The autumn ripened into winter. Allan found means to send Robin news of
them often: Master Fitzwalter had not returned; but had sent another
letter saying that he would do so ere long. They all were happy and
unmolested in the city. Of the Sheriff and his daughter they had seen
nothing. That Warrenton was well, and that they had gotten them a
man-cook and other servants.
Marian wrote little crabbed messages to him. Brief and ill-spelt as they
were, they became Robin's chiefest treasures. Marian forebore making any
attempt to see her love, for fear that she might be watched and
followed, and so bring about Robin's capture. She fretted sorely at this
restraint placed upon her by Allan's more prudent hands.
The demoiselle Marie had made a miscalculation. She knew that presently
Robin would seek Marian, even in the lion's mouth. _Then_ would come the
day of the Sheriff's triumph.
The little house of the Fitzwalters was spied upon from within. No one
bethought them of this new cook. Had Little John once espied him there
would have been a different tale to tell, however.
He had offered his services to Warrenton at a small premium, saying that
he had lost his last place with being too fond of his bed.
He said his name was Roger de Burgh, and that he came of good family.
The wages he asked were so small, and he seemed so willing, and had been
so frank as to his failing, that Marian bade him take up his quarters
forthwith in her father's house.
Life passed uneventfully for them in the Fitzwalter household. It was
neither happy nor unhappy. Mistress Fennel found it vastly more amusing
than the draughty caves of Barnesdale; but then Mistress Fennel had her
dear--and Marian had not. She was vaguely disturbed at her father's
lengthened absence. Surely he should by now have determined where he
would live--Nottingham or London.
The months crawled on and Christmas came and went.
Marian was still tied to Nottingham streets and Robin to Barnesdale
woods. This state of inactivity had told much upon the greenwood
men--upon Little John most of all.
At last the big fellow fell out with Friar Tuck, and began to grumble at
everyone in turn. Robin, in despair, bade him go into Nottingham, to see
how the land lay there. "If you must be breaking someone's head, Little
John, let it be one of our enemies who shall suffer. But have a care,
for your tongue is as long as your body. Choose a cunning disguise
therefor."
"I will go as a beggar," said Little John, brightening up at the
prospect of adventure. "For a beggar may chatter as much as he
will--'tis part of his trade."
So clad all in rags, and bent double as though with age, Little John
went forth from their caves upon a February morning. He supported
himself with a stout oak staff, and carried two great bags upon his
shoulders. One held his food, and the other was to be refuge for
anything of note that he might find left about--such as Sheriff's plate,
to wit, or a Bishop's valuables.
He encountered four fellows of the like profession near by Nottingham
north gate. One was dumb, another blind, the other two halt and lame.
"Give you good morrow, brothers," said he, in a gruff voice. "It's my
fortune that brings me to you, for I am in sore need of company. What is
there a-doing in Nottingham since the bells be ringing a-merrily? Are
they hanging a man, or skinning a beggar?"
"Neither one nor the other, you crooked churl," replied one of the
crippled beggars. "The Sheriff is returned from London with his
daughter, and the folk are giving him a welcome, such as you will never
have from the city! Stand back, for there is no room for you there. Four
of us as it is are too many, and we have come here to settle who shall
go on and who turn back."
"And how will you settle such a knotty point, gossip?"
"Marry, with our sticks," retorted the beggar, threateningly. "But first
we will dispose of you;" and he made a fierce blow at Little John.
"If it be a fight that your stomachs are yearning for--why, I am the man
for you all," Little John said at once, "and I will beat the four of you
heartily, whether you be friends or enemies." Then he began to twirl his
staff right merrily, and gave the dumb fellow such a crack upon his
crown that he began to roar lustily.
"Why, I am a doctor, then, since I can cure dumbness," cried the
outlaw. "Now let me see whether I can mend your broken leg, gossip," and
he cut the first cripple so suddenly across the shins that he dropped
his staff and commenced to dance with pain. "Now for your eyes, friend."
But the blind one did not wait for the cure. He took to his heels
forthwith, running surprisingly straight. The other lame one ran after
him full as fast.
Little John caught them after a short chase, and dusted their rags
thoroughly.
"Give you good day, brothers," said he, then, well satisfied. "Now I am
going to welcome the Sheriff, and, as you say Nottingham is too small a
place for us all, therefore speed you towards Lincoln; 'tis a pretty
town and none too far for such strong legs."
His flourishing stick spoke even more eloquently. The four of them
shuffled away speedily, sore in their minds and bodies.
