The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood - Howard Pyle (free reads TXT) 📗

He never slackened his pace, but ran along, mile after mile, till he had come

 

nigh to Mackworth, over beyond the Derwent River, nigh to Derby Town. Here, seeing that he was out of present danger, he slackened in his running, and at last sat him down beneath a hedge where the grass was the longest and the shade the coolest, there to rest and catch his wind. “By my soul, Robin,” quoth he to himself, “that was the narrowest miss that e’er thou hadst in all thy life. I do say most solemnly that the feather of that wicked shaft tickled mine ear as it whizzed past. This same running hath given me a most craving appetite for victuals and drink. Now I pray Saint Dunstan that he send me speedily some meat and beer.”

It seemed as though Saint Dunstan was like to answer his prayer, for along the road came plodding a certain cobbler, one Quince, of Derby, who had been to take a pair of shoes to a farmer nigh Kirk Langly, and was now coming back home again, with a fair boiled capon in his pouch and a stout pottle of beer by his side, which same the farmer had given him for joy of such a stout pair of shoon. Good Quince was an honest fellow, but his wits were somewhat of the heavy sort, like unbaked dough, so that the only thing that was in his mind was, “Three shillings sixpence ha’penny for thy shoon, good Quince—three shillings sixpence ha’penny for thy shoon,” and this traveled round and round inside of his head, without another thought getting into his noddle, as a pea rolls round and round inside an empty quart pot.

“Halloa, good friend,” quoth Robin, from beneath the hedge, when the other had gotten nigh enough, “whither away so merrily this bright day?”

Hearing himself so called upon, the Cobbler stopped, and, seeing a well-clad stranger in blue, he spoke to him in seemly wise. “Give ye good den, fair sir, and I would say that I come from Kirk Langly, where I ha’ sold my shoon and got three shillings sixpence ha’penny for them in as sweet money as ever thou sawest, and honestly earned too, I would ha’ thee know. But an I may be so bold, thou pretty fellow, what dost thou there beneath the hedge?”

“Marry,” quoth merry Robin, “I sit beneath the hedge here to drop salt on the tails of golden birds; but in sooth thou art the first chick of any worth I ha’ seen this blessed day.”

At these words the Cobbler’s eyes opened big and wide, and his mouth grew round with wonder, like a knothole in a board fence. “slack-a-day,” quoth he, “look ye, now! I ha’ never seen those same golden birds. And dost thou in sooth find them in these hedges, good fellow? Prythee, tell me, are there many of them? I would fain find them mine own self.”

“Ay, truly,” quoth Robin, “they are as thick here as fresh herring in Cannock Chase.”

“Look ye, now!” said the Cobbler, all drowned in wonder. “And dost thou in sooth catch them by dropping salt on their pretty tails?”

“Yea,” quoth Robin, “but this salt is of an odd kind, let me tell thee, for it can only be gotten by boiling down a quart of moonbeams in a wooden platter, and then one hath but a pinch. But tell me, now, thou witty man, what hast thou gotten there in that pouch by thy side and in that pottle?”

At these words the Cobbler looked down at those things of which merry Robin spoke, for the thoughts of the golden bird had driven them from his mind, and it took him some time to scrape the memory of them back again. “Why,” said he at last, “in the one is good March beer, and in the other is a fat capon. Truly, Quince the Cobbler will ha’ a fine feast this day an I mistake not.”

“But tell me, good Quince,” said Robin, “hast thou a mind to sell those things to me? For the hearing of them sounds sweet in mine ears. I will give thee these gay clothes of blue that I have upon my body and ten shillings to boot for thy clothes and thy leather apron and thy beer and thy capon. What sayst thou, bully boy?”

“Nay, thou dost jest with me,” said the Cobbler, “for my clothes are coarse and patched, and thine are of fine stuff and very pretty.”

“Never a jest do I speak,” quoth Robin. “Come, strip thy jacket off and I will show thee, for I tell thee I like thy clothes well. Moreover, I will be kind to thee, for I will feast straightway upon the good things thou hast with thee, and thou shalt be bidden to the eating.” At these words he began slipping off his doublet, and the Cobbler, seeing him so in earnest, began pulling off his clothes also, for Robin Hood’s garb tickled his eye. So each put on the other fellow’s clothes, and Robin gave the honest Cobbler ten bright new shillings. Quoth merry Robin, “I ha’ been a many things in my life before, but never have I been an honest cobbler. Come, friend, let us fall to and eat, for something within me cackles aloud for that good fat capon.” So both sat down and began to feast right lustily, so that when they were done the bones of the capon were picked as bare as charity.

Then Robin stretched his legs out with a sweet feeling of comfort within him. Quoth he, “By the turn of thy voice, good Quince, I know that thou hast a fair song or two running loose in thy head like colts in a meadow. I prythee, turn one of them out for me.”

