”

Robin made himself scarce, and was soon back on the highway, keeping his horse at a steady jog.

It was sad to see how his former comrade had degenerated, sunk in leisure and greed, though Robin couldn’t blame him either. What could a man with any sense do, but look after his own interests in a rotten and unjust world?

Still, the less Will knew, the better. He was no longer a friend. Robin intended to go to Kirklees, find Matilda and beg her forgiveness.

He hoped the King’s pardon would go some way towards obtaining it. As a nun, safe within the confines of a religious house, the law could not touch her. Robin guessed that was why she had stifled her proud spirit and taken the veil. With a pardon, she would be free to leave and gather up the broken threads of her life.

Robin scarcely dared to hope she would take him back again as her husband. In his dreams he envisaged them both leaving England forever, sailing away to forge a new life in some distant land, far away from Norman cruelty and oppression. 

*

CHRISTE, MISERERE MATILDA DE LINTON

QUAE TIBI SACRATE, CLAUDITUR HIC VIDUA

REQUIESCAT IN PACE

“Christ, have pity on Matilda of Linton,” translated the prioress, “after having vowed herself to Thee when she became a widow, she is now entombed here. Rest in peace.”

The headstone was a plain slab of grey stone, rounded at the top, laid near the middle of the priory cemetery. Matilda’s tomb was equally plain, a roughly rectangular block of stone, about five feet high and two and a half wide, with the shape of a crucifix carved onto the lid.

Robin noted these details with a sort of dull, aimless despair. The cemetery was peaceful, as such places tend to be. A light drizzle was falling. 

“You could have waited,” Robin said softly, gazing at the grim casket. Inside lay the bones of his wife, the person he had loved above all others, mouldering under the earth these past five years.

Five years dead, the prioress had informed him, carried away by a fever in the middle of a particularly rough winter.

“My cousin was never strong,” she said, “and had nothing to live for save the love of Christ. Christ took pity, and gathered her unto His bosom.”

The prioress’s name was Mary Scriven. Robin had never met her before, but found it difficult to believe that such a sour, dried-up creature could be related to his Matilda.

He was a tall man, but Scriven was an inch or so taller. Pinch-faced, with a disapproving frown, curved nose and bushy eyebrows, she was a formidable figure. Robin imagined she made life hell for the nuns who lived under her.

 She had made her disapproval of Robin perfectly plain, and only permitted him to enter the priory grounds on extreme sufferance. 

“Thank you for letting me see her grave,” said Robin.

The words stuck in his throat. Matilda’s grave. For the first time in many years he felt like weeping, and had to look away so Scriven did not see his weakness.

“Aye, weep,” she said severely, “all the tears in the world won’t bring her back. I know who you are, Robin Hood. I know what you did to my cousin. She wept and prayed for your soul, every day, from the moment she entered this priory, to the moment the breath left her body. Her last words went to you.”

Robin cringed under the lash of her tongue. The whips of the monks in Bordeaux were as nothing to this. Scriven’s word were like knives hacking into his soul. 

Explanations would be wasted on the prioress. Her voice dripped with rank contempt for him, the man who had deserted her cousin, and he knew no amount of words could alter that verdict. Much judgment and little mercy, that was her style.

He had removed Matilda’s pardon from the lining of his belt before arriving. “Here,” he said, withdrawing the crackling piece of sealed vellum from his jerkin, “I had hoped to give it to her. Perhaps it can lie on her tomb, or be kept safe in the priory, in memory of her.”

Scriven snatched the vellum from his outstretched hand, and stared at the heavy royal seal dangling from it. “Too late,” she sniffed, “far too late. What use is a pardon to the dead?”

Even so, she tucked it into a recess of her surplice. “Now I must ask you to leave,” she said firmly, “I will not have such a man as you fouling consecrated ground for any longer than necessary.”

With a final look at the headstone, Robin trudged away. He fetched his mare from the stables and led her under the arch of the priory gatehouse, his soul crushed under the weight of guilt and sorrow.

Once outside the gate, he clambered into the saddle and rode away at a listless trot.

He rode for some miles, following the road south to Huddersfield, though he cared not where he went. His sole remaining purpose in life had died the moment he set eyes on Matilda’s grave. Now his heart was ashes, and the future was a gloomy and comfortless road, stretching before him into nothing.

He was nearing the outskirts of Brighouse, a little village north of Huddersfield, when he reined in.

“You have been following me since I left Kirklees,” he said loudly, without turning his head, “you move quickly through the forest, but should take greater care with your footing. If you have a bow, and mean to kill me, then loose the arrow and have done.”

There was a faint rustle in the undergrowth. Robin gently wheeled his mare in a circle and found himself looking at his pursuer. 

“God help me,” he said wearily, “another Hooded Man. England seems to be teeming with them.”

His mind raced. Slender, and of medium height. Strong and fit, unlike that poor wretch in Charnwood. Short sword in his right hand, buckler strapped to his left forearm. Holds himself well, balanced on the balls of his feet. Face obscured by black hood. Dressed all in loose-fitting grey and black. Good quality cloth. A trained killer, and a well-paid one.

“Light off that horse,” said the hooded man in a low voice, “and let us settle this matter, blade to blade.”

“What matter?” Robin asked warily, “I have no quarrel with you that I know of. State your name.”

“No,” the other replied, “I have been paid thirty shillings to kill you, Robin Hood. That is all you need to know.”

Robin flushed with anger. He briefly forgot his sorrow and straightened his back. 

“Thirty pieces of silver, is it?” he snarled, grasping the pommel of his sword, “piss off, hireling, and go in search of easier prey. I am in no mood to chop words with lackeys.”

“Then stop talking,” said the hooded man, crouching slightly, “and light down.”

Fury engulfed Robin. He vaulted from the saddle, ignoring the flare of pain in his back, and ripped out his broadsword.

Bright steel flashed into being, lighting up a wet and overcast summer’s afternoon, and the blades crashed together.

Robin fought with controlled anger, using his greater height and reach to drive his opponent back. The hooded man parried featly, moving with the grace and poise of a dancer, catching Robin’s brutal, crunching blows on sword and buckler, turning them aside but offering no attacks of his own.

In Robin’s experience, unless the combatants were protected by armour, most duels to the death lasted just a few seconds. He had fought and killed more men than he could remember, in quarrels over dice and women or petty insults, and learned to fight with swift, lethal efficiency.

His opponent was different. The hooded man fought with consummate skill, lacking in strength but making up for it with artistry. Robin was an expert judge in swordsmen, and reckoned this one had rarely fought in earnest. An academic fencer, full of tricks and technique.

In a sparring contest, the hooded man could probably beat Robin in two rounds out of three. But this was no pretty game before spectators. Robin’s blood was up, and he hacked and chopped at his opponent with merciless rage, drawing on every ounce of strength to beat down the other’s guard.

Soon the sweat was pouring down his brow. He shook it away, and his opponent dared to make a sudden dart and thrust at his heart. Robin sidestepped in time, but the near brush destroyed the last of his patience.

“Your soul to the Devil!” he cried, and cut downwards at an angle, hitting his opponent’s hilt and part of his hand.

With a howl of pain, the hooded man dropped his sword and retreated. Blood from his wounded hand spattered the ground.

Robin pressed the attack, hacking at his opponent’s head and shoulders, trying to pummel him into submission through sheer brute force.

The hooded man ducked and weaved, using his buckler to good effect. He jumped, narrowly avoiding a scything blow that would have cut his legs off at the knee, and fell awkwardly, rolling his ankle.

Robin saw the opportunity. He got in close, hooked his left foot behind the hooded man’s injured ankle, and unleashed a punch with his sword-hilt.

His opponent collapsed onto the grass by the road. Robin placed his foot on the man’s throat, cast aside his sword and drew his dagger to finish him off.

“Let’s have a look at you first,” he grunted, “pull back that damned hood.”

 The man slowly raised his left hand, and peeled back the hood covering his face.

Robin’s hot blood turned to ice. The hooded man was no man at all, but Matilda.

6.

If God had permitted her the strength, Matilda would have killed her husband in the fight.

She had watched him approach Kirklees Priory from the window of one of the upper-storey chambers in the gatehouse. Emotions churned in her breast at the sight of him, the man she had once loved above all others. Her husband, the famous outlaw and hero of the people. Robin Hood.

The man who deserted her, fourteen years ago, whom she had never seen or heard of since. Was it hatred that coursed through her when she watched him stand before her false grave? If so, it was tinged with shame at the deception, and even a sliver of pity for him.

Fool, she thought, dashing away a tear, even now, after all this time, you are too soft. After all you have done.

Matilda received the Sheriff’s orders, commanding her to put an end to The Hooded Man, at her home in Chesterfield. The news that her husband was alive had sent a great shock through her. She thought – hoped – that the man she had to kill was a mere impostor, another of those who had masqueraded as The Hooded Man since the real one vanished.

She came to Kirklees, thinking that Robin, if it was he, would eventually come there to look for her.

When he left, riding away sadly on his grey mare, Matilda descended the steps and followed, keeping to the forest that clustered thickly beside the road. She could have taken a horse from the priory stables, but preferred to track him on foot, knowing he would easily detect any pursuit on horseback.

The sound of his voice had triggered a great surge of anger inside her. Sweeping aside any tender feelings, she had done her best to slay him in the duel that followed, to put a foot of steel through his faithless heart.

Robin was no longer the callow young man she had known, an expert archer but clumsy and ill at ease with the sword. The years had wrought a terrifying change in him, and she quickly found herself fighting for her life against a vicious and brutally strong opponent. Not the most elegant swordsman, but no less deadly for that.

Now Matilda lay helpless, waiting for him to deliver the death-blow. Her ankle was badly wrenched, and her right hand bled, but her wounds were as nothing to the pain in her heart.

Robin stared down at her. His face was as hawkish as ever, though wreathed with lines and wrinkles. There were silver strands in his russet beard.  He looked nearer sixty than forty, prematurely aged by years of hardship and exile.

He groaned and threw away his knife. It landed with a clatter on the road, next to his broadsword.

Robin turned his back on Matilda and staggered back to his horse, peacefully cropping the grass a little way down the road towards Brighouse. He snatched at the bridle, and then sank to his knees, his face buried in his hands.

Matilda struggled to her feet, wincing at the pain in her injured ankle. She carefully leaned her weight on it.

It was not broken or twisted, thank God. She hobbled slowly towards her husband, using her left hand to clumsily untie the strings of the leather satchel hanging from her belt.

Inside were a few tightly-packed rolls of bandages and a small bottle of liniment. She plucked out one of the rolls and wrapped it tight around the gash in the palm of her right hand, staunching the flow of blood.

“Robin,” she said, “Robin, stand up. Look at me.”

She could not tell if he was weeping or praying. Probably both. For a while he knelt and rocked gently back and forth, trembling as though he had been whipped.

All of Matilda’s anger had gone out of her, replaced by nothing much. She felt numbed and strangely indifferent to Robin, to herself, to the whole wide world around them.

There was a dagger in her belt. She could easily draw it and stab Robin in the back. Put an end to him. An end to all her years of loneliness and desolation, wondering what had become of her husband. If he would ever come back for her.

“Robin,” she said impatiently, “are you going to kneel there in the mud all day, snuffling and whimpering like a beaten novice? Get up, man.”

A moment later he rose, suddenly, like a puppet given a sharp tug on its strings. He turned to face her. His green eyes – extraordinary eyes, she remembered, windows to his fierce soul – were misted with tears.

“That old bitch at Kirklees told me you were dead,” he said hoarsely, “she even showed me your tomb. The headstone bears your name!”

“I know,” Matilda replied, “officially, I have been dead these past five years. My cousin and I arranged the deception between us. She is not really so harsh, you know. People expect it of her.”

His face was a mask of incomprehension. Why?” he demanded, throwing up his hands, “what for? Why did you track me? I might have killed you!”

“I would have killed you. I tried my best. Were you a whit less of the fighting man you have become, you would be lying dead at my feet.”

Robin raked her with his eyes, taking in every inch of her. “No woman should be able to fight like that.”

“I have learned to fend for myself,” she retorted, “I had to.”

His face grew hard. “There was no need to cross blades. Kill me now, if you wish. I care not. Look, here is my back.”

He turned and walked smartly back to his horse, stopping to retrieve his weapons. Matilda stayed where she was and watched him mount.

“Are you leaving me again?” she asked mockingly, “it is becoming a habit.”

Robin looked at her with something like fear in his eyes. “God grant this is but a wicked dream,” he said, gathering his reins, “or else my old teachers were right. Hell is here on Earth, and our mortal forms are doomed to torment until the blessed release of death.”

Matilda frowned. This sounded like heresy. The Robin she had known was a Christian of devout simplicity, with a special regard for the Virgin.

She put it aside. “Will you leave me here?” she asked again.

Robin wheeled his horse about in a half-circle. Then he stopped. “Climb up behind me,” he said without looking at her.

 Matilda limped towards him, and with difficulty heaved herself into the saddle. She wrapped her arms round his waist, and was instantly taken back to the nightmare ride through the forest, fifteen years gone, when the Sheriff had launched a surprise attack on the outlaw camp.

She and Robin had escaped, along with a few of their followers. Shortly afterwards Littiljohn had joined the band, and they abandoned Barnsdale for the safer refuge of Sherwood.

“Do you remember?” she murmured, resting her chin on Robin’s shoulder as the horse jogged down the road.

The smell of him was as she remembered, the feel of his body, though there were new lumps and ridges of scar tissue on his lean back. She traced them gently with her thumb, wondering at the manner of life he had led.

“I am trying not to,” he said shortly, keeping his eyes fixed on the road, “it is too much.”

They rode on in silence for a while. Robin sat stiffly in the saddle, tensing every time Matilda touched him. Either his wounds were still tender, or he found her touch repellent. 

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I thought you were dead. Perhaps I am being tested, and you are but a ghost sent to try me. That must be it.”

He sounded directionless without her. Matilda stifled a pang of compassion. Already, in spite of everything, some traces of her old feelings for Robin were returning.

At present they were memories, rising out of the musty darkness of the past: their wedding day in the forest, her in a bridal gown of pure white, a chaplet of red roses in her hair; their first meeting as children in Linton, playing together in the woods and fields outside the village; their first kiss, a snatched and clumsy affair when she was eleven and Robin fifteen, in the stables at Loxley Farm.

“Chesterfield is some twenty miles away,” she said, “let us go there.”

“What reason have I to go to Chesterfield?”
“I have lodgings there, as well as other places. I find it best to move about.”

“Other places? You have done uncommonly well for a dead woman. How did a penniless serf from Linton come into property?”
There was a harsh, cynical edge to Robin’s tongue. He sounded hard and embittered, nothing like the man she married.

“It seems all my old friends have done well,” he went on before she could answer, “I saw Will, you know. He’s a fat merchant in Blidworth now, pickled in wine and sweating money. What do I have? Nothing save the clothes on my back, a few pennies in my purse, my sword and dagger, and this horse. Not much to show for thirty-seven years of life.”

“In another time,” she said, lifting her chin from his shoulder, “and another place, I would have argued against that. Whatever else was missing from your life, you had me. I was constant, and you threw me away.”

Robin lifted his head and started to talk, slowly and quietly. He explained his reasons for leaving, Fitzwarin’s deception (though Matilda was aware of that already), and why he didn’t feel it safe to return until now.

Matilda listened, and accepted the logic of what he said, but could not forgive.

“If you loved me, you would have found a way to return, regardless of the danger,” she said, “you never paid heed to danger when you defied the Sheriffs of two counties, and took up arms against the Pope.”

“No man has a limitless store of courage,” he replied heavily, “perhaps my stock was depleted.”

