It was the wedding-day of four happy people. The day was bright, the sky
blue, and Sherwood had taken upon itself early summer raiment.
The old church of Nottingham was already crowded to excess.
The newly banded guard of Royal bowmen, gay in their scarlet and white
livery, were formed up in two straight lines from the church door to the
lych gate.
So soon as the weddings were over all would go back to a great feast,
given at Gamewell Hall, in honor of the day. Then afterward the two
couples would go with the king into London, to be followed within seven
days by the rest of the Royal guard. Richard meant to employ these
fellows shrewdly and test their loyalty. Not for reasons of sentiment
only had he forgiven Robin and his men.
The hour was reached, and at once a small company was seen issuing forth
from Nottingham Castle. Against his will Master Monceux had given use of
the castle to the two bridegrooms--the newly made Earls of Nottingham
and Huntingdon.
With Robin and Geoffrey were, firstly, old George of Gamewell, proud
above all others in knowing that he had now a son who would ensure honor
to the race of Montfichet all their days. The Squire was happy and
radiant. He walked between them, and turned his head ever and again in
laughing speech with Sir Richard of the Lee and his heir. Stuteley and
Little John were next, the long and short of it; and after them the
jovial Friar of Copmanhurst. Arthur-à-Bland, with a gold chain about his
neck, given him by the knight Sir Richard, walked with Middle the Tinker
on his left and Much the Miller on his right. Close behind trotted the
small complaisant Midge, dressed up very fine in a livery of purple
doublet and green hose.
They came to the lych gate, and the crowd jostled itself in its
admiration. As they walked, rather consciously, up the narrow path
between the smiling ranks of their fellows the crowd cheered them
radiantly.
"A Hood! A Montfichet!" was called and called again. Some maids from the
opposite windows threw them kisses and waved pretty kerchiefs in their
honor.
Within the church, waiting for them soberly at the chancel steps, was my
lord of Hereford, dressed out in his finest and richest robes, and
beside him Friar Tuck. For Robin Hood and Will Scarlett the Bishop had
enmity and contempt, but towards the Earls of Huntingdon and Nottingham
this time-serving man could only profess an abundance of respect.
The brides were to be escorted from Gamewell by no other person than the
King himself. He was to give them both in marriage, and had promised
them jewels and to spare when they were come to Court.
Loud cheering and noise from the mob without the church told of their
approach. The people were wild with joy at having their King amongst
them like this.
Citizens, burgesses, apprentices were all in their best, their wives and
their sweethearts all dressed out in splendid attire. As the King jumped
down from his horse before the lych gate, and held out his strong hand
to help the brides from off their milk-white mares, the whole place
became alive with excitement and rapture.
Little maids, with baskets of violets and primroses, flung their
offerings prettily under the feet of the two beauteous blushing brides,
who leaned so timidly upon the King's proud arms.
At last the service was begun and both couples were well nigh wed. The
Bishop had spoken the Latin service impressively and with unction.
In the first row stood Monceux, in all the pomp of his shrievalty, with
his councilmen and aldermen. Master Simeon, with face leaner than ever
and inturning eyes, glared impotently at the chief actors in this
historic scene.
Alone missing from it was the cold, colorless beauty of the demoiselle
Marie. She had taken herself to her room this morn, and had sworn never
to leave it again. But now that the double marriage was nearly made she
suddenly appeared, thrusting her way rudely through the gathered crowd
at the church door. She was wild-eyed, dishevelled, her dress fastened
all awry. Folks looked once at her, and then exchanged glances between
themselves.
"Stay this mockery of marriage, my lord," she cried, fiercely facing the
Bishop. She had elbowed a path for herself to the chancel steps. "I do
forbid the marrying of these two." She pointed a trembling finger from
Robin to Marian. "This woman is blood-guilty, and Holy Church may not
countenance her." She shrilled, desperately, "'Twas she who foully
killed Master Fitzwalter, her own father, and I have proof of it!"