Nottingham was gay indeed. The Sheriff had returned from London, where
he had been in order to gain more time for the capture of Robin Hood and
his men. His daughter had complete faith in her scheme--it was bound in
the end to be successful.
"Be patient, and all will be well," she told her father. But Christmas
was the end of the time which Prince John had allowed Monceux for
Robin's capture. Therefore, both the Sheriff and his daughter had
journeyed to Court to see what instructions had been left, and whether
they might not get the time extended.
They contrived by spending much money in bribes, and in giving grand
entertainments, to achieve their ends. King Richard was away in the
Holy Land. Prince John was well employed in stirring up the barons to
espouse him as King while there was such an opening. There was thus no
actual monarch, and none in the Court to care much about the Sheriff or
Robin. Those high in authority accepted the Sheriff's bribes, and bade
him take till Doomsday.
Squire Montfichet, who was, as we know, a staunch supporter of the old
order of things, would recognize no other King than Richard. As a matter
of fact, the old man had no great love for him, but he was, after all,
the true King, and Montfichet threw all his weight into the scale
against John. The Saxon nobles were also active, feeling that now was
their chance to recover power.
So Monceux and the demoiselle saw for themselves that they had nothing
to fear from the Court, at any rate. They had stayed and enjoyed
themselves in the city, and the Sheriff was able to make himself
presently very useful.
The Princess of Aragon, one of the Court beauties, had need of an escort
to York. She was going there to be married (much against her royal will)
to one of the great Saxon notables. This was an arrangement made by the
Richard party, in the hopes of winning the Saxons to themselves, as
against John, who had already Salisbury, De Bray, and the cunning
Fitzurse upon his side.
The Sheriff had arrived with his train in great state, just as Little
John entered Nottingham. The outlaw came in by the north gate, as
Monceux, proud of escorting the pretty Princess, entered by the south.
Nottingham was gay with bunting and flags, and the bells were ringing
noisily.
It was a royal procession, and soon as Little John was able to join with
it his bag began to swell rapidly. Many a pocket did his sharp knife
slice away from the side of unsuspecting wealthy citizens.
Sports were held in the fields, and the beggar had a merry time of it.
Towards nightfall his bags were both filled, and he began to think it
about time to attend to the commissions which Robin had laid upon him.
This was to convey a letter to Marian, and to discover how Allan-a-Dale
and his little wife were faring.
Little John shuffled with his bags along the narrow streets until he
came to the house. He began to cry his wares, calling out that he was
ready to change new goods for old ones, that he would buy old clothes
and give good money for them.
Marian and the rest had, however, gone to see the sights, for there were
to be illuminations. Only Roger the cook had been left in charge, and
he, having glanced once at the noisy beggar, angrily bade him begone.
Little John only shouted the louder, and the cook furiously flung to the
casement windows. The beggar passed by the house slowly, still calling
"old clothes," as if he had not even noticed the angry cook.
Yet Roger's few angry words had awoke sharp recognition in Little John.
"By my rags and bags," muttered he, amazed, "this rascal needeth much
killing!" The scene in the Sheriff's kitchen arose before him. "This
time I will fling you into the river, Master Roger--be sure of it. I
wonder what evil hath brought you to this house of all others! If by
chance you have harmed any one of them vengeance shall fall upon you
swift and deadly."
A thin rain had commenced to fall, and so the beggar turned back.
The house was dark and silent. The beggar stopped in front of it
uncertainly, grumbling under his breath at the driving rain. Just as he
was about to move towards the door, the click of its latch warned him to
jump back into the shadows of the next house.
A white face looked out of the Fitzwalter home, stealthily peering right
and left. Little John crept farther into the shadows.
The cook came out into the wet road. He seemed to be scared and
troubled. After a moment's pause he returned to the house, entered it
silently, and Little John heard the latch click once more.
"Now, what mischief is in the air?" thought Little John. "Some knavish
business doubtless, or my friend Roger would not be in it. By my faith,
I do mistrust that man."
He went back into the middle of the road with his sacks, and commenced
crying his wares afresh. Almost at once Roger opened the door again. "A
murrain upon you, noisy rascal," he called; "can you not be still?"
"Ay, truly, an it pay me," answered Little John, lurching towards him,
as though he were tipsy. "Can I strike a bargain with you, gossip?"
"What have you in the sacks, beggar?"
"Everything in the world, brother. I have gifts for the rich, presents
for the poor."
"Have you anything fit for a cook?" asked Roger.
"I have a basting spoon and a spit."
"I will give you meat and bread--much as you can carry--if you have such
a spoon as my kitchen lacks," whispered Roger.