“What of you?” he asked, swiftly changing the subject, “were you never at Kirklees, then? Why is there a false tomb in the cemetery?”

Matilda told him only part of the tale. “Fitzwarin had me in custody at Rufford Abbey. After a time the monks thought it indecent to have a woman on the premises. In defiance of Fitzwarin’s orders, they sent me to live as a nun under the rule of my cousin at Kirklees Priory. Nine years of it, Robin. Nine years of living in seclusion from the world. That was how long it took me to build up my stock of courage again.”

“And then your cousin let you go?”

“She was never my gaoler. I was free to leave whenever I wished. After nine years I thought it safe to leave. The world had forgotten about Matilda of Linton. To make doubly sure, I decided to kill her. My cousin was shocked at first, but eventually agreed it was best. My empty tomb was laid in the cemetery, and the story put about that I had died of fever. I was free to go back into the world under a new name, and create a new life for myself.”

“As a hired killer. You must have had a practical reason for learning to handle a blade.”

Matilda would say no more for the present. The whole truth was too large and indigestible a morsel for Robin to swallow at once. She had worked for the Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, among other masters, though de Cantilupe had no knowledge of her past.

“Thirty shillings,” he said, “someone paid you to kill me. Who?”

Matilda said nothing, and Robin did not ask again. An icy silence fell between them as the mare plodded on.

It was already noon, and impossible to reach Chesterfield before nightfall. They halted at Ecclesfield, a village north of Sheffield, where Robin spent the last of his money on a meal and the hiring of a horse for Matilda.

Silence continued to reign as they pressed on south, skirting Sheffield and following the highway leading south to Dronfield and the walled market town of Chesterfield. The roads were busy with traffic, tradesmen and drovers and the like. Negotiating these provided a welcome distraction.

Darkness was slanting across the distant hills when Matilda finally broke the silence. “You have no purpose left in life,” she said, “I might have killed you today, but God stayed my hand. Perhaps He means to preserve you.”

Their horses cantered side by side, but Robin still avoided looking at her. “It is dangerous,” he said, “to interpret the will of God. People always interpret it to suit themselves.”

“There is someone in Chesterfield I want you to meet. An old widow woman. I think she holds the key to your fate.”

At last Robin looked at her. His green eyes were tainted with suspicion, but Matilda thought she detected a flicker of interest in them.

“Tell me more,” he said.

6.

Derby

Derby on market day was normally bustling, and the town square crowded with stalls and pens. Farmers and small traders from all over the shire converged on Derby, bringing their livestock and wares to sell. The town itself was home to a thriving guild of merchants, who looked after the interests of the local wool merchants, leather workers and other craftsmen.

Today was different. There was little trade going on in the square, which had been cleared to make space for a scaffold. The tradesmen, farmers and drovers might groan, but they were obliged to wait until the executions were over before business could resume. These were the orders of the High Sheriff.

The Sheriff had not delivered them in person. He was away at his hunting in the forests of the Peak, and had left his deputy in charge of the hangings.

The deputy was Baldwin de Paunton, a plump and nervous-looking young man, biting his nails as he sat his horse under the scaffold.

John Littiljohn stood at the western edge of the square, watching the scene unfold. There was no need for him to push his way through the crowd swiftly gathering around the scaffold. Almost seven feet tall, he towered over everyone else, and drew the occasional frightened glance from the dwarves scuttling around him.

He had come to Derby to sell the weapons and horseshoes he made at his little forge in Hathersage, and to buy coal to take back with him.

The little hilltop village had been his home for fourteen years. It was suitably quiet and remote, and if the villagers harboured suspicions about Littiljohn’s past, they never voiced them in his hearing. More importantly, they never voiced them to the authorities either.

He switched his attention from the deputy to the scaffold. It was a large wooden platform, with two posts at either end, mounted by a cross-bar. Three ropes had been thrown over the bar, and three men stood under it with halters around their necks.

They were all young, none over twenty, and stood with heads bowed, their dirty faces sullen and unreadable. Three brothers, with similar builds and untidy mops of chestnut brown hair.

“The widow of Chesterfield’s sons,” remarked Much, “done for poaching in the royal forests, and highway robbery.”

He grinned at Littiljohn. A big, powerful man, though not quite as big as the smith, he scratched a living as a shepherd on the fells outside Hathersage. Both men had arrived at the village at the same, fugitives from the law, and had remained friends since.

“Sound familiar, eh?” he said, placing his finger and thumb round his throat, “it might easily be us up there, about to have our necks stretched.”

“Shut up,” Littiljohn said calmly. He was impatient for the hangings to be done with, so he could ignore the scratching of his conscience and get on with trade.

The crowd started to get impatient. A few of them knew the condemned men personally, and cried ‘Shame!’ as the deputy made no move to order the hanging.

Baldwin started to get agitated. He peeled off one gauntlet, slapping it in the palm of the other, and mopped at his brow. It was a hot day, and the atmosphere inside the packed square rank with heat and tension.

“The hangman isn’t here,” Littiljohn heard one of the townsfolk in front of him say, “he’s stayed at home.”

“Good for him,” replied another, “no man with any sense would want to carry a widow’s curse. That’s not all. See the one in the middle, the youngest? He’s the one who called himself The Hooded Man. Took purses all the way from here down to Charnwood, they say.”

A guffaw rose from the crowd. “The Hooded Man!” someone hooted, “what, is that him? He’s barely more than a lad!”

“He ain’t the real one, you fool. Robin Hood was killed years ago, in my father’s time.”

It pained Littiljohn to listen to all this. Thankfully, at mention of Robin Hood, the talk died down. The speakers either changed the subject, turning to safer subjects like the weather or the upcoming harvest, or shuffled away, casting suspicious glances at each other.

Even after all this time, the name of Robin Hood had a certain power. Tales of his exploits were increasingly popular all over the north country, though as yet they were crude snatches of verse rather than complete ballads.

Littiljohn called one to mind.

“Hearken, good countrymen,” he muttered under his breath, “comely, courteous and good. Come hear of the best man that ever drew bow, his name was Robin Hood...”

Much didn’t hear him. The brawny shepherd was staring directly at the scaffold, where the deputy was looking hotter and more agitated than ever.

“Something’s happening,” he said, “look there – who is Baldwin talking to?”

Littiljohn snapped out of his reverie and peered over the rows of heads before him. The deputy was speaking urgently to a bent old man in a wide-brimmed pilgrim’s hat and patched cloak.

“I can’t hear them above all this bloody noise,” he growled. The tension in the square had evaporated, replaced by an air of visceral excitement. Littiljohn knew it well. Someone was about to die.

“The old beggar man has offered to hang the boys!” someone shouted.

“The evil old sod,” cried another, “what for, a handful of pennies?”

Excitement turned to anger, all of it directed at the old man. He ignored the curses and shouts aimed at him, and capered like an arthritic jester before the deputy, waving his stick.

“If de Paunton accepts his offer, that old fool won’t get out of Derby alive,” said Much, “those boys have lots of friends here. They’ll scrag him and cut his throat. Serve him right.”

Littiljohn said nothing. He narrowed his eyes, keeping them fixed on the old man.

The deputy seemed to lose patience. “Oh, very well,” he shouted, his voice carrying over the din, “if you insist on blowing your damned horn, then blow it. Then let us have this business over and done with.”

“The Devil will hear me blow,” cried the old man in a high, reedy voice, “and gather the souls of these thieves and cut-purses to Hell. Let me blow, my lord, and I will do your hanging for you!”

De Paunton’s sweating face, already a nasty shade of scarlet, turned puce. “Blow it, then!” he snapped, “before this damned heat roasts me alive.”

The old man reached inside the filthy recesses of his cloak and withdrew a crescent-shaped hunting horn. It was made of purest white oxhorn, mounted with silver at both ends, and attached to its owner’s shoulder via a leather strap.

Much’s fingers closed on Littiljohn’s brawny forearm.

Straightening his back, the old man raised the horn to his lips and blew.

“Come hither!” the deep, rising summons echoed through the town square. “Come hither!” it sounded through the streets and rolled over hill and dale beyond.

“Come hither!” it struck the townsfolk dumb and thrilled inside Littiljohn’s heart, igniting long-banked fires.

“It isn’t him,” he said in a trembling voice, “I won’t believe it.”

As the sound of the horn died away, the old man tore off his hat and shrugged off his cloak, revealing a tall, strongly-built man in a long mail shirt reaching to his knees. He was bareheaded, and had an unruly tangle of reddish-brown hair and beard. His lean face might have been handsome once, but was now deeply lined and burned by foreign suns. 

The deputy drew himself up and tried to sound stern, though all could see he trembled like a leaf in a gale. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“I am Robin Hood,” replied the red-haired man, “and you will release these three poor fools on the scaffold, or die in their stead.”

Littiljohn acted. While gasps and whispers rippled through the crowd, he lumbered back to his wagon.

It was piled high with the products of his forge. He picked up a battle-axe and hefted it thoughtfully in one massive hand. Littiljohn was a fine smith, and the wickedly sharp curves of the axe shone in the noonday sun.

Much had raced after him. “It’s him!” he cried excitedly, pulling a broadsword from the wagon, “I would know that face in Hell. He’s come back to us!”

The crowd was dispersing. Some had taken to their heels, fleeing in mindless panic as the words Robin Hood and The Hooded Man spread like fire through their ranks. Others, brought up on tales of the heroic outlaw and his championing of the poor and the downtrodden, pressed forward menacingly around the scaffold.

This was guarded by eight men of the Derby garrison. They were typical street bullies, strong in the arm and soft in the belly, good for roughing up drunks and pickpockets and not a great deal else. They gaped stupidly at Robin Hood, and their master, and at the peasants closing in around them.

“Move, you rogues!” de Paunton raged at them, gesturing frantically at Robin, “what do you think we pay you for? Arrest this man, at once!”

Five of the guards hung back, not wanting any part of it. Three lowered their spears and advanced tentatively on Robin. He laughed in their faces, one hand planted on his hip, the other beckoning at them to come at him.

A figure sprang out of the crowd, hooded and cloaked, long knife gleaming in a pale hand. The nearest guard failed to react in time, and fell shrieking onto the cobbles, blood gushing from the wound in the back of his neck.

His mates didn’t stick around. They dropped their spears and tried to run, but their path was blocked. Before the deputy’s horrified eyes, the previously sheeplike citizens of Derby kicked and punched his men to the ground, beating them to bloody pulp as they lay helpless, howling for mercy. The wounded man suffered also, dragged into the throng and beaten unconscious. 

By now Littiljohn was shouldering his way through the mob, barging aside those too slow or stupid to scramble out of the giant’s path. Much followed, almost weeping with excitement.

De Paunton was not destined to die a hero’s death, defending his office and dignity. He fell off his horse and grovelled at Robin’s feet, whimpering and pleading for quarter.

“Mercy, good master,” he begged, clasping his hands, “mercy, I pray you.”

Robin glared down at him. “The same mercy you would have shown these poor souls?” he said sternly, pointing at the men on the scaffold, “aye, you should be hanged in their place, quick and clean.”

The very pitch of his voice, the passion and the anger, was just as Littiljohn remembered. Often down the long years, sitting in his lonely cottage at Hathersage and listening to the wind howl across the dales, he had thought of his old master.

He thought Robin was dead. All the outlaws did. Robin had ridden out of Sherwood one terrible night, to meet with the Fitzwarins, and never returned. They later heard that Lord Fitzwarin had betrayed him and sent his head to the King in London. 

Yet here he was, older, but alive, and still full of rage. Littiljohn blinked and wiped his eyes, wondering if the heat had affected him, and this was all some cruel illusion.

“What a craven thing you are,” Robin sneered, nudging the trembling deputy with the toe of his boot, “you deserve a short walk and a long drop.”

Now Littiljohn suffered his second shock of the day. The one who had stabbed the guard limped forward, blood still dripping from the knife, and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Well, John,” said Matilda, pushing back her hood, “the years have not worn you down, I see.”

Littiljohn gaped at her. The girl he had known in Sherwood was gone, her smooth, freckled features matured over the years. Matilda had grown into a handsome woman, with a touch of hardness about her eyes and little lines at the corners of her mouth.

“Much,” she said, nodding at his companion, “tut, man! Don’t look at me like that. I am not a ghost.”
Much swallowed. “We…we heard you had become a nun,” he stammered.

She laughed and spread her arms. “Do I look like a nun? There will be time for explanations later. For now, are you with us?”

Littiljohn and Much exchanged glances. Neither said a word.

Robin’s harsh voice sounded across the square. “John, you great ox!” he cried, “don’t just stand there. Get up on that scaffold and untie those boys. Much, lend him a hand.”

Before he could think, Littiljohn found himself obeying. To the cheers of the watching peasants, he hurried onto the platform.

The prisoners could barely wait to get away, and fidgeted impatiently while he and Much worked on the cords securing their wrists.

“Here,” said the youngest of them, nodding at Robin, “I know him. He isn’t Robin Hood. I tried to rob him on the highway, just a few days before I was caught. The bugger kicked me in the head.”

“No more than you deserved,” Littiljohn grunted, tearing the boy’s wrists free, “only an idiot would try and rob the greatest outlaw in England.”

Robin seized de Paunton by the neck, dragged him to his feet and threw him over the back of his horse.

“Away with you,” he cried, giving the deputy’s ample backside a slap with the flat of his sword, “and think twice before hanging starved peasant boys.”

The ranks of the mob parted to let the deputy through. The people jeered, pelting him with mud and stones, spittle and insults, as his horse carried him out of the square.

“Listen to them,” said Much, “a few moments ago they wouldn’t have dared look the deputy in the eye.”

Littiljohn agreed. The people were cowards, preferring to live quietly as slaves instead of risking all to gain their freedom. He was a coward too. Had he not hidden in the Derbyshire hills, these past fourteen years, praying the law would never find him?

Now he stood on the scaffold, with the blood of the Sheriff’s bullies in his nostrils. Only one man could have reminded Littiljohn of himself, and woken his dormant spirit.

Robin Hood was back.

7.

Robin took the widow’s sons into Sherwood, as the closest and most obvious refuge. To his relief, there was no pursuit.

“We put the fear of God into the deputy!” he crowed, “I reckon he and his men are still cowering under their beds. Wait until my lord Sheriff hears of this!”

The fugitives had stopped to rest in a peaceful little glade, a little way inside the eastern part of the forest. It was a warm, close evening, and the setting sun was a ball of tawny gold, slowly dipping to the horizon. Sherwood drowsed in the lingering heat. Time seemed to move sluggishly.

To Robin, the years had rolled back to his fiery youth. He leaned his back against a tree, folding his arms, and looked about him.

The old days had returned, if only for a brief moment. There was Littiljohn, the black-bearded giant, helping Much to lay a fire. There were the brothers he had rescued, brave young men, so much like the youths who had once flocked to join his band. 

Finally, there was Matilda, his wife, sitting apart from the others and carefully examining the wound on her hand.

The wound I gave her.

The thin veil of nostalgia faded. Stark reality intruded. Nothing was the same. Littiljohn and Much were older now, mature men with grey in their hair, and strangers to him. The widow’s sons were just frightened boys. There was no Tuck, no Will Scarlet. The scene was incomplete, a sad parody of times past.

Matilda looked up at him. How she had changed. The slender young girl he had married was still in there somewhere, buried under layers Robin could only guess at. There was still much about her past she hadn’t told him, and maybe never would.

Their eyes met. There are things I cannot tell you either, he thought, how could I explain my heresy? Like all the other deluded souls, you would fail to understand. You would hate me, even more than when you tried to put a sword in my heart.

