NOW IT WAS TOLD BEFORE how two hundred pounds were set upon Robin Hood’s head, and how the Sheriff of Nottingham swore that he himself would seize Robin, both because he would fain have the two hundred pounds and because the slain man was a kinsman of his own. Now the Sheriff did not yet know what a force Robin had about him in Sherwood, but thought that he might serve a warrant for his arrest as he could upon any other man that had broken the laws; therefore he offered fourscore golden angels to anyone who would serve this warrant. But men of Nottingham Town knew more of Robin Hood and his doings than the Sheriff did, and many laughed to think of serving a warrant upon the bold outlaw, knowing well that all they would get for such service would be cracked crowns; so that no one came forward to take the matter in hand. Thus a fortnight passed, in which time none came forward to do the Sheriff’s business. Then said he, “A right good reward have I offered to whosoever would serve my warrant upon Robin Hood, and I marvel that no one has come to undertake the task.”
Then one of his men who was near him said, “Good master, thou wottest not the force that Robin Hood has about him and how little he cares for warrant of king or sheriff. Truly, no one likes to go on this service, for fear of cracked crowns and broken bones.”
“Then I hold all Nottingham men to be cowards,” said the Sheriff. “And let me see the man in all Nottinghamshire that dare disobey the warrant of our sovereign lord King Harry, for, by the shrine of Saint Edmund, I will hang him forty cubits high! But if no man in Nottingham dare win fourscore angels, I will send elsewhere, for there should be men of mettle somewhere in this land.”
Then he called up a messenger in whom he placed great trust, and bade him saddle his horse and make ready to go to Lincoln Town to see whether he could find anyone there that would do his bidding and win the reward. So that same morning the messenger started forth upon his errand.
Bright shone the sun upon the dusty highway that led from Nottingham to Lincoln, stretching away all white over hill and dale. Dusty was the highway and dusty the throat of the messenger, so that his heart was glad when he saw before him the Sign of the Blue Boar Inn, when somewhat more than half his journey was done. The inn looked fair to his eyes, and the shade of the oak trees that stood around it seemed cool and pleasant, so he alighted from his horse to rest himself for a time, calling for a pot of ale to refresh his thirsty throat.
There he saw a party of right jovial fellows seated beneath the spreading oak that shaded the greensward in front of the door. There was a tinker, two barefoot friars, and a party of six of the King’s foresters all clad in Lincoln green, and all of them were quaffing humming ale and singing merry ballads of the good old times. Loud laughed the foresters, as jests were bandied about between the singing, and louder laughed the friars, for they were lusty men with beards that curled like the wool of black rams; but loudest of all laughed the Tinker, and he sang more sweetly than any of the rest. His bag and his hammer hung upon a twig of the oak tree, and near by leaned his good stout cudgel, as thick as his wrist and knotted at the end.
“Come,” cried one of the foresters to the tired messenger, “come join us for this shot. Ho, landlord! Bring a fresh pot of ale for each man.”
The messenger was glad enough to sit down along with the others who were there, for his limbs were weary and the ale was good.
“Now what news bearest thou so fast?” quoth one, “and whither ridest thou today?”
The messenger was a chatty soul and loved a bit of gossip dearly; besides, the pot of ale warmed his heart; so that, settling himself in an easy corner of the inn bench, while the host leaned upon the doorway and the hostess stood with her hands beneath her apron, he unfolded his budget of news with great comfort. He told all from the very first: how Robin Hood had slain the forester, and how he had hidden in the greenwood to escape the law; how that he lived therein, all against the law, God wot, slaying His Majesty’s deer and levying toll on fat abbot, knight, and esquire, so that none dare travel even on broad Watling Street or the Fosse Way for fear of him; how that the Sheriff had a mind to serve the King’s warrant upon this same rogue, though little would he mind warrant of either king or sheriff, for he was far from being a law- abiding man. Then he told how none could be found in all Nottingham Town to serve this warrant, for fear of cracked pates and broken bones, and how that he, the messenger, was now upon his way to Lincoln Town to find of what mettle the Lincoln men might be.