“A song or two I ha’,” quoth the Cobbler, “poor things, poor things, but such as they are thou art welcome to one of them.” So, moistening his throat with a swallow of beer, he sang:

“_Of all the joys, the best I love, Sing hey my frisking Nan, O, And that which most my soul doth move, It is the clinking can, O.

“All other bliss I’d throw away, Sing hey my frisking Nan, O, But this_—”

 

The stout Cobbler got no further in his song, for of a sudden six horsemen burst upon them where they sat, and seized roughly upon the honest craftsman, hauling him to his feet, and nearly plucking the clothes from him as they did so. “Ha!” roared the leader of the band in a great big voice of joy, “have we then caught thee at last, thou blue-clad knave? Now, blessed be the name of Saint Hubert, for we are fourscore pounds richer this minute than we were before, for the good Bishop of Hereford hath promised that much to the band that shall bring thee to him. Oho! thou cunning rascal! thou wouldst look so innocent, forsooth! We know thee, thou old fox. But off thou goest with us to have thy brush clipped forthwith.” At these words the poor Cobbler gazed all around him with his great blue eyes as round as those of a dead fish, while his mouth gaped as though he had swallowed all his words and so lost his speech.

Robin also gaped and stared in a wondering way, just as the Cobbler would have done in his place. “Alack-a-daisy, me,” quoth he. “I know not whether I be sitting here or in No-man’s-land! What meaneth all this stir i’ th’ pot, dear good gentlemen? Surely this is a sweet, honest fellow.”

” `Honest fellow,’ sayst thou, clown?” quoth one of the men “Why, I tell thee that this is that same rogue that men call Robin Hood.”

At this speech the Cobbler stared and gaped more than ever, for there was such a threshing of thoughts going on

 

within his poor head that his wits were all befogged with the dust and chaff thereof. Moreover, as he looked at Robin Hood, and saw the yeoman look so like what he knew himself to be, he began to doubt and to think that mayhap he was the great outlaw in real sooth. Said he in a slow, wondering voice, “Am I in very truth that fellow?— Now I had thought—but nay, Quince, thou art mistook—yet—am I?—Nay, I must indeed be Robin Hood! Yet, truly, I had never thought to pass from an honest craftsman to such a great yeoman.”

“Alas!” quoth Robin Hood, “look ye there, now! See how your ill-treatment hath curdled the wits of this poor lad and turned them all sour! I, myself, am Quince, the Cobbler of Derby Town.”

“Is it so?” said Quince. “Then, indeed, I am somebody else, and can be none other than Robin Hood. Take me, fellows; but let me tell you that ye ha’ laid hand upon the stoutest yeoman that ever trod the woodlands.”

“Thou wilt play madman, wilt thou?” said the leader of the band. “Here, Giles, fetch a cord and bind this knave’s hands behind him. I warrant we will bring his wits back to him again when we get him safe before our good Bishop at Tutbury Town.” Thereupon they tied the Cobbler’s hands behind him, and led him off with a rope, as the farmer leads off the calf he hath brought from the fair. Robin stood looking after them, and when they were gone he laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks; for he knew that no harm would befall the honest fellow, and he pictured to himself the Bishop’s face when good Quince was brought before him as Robin Hood. Then, turning his steps once more to the eastward, he stepped out right foot foremost toward Nottinghamshire and Sherwood Forest.

But Robin Hood had gone through more than he wotted of. His journey from London had been hard and long, and in a se’ennight he had traveled sevenscore and more of miles. He thought now to travel on without stopping until he had come to Sherwood, but ere he had gone a half a score of miles he felt his strength giving way beneath him like a river bank which the waters have undermined. He sat him down and rested, but he knew within himself that he could go no farther that day, for his feet felt like lumps of lead, so heavy were they with weariness. Once more he arose and went forward, but after traveling a couple of miles he was fain to give the matter up, so, coming to an inn just then, he entered and calling the landlord, bade him show him to a room, although the sun was only then just sinking in the western sky. There were but three bedrooms in the place, and to the meanest of these the landlord showed Robin Hood, but little Robin cared for the looks of the place, for he could have slept that night upon a bed of broken stones. So, stripping off his clothes without more ado, he rolled into the bed and was asleep almost ere his head touched the pillow.

Not long after Robin had so gone to his rest a great cloud peeped blackly over the hills to the westward. Higher and higher it arose until it piled up into the night like a mountain of darkness. All around beneath it came ever and anon a dull red flash, and presently a short grim mutter of the coming thunder was heard. Then up rode four stout burghers of Nottingham Town, for this was the only inn within five miles’ distance, and they did not care to be caught in such a thunderstorm as this that was coming upon them. Leaving their nags to the stableman, they entered the best room