 The little heap of kindling spluttered into life. “Well,” said Littiljohn, wiping his streaming face with the back of his hand, “I left my wagon behind, and two good oxen, and a great heap of weapons and horseshoes. Six months’ work. They will be seized, no doubt, and another sentence of outlawry put on my head.”

“Our heads,” Much said gloomily, leaning down to blow on the nascent flames, “it is a hard thing to know I will never see my little cottage again. Or my sheep. Not that they will miss me, the daft brutes.”

“You didn’t have to come,” said Robin, “we didn’t need your help. I am grateful, though. God’s bones, it is good to see you both!”

His enthusiasm fell on stony ground. Their eyes were not hostile. as Scarlet’s had been, but filled with distrust and confusion. He sensed fear as well, as though there was something unnatural about Robin.

“I have not risen from the dead, lads,” he said kindly, “my flesh is as solid as yours. Fitzwarin did not kill me. He beheaded another man in my place.”

“I can see you’re alive,” said Littiljohn, “though I couldn’t believe it at first. What possessed you to dress up as an old beggar, and sound your horn like that?”

Robin patted the hunting horn slung from a baldric over his shoulder. Its reassuring weight was a comfort to him, a reminder of the man he once was. The man he could be again.

Matilda had taken him back to her quarters in Chesterfield, a modest little house tucked down an alleyway, and revealed that the horn had been in her keeping. It hung from a nail over the fireplace in her bedchamber.

“It was all I had left of you,” she said.

He smiled at Littiljohn. “I am Robin Hood,” he said simply, “it was the sort of thing Robin Hood does. Even now some minstrel will be struggling to think of a rhyme for scaffold.”

“You boys,” he added, pointing at the widow’s sons, “will go back to your poor old mother in Chesterfield, and find honest trades to follow. She has been weeping her soul out. One son turning to crime is bad enough, but all three? For shame. If not for us, you would be crow-bait dangling on the gallows, and she would be left all alone in the world.”

The boys had enough decency to hang their heads, but the youngest had some spirit left in him. “Robin Hood wouldn’t speak like that,” he piped, “he would tell us to fight tyranny and injustice to our last breath. That is what the rhymes say.”

“Life isn’t a rhyme,” Robin snapped, “I may have believed such things in the past. Young men like you died for those beliefs, and my soul is weighed down with guilt. How should I answer to God if I added your lives to the burden? No, you will go home, if I have to take you at swordpoint.”

  “It’s too late,” said Matilda, “they can never go home. The Sheriff would come after them. After this day’s work, he will never rest until we are all hanged.”

“A familiar song,” Robin replied carelessly, “our old friend Eustace of Lowdham used to warble it, and Odo de Sablé, who wished to purify my unholy flesh by burning it. And yet I live, and stand in Sherwood. My old kingdom. My turf.”

“If you think the Sheriff will be too frightened to come after you, think again,” said Littiljohn, “he’s a hard man. Harder than Lowdham ever was.”

“Aye, de Cantilupe is a right hanging bastard,” added Much, “when he first took up office, the forests from Nottingham to Derby were thick with thieves and outlaws. He cleared them out. There’s not a gallows for twenty miles without its cargo of thieves and outlaws.”

Robin bowed his head in thought. “We can get the widow out of Chesterfield,” he said after a moment, “and help her set up home somewhere else, far away from the Sheriff’s vengeance. Have you got any other kin, boys?”

The eldest of them looked up. “Cousins in Sheffield,” he said timidly.

“Far enough. Yorkshire is outside de Cantilupe’s jurisdiction. Would they take you in?”

The boy shrugged, and his brothers seemed none the wiser.

“Never mind,” said Robin, “it will do. Tomorrow, at first light, we go to Chesterfield and help their mother to move. I hope the shock isn’t too much for her.”

Littiljohn stood up and stretched, like a tired old bear, until the joints of his massive shoulders clicked. He regarded Robin from his great height, and gave a weary shake of his head.

“Last night, in Hathersage, I dreamed of you,” he said, “and the old days. I have done so most nights since you vanished. Fourteen years. And now up you pop, like a bloody genie from a bottle, and all is as it was. Robin Hood and his men are back in Sherwood, thumbing their noses at the Sheriff and lending a hand to the poor and downtrodden.”

“But it isn’t the same. It can’t be. You can’t expect us to set aside our lives and follow you again. I will be forty next year. I have a trade, and work hard at it. So does Much at his.”

“You both chose to sacrifice your old lives earlier today, in Derby market,” Robin replied, “what are you scared of? Do you have wives and bairns to protect?”

“Little chance of that,” Much replied glumly, “the people of Hathersage knew what we were. Outlaws on the run. No decent woman would look at us.”

Robin spread his hands. “What is to be, then? Will you go back to your lonely little shelters in Hathersage, and wait for the Sheriff’s men to come and drag you away? Perhaps it won’t come to that. Perhaps you will be fortunate, and live the rest of your lives unmolested by the law. In the fullness of time, you will die and be buried, alone and unloved and swiftly forgotten.”

“Or have you enough strength and courage left for another roll of the dice? Think, lads. Did you feel nothing when you saw the fat deputy and his hirelings run? When you saved these silly boys from the rope? Better to live like lions, than die like cows in the straw.”

“Now you sound like Robin Hood,” said the youngest of the brothers, “now you sound like the man in the rhymes.”

Robin drew himself up. God had robbed him of purpose, only to restore it when he found the true path again. All he had to do was stop running.

“What it is to be?” he repeated, staring hard at Much and Littiljohn, “well? Choose!”

8.

Fountains Abbey, North Yorkshire 

Brother Thomas was summoned from his work in the herb garden by the sub-prior, and ordered to attend the abbot.

“He is in the east transept, overseeing the builders,” said the sub-prior, an impatient and fussy little man, “go along with you at once, and don’t dawdle on the way.”

Thomas had never dawdled in his life, but to please the sub-prior he dropped his rake ran, only slowing to a more seemly trot when he entered the cloisters.

It was between Sext and None, another unbearably hot afternoon in high summer, and he was grateful for the shade and coolness of the abbey walls. Fountains had been his home since infancy, and he had scarcely known a life beyond its precincts.

He pattered into the nave, towards the eastern part of the abbey, which was undergoing a vast reconstruction. The usual serene peace of a religious house was disturbed by the rough voices of labourers, and the towering arched vault of the roof echoed to the bang and clatter of their work.

Abbot John of Kent’s dreams of renovating and enlarging his abbey, continuing the work of his predecessor, were at last nearing completion. He had spared no expense on his darling project, imposing ever more oppressive taxes and levies on his tenants to pay for it – all, so the abbot was fond of saying, for the greater glory of God.

Thomas tried to have no opinion on the extraction of money from poor folk to pay for church buildings. He had been taught to have no opinions. Aged fifteen, he was still a novice, and his voice counted for very little.

“Reserve your larynxes for the singing of prayer and liturgy,” the novice-master would instruct him and his fellow novices, “not the idle criticism of your elders. The first duty of a monk is obedience.”

It was usual for most novices to undergo a one-year testing period before being accepted as full brethren. Thomas was different. For reasons yet to be explained to him, he was required to stay part of the novitiate until the age of eighteen, when his conduct would be reviewed by the abbot.

As a novice of the Cistercian Order, he was not permitted to wear the monkish cowl, but instead a white sleeveless mantle and stole. He was required to appear humble and obedient at all times, and kept his head bowed as he passed along the eleven bays of the aisled nave and into the presbytery.

The Chapel of the Nine Altars, part of the abbot’s grand project, was still far from complete. The two octagonal piers, some fifty feet high and supporting the gigantic entry arches into the chapel, were covered by lattices of timber scaffolding.

Groups of masons were hard at work inside, shaping blocks of coloured marble and banded stone into elegant colonettes. These would cluster around the base of the piers, serving as extra support and decoration.

Thomas stopped for a moment under one of the arches, bathed in sunlight pouring through the stained glass in the lancet windows. Filtered through the coloured images of saints and biblical scenes, the light was glorious, and warmed his body and soul.

The abbot stood nearby, oblivious of Thomas’ presence as he watched the progress of the work with folded arms and a stern expression. 

Thomas had spent many hours in prayer, begging God to help him moderate his sense of humour. His lips always twitched into a smile when he beheld Abbot John: such a short, pompous man, the red hair of his neatly clipped tonsure bristling as he waddled purposefully about the abbey, barking orders and admonishing the brethren for the slightest of offences.

The abbot was too proud to admit ignorance in any subject, save maybe the pleasures of the flesh. Thomas listened to him awhile, doling out advice to skilled stonemasons, though he knew nothing of their art.

Thomas couldn’t stand it for long. The sinful urge to laugh was becoming too strong to resist, so he approached the abbot and uttered a little cough. 

“You sent for me, my lord,” he said humbly, arranging his features into a respectful countenance.

Abbot John started. “In Heaven’s name, don’t creep up on me like that,” he squawked, “I am not a young man anymore, and God has seen fit to burden me with a weak heart.”

He fixed Thomas with a baleful eye. “Ah…yes. Thomas. I did want to speak with you, right enough. But not here. Follow me.”

The abbot strutted away, out of the transept and towards his private quarters.

Thomas’ heart beat a little faster as he followed him up the short flight of steps. He had seldom spoken with the abbot before, and never in private.

“Now, then,” said the abbot as he pushed open the door and entered the little antechamber that served him for an office, “now, then. Yes.”

He seemed uncharacteristically nervous, and stood gazing out of the window at his herb garden, slowly rubbing his hands. 

Thomas quietly closed the door behind him and took up position before the abbot’s desk, waiting. He noticed a neat pile of rolled-up parchment on the desk, along with a fresh quill, a pot of ink and a paring knife.

After he had exhausted his interest in the garden, Abbot John turned and scraped back his chair.

“Now, then,” he said when seated, “Thomas. Would you say you are happy here?”

Thomas was startled by the question. No-one had ever enquired after his happiness before. His purpose in life was to serve God, not enjoy himself. 

“I am content, my lord,” he replied carefully.

The abbot looked uncomfortable. He shifted in his chair, plucked at his earlobe, picked up his quill and put it down again.

“How much news of the outside world reaches your ears?” he asked finally.

“Very little, my lord. Brother Gerald always says that the concerns of the outside world are not ours.”

Brother Gerald was the novice-master. Now in his mid-fifties, he had entered Fountains when he was twelve years old and barely set a foot outside it since.

The abbot grimaced. “He is right, in some respects. But we are a house of God, not a fortress. Brother Gerald may derive comfort from his delusions, but the sins of the world are always with us. Here, in this sacred place.”

He placed his hands on the desk. “Even here, in my private chambers. You are the product of sin, Thomas.”

Thomas bowed his head. “I have always known I was an orphan, my lord.” 

“Yes. A sinner, born of sinners. When you were first brought here, I thought my duty was to shield you from the world. Now I think I was mistaken.”

He picked up one of the scrolls, and untied it, fiddling with the loose binding. “God has sent me a message. Or, rather, the High Sheriff of Yorkshire has. Ultimately, I believe it comes from God. Yes.”

Thomas waited patiently for the abbot to stop babbling, and wondered at the meaning of his words. He wasn’t aware of being deliberately shielded from the world. All the brethren of Fountains were required by monastic law to remain inside the precincts of the abbey, unless permitted to leave on some mission or other.

The abbot unrolled the letter and read it over, chewing his lower lip. “I have read this five or six times,” he muttered, “and every time it reads worse. The Devil is loosed in England.”

He looked up at Thomas. “The Sheriff has asked me to send this message on to our brethren at Byland Abbey. Soon the news will be all over the north country. I can think of no more fitting envoy than you. Accompanied by a few armed servants, of course. The roads are dangerous for callow boys with no knowledge of the world.”

Thomas swallowed. “Why I am so fitting, my lord for the task, my lord? I am nothing.”

The abbot set down the parchment. His little eyes narrowed, and he seemed to be gathering himself for some great effort.

“Go and talk to Brother Tuck,” he said at last, sagging in his chair, “you are one of the few who can talk to him. He will explain.”

“Take this,” he added, rolling up the scroll and holding it out, “show it to him. He can read well enough. Just make sure he doesn’t eat it, seal and all.”

Thomas took the scroll and padded out of the chamber. He was grateful to leave. The conversation had been disturbing, not least because the abbot was so visibly unsettled. Abbot John had been at Fountains for over twenty years. Despite his arrogance and pomposity, he was one of the pillars of Thomas’ narrow world. Seeing him shaken was an uncomfortable reminder that nothing in God’s creation lasted forever.

He approached Brother Tuck’s cell with caution. Most of the brethren lived in shared dormitories, but there was also a block of individual cells. Monks who had transgressed against the rules of the Order in some way were kept here in solitary confinement, to reflect on their crimes and beg God’s forgiveness.

The monks under Abbot John’s strict regime tended to observe the rules, and all but one of the cells were empty. The exception was the home of Brother Michael Tuck. Considered too dangerous and unstable to live among the rest of the brethren, he was held here in isolation, with nothing but a Bible and his memories for company.

Sometimes, when the mad fit was on him, the door to his cell was guarded by two burly servants. Thomas thought this ridiculous. No man, however strong, could hope to break down a heavy, cross-grained door barred from the outside. 

Abbot John clearly thought otherwise. Thomas reckoned he was frightened of Tuck, and wondered why. The details of Tuck’s past were shrouded in secrecy and rumour. Thomas knew better than to ask questions, and even if he did would not receive any answers. No-one told him anything.

Today there were no guards. Thomas cautiously approached the door and peered through the little barred window near the top.

The cell inside was grim and sparse, with bare stone walls and no furniture besides a stool and a narrow bed. A slop bucket stood in one corner. It was cleaned out twice a day by abbey servants, who also brought him his meals, washed him, and took him out for his weekly exercise in the gardens.

Tuck was sitting on the bed reading his Bible. His thin, sickly pale features twitched as he slowly licked his thumb and turned the page, apparently lost in concentration. As ever, he wore a simple brown habit, having refused to don the black and white robes of the Cistercians. Efforts to make him do so had resulted in explosions of violence, and one monk having his thumb bitten off.

Thomas had always felt great pity for him. He raised his hand and knocked gently on the wood.

“Tuck,” he hissed, “Tuck, it’s me, Thomas. May I come in?”

Frowning, Tuck closed his book and looked up. Thomas breathed a sigh of relief. Tuck’s good eye was clear, with no sign of the wild look that came into it during his fits. He had lost the use of the other before he came back to Fountains, during the mysterious years Thomas knew nothing about.

His damaged eye was a milk-white orb, the pupil shrunk to a tiny black dot. Thomas hated looking at it.

Tuck had also suffered some terrible injury to his brain. This caused his frequent fits, during which he was incapable of telling friend from foe and lashed out at anyone in reach with terrifying savagery. He had been known to utter prophecy, though it was difficult to pick out the foresight from the raving gibberish.

Even in his quieter moments, Tuck was seldom in a welcoming mood. However, he was usually pleased to see Thomas.

“Of course you may come in,” he said, “though at your own risk. I feared one of my headaches was coming on this morning, but God was merciful and granted me a reprieve.”

Thomas was not strong, and had to strain with both arms to lift the heavy bar. That done, he carefully laid it aside and pushed open the door.

Tuck smiled crookedly. “Please,” he said, indicating the stool. Thomas sat down and tried to think of what to say. The least word out of place might trigger one of Tuck’s moods.

“The Abbot wants you to read this,” he said, holding out the scroll, “it is important, I think. Something about a great evil loosed in England. He also said you could tell me something about myself.”

A muscle in the corner of Tuck’s mouth twitched. “The coward,” he snarled, snatching the note from Thomas’s hand.

He tore off the binding and unrolled it, swiftly running his eyes over the neat script.