“Now come I, forsooth, from good Banbury Town,” said the jolly Tinker, “and no one nigh Nottingham—nor Sherwood either, an that be the mark— can hold cudgel with my grip. Why, lads, did I not meet that mad wag Simon of Ely, even at the famous fair at Hertford Town, and beat him in the ring at that place before Sir Robert of Leslie and his lady? This same Robin Hood, of whom, I wot, I never heard before, is a right merry blade, but gin he be strong, am not I stronger? And gin he be sly, am not I slyer? Now by the bright eyes of Nan o’ the Mill, and by mine own name and that’s Wat o’ the Crabstaff, and by mine own mother’s son, and that’s myself, will I, even I, Wat o’ the Crabstaff, meet this same sturdy rogue, and gin he mind not the seal of our glorious sovereign King Harry, and the warrant of the good Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, I will so bruise, beat, and bemaul his pate that he shall never move finger or toe again! Hear ye that, bully boys?”
“Now art thou the man for my farthing,” cried the messenger. “And back thou goest with me to Nottingham Town.”
“Nay,” quoth the Tinker, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “Go I with no man gin it be not with mine own free will.”
“Nay, nay,” said the messenger, “no man is there in Nottinghamshire could make thee go against thy will, thou brave fellow.”
“Ay, that be I brave,” said the Tinker.
“Ay, marry,” said the messenger, “thou art a brave lad; but our good Sheriff hath offered fourscore angels of bright gold to whosoever shall serve the warrant upon Robin Hood; though little good will it do.”
“Then I will go with thee, lad. Do but wait till I get my bag and hammer, and my cudgel. Ay, let’ me but meet this same Robin Hood, and let me see whether he will not mind the King’s warrant.” So, after having paid their score, the messenger, with the Tinker striding beside his nag, started back to Nottingham again.
One bright morning soon after this time, Robin Hood started off to Nottingham Town to find what was a-doing there, walking merrily along the roadside where the grass was sweet with daisies, his eyes wandering and his thoughts also. His bugle horn hung at his hip and his bow and arrows at his back, while in his hand he bore a good stout oaken staff, which he twirled with his fingers as he strolled along.
As thus he walked down a shady lane he saw a tinker coming, trolling a merry song as he drew nigh. On his back hung his bag and his hammer, and in his hand he carried a right stout crabstaff full six feet long, and thus sang he:
| “In peascod time, when hound to horn Gives ear till buck be killed, And little lads with pipes of corn Sit keeping beasts afield—” |
“Halloa, good friend!” cried Robin.
“I WENT TO GATHER STRAWBERRIES—”
“Halloa!” cried Robin again.
“BY WOODS AND GROVES FULL FAIR—”
“Halloa! Art thou deaf, man? Good friend, say I!” “And who art thou dost so boldly check a fair song?” quoth the Tinker, stopping in his singing. “Halloa, shine own self, whether thou be good friend or no. But let me tell thee, thou stout fellow, gin thou be a good friend it were well for us both; but gin thou be no good friend it were ill for thee.”
“And whence comest thou, my lusty blade?” quoth Robin.
“I come from Banbury,” answered the Tinker.
“Alas!” quoth Robin, “I hear there is sad news this merry morn.”
“Ha! Is it indeed so?” cried the Tinker eagerly. “Prythee tell it speedily, for I am a tinker by trade, as thou seest, and as I am in my trade I am greedy for news, even as a priest is greedy for farthings.”
“Well then,” quoth Robin, “list thou and I will tell, but bear thyself up bravely, for the news is sad, I wot. Thus it is: I hear that two tinkers are in the stocks for drinking ale and beer!”
“Now a murrain seize thee and thy news, thou scurvy dog,” quoth the Tinker, “for thou speakest but ill of good men. But sad news it is indeed, gin there be two stout fellows in the stocks.”
“Nay,” said Robin, “thou hast missed the mark and dost but weep for the wrong sow. The sadness of the news lieth in that there be but two in the stocks, for the others do roam the country at large.”
“Now by the pewter platter of Saint Dunstan,” cried the Tinker, “I have a good part of a mind to baste thy hide for thine ill jest. But gin men be put in the stocks for drinking ale and beer, I trow thou wouldst not lose thy part.”
Loud laughed Robin and cried, “Now well taken, Tinker, well taken! Why, thy wits are like beer, and do froth up most when they grow sour! But right art thou, man, for I love ale and beer right well. Therefore come straightway with me hard by to the Sign of the Blue Boar, and if thou drinkest as thou appearest—and I wot thou wilt not belie thy looks—I will drench thy throat with as good homebrewed as ever was tapped in all broad Nottinghamshire.”