"'Tis false!" roared Robin, then beside himself. "You viper--you
mean-souled spy! Is no crime too great for you?"
"There is no need for defence," spoke the King; "the charge is too wild
and foolish an one. Seize this woman, some of you, and take her without.
I will deal with her later." He imperiously signed to his guards, and at
once the demoiselle was gripped harshly by both arms.
"Be gentle with her," pleaded Marian; "she is distraught, and hath not
command upon herself. I beg of you, sire, to forgive this; I have no
quarrel with Mistress Monceux."
The demoiselle had suddenly become quiet under the fierce hands of Much
and Little John. She allowed them to thrust her ignominiously forth. At
the door of the church she turned once as though to renew her
preposterous charges, but contented herself merely with a single glance
towards them of malignant hate. Then she was gone; and people stirred
themselves uneasily, as folks do when having been within touch of the
plague.
The Sheriff had stared with protruding eyes of horror and dismay upon
his daughter. When he saw that she was gone, that the dreadful episode
was done, he gasped hurriedly and sat down. His mind became confused,
his vision obscured as by a cloud. The service was finished. Robin and
Marian, Geoffrey and Aimée (no longer of Aragon) were joined together
for the rest of their lives. The Bishop pronounced a blessing; and
forgetting himself utterly in the emotion of the moment, spoke fervently
and with purpose.
The King kissed the brides, and after him their husbands kissed them
also. Then all signed their names in the church books, and the
trumpeters and heralds made music for them.
They returned through the streets of Nottingham, gay now with flags and
merry with a joyful populace. Loud cheerings rent the air, and people
showered flowers and blessings upon them. Before the happy couples ran
six of the greenwood men, loyal subjects now, flinging largesse upon the
people right and left from out of well-filled bags. All the treasure
that they had accumulated in their caves at Barnesdale the King's bowmen
freely distributed this day. All were happy--the nightmare of unjust
dealings, of Norman oppression, of laws for the poor and none for the
rich, was ended. The King had said it, and the King had already made
good the promise in his words.
Afterward, at Gamewell, Richard conferred upon Montfichet full rank as
Baron of the Realm, with power to speak and vote in the Upper Court of
Appeal, the highest rank in the land, next to the King himself. Sir
Richard of the Lee and his son became members of the Star Chamber, with
grants of land in perpetuity.
Turning to Marian, the King wished her every joy that she could wish
herself, and gave to her the lands of Broadweald in Lancashire to hold
in her own right for ever. "Thus you shall have wealth to share with
your Robin; and I counsel you both to make good use of your days. My
subjects who are loyal to me shall have no cause to regret it. I will
give you, Aimée, the Castle of Acquitaine, which I held under my
father's grant until his death. You know how fair a spot it is, and how
sweet the sky of France! Help her to administer her riches, Geoffrey,
wisely and well; and be you all ready when I shall call upon you. Now
God save you all. Amen."
EPILOGUE
In all sincerity there should be no more of this tale, seeing that we
have found ourselves at last come from beginning to end of Robin's
quarrelings with the Sheriff. Most histories end, and end properly, with
just such a marriage as we have seen.
Yet, to tell the truth, however strange and distressful, is the business
of a good historian; and so it must be written that in the end of it sad
days came again for Robin Hood. For five years he lived in peace and
prosperity, a faithful, loyal subject, having two sons born to him in
his home in Broadweald. Then came the plague, raging and furious, and
claimed amongst many victims Marian Countess of Huntingdon.
For a time Robin was as one distraught. He had no joy left to him. He
was as one without energy or hope; a miser robbed of his gold, suddenly
and cruelly. He gave his two boys into the charge of Geoffrey of
Nottingham, and went on a journey to London, there to beg of the King
that he might find him active employment, instead of being but one of a
guard of honor, as he and his men had so truly become.
Richard had already gone to France, and John was acting as Regent of
England in his absence. "Go, shoot some more of my brother's deer,"
sneered the Prince, having heard Robin impatiently. "Doubtless if you do
but slay enough of them he will make you Privy Councillor at the least
when he returns."