His fingers loosened their grip on the parchment, and he allowed it to fall out of his hands. For a long moment he stared, open-mouthed, at the floor.

Thomas quietly pushed back his stool and stood up. The lids of Tuck’s good eye had started to flicker. That was a bad sign, but he had not yet begun to tremble. Trembling was the signal for any man of sense to make a run for the door. 

Tuck raised his right hand, fingers outspread, palm upwards. “No,” he said, “there is no need to flee. The madness is not upon me. Not yet. Please sit.”

“I prefer to stand,” replied Thomas. He was frightened now, and wanted to remain beyond Tuck’s reach.

“As you wish. I would never harm you, boy. You are the only reason I have not long since dashed my poor brains out against these walls.”

“Suicide is the blackest of sins,” said Thomas, shocked, “your soul would be condemned for it.”

Tuck made a sweeping gesture with his hand, as if brushing aside the law of God. “I may as well swap one Hell for another,” he said contemptuously, “damn the abbot. Why has he left me to do his work?”

His mouth worked, and he pointed one finger, its nail chewed to the quick, at the fallen parchment.

“The letter says that three men were recently condemned to hang in Derby. They escaped into the forest, thanks to the intervention of a man calling himself Robin Hood. That name mean anything to you, lad?”

The abbey walls were resistant to most outside influences, but Thomas was vaguely aware of Robin Hood. He had heard the abbot and other senior monks speak his name with disdain, outraged by how popular the tales of his exploits were becoming with the common folk.

“A little,” he replied.

Tuck leaned forward suddenly. “He’s dead,” he snarled, baring yellow teeth, “or should be. But now he’s risen from the grave, and the abbot is too frightened to tell you the truth. So let me do it. Be ready to hear a lot more of Robin Hood. He is your father.”

9.

Nottingham

The Sheriff sat at high table in the Great Hall of Nottingham Castle, biting his nails and glaring at his cowering deputy.

Baldwin de Paunton cut an abject figure, white-faced and shaking as he stood before his master, wringing his hands. Many men had stood before William de Cantilupe in such an attitude, fearful for their lives and property, but never one of his own servants.

“I thought you were a good man,” de Cantilupe said sternly, “trustworthy and efficient. Capable of presiding over a simple hanging. It seems I was wrong. That saddens me.”

“Please, lord,” whimpered de Paunton, “I have apologised for my failure, but what else could I have done? My men ran away, leaving me to face the outlaws alone. There was four of them at least, and one was a giant of a man. I stood no chance at all.”

The Sheriff moodily inspected his ragged fingernails. “This giant,” he said, “was he a big, black-bearded swine?”

“Yes,” de Paunton replied, vigorously nodding his head, “does your lordship know the man?”

“I know of him. His name is John Littiljohn. A former soldier and outlaw, now living as a smith in Hathersage. My spy in the village keeps a close eye on him and his friend, a shepherd named Much.”

He closed his hand into a fist. “I ought to have hanged them both years ago, but their crimes were long in the past. So long as they kept quiet, I was content to let be. I have work enough chasing active criminals without going after those in retirement.”

“It seems I was mistaken,” he added, “so Littiljohn and Much are back on the outlaw path, are they? They shall both swing for it. What of their leader, this strange fellow in the beggar’s disguise?”

“A tall, villainous-looking man,” replied de Paunton, “he gave no name, but I heard the peasants call him Robin Hood, or The Hooded Man.”

The Sheriff sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. “I feared as much,” he said, “so my assassin failed in her work. Her body is probably lying in the forest somewhere. Shame. Good servants are hard to come by.”
He looked meaningfully at de Paunton, who cringed. “There was another with him, lord,” the deputy ventured, “I only got a fleeting look at her, but it was definitely a woman. She stabbed one of my men.”

De Cantilupe’s well-developed sense of paranoia, honed from a long career of political survival, flared hot. Could the hired killer he knew as Maud the Knife have joined with Robin Hood? Why should she do such a thing? It was scarcely in her interests to turn outlaw. The Sheriff paid her well, and no doubt she had other masters.

He put her aside for the moment.  “My predecessors found Robin Hood impossible to kill,” he said, “no matter how they tried to stamp on him, he always slipped away. I suppose he is back in Sherwood now. His old haunt. He has already gathered a following. Littiljohn and Much, your mysterious woman, and those three widow’s sons you were supposed to hang.”

He glared balefully at his deputy. “You have made a mess of this, Baldwin. By rights, I should dismiss you from office and send you to France, to help the King fight his idiotic wars.”

De Paunton sagged to his knees. “No, lord, please. Don’t send me to France. I am not a fighting man. My chest is weak. You would be sending me to my death. Please, lord, give me a chance of redeeming myself!”

The Sheriff regarded him with disgust. “Is this how you abased yourself before Robin Hood? Have some pride. I cannot abide cowards. Only one thing can save you. Tell me how I might rub out The Hooded Man, once and for all.” 

The deputy’s little eyes gleamed with rat-like cunning. “Call the hue and cry,” he said, “turn out the garrison of Nottingham, and summon every able-bodied man in the local villages to help with the manhunt. Search every inch of Sherwood for the outlaws. Use dogs. Flush them out! Once they are in the open, they will be easy game.”

“Such a course had occurred to me,” said de Cantilupe, “but I suspect it would be a lot of noise and effort for nothing. The people have long memories. They still love Robin Hood, and would hinder rather than help. If he is in the forest, they might send him a warning long before the hunt began.”

“Besides, Sherwood is his domain. The damned forest is twenty miles wide. My men would get lost, and the outlaws could shoot them down from cover. If it can be avoided, never fight an enemy on his own turf. An important rule of warfare, that.”

He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together, and gave de Paunton a nasty smile. “Try again.”

The deputy had broken out in a light sweat. His Adam’s apple bobbed frantically. The Sheriff could almost hear the wheels of his mind grinding, and derived a little thrill of pleasure from the man’s torment. It was an unpleasant thing to admit to oneself, but putting the fear of God into underlings was an aspect of power he had always enjoyed.

“Then the only option is to draw him out,” de Paunton gabbled, “dangle some bounty before his eyes, and tempt him out of Sherwood.”

“Robin Hood is no fool,” said the Sheriff, “he can’t be, to have survived this long. He would smell a trap as well as any.”

“Appeal to his vanity. Only a truly arrogant rogue would have tried to snatch three condemned prisoners from under the very noses of the law. The rhymes portray him as a man without fear. I think they are wrong. He is frightened of being forgotten. Why else would he return, after all this time?”

The Sheriff mulled this over. “There is something in what you say,” he admitted, “only desperation or vanity would drive any sane man back to outlawry. Assuming he is sane, of course.”

 He strained to recall what he knew of the Robin Hood ballads. Crude rhymes, composed by wandering minstrels and storytellers for the entertainment of common folk. Nothing was written down, and they were usually sung or chanted in ale-houses.

It was beneath de Cantilupe’s dignity to enter such places, but could recite a few lines. He had heard his servants singing of Robin Hood, when the drink was flowing and they thought he was out of earshot. 

“Robin Hood in Barnsdale stood,” he said, drumming his fingers, “hatted and hosed and clothed and shod. Four and twenty arrows, he bore in his hands.”

“Archery. He is said to be a superb archer, as befits a hero of the people. The bow, after all, is a peasant’s weapon.”

“No man better,” said de Paunton, “the greatest archer in England, so the rhymes claim. They exaggerate, of course.”

“Perhaps. Imagine, if you can, becoming famous in your own lifetime. You are Robin Hood, a naturally arrogant and vainglorious man, and have cheated the law time and again. People are singing songs about you. Would you not come to believe in your own legend?”

The Sheriff’s able mind was starting to work, and he didn’t wait for the deputy’s response. 

“Very well. Let us assume your interpretation of his character is correct. Let us appeal to his vanity.”

De Cantilupe leaned back in his chair. “The greatest archer in England, is he? An idle boast, and one we shall soon put to the test.”

10.

“You have ridden your luck once,” said Matilda, “why risk it again?”

Robin wasn’t listening. His mind was on fire, full of renewed certainties.

He saw it all now. For years, he had stumbled around in darkness, but Christ had seen fit to lift the veil over his eyes.

“We have struck a small blow against evil,” he said earnestly, “did you think it would end there? The God of light has led me back to England. To you, and Sherwood.”

“The God of light?” said Matilda, looking baffled, “Robin, what do you mean? There is only one God.”

Still too soon, he thought, she would not understand. Perhaps she never will. 

The Cathars believed God was a dual being, composed of equal parts light and darkness. The God of darkness was strong, and had to be fought wherever He was encountered.

To Robin, it seemed obvious that England suffered under the rule of the dark god. The Normans were servants of the dark god, and it was Robin’s destiny to drive them out. Once they were gone, England would be flooded with light. The truth would be revealed, and the liars and hypocrites of the false church thrown down forever.

All physical beings are by their nature corrupt, but perhaps a form of redemption can be achieved.

Robin had shunned his destiny, allowing human fear and weakness to steer him away from it. The mercy of Christ had made him a new man, reminding him of who he was, smothering his doubts and lending him renewed vigour. The fires of his youth had burned low, but holy zeal had poured oil onto the pyre.

The final defeat of the Normans had already begun. They were making mistakes. Seven days previously, the Sheriff had announced an archery tournament, to be held outside Nottingham at the beginning of September.

The prize was an arrow forged of pure silver, reckoned to be worth some two hundred marks. There would also be displays of jousting between knights from all over the Midlands, wrestling matches and quarter-staff contests. De Cantilupe was sparing no expense for the holiday, and had dipped deep into his own pocket to hire minstrels and entertainers, and provide food and drink: enough, it was rumoured in the local villages, to stuff the bellies and rot the livers of an entire army.

“Matilda is right,” said Littiljohn, “it’s a trap. The Sheriff has never been known to be generous before. Why else has he changed his ways, so soon after your return? He’s using this tournament as bait, dangling the prize of a silver arrow before your eyes.”

Robin looked at his tiny band of followers with disappointment. After escorting the widow of Chesterfield and her sons to Sheffield, the outlaws had returned to Sherwood, picking up the news of the archery tournament from a wine-merchant taking his goods from Nottingham to York.

The ensuing argument had lasted all the way to their old camp, deep in the heart of the forest. Any nostalgia Robin might have experienced for the place was smothered by his frustration.

“It matters not if the Sheriff intends to lure me out of Sherwood,” he said earnestly, “can you not see, he has sown the seeds of his own downfall? The silver arrow is a symbol. I will go to the tournament in disguise, win the arrow and bury it in de Cantilupe’s heart. The people will see me, and rise as one against their oppressors.”

The outlaws looked unconvinced. “What if they don’t rise?” said Matilda, “even if they do, it will be a massacre. The people are just peasants, Robin. Fists and cudgels against swords and crossbows. I thought you said you wanted no more blood on your conscience?”

“They will rise,” said Robin, “you saw the reaction of the people at Derby. They beat the deputy’s men to a pulp.”

“Some of them did,” Littiljohn corrected him. “The others ran away. You can’t expect people to lay down their lives for you. What if you don’t win the tournament?”

“I am the best archer in England. I will win handsomely.”

Robin spoke with total confidence, springing from his newfound inner conviction.

There was a time when he could carry others along with his sheer passion and enthusiasm, but that power had waned. The doubtful looks on the faces of his followers pained him.

They were tired, he could see that. Much and Littiljohn were still big, powerful men, but their shoulders were bowed with years of ceaseless hard work.

Even Matilda, the youngest of them all, showed the marks of age and privation. Seen in the harsh light of day, her still-handsome face was scored with deep lines, and her ruthlessly cropped blonde hair faded to a dreary yellow, with grey at the temples.

“You believed in me once,” he said quietly, “I know I failed you all, but I had no choice. If I had stayed in England, we would not be here now. God has given us another chance.”

Littiljohn shrugged. “Maybe,” he said, “but this is different from robbing a few rich travellers and giving the money to the poor. If you go to the tournament, then you go without me. I’ll not help you die a second time.”

“Nor me,” said Matilda.

Robin turned to Much. “Well?” he asked, “will you abandon me too?”

Much’s honest face creased with indecision. Never a leading light in the band, he was very much a follower, and unused to making decisions.

“When I saw you in the market place at Derby,” he said at last, “it was the best moment of my life. I thought I was condemned to live out my days as a shepherd, and all the battles we once fought were for nothing. I agree with you, Robin. I think God has sent you back for a reason. Only a fool argues with the will of God.”

“Stout lad!” cried Robin, though Matilda shook her head and Littiljohn muttered something about poor shepherds making even worse philosophers.

“Madness,” said Matilda, “is this what it was like, in the old days? It seems incredible to think we indulged you.”

Robin gently took her hands in his. It was the first tender moment between them for fourteen years. She did not move away.

Her right hand still had a dressing on it, where his sword had cut the skin. Robin felt a stab of guilt every time he saw it.

“You indulged me all those years ago because you trusted me,” he said with one of his old smiles, “we won some rare victories back then. We have won another in Derby. Our enemies are weak. One more victory, and they may be defeated forever. If we fail, we fail. At least we can meet our deaths with glad hearts, knowing we made the effort.”

He met her gaze. She was still a stranger to him, hiding her true feelings and history behind hard eyes, but the defences were starting to crumble.

To his surprise, he was wrong. “I won’t come with you to Nottingham,” she said, pushing his hands away, “and you can’t charm me into doing what you want. Not any more.”

“Very well, then,” he said grimly, “I will go with Much, and you and Littiljohn may abide here, or in Hell. I care not which.”

*

The morning of the first day of September was clear and bright and pleasantly cool, promising none of the oppressive heat that for months had made the lives of the serfs a sweltering misery. Condemned to labour all hours in all weathers, six days of the week, they had no choice but to endure the worst man and nature could throw at them. It was that, or be evicted from their miserable cottages to wander the highways of England as beggars.

Robin boiled with inner heat as he made his way to the archery butts. It was mid-morning, and the large strip of field set aside for the tournament was already filled with people. The Sheriff and burghers of Nottingham had, as the rumours promised, laid on enough drink to lay an army on its back: great hooped barrels of cider and ale, honey mead and cheap wine, all of it free.

People had streamed in from towns and villages all over Nottinghamshire. Rough labourers, unshackled from their ploughs for the day, rubbed shoulders with townsfolk. Green-clad foresters, their faces bronzed by a life spent in the open, mingled with pork-bellied merchants and shopkeepers. The drink flowed, and the delicious smell of roasting meat and spiced bread filled the air.

A brace of whole oxen roasted on spits in the middle of the field. The pinched faces of the hungry poor gazed longingly at the meat, waiting with cramping bellies and drooling mouths for their share. They were forbidden to hunt in the forests on pain of fines and imprisonment, and for much of the year lived off hard black bread and pottage. Save for a little bacon, when the pigs were slaughtered once a year, they hardly got to taste meat at all.

Robin looked on the drunken merriment all around him with disgust. “Look at them,” he said, “like dogs, let off the leash and allowed a treat by their masters. What slaves we English are.”

“You can’t blame them,” said Much, “a short life and a hard one, that is all most have to look forward to. Save for feast days and the occasional holiday like this one, they never have any respite from work.”

Robin had put off his mail shirt and donned the rough garb of a forester. “There will be plenty of foresters entering the tournament,” he said carelessly, “so I will go as one. The Sheriff doesn’t know my face anyway.”

“His deputy will,” warned Matilda.

“Then I will wear my hood up, until the time comes to reveal myself. Much, my lad, you will shave off that beard of yours. I doubt the deputy would remember your face anyway, but it is best to be cautious.” 