“Now by my faith,” said the Tinker, “thou art a right good fellow in spite of thy scurvy jests. I love thee, my sweet chuck, and gin I go not with thee to that same Blue Boar thou mayst call me a heathen.”
“Tell me thy news, good friend, I prythee,” quoth Robin as they trudged along together, “for tinkers, I ween, are all as full of news as an egg of meat.”
“Now I love thee as my brother, my bully blade,” said the Tinker, “else I would not tell thee my news; for sly am I, man, and I have in hand a grave undertaking that doth call for all my wits, for I come to seek a bold outlaw that men, hereabouts, call Robin Hood. Within my pouch I have a warrant, all fairly written out on parchment, forsooth, with a great red seal for to make it lawful. Could I but meet this same Robin Hood I would serve it upon his dainty body, and if he minded it not I would beat him till every one of his ribs would cry Amen. But thou livest hereabouts, mayhap thou knowest Robin Hood thyself, good fellow.”
“Ay, marry, that I do somewhat,” quoth Robin, “and I have seen him this very morn. But, Tinker, men say that he is but a sad, sly thief. Thou hadst better watch thy warrant, man, or else he may steal it out of thy very pouch.”
“Let him but try!” cried the Tinker. “Sly may he be, but sly am I, too. I would I had him here now, man to man!” And he made his heavy cudgel to spin again. “But what manner of man is he, lad?
“Much like myself,” said Robin, laughing, “and in height and build and age nigh the same; and he hath blue eyes, too.”
“Nay,” quoth the Tinker, “thou art but a green youth. I thought him to be a great bearded man. Nottingham men feared him so.”
“Truly, he is not so old nor so stout as thou art,” said Robin. “But men do call him a right deft hand at quarterstaff.”
“That may be,” said the Tinker right sturdily, “but I am more deft than he, for did I not overcome Simon of Ely in a fair bout in the ring at Hertford Town? But if thou knowest him, my jolly blade, wilt thou go with me and bring me to him? Fourscore bright angels hath the Sheriff promised me if I serve the warrant upon the knave’s body, and ten of them will I give to thee if thou showest me him.”
“Ay, that will I,” quoth Robin, “but show me thy warrant, man, until I see whether it be good or no.”
“That will I not do, even to mine own brother,” answered the Tinker. “No man shall see my warrant till I serve it upon yon fellow’s own body.”
“So be it,” quoth Robin. “And thou show it not to me I know not to whom thou wilt show it. But here we are at the Sign of the Blue Boar, so let us in and taste his brown October.”
No sweeter inn could be found in all Nottinghamshire than that of the Blue Boar. None had such lovely trees standing around, or was so covered with trailing clematis and sweet woodbine; none had such good beer and such humming ale; nor, in wintertime, when the north wind howled and snow drifted around the hedges, was there to be found, elsewhere, such a roaring fire as blazed upon the hearth of the Blue Boar. At such times might be found a goodly company of yeomen or country folk seated around the blazing hearth, bandying merry jests, while roasted crabs[Small sour apples] bobbed in bowls of ale upon the hearthstone. Well known was the inn to Robin Hood and his band, for there had he and such merry companions as Little John or Will Stutely or young David of Doncaster often gathered when all the forest was filled with snow. As for mine host, he knew how to keep a still tongue in his head, and to swallow his words before they passed his teeth, for he knew very well which side of his bread was spread with butter, for Robin and his band were the best of customers and paid their scores without having them chalked up behind the door. So now, when Robin Hood and the Tinker came thereto and called aloud for two great pots of ale, none would have known from look or speech that the host had ever set eyes upon the outlaw before.
“Bide thou here,” quoth Robin to the Tinker, “while I go and see that mine host draweth ale from the right butt, for he hath good October, I know, and that brewed by Withold of Tamworth.” So saying, he went within and whispered to the host to add a measure of Flemish strong waters to the good English ale; which the latter did and brought it to them.
“By Our Lady,” said the Tinker, after a long draught of the ale, “yon same Withold of Tamworth—a right good Saxon name, too, I would have thee know—breweth the most humming ale that e’er passed the lips of Wat o’ the Crabstaff.”