This great insult fired Robin's blood; he had been in a strange
distemper ever since the fatal day of his beloved's death. He answered
the disdainful Prince scornfully; and John, growing white with anger,
bade his guards to seize upon him.
Faithful Stuteley helped his master to win freedom from the prison into
which he had been flung; and, with the majority of his men, Robin
returned to the greenwood life. The King's guard was broken up, for the
King had no need of it, nor never would again.
Legends are told of Robin's scorned defiance of the laws, but they are
intangible and unauthentic. It is a sure thing, howbeit, that he did not
revert to Sherwood and Barnesdale as some aver, but rather took up his
quarters near Haddon Hall, in Derbyshire. There is a curious pile of
stones and rocks shown to this day as the ruins of Robin's Castle, where
the bold outlaw is believed to have lived and defied his enemies for a
year at least. Two stones stand higher than the others. These are
supposed to be the seats in the hall of this vanished stronghold whereon
Robin and Little John sat delivering judgment on matters of forest law.
Another chronicle gives these stones as being the scene of a wondrous
leap done by Robin, to show his men that strength and will were his yet.
"Robin Hood's stride," folks say.
One thing is sure--that Prince John did not easily forgive or forget
him. After many attempts made upon them at Haddon--some desperate enough
in all conscience, Robin and his men were allowed to be at peace. In one
of these encounters Robin was sorely wounded; and none but Little John
knew of it.
The wound was in Robin's breast, and looked but a small place. It bled
little, yet would not heal; and slowly became inflamed in wider circles.
Inwardly it burned him as with a consuming fire, his strength was sapped
out from him and his eyes began to lose their shrewdness. No longer
could he split an arrow at forty paces, as in olden days.
At last he took Little John on one side. "Dear heart," said he, "I do
not feel able to shoot another arrow, and soon the rest will know I am
stricken sore. I have it in me to return to London and there give myself
to the Prince. Mayhap if I did this he would give you all amnesty here."
"Sooner would I see you dead than you should do such a thing," cried
Little John; "I swear it by my soul and by my body! Now listen, dear
master, and I will tell you that I have heard of a wondrous cure for
thee. An old beggar came this morn through the woods, and, strangely,
when he spied me, asked if there was not one amongst us ill and
hopeless."
"This beggar--where is he?"
"He waits below," said Little John, hurriedly. "I bethought me to talk
with Stuteley on the matter. The beggar told me that the Abbess of
Kirklees had stayed him as he was travelling past her Priory: 'Go to
Haddon, brother, and there you will find Robin Hood sick unto death. Say
that in the woods near by there is one who is practising magic upon him,
having made a little image of Robin Hood. At each change of the moon
this rascal doth stick a needle into the waxen heart of this image, and
so doth Robin slowly die. Tell him that the name of the man is Simeon
Carfax.'"
"Ay, by my soul, but I thought as much. What villainy! What foul
villainy! Get me a horse, John, and one each for thyself and Stuteley."
The beggar had gone when they went to the hall. None had offered to stay
him. "Let us go quietly, swiftly," said Robin, "for I feel that my hours
are short."
They rode all through the day and night, and came upon the Priory in
early dawn--a quaint, strange building, surrounded by heavy trees.
The journey and fierce excitement told upon Robin. His wound was beating
red-hot irons into his heart; hardly could they get him from his horse
to the gate of Kirklees.
Stuteley rang the bell loudly, and anon the door was opened by a woman
shrouded in black. She spoke in a cold low voice. "Is this Robin Earl of
Huntingdon?" asked she. "I pray God that it may be true, for at this
moment the wizard is meditating his very death."
"Tell us where this miscreant doth make his sorcery, good mother," cried
Stuteley and Little John together, "and not all the magic in the world
shall save him from our swords!"