Much protested, but finally did as Robin asked, and spent some time staring gloomily at the reflection of his naked chops in the river.

“I have worn a beard since I was old enough to have one,” he protested.

Robin clapped him on the shoulder. “It will soon grow back. Better a cold chin than a stretched neck, eh?”

Matilda’s fears had so far proved groundless. No-one recognised the outlaws as they strolled among the crowds. The archery contest was due to begin at noon, so they had time to watch some of the other events.

“Littiljohn would make short work of these two louts,” said Robin as they watched one of the quarter-staff bouts.

Two big countrymen, stripped to the waist, cracked their staves together with more enthusiasm than skill, egged on by drunken cheers. One of them was slightly quicker, and caught his opponent off-guard with a sudden thrust. Blood and broken teeth spat from the loser’s mouth, and he toppled over to a chorus of boos and jeers.

Stifling a yawn, Robin turned away and looked again at the grand central pavilion. It was made of undyed white linen canvas, and four streamers were set up on poles at each corner. They bore the de Cantilupe arms, three yellow fleurs-de-lis against a red shield. 

The flaps of the pavilion were tied back, and the Sheriff himself could be seen within, drinking and laughing around a table with his cronies. Twelve crossbowmen stood outside to prevent nosey peasants getting too close.

Robin too careful note of de Cantilupe. A tall, thin man with cropped grey hair. Compared to his richly-dressed companions, there was something fastidious about him. He wore a plain dark blue gown, and little adornment, with just one silver ring flashing on the middle finger of his left hand. A long dagger hung in a plain leather sheath at his belt.

The pavilion was full of braying laughter and conversation, but the Sheriff said little. Instead he smiled politely, nursing a small cup of wine, occasionally nodding his head and murmuring something inaudible.

I would have preferred a fat, braying idiot, Robin thought with dismay, this one thinks before he speaks and pays attention to what others say. Not one to waste money on his appearance. An ex-soldier, if I am any judge of such men, and knows how to use that sticker at his waist.

The plump little deputy, Baldwin de Paunton, sat to the Sheriff’s left. He also paid scant attention to his companions. His little eyes swept the milling crowds beyond the pavilion, as if searching for something.

Robin ducked his head and hurried away before the deputy could see him.

“It is a trap,” he said, plucking at Much’s sleeve, “and there will be no uprising against the Sheriff, not today. The blasted man has made himself too popular with his gifts of meat and drink.”

“What, then?” replied Much with a puzzled frown, “do we give it up, and go back to Sherwood?”

Robin pressed his hand against his forehead. Running away would be the prudent course. There could be no victory here today. The Sheriff had bought the affections of the people, if only briefly, and the god of darkness would rule a while longer.

No, he thought stubbornly, I can still win the contest, and put an end to de Cantilupe. I just need to get close enough to him. His guards will hack me to pieces, but what is my life worth to anyone? Flesh is but flesh.

“Much,” he said, looking in the other man’s eyes, “I want you to go. Now. Back to the forest. I should not have brought you here.”

“Find the others,” he went on forcefully when Much opened his mouth to protest, “and tell them I am sorry. I owe you all an apology, but was not man enough to say it. Do this, for me. Please.”

He was used to ordering men, and gave Much his sternest military stare.

The younger man’s resistance crumbled. He clasped Robin’s hand wordlessly, and then stumbled away, his eyes moist with tears.

That’s it, thought Robin when Much had vanished among the throng, that was for the best. I have done what was right. At last.

Now all was down to him. Robin had kept up his skill with the hunting bow while in exile, though the crossbow was far more popular as a weapon, especially in France. The bow he carried was some five feet long and as thick as his thumb, made from a single piece of yew he had cut inside Sherwood. In the weeks leading up to the tournament, he had obtained bowstrings from a friendly local village, and a sheaf of arrows to practise with.

The bow had a range of a hundred and fifty yards, and even at that distance Robin could bring down a running hare. His claim to be a great archer was a boast, but no idle one.

“Perhaps there is a better man here,” he said, smiling to himself. Soldiers and mercenaries as well as foresters would take part in the competition. Some of them had come from far afield, and he recognised Basque and Gascon accents among the chatter of voices.

There was movement inside the pavilion. The midday sun was high in the sky, and it would soon be time for the Sheriff to announce the tournament. It was to held on a wide, open plain, next to the temporary forest of tents and stalls.

Robin fingered one of the arrows in the quiver slung over his shoulder. The pavilion was less than thirty yards away. De Cantilupe’s soldiers were everywhere, mounted and on foot, but they could no nothing to stop him notching an arrow and putting a shaft into their master’s scrawny body. A few seconds, and the job would be done.

No. If he killed de Cantilupe now, it would be mere assassination. The people might not be ready to rise, but Robin could give them something to remember. To win the silver arrow, and then use it to slay the Sheriff…it had the makings of a ballad. Such a ballad, he hoped, as would set all England on fire with rebellion and drive her oppressors into the sea.

People started to trickle towards the butts. Some had imbibed too much free drink, and had to be helped by their friends. One or two of the worst afflicted were left to lie in the sun, where they were destined to wake hours later with heatstroke, a pounding headache and a foul taste in their mouths.

Robin bought a honey cake from a stall and walked towards the butts, chewing slowly. A shrill blast of trumpets sounded from the pavilion behind him. The Sheriff was moving.

The field had been well-chosen. It was some two hundred yards long and sixty wide, and the butts, twenty mounds of earth with round straw targets nailed to them, were arranged in a single row about fifty yards away from the Sheriff’s dais.

The dais was a simple raised platform, large enough to accommodate de Cantilupe, his wife, and a few of his cronies. Currently the chairs were empty, but four crossbowmen stood at each corner of the platform. This Sheriff, Robin reflected, took few chances.

He stood to one side, leaning on his bow and taking care to remain hidden behind a group of labourers, while the Sheriff approached the field. De Cantilupe walked sedately beside his wife, a severe-looking woman of forty or thereabouts. Four mailed knights and their squires and sixteen crossbowmen escorted them to the dais.

Robin had no interest in the soldiers. His eyes were fixed on the prize borne before de Cantilupe. The silver arrow nestled on a purple cushion carried by a white-robed priest, chosen as the bearer for no obvious reason other than his clerical office and stately appearance.

A low whisper rippled through the crowd, like a breath of wind through a cornfield, as the arrow passed by. Two hundred marks, it was said to be worth. Robin would not have been surprised to discover they had been melted down to make the arrow.

He cared little for its value. The head looked sharp enough, and (if God willed) would soon be thrilling inside the Sheriff’s flesh.

The priest mounted the steps of the dais and reverently placed the cushion on a table beside the Sheriffs’ high chair.

De Cantilupe graciously handed his wife to her seat and raised his slender hands for silence. He had a commanding presence, and the murmur of voices almost instantly died away.

“Let the competitors come forward,” he cried in a high, clear voice.

The trumpets blasted out their song again, and the archers moved forward to stand below de Cantilupe. Robin shuffled along in the rear, keeping his head down. He had already counted his rivals, and reckoned there to be over forty.

De Cantilupe looked down his long nose at the men arranged into three ragged files below the dais. His deputy stood just behind him and to his left, glaring malevolently at each man in turn. Robin pulled his hood forward slightly.

“You know the prize, gentlemen,” said the Sheriff, spreading his left hand to indicate the silver arrow, “a silver arrow worth more money than most of you will have seen in your lives.”

Robin recalled the glittering hoards of gold and silver, jewels and plate, he had seen in the catacombs below Toulouse and Vereilles – treasures acquired by the Cathars to fund their mercenary armies – and smiled.

“Take your places,” the Sheriff concluded, “and may God smile upon the worthiest.”

He flung up his hands, rousing an addled cheer from the crowd, and the archers moved away to take up position.

A long piece of twine marked out a line in the grass. Robin took his place on the left of the line, near the end, squeezed between a garlic-breathing Basque and a greybeard forester.

Robin pulled the sheaf of arrows from his quiver, and stuck them head-down in the soil before him. Every archer was required to carry at least twenty arrows for the contest.

  He glanced at his immediate rivals. The forester handled a hunting bow similar to Robin’s, while the Basque had an extraordinary weapon made of Spanish yew, almost six feet long and the thickness of three men’s thumbs.  It was painted black, and so were his arrows, with red flights.

“Wolf-arrows,” remarked Robin, and the Basque grinned and winked at him. The black arrows were made of ash and tipped with vicious curved barbs. Any man unfortunate enough to receive one of those in his flesh would have the Devil’s own job extracting it.

The marshal of the tourney appeared at the end of the line, mounted on a white mare. He wore the Sheriff’s livery and carried a white cane.

“Notch!” he shouted, raising his cane.

Almost as one, the long line of archers plucked an arrow from the ground, notched, and drew back their bowstrings. This was no place for shortbows, and every man drew the string back to his ear.

“Aim!”

Robin raised his bow slightly and carefully sighted at the target on the butt directly in front of him. The straw wheels were painted with a series of concentric blue and white circles, and the bull’s eye in the middle was picked out in red.

“Shoot!”

Robin loosed, and the air filled with the thrum of bowstrings. Over two-score arrows instantly took flight, like a flock of startled birds.

At fifty yards, it wasn’t a difficult shot for him, and his arrow hit the bull’s eye square in the middle. The Basque had chosen the same butt to aim at, but his black wolf-arrow just shaved the outside of the red dot.

“Bad luck,” said Robin, returning the Basque’s wink. The other man gave him a tight little smile and selected another arrow. He was a wiry, yellow-faced fellow dressed all in black, with a short sword at his hip.

A ragged cheer went up as the marshal’s attendants moved among the butts, inspecting the results. Those archers who had failed to hit the innermost circle were required to drop out of the competition. There was some resentful growling and shuffling of feet among the failures, but eventually they withdrew.

Twenty-three men were left. The attendants picked up the butts and moved them back, another fifty yards.

“Notch!” cried the marshal again, and the remaining competitors notched arrows and drew.

The first shot was easy, but a hundred yards presented some difficulty. Robin placed his legs slightly further apart and squinted carefully along his draw-arm, fixing his eye on the centre of the distant butt.

He felt entirely relaxed and confident. It had always been thus, ever since his father had first placed a practice bow in his little hand as a child. A natural talent for marksmanship flowed through his family. One of their proudest boasts was of an ancestor, one Aelric, who had put an arrow through the gullet of a Danish jarl at The Battle of Ashdown. 

“Shoot!”

He released, and watched his arrow as it flew with the others, curving through the deep blue sky. A thrill of satisfaction ran through him as it landed smack in the middle of the target.

The Basque was nowhere near, and nor was the greybeard to Robin’s right.

“Good fortune,” said the mercenary, tapping Robin on the shoulder before taking his place among the other failures behind the line.

Just sixteen men remained. Robin expected the butts to be taken back another fifty paces, to the extremity of his bow’s range, but instead they were removed from the field.

Some of the men beside him cursed as the new targets were revealed. A dozen peeled white wands, no more than two feet high, stuck into the ground six feet apart.

“Now, sirs,” cried the marshal, “no more shooting at straw targets. Let us see the true measure of your skill!”

Robin smiled. He had played this game before. In Provence he had served under a baron who made his bowmen shoot at a popinjay, a cluster of feathers mounted on a stick, at absurd distances. No man was allowed to put down his bow and rest his aching arm until he had hit the mark at least three times.

“Three shots,” the marshal, “just three arrows each, sirs. He who gets closest to the mark shall win the silver arrow. In the event of a tie, the wands shall be placed even further back until just one man is left standing.”

Robin carefully selected three of his best arrows from the remainder, the straightest and least warped.

The crowd had kept up a low murmur of conversation throughout the contest, but now a hush fell over the field. This was worth watching.

“Notch – aim – loose!”

Robin shot, and anxiously chewed his lip as he watched the arrow descend.

A great shout went up, and the waiting attendants hurried to inspect the wands. They held up four arrows. One belonged to Robin: all four had hit their marks, though failed to split them. Twelve men were eliminated, and stepped back reluctantly from the line.

Annoyed at his slackness, Robin poured all his skill and concentration into the second shot.

He punched the air. This time his arrow was the only one to split a wand. One man had missed altogether, and now only three remained.

“Hark to the dead-eyed forester,” he overheard someone remark. Robin’s joy at the compliment was tinged with guilt. His vanity was appalling. Neither his severe faith in the dualist god, nor the whips of the monks of Saint André, had succeeded in driving it out of him.

If I am vain, what of it? Skill alone is not enough to win this tournament, and the God of light needs me to win.

Robin put aside his self-doubt and reached for his third and last arrow.

This time the shouts were deafening, and Robin threw down his bow in ecstasy. He had split a wand for the second time.

The greatest shot of my life!

His two remaining rivals were good sports, and clasped his hand, smiling wanly and shaking their heads. The excited crowd pushed forward, stinking of ale and cider, to press the victor’s flesh.

Robin was in danger of being overwhelmed, but a blast of trumpets brought the people to their senses.

All eyes turned to the Sheriff. De Cantilupe rose elegantly from his chair and rested a pale hand on the silver arrow.

“Well shot, sir forester,” he said, smiling complacently at Robin, “I never saw anything like it. Step forward and claim your prize.”

10.

Matilda stood uncomfortably in the bole of an oak tree, on the fringes of the woods west of the archery field. From here she had a good view of the tournament, and of her husband.

She felt a flicker of pride at Robin’s performance. He was always the best archer in Linton when they were growing up, risking the forest laws and his father’s wrath by going into Knaresborough Forest and bringing back braces of rabbits and pigeons.

Robin’s family and immediate neighbours were grateful enough for his daring, when the game he had stolen warmed their bellies. Matilda first tasted meat at the age of six, from a rabbit pie Robin shared with her.

She shook away the memories. Her task was to keep an eye on Robin now.

He was standing on the dais, tall and proud, graciously accepting the applause of the crowd with only slightly less arrogance than a Roman Emperor. The Sheriff - a supercilious-looking man, Matilda thought – had plucked the silver arrow from its cushion and was holding it up in both hands.

When the roars of acclaim had died down, de Cantilupe lowered his hands and offered Robin the arrow. Robin bowed from the waist and took it.

Then the deputy, Baldwin de Paunton, intervened. He tried to get his master’s attention, plucking at his cloak and glaring furiously at Robin. Annoyed, the Sheriff turned to listen.

He was unwise to take his eyes off Robin. There was a blur of movement, and the tall, blue-robed figure screamed and fell backwards over his chair. The silver arrow was stuck in his neck, just above the collar-bone. Robin had stabbed him.

De Cantilupe’s scream was echoed by women in the crowd. Two of the crossbowmen on the dais charged at Robin, while their comrades fumbled to slot bolts into their heavy weapons, kneeling and trying to get a clear shot at the would-be assassin. De Paunton fled, jumping off the dais with a howl of terror.

Matilda’s fingers trembled as she lifted the hunting horn to her lips. Robin had left it in the camp.

“Come hither!”

The note was shakey, and died away quickly in the surrounding woods, but loud enough to alert her friends.

A score of men in hoods and masks burst from the trees and raced towards the dais. They were armed with swords and bows, and four of them were mounted.

Much was one of those on foot. He sprinted to the fore, shrieking like a madman, while the gigantic figure of Littiljohn lumbered along in the rear.

Matilda slid down from the tree and ran in their wake, tearing her short sword free from its scabbard.

“Fool!” she sobbed, all her fears blown away by concern for her husband. They had to reach Robin before the soldiers overwhelmed him.

Her view was obscured by those before her, but she caught a glimpse of Robin, struggling hand-to-hand with his assailants.