“Drink, man, drink,” cried Robin, only wetting his own lips meanwhile. “Ho, landlord! Bring my friend another pot of the same. And now for a song, my jolly blade.”
“Ay, that will I give thee a song, my lovely fellow,” quoth the Tinker, “for I never tasted such ale in all my days before. By Our Lady, it doth make my head hum even now! Hey, Dame Hostess, come listen, an thou wouldst hear a song, and thou too, thou bonny lass, for never sing I so well as when bright eyes do look upon me the while.”
Then he sang an ancient ballad of the time of good King Arthur, called “The Marriage of Sir Gawaine,” which you may some time read yourself, in stout English of early times; and as he sang, all listened to that noble tale of noble knight and his sacrifice to his king. But long before the Tinker came to the last verse his tongue began to trip and his head to spin, because of the strong waters mixed with the ale. First his tongue tripped, then it grew thick of sound; then his head wagged from side to side, until at last he fell asleep as though he never would waken again.
Then Robin Hood laughed aloud and quickly took the warrant from out the Tinker’s pouch with his deft fingers. “Sly art thou, Tinker,” quoth he, “but not yet, I bow, art thou as sly as that same sly thief Robin Hood.”
Then he called the host to him and said, “Here, good man, are ten broad shillings for the entertainment thou hast given us this day. See that thou takest good care of thy fair guest there, and when he wakes thou mayst again charge him ten shillings also, and if he hath it not, thou mayst take his bag and hammer, and even his coat, in payment. Thus do I punish those that come into the greenwood to deal dole to me. As for thine own self, never knew I landlord yet that would not charge twice an he could.”
At this the host smiled slyly, as though saying to himself the rustic saw, “Teach a magpie to suck eggs.”
The Tinker slept until the afternoon drew to a close and the shadows grew long beside the woodland edge, then he awoke. First he looked up, then he looked down, then he looked east, then he looked west, for he was gathering his wits together, like barley straws blown apart by the wind. First he thought of his merry companion, but he was gone. Then he thought of his stout crabstaff, and that he had within his hand. Then of his warrant, and of the fourscore angels he was to gain for serving it upon Robin Hood. He thrust his hand into his pouch, but not a scrap nor a farthing was there. Then he sprang to his feet in a rage.
“Ho, landlord!” cried he, “whither hath that knave gone that was with me but now?”
“What knave meaneth Your Worship?” quoth the landlord, calling the Tinker Worship to soothe him, as a man would pour oil upon angry water. “I saw no knave with Your Worship, for I swear no man would dare call that man knave so nigh to Sherwood Forest. A right stout yeoman I saw with Your Worship, but I thought that Your Worship knew him, for few there be about here that pass him by and know him not.”
“Now, how should I, that ne’er have squealed in your sty, know all the swine therein? Who was he, then, an thou knowest him so well?”
“Why, yon same is a right stout fellow whom men hereabouts do call Robin Hood, which same—”
“Now, by’r Lady!” cried the Tinker hastily, and in a deep voice like an angry bull, “thou didst see me come into thine inn, I, a staunch, honest craftsman, and never told me who my company was, well knowing thine own self who he was. Now, I have a right round piece of a mind to crack thy knave’s pate for thee!” Then he took up his cudgel and looked at the landlord as though he would smite him where he stood.
“Nay,” cried the host, throwing up his elbow, for he feared the blow, “how knew I that thou knewest him not?”
“Well and truly thankful mayst thou be,” quoth the Tinker, “that I be a patient man and so do spare thy bald crown, else wouldst thou ne’er cheat customer again. But as for this same knave Robin Hood, I go straightway to seek him, and if I do not score his knave’s pate, cut my staff into fagots and call me woman.” So saying, he gathered himself together to depart.
“Nay,” quoth the landlord, standing in front of him and holding out his arms like a gooseherd driving his flock, for money made him bold, “thou goest not till thou hast paid me my score.”
“But did not he pay thee?”
“Not so much as one farthing; and ten good shillings’ worth of ale have ye drunk this day. Nay, I say, thou goest not away without paying me, else shall our good Sheriff know of it.”
“But nought have I to pay thee with, good fellow,” quoth the Tinker.