"Go out yonder to the left, where ye will find a little stream; near by
it is a tree blasted by Heaven's fires. Under the tree is the man
Carfax[A]--I have watched and known him for many days. Go quickly, and I
will tend your master. See, already he swoons--the hour is very nigh!"
[Footnote A: Carfax was then actually in France, acting against
Richard.]
The two men gave Robin into her keeping, with a fury of impatience;
then, with brandished swords, ran swiftly in search of the wizard. Robin
had swooned, and lay a dead weight in the arms of the Prioress.
With amazing strength and tenderness she lifted his slight body and bore
it to a little room, near to the entrance of the Priory. She laid the
unconscious man upon a couch, then hastily bared his right arm.
She paused an instant to throw back her hood; then taking the scissors
of her chatelaine, suddenly and resolutely gashed the great artery in
his arm. He gave a cry of pain and started up. "Be still, be still," she
muttered, soothing him. "The pain is naught, it will cure thee--lie back
and sleep--sleep."
"Who are you?" he asked, feebly, and with swimming eyes. Then blackness
came upon him again, and he fell back upon the couch. Out of the night
of pain the cold face of the demoiselle Marie smiled mockingly at him!
She raised herself and softly withdrew. As she locked the door upon him
she smiled thinly, wickedly. "So, Robin--at last, Robin," she murmured,
"I am avenged."
Two hours later Little John returned. Behind him was Stuteley, anxious
and ashamed. They had found a man in the woods, and had killed him
instantly, in their blind rage, only to discover then that he was but a
yeoman, and not him whom they sought.
"I did hear my master's horn, mother," cried Little John, when the
Prioress had opened the wicket to them. "Three blasts it gave."
[Illustration: THE PASSING OF ROBIN HOOD
_Leaning heavily against Little John's sobbing breast, Robin Hood flew
his last arrow out through the window, far away into the deep green of
trees._]
"'Twas the wind in the trees," said she, serenely. "He sleeps." She
prepared to close the wicket quietly. "Disturb him not."
But Little John was alarmed and began to fear a trap. With his sword he
hewed and hacked at the stout oak door, whilst Stuteley sought to prise
it open.
When it yielded they rushed in upon a sorry scene. Robin lay by the
window in a pool of blood, his face very white.
"A boon, a boon!" cried Little John, with the tears streaming from his
eyes. "Let me slay this wretch and burn her body in the ruins of this
place."
His master answered him with a voice from the grave: "'Twas always my
part never to hurt a woman, John. I will not let you do so now. Look to
my wishes, both of you. Marian's grave--it is to be kept well and
honorably. And my two sons--but Geoffrey will care for them. For me,
dear hearts, bury me near by, in some quiet grave. I could not bear
another journey."
They sought to lift him up. "Give me my bow," said Robin, suddenly, "and
a good true shaft." He took them from Stuteley's shaking hands, and,
leaning heavily against Little John's sobbing breast, Robin Hood flew
his last arrow out through the window, far away into the deep green of
the trees.
A swift remembrance lit up the dying man's face. "Ah, well," he cried,
"Will o' th' Green--you knew! Marian, my heart ... and that day when
first we met, beside the fallen deer! And she is gone, and my last arrow
is flown.... It is the end, Will----" He fell back into Little John's
arms. "Bury me, gossips," he murmured, faintly, "where my arrow hath
fallen. There lay a green sod under my head and another beneath my feet,
and let my bow be at my side."
His voice became presently silent, as though something had snapped
within him. His head dropped gently upon Little John's shoulder.
"He sleeps," whispered Stuteley, again and again, trying to make himself
believe it was so. "He is asleep, Little John--let us lay him quietly
upon his bed."
So died Robin Fitzooth, first Earl of Huntingdon, under treacherous
hands. Near by Kirklees Abbey they laid to his last rest this bravest of
all brave men--the most fearless champion of freedom that the land had
ever known.
Robin Hood is dead, and no man can say truly where his grave may be. At
the least it but holds his bones. His name lives in our ballads, our
history, our hearts--so long as the English tongue is known.