He kicked one down the steps of the dais, and used the other as a human shield, punching him in the stomach and spinning him around just as one of the crossbowmen loosed off a bolt. It hit the Sheriff’s man in the chest. Robin gave him a shove towards his comrades and leaped off the dais, vanishing from sight.

Now some of the people in the crowd had spotted the men in green charging towards them. Fresh screams of terror split the sky, and suddenly the field was awash with fugitives, people fleeing in all directions. Mothers snatched up children, old men and women limped away on their staves, men leaped aboard their wagons and lashed the dozing oxen into life.

A few, including those too drunk to run, stayed put. There were cheers among the oaths and screams, and a gang of apprentices raised their fists and chanted:

“We are Robin Hood’s men! War, war, war!”

 The horsemen had reached the dais. One of them hurled his javelin, piercing a crossbowman’s throat. Another had brought a remount, and Matilda’s heart leaped as she saw Robin climb into the saddle. His broadsword was naked in his hand.

A war-horn rang out, and a dozen mounted soldiers galloped into view, led by a knight wearing a bucket helm. They charged straight at the outnumbered horsemen. There was no sign of the Sheriff: his chair was overturned, and his shrieking wife was being helped into her litter by a group of white-faced servants. 

Much galloped straight at the soldiers, lost in his berserk fury. His comrades were more prudent. At a word from their captain, they notched arrows to their bows, drew, and shot with admirably practised discipline.

Their green-fletched arrows fell among the knight and his followers, bowling three men from their saddles and discomfiting the rest. At the same time Robin and his horsemen tore into them, careless of the odds, howling battle-cries.

Robin engaged the knight, who had an arrow sticking from his mailed shoulder. Their blades clanged and scraped together, almost too fast for the eye to see.

“The Hooded Man!” Matilda yelled, and dived at the knight’s horse. She was sorry to hurt the beast, but this was war, and she cut savagely at its right foreleg. Her sharp blade chopped through muscle, sinew and bone, severing the leg below the joint of the knee.

The horse toppled over with a hideous shriek, spilling her rider onto the grass. Matilda knelt beside him where he lay stunned, and drove her dagger through the cross-bars of his helm. He jerked violently, limbs thrashing, and then went still.

“You bitch! You treacherous, faithless bitch! I will see you hang – do you hear me?”

The Sheriff’s voice. Matilda turned her head to see him lying on the dais, propped up on his elbow, his face a mask of rage and pain. The silver arrow was still stuck in his neck, and he was staring directly at her, his eyes round with hatred.

Matilda cared nothing for her old employer. She raised her bloody dagger at him, and licked the blade clean with a meaningful wink.

De Cantilupe’s face turned black. “Shoot her down!” he roared, weakly flapping his arm, “thirty shillings for the man who puts a bolt through that traitor!”

One of his crossbowmen, lurking below the platform, heard his master, and took careful aim at Matilda. She tensed, waiting for the shot.

A black arrow with red fletches slammed into his shoulder, and he flew backwards with a startled cry, dropping his weapon. Matilda looked around for her saviour, and spied him, a tall Basque archer dressed all in black.

“My thanks, Aritzo,” she called out. He saluted in response, and plucked another of his evil barbed arrows from his belt.

Aritzo was the captain of the mercenaries Matilda had obtained to save Robin. An adventurous and fearless man, he had insisted on entering the archery tournament himself, leaving his men under the command of the outlaws.

“Matilda!” cried Robin’s voice. He cantered past, holding out his hand. She grasped it, and heaved herself into the saddle behind him.

She locked her arms round his waist and twisted her head around. More soldiers were running up to aid the wounded Sheriff, mounted sergeants, archers and crossbowmen. The men in green were retreating, back towards the forest. Most of the townsfolk and peasants had dispersed, save for the hopeless drunks and those few who had stayed to trade blows with the soldiers. Dead and dying men lay scattered about, staining the emerald grass with their blood.

“Our men on foot won’t make it,” Matilda panted. The Sheriff’s horsemen galloped after the fugitives, spears lowered for the kill.

 Aritzo was the last to run. He halted, turning to face his pursuers, and shouted something in his own language.

His men stopped running, bent their bows and unleashed a flight of arrows. The leading horsemen went down in tangled, bloody chaos, their beasts shot down under them. Their comrades scattered and veered away, unwilling to risk another terrible volley.

“They are running!” Matilda shouted triumphantly.

“Of course they are,” said Robin, “they are soldiers, poorly paid and valued at naught by their master. No man risks his neck for twopence a day unless he can avoid it.” 

He sounded remarkably unruffled, as though everything had gone according to his plan. “Some time ago, I tried to take your life,” said Matilda, resting her chin on his shoulder, “now I have helped to preserve it.”

“I am grateful,” he said blithely, raising his voice above the rushing of wind as he heeled the horse into a gallop, “I knew you wouldn’t fail me at the last.”

The arrogance in his voice was breathtaking. Matilda could have boxed his ears, but their priority was escape.

Robin’s horse was a strong, raw-boned Flemish mare, and thundered along at a rapid pace, regardless of the double weight on her back.

“Straight ahead,” shouted Matilda when they reached the safety of the woods. Robin guided the mare east, weaving through a cluster of spindly trees, and they emerged onto a rutted track, just wide enough for a cart. 

  Aritzo’s five riders were just ahead of them, kicking up plumes of dust as they galloped along the dry road. Matilda glanced behind and to her left, and glimpsed the shadows of the footmen, flashing in and out of sight as they loped like wolves through the trees.

As planned, they were headed towards Grimston Castle, an old Norman stronghold located a couple of miles inside Sherwood. The silhouette of the castle soon became visible, half-hidden among the trees, the windows of its empty ruined hall staring down onto the road.

“Grimston?” shouted Robin, “a safe refuge, but a dangerous one. I should not care to spend the night here.”

“Better the risk of evil spirits in the night,” Matilda retorted, “than the certainty of the gallows by day. The Sheriff will not follow us here.”

Grimston had stood abandoned for over forty years, when the last male heir to the manor died in the Holy Land. It was more a fortified manor house than a castle, consisting of a stone hall on a motte surrounded by a timber palisade and a double line of ditches and dykes.

The palisade was rotted and fallen away in places, but the hall was in fair condition: the local peasants might have taken the stone for their own use, but most preferred to shun the place. There were all kinds of evil tales about the hauntings at Grimston, of strange ghostly lights seen inside the abandoned hall at night, and disembodied spirits wandering the grounds, waiting to drag foolish mortals down to Hell. 

“Curse the Sheriff,” said Robin, easing the mare into a canter, “I aimed for his heart, but my arm shook. I have rarely struck a more clumsy blow. Still, let us hope the wound may prove fatal.”

Matilda said nothing. Robin’s plan, to inspire a popular uprising by winning the archery contest and murdering the Sheriff in public, had always struck her as insane.

He had always been careless of life and limb, and full of vainglorious ideas, but there was an edge about him now. The years of exile had aged and hardened Robin, but done nothing to make him more circumspect. Rather, he seemed increasingly desperate to strike his blow against tyranny before it was too late.

The mare trotted around a bend in the road, and the castle came into full view. It stood a little way off the road. The ditches were full of murky, greenish water, and the rotting palisade was partially overgrown with ivy and coiling brambles.

“Someone has been at work,” Robin remarked, pointing at the gaps in the fence. These had been recently filled in with heaps of earth and stones, making the place defensible again. 

Matilda knew who was responsible, but she didn’t want to ruin the surprise. She and Robin dismounted, and he led the sweating mare off the track onto the overgrown path leading to the gate.

The gate itself had been mended and patched up with new timbers. It stood open to admit Aritzo’s men. Robin gave Matilda a quizzical look, to which she responded with an enigmatic little smile.

They entered to find the mercenaries rubbing down their horses next to the ruined stables. There was a pile of fresh hay spread on the ground, sprinkled with oats, and the beasts eagerly munched at it. Nearby a rusted old trough gleamed with fresh water.

 A bulky figure stood in the middle of the bailey, his brow greasy with sweat, wringing his plump hands like an agitated shopkeeper.

Robin stopped dead at the sight of this man, and then threw back his head and laughed – a loud, clear laugh, full of joy and relief. Matilda’s heart warmed at the sound of it.

“Scarlet!” Robin shouted, flinging his arms and striding to embrace the man, “you fat old rogue!”

Will Scarlet winced, but made no move to avoid Robin, and suffered his crushing embrace. He gazed miserably at Matilda over Robin’s shoulder, and rolled his eyes.

Now it was Matilda’s turn to laugh. As soon as Robin and Much had left Sherwood on their insane quest, she and Littiljohn had hastened to Blidworth, to beg Scarlet’s aid.

Neither had seen him for years, but they knew how he had prospered in the world, and could think of no-one else with the money and men to help pluck Robin from the fire he had thrown himself into.

Littiljohn was sceptical. “The last time I spoke with Will, we had a furious row,” he rumbled, “he will like as not throw us out, or clap us in irons and summon the bailiff.”

To their surprise, Will had proved more receptive. He admitted them to his fine house and listened in silence while they poured out the tale, of how Robin had rescued the widow’s sons at Derby and gone back into Sherwood.

“I heard of the widow’s boys,” he said, drumming his fat fingers on the table, “and could scarce believe my ears. Robin came to see me, you know. I smote him on the jaw and called him a shameless brigand.”

“That is nothing,” smiled Matilda, “I tried to put my sword through his heart. And yet here I am, an outlaw again, worrying myself sick for his safety.”

Will scratched his neatly trimmed beard, and glanced at her and Littiljohn. “You too, John?” he said, “I thought you had settled down to a sensible trade in Derbyshire.”

Littiljohn merely shrugged. Will sighed and thought for a moment, staring at the board with knitted brows, and then threw up his hands.

“Curse the man!” he cried, “will we never be free of him? I have a family and a business to think of. I can’t throw all that aside and go running off into the forest. My gout would never stand it.”

“We’re not asking you to take up the outlaw life again,” said Littiljohn, “just help us save Robin. He has gone off to Nottingham with Much, to try and kill the Sheriff.”

Will stared. “Of course he has!” he said with a mirthless laugh, “after that, what next? Does he plan to storm Nottingham Castle and plant his flag on the keep? No, that is not ambitious enough. He will march on London, boot King Henry off his throne, and have himself crowned in Westminster Abbey. King of the Outlaws! King of the Greenwood! King of piss and wind!”

There was a slightly hysterical note to Will’s voice. When he had calmed down somewhat, and passed a trembling hand over his eyes, he poured a cup of wine and downed it one swallow before speaking again. 

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

 There was some of the old spirit left in Will, though he did his best to hide it. He agreed to scrape together twenty of his best men, mercenaries he usually employed to guard his wagons on the journey to Southampton, and send them to aid Robin.

“Hooded and masked, mind you!” he said, “my part in this madness is to remain a secret. I have not worked all these years to restore my reputation and family business, just to end up dancing on a rope. If Eleanor was to hear of it…”

He looked around guiltily. “My darling wife is upstairs, resting with one of her headaches,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper, “they tend to put an edge on her temper.”

To further prevent Will being implicated, it was also agreed that the mercenaries would use Grimston Castle as a headquarters. No-one ventured there if they could avoid it, and it had the added advantage of being inside Sherwood.

Matilda was surprised to see Will at the castle. “I expected you to stay at home,” she said once he had extricated himself from Robin’s fierce embrace.

He coughed, and mopped his streaming brow with a silk cloth. “Eleanor was asking questions,” he said awkwardly, “my next cargo of wool is not due to sail for two months, and she demanded to know why I had summoned Aritzo and his men so soon. I was running out of explanations, and thought it best to make myself scarce.”

“Nonsense!” cried Robin, thumping him on the back, “you can’t fool me, Will Scarlet. You wanted to be part of the adventure. What, stay at home by the fire, when you could be with us in the forest again? Never!”

Will rounded on him. “None of that!” he shouted, pointing a shaking finger at Robin, “I will not listen to any of your deceits. Why did you have to come back? You have put us all in danger.”

Robin grinned. “I have done nothing. Did I force you to turn out your sell-swords and come to this haunted wreck of a castle? Not a bit of it.”

“You came,” he added, giving Will’s ample belly a poke, “because you heard the old call, and could not resist. Under all the fat and fine clothes, you’re still Will Scarlet. You’re still mine.”
Will’s face turned as scarlet as his name, and he balled his fists. Matilda was about to step between the two men to prevent a fight, when a shout from the gate distracted them all.

Much was leaning on the gatepost, fighting for breath. His face and tunic were spattered with blood.

“The soldiers,” he panted, “the soldiers…just behind us…”

“I thought we had driven them off,” growled Robin, striding towards the gate, “we can’t get trapped here.”

Matilda followed him, and laid a hand on Much’s arm.

“Well done,” she said. He swallowed and nodded, sweat rolling off him from his run through the woods.

“Christ save us,” said Robin. His voice had a flat, dead quality, robbed of its usual vigour.

She looked beyond the gate, and hope died inside her.

Aritzo and his men, the giant figure of Littiljohn among them, were in full flight towards the castle. Matilda counted fifteen of them, and guessed the others had been caught and slain.

Behind them, the sun glinted on a host of steel helmets and lance-heads. The Sheriff’s troops had regrouped and given chase.

There was no time to quit the castle and escape into the forest. The captain in charge of the soldiers was evidently a competent man, and his riders swiftly fanned out to surround the palisade.

More soldiers were pounding down the road, red-faced infantrymen with spears and crossbows. 

Robin smiled bleakly at Matilda, and slipped his hand into hers. “It seems we will die together,” he said, “I always thought we would. But not like this, trapped like rats in a cage. I pictured us living to a ripe old age and being laid to rest in a peaceful grave. Just you and I, sleeping through eternity, with the wind sighing through the grass above our heads.”

Matilda did not withdraw her hand. “That’s because you’re a fool,” she said gently.

11.

Westminster

The high, vaulted timbers of Westminster Hall shook to the sound of the King’s wrath.

“I want him dead!” shrieked Henry, waving the crumpled bit of parchment in his hand at the lords and clergymen gathered around him, “By the Face of Lucca, how difficult can it be? One wretched, stinking outlaw! This Hooded Man, this oath-breaker, this murderous robber, has drawn breath for far too long!”

“The fault is partly mine,” said Simon de Montfort, “I begged Your Majesty to pardon him in France. Let me go north and put an end to the wretch.”

Henry eyed his brother-in-law with deep suspicion. He had no doubts of de Montfort’s capacity, but was reluctant to let him win more glory. The young earl had fought well in France and Gascony, and was threatening to outshine his royal master.

None of the other lords, he noticed, stepped forward to volunteer their services. The legend of Robin Hood, the Hooded Man, was growing. His long absence had only added to the tale. There were dark rumours that he was no man at all, but a vengeful spirit of the forest. The spirit of England itself, come to wreak long-delayed vengeance on the Normans. No mortal blade, no hangman’s rope, could put an end to him.

Henry ground his teeth. Robin Hood was mere flesh and blood, he knew that for certain. Had he not watched the man flogged until he bled?

He swore a solemn oath on holy relics! Henry thought furiously, on the finger-bone of Saint Dunstan! What kind of sinful, Godless apostate could break such an oath?

Such a one cannot be suffered to live. His body must be destroyed, and his soul consigned to the bosom of the Evil One, where it belongs. 

“My thanks, lord earl,” he said, forcing a smile, “but I prefer to keep you here, close to my person. I could not do without your wise counsel.”

De Montfort looked piqued, so Henry quickly switched his attention to the envoy from Nottingham.

The Sheriff had chosen an unusual messenger. A young Cistercian monk, still a novice by the look of him, pale and underfed. He knelt at the king’s feet, head bowed.

“You,” Henry said sharply, “what is your name, boy?”