Little John dived his hand into a sack, and brought out a silver ladle,
which he had stolen from a shop that day. Roger took it eagerly, and his
fingers were icy cold.
"Put your sacks down by the door, dear gossip," said Roger, after a
moment's pause. "_Here_ they will be out of the rain. I must go within
to examine this ladle."
"Have you not a tankard of ale to give me?" begged Little John, "I am
worn with the day."
"Enter, friend," Roger said then. "Tread lightly, for fear we disturb my
folk." He took Little John into the dark passage. "I'll bring your sacks
in for you, whilst you are here," continued Roger, very obligingly; and
before the other could say him yea or nay, he had pulled the sacks into
the house and had closed the door tightly.
It was very dark, and Little John thought it only prudent to keep his
fingers on his knife. He heard the cook rustling about near to him, and
presently came a faint sound as if one of the sacks had bulged forward
and shifted its contents. "Hasten with the ale, good friend," whispered
Little John, hoarsely. "I feel mighty drowsy in this close place; soon I
shall be asleep."
Roger's voice answered him then softly from the end of the narrow hall,
and almost at once the cook appeared with a lantern. He came creakingly
over the boards, and handed Little John a mug of beer. "Your ladle is
of the right sort, dear gossip," he announced, "and I will give you a
penny for it."
"Twenty silver pennies is my price for the spoon," answered Little John,
tossing off the ale at a draught. "Give it to me, brother, or return me
my spoon. I do not find your ale to my taste," he added, wiping his
mouth.
Roger opened the door roughly. "Then begone, ungrateful churl," he
cried, forgetting his caution. He tried to push Little John roughly out
into the night. "What! would you try to steal my bags?" roared Little
John, suddenly snatching hold of Roger by the scruff of his neck. "You
villain--you rascally wretch--you withered apple!"
He tossed and shook Roger like a rat, and finally flung him into the
center of the muddy road. "Help! help!" screamed the cook, at the full
pitch of his voice. "Help! a thief, a thief! Help! murder! help!"
His cries at once attracted notice. The dull, dead street became
instantly alive. With an angry exclamation Little John dashed into the
passage, seized up his bags, and fled, stepping upon the writhing body
of the cook as he ran.
Little John turned the first corner at top speed. Three men rushed at
him with drawn swords. He swung his bags right and left and felled two
of them. The third he butted with his head, and the man asked no more.
Under the wet driving night Little John ran. The bags sadly impeded him,
but he would not let them go. He darted down a little court to avoid a
dozen clutching hands, and fancied he had now safety.
He paused, drawing in his breath with a sob. The race had tried him
terribly. The court was all dark, and his pursuers had overshot it; next
instant, however, they recovered the scent and were upon him full cry.
Little John, snatching his bags, dashed up to the end of the alley.
There was a door, which yielded to him.
Next instant he had plunged into the open lighted space before
Nottingham Castle, into the midst of a shouting throng. The
illuminations had not been a success, owing to the rain, but they gave
enough light to achieve Little John's undoing. The beggar was seized and
his bags were torn from him, just as those other pursuers sprang out
through the alley.
"He hath robbed a house, and killed a man," shouted the foremost. "Hold
him fast and sure."
"Nay--I have killed no one," cried the giant, struggling hopelessly and
desperately. "Take my bags an you will; I was but bearing them to my
master."
"Pretty goods to be carrying, indeed," said a voice, as someone turned
one bag upside down. On to the hard wet stones rolled a number of things
collected by this industrious outlaw--pockets, daggers, purses, knives,
pieces of gold, and pennies of silver, a motley company of valuables.
"They are my master's," panted Little John, furiously. "Let them be."
"See what he hath in the other sack," cried another. "He seemeth to have
robbed our butchers also." The sack was opened, and the contents laid
bare.
A sudden silence fell upon the crowd, a silence of horror and hate. Then
a thousand tongues spoke at once, and Little John, frozen cold with
loathing, saw under the flickering lamps a dreadful thing.
Out of the second sack had fallen the limbless trunk of a dead man, cold
and appalling even in this uncertain light. A head, severed through the
jugular arteries, rolled at his feet, grinning and ghastly.
"'Tis Master Fitzwalter," whispered one, in a lull. "Dead and
dishonored----"
The clamor became deafening, and Little John felt his senses failing
fast. He was beaten and struck at by them all; they tore at him, and
cursed him.
Their blows and their rage were as nothing beside the thought of that
awful thing upon the ground. The crowd and the lamps reeled and swam
before the outlaw's eyes and became blurred.
But the grim vision of that dreadful body became plainer and plainer to
him. It assumed terrible proportions, shutting out all else.