“‘Good fellow’ not me,” said the landlord. “Good fellow am I not when it cometh to lose ten shillings! Pay me that thou owest me in broad money, or else leave thy coat and bag and hammer; yet, I wot they are not worth ten shillings, and I shall lose thereby. Nay, an thou stirrest, I have a great dog within and I will loose him upon thee. Maken, open thou the door and let forth Brian if this fellow stirs one step.”
“Nay,” quoth the Tinker—for, by roaming the country, he had learned what dogs were—”take thou what thou wilt have, and let me depart in peace, and may a murrain go with thee. But oh, landlord! An I catch yon scurvy varlet, I swear he shall pay full with usury for that he hath had!”
So saying, he strode away toward the forest, talking to himself, while the landlord and his worthy dame and Maken stood looking after him, and laughed when he had fairly gone.
“Robin and I stripped yon ass of his pack main neatly,” quoth the landlord.
Now it happened about this time that Robin Hood was going through the forest to Fosse Way, to see what was to be seen there, for the moon was full and the night gave promise of being bright. In his hand he carried his stout oaken staff, and at his side hung his bugle horn. As thus he walked up a forest path, whistling, down another path came the Tinker, muttering to himself and shaking his head like an angry bull; and so, at a sudden bend, they met sharply face to face. Each stood still for a time, and then Robin spoke:
“Halloa, my sweet bird,” said he, laughing merrily, “how likest thou thine ale? Wilt not sing to me another song?”
The Tinker said nothing at first but stood looking at Robin with a grim face. “Now,” quoth he at last, “I am right glad I have met thee, and if I do not rattle thy bones within thy hide this day, I give thee leave to put thy foot upon my neck.”
“With all my heart,” cried merry Robin. “Rattle my bones, an thou canst.” So saying, he gripped his staff and threw himself upon his guard. Then the Tinker spat upon his hands and, grasping his staff, came straight at the other. He struck two or three blows, but soon found that he had met his match, for Robin warded and parried all of them, and, before the Tinker thought, he gave him a rap upon the ribs in return. At this Robin laughed aloud, and the Tinker grew more angry than ever, and smote again with all his might and main. Again Robin warded two of the strokes, but at the third, his staff broke beneath the mighty blows of the Tinker. “Now, ill betide thee, traitor staff,” cried Robin, as it fell from his hands; “a foul stick art thou to serve me thus in mine hour of need.”
“Now yield thee,” quoth the Tinker, “for thou art my captive; and if thou do not, I will beat thy pate to a pudding.”
To this Robin Hood made no answer, but, clapping his horn to his lips, he blew three blasts, loud and clear.
“Ay,” quoth the Tinker, “blow thou mayest, but go thou must with me to Nottingham Town, for the Sheriff would fain see thee there. Now wilt thou yield thee, or shall I have to break thy pretty head?”
“An I must drink sour ale, I must,” quoth Robin, “but never have I yielded me to man before, and that without wound or mark upon my body. Nor, when I bethink me, will I yield now. Ho, my merry men! Come quickly!”
Then from out the forest leaped Little John and six stout yeomen clad in Lincoln green.
“How now, good master,” cried Little John, “what need hast thou that thou dost wind thy horn so loudly?”
“There stands a tinker,” quoth Robin, “that would fain take me to Nottingham, there to hang upon the gallows tree.”
“Then shall he himself hang forthwith,” cried Little John, and he and the others made at the Tinker, to seize him.
“Nay, touch him not,” said Robin, “for a right stout man is he. A metal man he is by trade, and a mettled man by nature; moreover, he doth sing a lovely ballad. Say, good fellow, wilt thou join my merry men all? Three suits of Lincoln green shalt thou have a year, besides forty marks in fee; thou shalt share all with us and lead a right merry life in the greenwood; for cares have we not, and misfortune cometh not upon us within the sweet shades of Sherwood, where we shoot the dun deer and feed upon venison and sweet oaten cakes, and curds and honey. Wilt thou come with me?”
“Ay, marry, will I join with you all,” quoth the Tinker, “for I love a merry life, and I love thee, good master, though thou didst thwack my ribs and cheat me into the bargain. Fain am I to own thou art both a stouter and a slyer man than I; so I will obey thee and be thine own true servant.”
So all turned their steps to the forest depths, where the Tinker was to live henceforth. For many a day he sang ballads to the band, until the famous Allan a Dale joined them, before whose sweet voice all others seemed as harsh as a raven’s; but of him we will learn hereafter.