“Brother Thomas,” replied the novice, without lifting his head.

“You’re rather young to be acting as the Sheriff’s messenger. Why did he not send a more senior man?”
“If it pleases Your Highness, my master the Abbot of Fountains recommended my services to the Sheriff in council. I have carried messages for the abbot before now, and done tolerably well.”

“I daresay you have, but a novice? Abbot John had no business sending one so young on such a mission. There is some hidden meaning in this.”

He leaned down and placed his fingers under the boy’s chin, forcing Thomas to tilt his head up until their eyes met.

There was something disturbingly familiar about the novice’s smooth, guileless face. Startling green eyes, and his neatly clipped tonsure was a reddish-brown colour. Henry had seen these features before.

“Don’t try and hide things from me, boy,” Henry whispered, “my patience is severely frayed. I have servants who can extract the truth from you. A piece at a time, if necessary.”

Thomas paled. “It is true, Majesty, I was despatched south for another reason. The abbot ordered me to travel to London as a form of penance.”

“Penance? What for? What have you done?”

“Nothing, Majesty. The sin lies in my blood. I am Robin Hood’s son, fathered on his forest-wife, Matilda of Linton.”

Henry slowly straightened. His stocky frame quivered with anger. He could feel his heart beating too fast, the blood rushing in his ears, and feared the onset of one of his hereditary Angevin rages.

“Does the Abbot of Fountains make play of me?” he shrieked, raising his fists as though he meant to strike Thomas, “he dares to send me Robin Hood’s whelp? I am the King, the King of England! I will not be mocked!”

His courtiers cowered, but Brother Thomas seemed unmoved. “No mockery was intended, Majesty,” he said calmly when the echoes of Henry’s voice had died away in the high rafters, “my master thought it only fitting that I should help to destroy my father. When Robin Hood is dead, the curse of his patrimony shall be lifted from my shoulders, and I can be admitted to the full brethren of my Order.”

Henry made a great effort and forced himself to calm down a little. He was not so prey to these rages as his father, King John, for which mercy he was profoundly grateful: John had been known to shake like a man in the grip of a fever, spittle bubbling at the corners of his mouth, and in the mindless fury of his passion commit the most abominable cruelties.

He focused on the content of the letter in his hand. Dictated by the Sheriff of Nottingham from his sickbed, where he lay recuperating from a gruesome operation to remove some kind of missile – a silver arrow, of all things! – from his neck, it was brief and to the point.

Robin Hood and his followers were holed up inside an abandoned castle on the fringes of Sherwood Forest. The Sheriff was unable to conduct the siege in person, but his deputy had surrounded the castle with fifty men. Not enough to storm the walls, for Robin’s brigands were well-armed and supplied, but enough to prevent anything getting in or out.

The Sheriff humbly begged the King to send more men, so they might put an end to the outlaw once and for all.

Henry gnawed a knuckle. He didn’t have any men to spare, and precious little money. The recent losses in France had drained his resources.

There were plenty of soldiers in the north country. It was a matter of recruiting them from local garrisons and finding the money to pay them. Henry’s Exchequer was temporarily exhausted, but the private wealth of church and barons could always be tapped.

“We will discuss this matter in council tonight,” he announced, dismissing Thomas with a snap of his fingers. The novice rose, bowed low from the waist, and padded away.

That evening Henry presided over a Royal Council in the formal setting of Westminster Hall. His chief lords and advisors were present, or at least those who could be summoned at short notice.

There nothing formal about the atmosphere at the meeting, or Henry’s conduct. He sat on his throne on a raised dais at the southern end of the great chamber, while his councillors sat at a long table below him, listening gloomily to the king’s demands.

“My lords,” he barked, “the High Sheriff of Nottingham, William de Cantilupe, writes to beg me for troops to put an end to the outlaw Robin Hood. Most of my army is still in France, and I cannot spare men to send north.”

“Even so, the Sheriff’s plea cannot go ignored. De Cantilupe himself was lucky to escape death by his hand, and even now lies sick in Nottingham, recuperating from a serious wound.”

He slapped his palm down on the arm of his chair. “I will not have my servants threatened by filthy, Godless criminals. The outlaw must be caught and hanged without delay. Now, do you have any suggestions to make?”

A low murmur ran down the length of the table. “Money and men are needed to catch him,” said Richard of Cornwall, the King’s brother, “but you appear to have neither. This Hood threatens the peace of the north, and so the north should pay to deal with him.”

This seemed to meet with approval. Henry relaxed somewhat in his chair. Cornwall could always be relied on for sensible advice, especially when he was briefed beforehand.

“You speak wisely, my lord,” he said, nodding graciously at his brother, “we are agreed then, the north should meet the costs for raising more men. Now, the Abbot of Fountains saw fit to volunteer the services of one of his novices as the Sheriff’s envoy. Since the church are so eager to involve themselves in the affair, I suggest we look to the church for the money.”

This met with no objection. Henry was a pious man, and usually a great respecter of the church. For the purposes of this council, however, he had failed to summon any clergymen.

“We shall send a writ north, to the Archbishop of York,” Henry went on, “commanding him to raise the sum of a hundred marks. The money shall be sent to Nottingham for the purpose of hiring soldiers.”

“His Grace will have a seizure,” said Cornwall, to laughter from his peers.

“I don’t mean to rob him,” Henry replied sternly, “the money shall be in the form of a loan. Once Robin Hood and his followers are all hanged, the Sheriff shall raise fifty marks from Nottinghamshire, and fifty marks from Derbyshire, and repay His Grace in full.”

As Henry had predicted, there were no objections to his plan from the councillors: after all, he wasn’t asking any of them to empty their purses.

 The writ was made out by his clerks that same evening, and the next morning Henry summoned Brother Thomas to his presence.

“You came here with an escort, I understand?” he said, offering his hand for the novice to kiss.

“Yes, Majesty,” replied Thomas, “the roads are too dangerous to travel alone, especially north of the Trent. The Abbot sent six of his servants to guard me on the way.”

Henry nodded. “Abbot John clearly has faith in you. Perhaps the taint of your father’s blood can be overcome. You have served an abbot and a sheriff. Will you now serve a king?”

Thomas bowed reverently. “With all my heart and soul, Majesty.”

“Good. Then you shall serve as my envoy, and carry a writ to His Grace, the Archbishop of York. Nottingham is on route, so you can break your journey there and inform the Sheriff of our response. He will get his soldiers. The money to raise them will be borrowed from the archbishop.”

Thomas seemed to understand. A bright lad, Henry thought, and useful. Such a pity his father chose the path to Hell.

“Go, then,” said the King, waving Thomas away, “to Nottingham, young man, and York.” 

12.

York

Thomas found York Minster, seat of the Archbishop of York, to be much like Fountains, only on a far grander scale.

Like Fountains, the minster was undergoing massive renovation. The archbishop, Walter de Grey, wished the cathedral to rival the magnificence of Canterbury, and had hired an army of workmen to enlarge the north and south transept and build a huge central tower with a wooden spire.

As he walked through the gigantic cavern of the nave, listening to the sound of plainchant mingling with the coarse voices of workmen and the scrape of tools on stone and marble, Thomas struggled with his conscience.

Outwardly he was a picture of carefully practised calm and humility. It was a mask he had perfected over the years, until none could read his inner thoughts.

None, that is, save Brother Tuck. The half-blinded priest was eerily perceptive, and possessed a gift for reading the souls of men. Thomas had spent much of the long journey to London and back again pondering over their last conversation.

Tuck had told him about his father. “I used to run with him, in the old days when the world was young and full of possibilities,” he said, “we were outlaws together in the forest.”

“Robin Hood was your master?” asked Thomas, astonished. For years he had longed to unravel the mystery of Tuck’s past, but had never imagined anything like this.

“Aye, he was. He found me when I was living as a hermit, up near Knaresborough. His companion then was one Hobbe of Wetherby. You won’t have heard of him. A hard man, and a notorious outlaw in his time.”

Tuck spoke ceaselessly for almost an hour, all his dammed-up secrets pouring out of him. Thomas sat and listened in silence, marvelling at the adventures of Tuck’s youth, and the perils endured by the outlaws of Barnsdale and Sherwood.

“I never told you any of this before,” said Tuck when he was done, “for good reason. I thought your father was dead, and it would do you no good to know who he was. Your destiny was to remain cooped up inside these abbey walls forever. The knowledge that Robin Hood was your father might have placed dangerous thoughts in your head.”

Thomas blinked away the tears. “You knew, then,” he said bitterly, “you have always known who my parents were.”

“Yes. The abbot told me, when they first brought you as a squealing infant to Fountains. You were born at Kirklees Priory, but the prioress was a hard woman, and would suffer no outlaw’s whelp to remain inside her house. She ripped you from Matilda’s arms just moments after birth, and ordered her servants to bring you here.”

He hung his head. “I was already here when you arrived. After Robin’s disappearance, my friends in Sherwood brought me to Fountains and begged the abbot to take me off their hands. The knock to my head had rendered me useless. There is no room for cripples in the forest. Abbot John agreed to take me in. That was a kind act, I suppose, though I wonder if he meant it as a punishment. I had been banished from Fountains, you see, several years before. It must have given him some satisfaction to see me crawling back. He told me all about you.”

Tuck’s mouth twisted in disgust. “He gloated. The outlaws were beaten, he said. Robin Hood was dead, Matilda was a prisoner at Kirklees, and I would never be a free man again. He has held me here for fourteen years. The whoreson. I would give much to have my hands around his throat.”

“So my parents are alive,” said Thomas after a long moment, “what should I do?”

“I cannot say. You have been my sole comfort through my years of captivity, Thomas. The closest to a son I will ever have. But you are a man grown now, and must make your own decisions.”

Weeks later, in the grand precincts of York Minster, Thomas was still undecided. His training and upbringing at Fountains had made him obedient and inclined to defer to authority, but Tuck’s stories had lit a flame inside him. His father had been a notorious enemy of the church, who attacked priests and pillaged tithe barns. Thomas should have found him abhorrent.

He walked a little faster. The Dean of York had summoned him to an antechamber, to discuss the conveyance of the Archbishop’s money to Nottingham.

The noise of building, the grotesque display of wealth and power, was all around him. Thomas’ mind swirled with disturbing ideas. He had occasionally harboured secret doubts about the wealth of the church, and how the servants of Christ could possibly justify screwing tax money out of the poor in order to build palaces.

Now these doubts had grown from a whisper to a roar. They dominated his every waking hour.

He approached an arched doorway and rapped his knuckles on the timber.

“Come!” cried an irritable voice from inside. Thomas pushed open the door and sidled in.

The antechamber was a long, narrow room with a vaulted roof. It was early evening, just before Vespers, and dying crimson sunlight poured in through the four lancet windows in the west wall.

“Brother Thomas,” said the Dean, “you are prompt. That is good. Come forward.”

The Dean was a small, round-shouldered man in late middle age. His face bore the scratchy, greyish pallor of one who spent too much time indoors, counting pennies and poring over correspondence.

He sat behind a wide table of polished oak. The table was covered in money: the archbishop’s one hundred marks, gleaming silver coins, all arranged into neat piles.

Thomas’ eye took in the dean, and the money, and the narrow side-door to the left of the table.

“This is all accounted for,” said the dean, putting down his quill and rubbing his brow with ink-spotted fingers, “his grace had the Devil’s own job – pardon my blasphemy – scraping it together in time, but certain of our tenants proved generous.”

He smiled wearily at Thomas. “You are doing God’s work, brother. This outlaw is an oath-breaker and priest-killer, and must be hunted down. Step forward into the light, so I can get a better look at you. Ah! You are very young. And handsome, too. The church’s gain is the world’s loss.”

Thomas had encountered men like this before: greasy, unctuous priests who complimented his youth and beauty, and offered him bribes to let them explore his flesh. His stomach churned.

Nevertheless, he hitched his lips into a simpering smile, and moved shyly towards the table.

The dean’s eyes widened. He gave a nervous little giggle, and smoothed the folds of his robe. “Enough…enough business for one day,” he stammered, “come, brother. Sit beside me. Let us talk.”

His voice was rank with excitement. “Why, Reverend Father,” said Thomas, “there is no other chair.”

He forced himself to sound coy. Coy, but promising.

The dean’s eyes swivelled towards the door. Thomas sensed what the little man was thinking, and prayed Satan would lend him courage.

“Then you must sit here, brother,” the dean whispered, his pale face damp with sweat, “on my lap.”

Thomas shuffled closer, chewing his lip. The dean smiled beatifically and stretched out his arms.

He had no time to scream for help. Thomas’ hand closed over his mouth, while the other gripped the back of his head and slammed his face down on the edge of the table.

The dean was physically feeble, and taken by surprise. He uttered a little grunt and slumped out of his chair. His forehead was creased by a livid black bruise where it had crunched against the wood.

Thomas’ heart fluttered in his chest. He had to move quickly. Teeth chattering, he gently lowered the unconscious man to the floor.

There was a neat row of black leather bags on the table. The money had been carried in these to the minster, and poured onto the table.

Thomas crammed silver coins into one of the bags until it was filled to bursting. His fingers shook. Waves of terror and panic burst over him, threatening to destroy his reason, but he forced himself to continue.

If he was discovered, his punishment would be severe. The church tried to avoid the death penalty for monks, preferring imprisonment for those who transgressed, but Thomas could expect no mercy. To assault the Dean of York and attempt to pilfer money belonging to the Archbishop would be considered a capital crime.

The shadow of the noose loomed large in his mind. Thomas ignored it. By now he had filled two of the bags. One was too heavy for him to carry, so he emptied out some of the coins and stuffed it into the leather purse hanging from his belt. That left a dozen or so marks on the table, but he could carry no more.

Clutching his bags of coin, he darted to the side-door and pushed it open with his sandaled foot. A narrow passage lay beyond. Thomas ran down it, desperately trying to picture the layout of the minster in his mind.

The antechamber was part of the north transept, near the avenue leading to the chapter house. An arched doorway at the end of the passage led to a spiral stair, leading up to one of the galleries.

There was a low door, beyond the stair. Thomas put down his stolen money, lifted the bar and gave the door a shove. It was jammed, so he put his shoulder to it.

“God lend me strength,” he prayed. The door bounced and shuddered under his weight, and finally flew open at his third attempt. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his bruised shoulder, Thomas gathered up the money bags and staggered outside.

Light and air hit him. It was a glorious day in late summer, and the city of York basked in the heat. Curdled was perhaps a more appropriate term: the stench of the tanning yards and butcher’s shops was even worse in such weather, mingled with the usual odours of a large city, packed with unwashed bodies.

Thomas cared nothing for the smell. He had stumbled onto the grounds immediately outside the minster, with the chapter house to his right. A street of houses lay before him, bustling with people and trade even at this late hour.

Thomas needed a horse. He was a poor rider, and the long journey to London over rough, uneven roads had been the most painful experience of his life. His backside was still tender.

Even so, he had to purchase a horse, and quickly. Get out of the city gates before sundown. It was his only chance.

Fortunately, he had the means. Babbling prayers, he ran towards the street.

13.

The fugitives were trapped inside Grimston Castle for over a fortnight. They had enough supplies to sustain them for twice as long, but Robin wasn’t concerned with food. Sooner or later, the Sheriff would send reinforcements, and then the tiny garrison was doomed.

Every day he stood watch on the rampart over the decayed gate. He knew Baldwin de Paunton, the cowardly deputy, was in command, and prayed for the man to stray within range of his bow. De Paunton was no fool, and took care to stay well clear of the walls.

So far, the soldiers had made just one attempt to storm the walls. They attacked under cover of darkness, two hours after midnight, and tried to scale the weakest section of the palisade. Aritzo and five of his men were waiting for them, and fought like cornered wolves until the rest of the garrison was alerted.

After some hard fighting the soldiers had retreated, leaving six of their number lying dead and dying in the ditch below the wall. De Paunton could ill afford such losses, and had made no more attempts since.

On the morning of the fourteenth day of the siege, Matilda joined Robin on the gate. “Breakfast,” she said, handing him a twist of bread and a piece of dried meat.

He thanked her and took the food. “Will is careful with the rations,” he said wryly.

“He means to make our supplies last,” she replied, “and eats no more than the rest of us.”

“Yes, I had noticed. He is already half the man he used to be.”

He grinned, and was delighted to see her smile. Matilda’s frosty demeanour was starting to thaw. If they got out of this benighted castle alive, he hoped she might learn to love him again.

“Any movement?” she said, nodding towards the soldier’s camp. A golden dawn mist still hung over the woods, but a couple of scattered fires were visible, and men in half-armour wandering about.

“Nothing. The deputy isn’t the type of man to take needless risks, especially after the beating we gave him. Why should he? He only has to wait for more men to arrive.”

Matilda leaned against the timber battlements. “Careful,” said Robin, “they might snap under your weight.”

She ignored the jest. “Why wait?” she said, “why are we sitting here in this damp old castle, waiting for death to come?”

The forceful tone in her voice took him aback. “When you were young, you wouldn’t have sat here on your backside,” she added, “you would have ridden out and faced the enemy, sword in hand, regardless of the odds, and cut your way out of the trap.”

There were times when Robin resented the ghost of his younger self. He was constantly aware of men glancing sidelong at him, as though they couldn’t quite believe the evidence of their eyes. Most of Scarlet’s mercenaries were a good deal younger than Robin, and had been raised on tales of his exploits.

They all seemed vaguely disappointed. How could this stooped, prematurely aged man be the hero of the ballads? Granted, he had rescued the boys at Derby, and won the archery contest, but Robin was still falling short of expectations.

He was beginning to feel stretched, and looked in vain to Matilda for support. She, too, believed in the legend rather than the man.

“They still outnumber us over two to one,” he said, gesturing at the enemy camp, “we would be cut to pieces if we faced them in the open.”

“Then what do you suggest? We simply wait here until they starve us out, or more troops arrive? What is your plan, Robin?”

His plan. Robin moistened his lips and thought quickly.

“Once my watch is over, I’ll speak with Will,” he said, “we shall get out of this, I promise. Have I ever failed you?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Matilda looked at Robin with sad eyes, and left him to his vigil.

At noon, after one of Arizto’s men had replaced him on the gate, Robin went in search of Will. He found him in the old dining hall, where the knightly lords of Grimston had once sat, surrounded by music and light and laughter.

The hall was dark and empty now, the glories of its past faded into the shadows. Birds nested in the dusty rafters, and sunlight pierced the holes in the roof, where the tiles had fallen in. Much of the whitewash on the walls had faded, exposing the bare grey stone beneath. A tattered, moth-eaten tapestry lay crumpled in one corner, covered in cobwebs and bird droppings.

Will’s men had found an old table from somewhere, and carried it into the hall. Their master sat at the far end, gloomily nursing a cup of ale.

“I have swapped my fine house for a castle,” he said, glancing up as Robin came in, “perhaps I should take the old title as well. Lord of Grimston. My wife would be overjoyed, and queen it over her friends in Nottingham market. She always did want a lord for a husband. Small chance of that. Her father was a glover from Mansfield.”

There was a harsh edge to his tone. Will’s eyes were bloodshot, even more so than normal, and Robin suspected he had been punishing the ale.

“But I’ll never see my wife again, shall I? Or my children. Never see them grow up, and marry, and give me grandlings to dandle on my knee. I will die here or on the scaffold. My body will be dumped in a pit beside all the other dead criminals.”

“Why?” he whispered, staring at Robin, “I have asked you many times, but you never answer. Why did you come back? We didn’t need you. We didn’t want you.”

“God sent me,” Robin said simply, “I believe that, Will. I really do. It was the right time for me to return. England needed The Hooded Man again.”

“Did it? God wanted you to ruin my life, did He? He wanted you to break Matilda’s heart, all over again, and tear Much and Littiljohn from their safe, honest lives. He wanted you to kill men, and raise riot and rebellion, and bring fire and sword and death to a peaceful land.”

Will’s hand trembled as he raised his cup. “Praise God!” he cried, “in His infinite mercy and wisdom.”

He tossed back the dregs, threw the cup at the wall and buried his face in his hands. Robin let him weep awhile before speaking again. 

“We must break out,” he said, “rather than sit here, waiting for the end. The deputy has the castle surrounded, but his numbers are stretched thin. We could split into two groups and sally out at night. Some of us would make it to the forest.”

Will continued to blubber. “And some of us wouldn’t,” he mumbled, “or maybe none.”

The last thread of Robin’s patience snapped. He stalked over to the table, seized Will by the neck and hurled him to the floor.

“Tell me, Will, when did it happen?” he shouted, “when did the brave youth I was proud to call a friend die? Did you drown him in ale and hippocras and enormous dinners? You fat, whimpering slug! I am ashamed to even look at you.”

Will tried to get up, but Robin kicked him in the guts. “We stood for something, once! Can’t you remember? Are you so pickled in greed and drink? Yes, God brought me back. He brought me back to save England from tyrants, and remind the English of their courage, and drag the likes of you out of darkness.”

“Look, Will,” he said in a kinder voice, stepping back and pointing at the warm yellow light seeping through the holes in the roof, “turn your face to the light.”

The other man coughed and rolled over onto his back. There was blood on his lips. He wiped it away, and gazed up at Robin with sheer hatred.

“To Hell with the light,” he snarled, “and to Hell with you, Robin Hood. There will be a reckoning between us, one day.”

“Maybe. But first we have to get out of this castle. Tonight. The deputy won’t be expecting it.”

Will sat up, gasping, and rubbed his stomach. “All right. Tonight. Afterwards, when we are safe, I’ll kill you.”

*

It was a moonless night, and a mere sprinkling of stars glimmered in the velvet sky as the gates swung inward.

Robin stood just inside the bailey, holding his horse’s bridle. He breathed deeply, sucking in lungfuls of fresh air. It was a warm night, and like to get warmer very soon.

The plan was simple. He and six of Will’s men had taken the horses, and would ride out of the main gates. They would try and cut a path straight through the middle of the enemy camp, trusting in speed and surprise to keep them safe.

Meanwhile the rest of the garrison, led by Will, would leave the castle via a postern gate in the northern wall of the palisade. It led down a gentle, overgrown slope to a stream. Once across that, they would be under the eaves of Sherwood.

Robin gave Much an encouraging smile. Littiljohn and Matilda had gone with Will: the former because none of the horses could carry his weight, the latter because Robin had insisted.

“This way, you stand a much better chance of escape,” he had told her in their last moments together, “I owe you that chance, and much more.”

He dared to stroke her cheek. “I’ve not been much of a husband, have I?”

The frost shattered. “Have a care,” she whispered, throwing herself into his arms, “oh, have a care!”

 The memory of her embrace helped to steel Robin’s courage. Much and Will’s mercenaries looked at him, waiting for Robin Hood to lead them out.

He could play the role, one last time. “Forward,” he cried, springing into the saddle and giving his reins a shake.

He ducked his head as his mare shot out of the gate. The drumming of hoofs sounded behind him.

Wild excitement coursed through his veins. How many forlorn charges had he led in France? As one of the few Cathars prepared to bear arms, he had fought in more skirmishes and full-blown battles against the Pope’s barbaric Crusaders than he could remember. 

He had fought for God then, the true God of light. This was no different.

Robin’s sword flamed into being. “Charge!” he roared, crouching low over his mare’s neck, “charge, charge, charge! On them! Leave no man standing! No mercy!”

His followers echoed his cries. It was vital to make as much noise as possible. Befuddled with sleep and wine, the Sheriff’s men might pkanic and think the entire garrison had fallen upon them.

He was guided by the watch-fires on the edge of the camp. Something moved beside one of the fires. A man-at-arms rose into view, dropping his pottle of ale and fumbling for his sword.
His eyes widened in terror. Too late, he turned to shout a warning. Robin’s mare plunged over the campfire and knocked him flying.

More shapes appeared in the semi-darkness ahead. Somewhere a trumpet rang out. Men shouted and blundered out of their tents, buckling on helms and shields.

Robin slashed his mare’s flanks. She responded, shifting into a frenzied gallop, head down, mane flying in his face.

A spearman was foolish enough to try and block his path. Unwilling to risk the horse, he dragged savagely at her reins, heaving her aside at the last moment.

He hacked downwards, batting aside the spear and slashing the wielder’s face. The soldier crumpled to his knees, blood pouring from the mangled ruin of his nose and upper lip.

Robin looked around for his men. He glimpsed Much, racing away into the woods beyond the camp. Two of the Sheriff’s men ran after him in their night-shirts, but his horse easily outdistanced their futile pursuit.

Now the camp was roused. Two of Will’s mercenaries had foundered, pulled from their saddles by the Sheriff’s soldiers. Another was fighting with two spearmen, laying right and left with his axe. A crossbow bolt flew through the night and smacked into the muscle of his horse’s neck. She reared with a piercing shriek and threw him.

Robin could not afford to linger. More men were running at him, red faces and flashing swords. He glimpsed the deputy among them, his plump face dark with anger. 

“Another time, de Paunton,” he called out, and put spurs to his mare.

“Stop him, you villains!” de Paunton screeched, “put your bodies in the way! Bring him down!”
His men were little inclined to sacrifice themselves, and scattered rather than be ridden down.

Robin swerved past a few more tents, and then he was inside the woods. The shouts of his enemies swiftly dwindled behind him. They would not dare follow him inside Sherwood.

Not Sherwood. Not my own turf.

He rode through the knight, keeping his mare at an easy trot to spare her strength. The grey light of dawn found him leading her on foot through a patch of dense greenwood.

This was the heart of the forest, a primitive and ancient realm even he barely understood. The roots of England were here, buried in the rich soil. Robin had always felt safe here. Instinct and memory helped him find his way back to the outlaw camp.

His joy on seeing the Major Oak was short-lived. The camp was deserted. Either Robin was the first to make it back from Grimston, or no-one else had survived. The mere thought filled him with sick horror. Was this God’s intention? To leave him all alone in the world?

Not quite alone. He spied a horse on the edge of the clearing, quietly cropping the grass. She was a glossy black courser. An expensive creature, and fast.

Robin’s hand flew to his sword. A man had stepped into view beside the Major Oak, leaning his hand against the gnarled trunk.

Not a man. A boy. Pale and underfed, and clad in some outlandish white garments, soiled and splashed with mud.

The boy looked down at Robin. His pale hand clutched the silver crucifix dangling from his neck.

“Hello, father,” he said.

14.

 Fountains Abbey

“Eighty-three marks! That is how much he got away with! I suppose that makes you proud?”

The abbot shook his fist in Tuck’s face. A self-contained man, he usually kept his temper under strict control. Today he gave it free rein.

“Well?” he yelled, “have you nothing to say? Will you just sit there?”

He wasn’t so angry as to enter Tuck’s cell alone. Two burly servants stood just behind him, armed with heavy iron-tipped staves.

Tuck sat on the edge of his narrow bed, hands folded demurely on his lap. He had listened in silence to the abbot’s outburst, his good eye staring at the floor.

Now he looked up. “I am glad,” he said, “I am glad Thomas stole the money. For his sake, and mine. I have often prayed he might obey the call of his blood, rather than the rules of this house.”

Abbot John’s heavy jowls turned the colour of fresh steak. “You filthy apostate,” he snarled, “I should never have allowed him to visit your cell. The Devil spoke through you, and poured lies and poison into his ears.”

Tuck smiled happily. The news, brought to Fountains by an envoy from the Archbishop, was wonderful: Brother Thomas had assaulted the Dean of York and taken most of the money intended to hire soldiers to capture Robin Hood. He had slipped out of the minster undetected, and was last seen by a sentry on Micklegate Bar, riding south on a black courser.

There was more. Robin and his followers had broken the siege of Grimston Castle. The Sheriff’s men had killed some of the fugitives, but failed to prevent the rest escaping into Sherwood.

The Archbishop of York, Tuck gathered, was unhappy, and determined to spread his unhappiness over a wide area. Much of his wrath had fallen on the head of the abbot, whom the archbishop blamed for recommending the services of Brother Thomas.

Abbot John, in turn, cast his rage and humiliation at Tuck. All in vain: his fury was sweet balm to Tuck’s battered soul.

“You may well smile,” said the abbot, his voice lowering to a hiss, “let us see how long you can maintain it. I will not turn you out, Brother Tuck. You would only find your way to Sherwood again. No, I will keep you here, inside these four walls, until you die. No more exercise in the gardens. Nothing but stale bread and water from a ditch to drink. The rest of your days, may they be short, will be spent in penance and suffering.”

He looked triumphantly at Tuck, as if expecting some reaction, but there was none. Tuck was long past caring what happened to him.

With a final venomous glare, the abbot stormed out, followed by his servants. The door slammed shut behind him, and was locked and barred from the outside. Tuck was left alone to meditate on his sins.

He sat perfectly still, waiting for the angry footsteps to die away. When all was quiet he slipped his hand under the hard pillow of his bed and pulled out a knife.

Tuck had made no friends among the brethren, but plenty among the servants and kitchen staff. The under-cook had slipped him the knife when he was walking in the gardens.

He would never do so again. Never feel air and sunlight on his face, or the sweet patter of rain. He was a prisoner inside his tiny cell. 

 The knife was a broad-bladed weapon with a bone handle. He gently ran his thumb along the edge. It was sharp. Sharp enough for his purpose.

Tuck had said he was glad, and meant it. The Hooded Man lived. While he lived, the people of England had hope. Not much, perhaps, but something to cling to: a promise of better days to come, when they would no longer be slaves in their own land.

Tuck crept over to the door and peered through the bars of the spy-hole. The corridor outside was dark and empty. Good.

“It would have been pleasant,” he said to himself, “to see my friends, one last time.”

Pleasant, but impossible. He was a half-blinded, useless cripple, unable to walk more than a few steps without getting the shakes. Even if he could somehow escape the abbey and make his way to Sherwood, the outlaws would find him nothing but a burden. His time was gone.

He conjured up his fondest memory. The outlaws seated in a circle in the greenwood on a warm summer’s eve, laughing and joking around a campfire. The smell of wood-smoke and apple cider in his nostrils. The taste of stolen venison in his mouth.

He saw their faces. Robin and Matilda, together as always. Much and Littiljohn, Will Scarlet and Thomas Alleyn and all the rest. Young and free and careless, as they had been in those days.
Tuck drew himself up. Enough bittersweet remembrances. God had granted him a purpose in life, and he had fulfilled it. How many men could say that?

“It is accomplished!” he cried, and with both hands drove the knife into his heart.

End Note.

Robin Hood is one of the most famous and enduring of medieval legends, but this work is based on history: a man named Robert Hode or Hood, nicknamed 'Hobbehod', really did fall foul of the law in Yorkshire in 1225. At the same time another outlaw, a notorious criminal named Robert of Wetherby, was at large in the same county. I have made these basic facts the building blocks of my tale.

Please do get in touch if you have enjoyed Robin Hood (III): The Hooded Man. It is always pleasant to receive feedback from readers. The next episode, Robin Hood (IV): The King's Pardon is in the pipeline, and for those interested in the real history behind the tale I would recommend Robin Hood by J.C. Holt and The Outlaws of Medieval Legend by Maurice Keen.

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