The Little Gest of Robin Hood

“Another great day chaps! These linens should fetch a fair few shillings and the salt fish should keep us going for the next week.” Little John smiled merrily in his saddle as he fletched a bundle of sticks to add to the endless pile of arrows bulging in his quiver.

Ever the multitasker, he was eyeing up the wagon besides him. It seemed to creek with the weight of the fabrics they’d liberated from the merchants on the King’s Road. Based on some crude calculations, the profits would keep the poorhouse going for at least a month – perhaps there’d even be a few coppers left over for a round or two of ale. Fair’s fair, they did deserve it.

Perhaps the Merry Men were attracted to each other at first by a shared outlook on life, or perhaps they acquired this shared outlook only after fate and circumstances attracted them to each other. Perhaps it was both. Either way, there existed a near telepathic connection between them for, at that moment, there came a shout from the other side of the wagon.

“Pub anybody?” Called Friar Tuck.

Although Little John was keen for a round or three of ale, he never missed a chance to ensconce himself on the moral high ground. “My dear Friar, surely the pub must wait until we have delivered for the hungry of Nottingham.”

“But John I’m the hungriest man in Nottingham! I’m not sure I’ll even make it to the market without a beef pie and a pint or four of ale.” Little John stifled a laugh. “Besides, you can’t question my moral fortitude. I’m a man of the cloth I’ll have you know.”

“A man of the tablecloth more like,” John grinned. Any pretence of dispute fell away as both men laughed heartily.

In between them on the wagon, Robin lay propped up on a pile of furs. The sound of his friends sparring faded into the backdrop of birdsong and horse’s hooves as he gazed up into the dappled light.

His men loved a night in the town. He could already sense their excitement rising like the tide. But the morning after, it would fall away to reveal the cragged edges of their own failings and regrets. They would ride out into the forest once more, to steal from the rich and give to the poor. The cycle would continue.

Robin was different. He loved the forest and saw the visits to the market and the poorhouses as a necessary inconvenience. This was what excited him. The smell of wet bark, the pale sun on his face, the chorus of forest life dancing on the wind. He’d been living this way all his life which was why, when something disrupted his symphony, he noticed it.

Even before the shouts came, Robin knew something was wrong. The notes were jarred. The key was off. And it was too quiet. He sat upright in the wagon and swung his head around, eyes wide open.

“You alright, Robin? You look like you’ve seen…”

Little John’s voice trailed away as a cacophony of shouts and the clattering of armoured destriers reached them through the deep, green shrubbery. Ordinarily, the Merry Men could fade into the forest in seconds but, with the wagon, they were vulnerable.

The twenty-or-so unwashed rogues closed ranks around the wagon like a well-oiled machine. Still, as rows upon rows of armoured men emerged onto the road, Robin’s heart fell.

“How many are there?” Whispered Friar Tuck disbelievingly. Twenty-five horsemen, thirty footmen, and thirty-three crossbowmen.

“I don’t know Friar,” whispered Robin. “Just follow my lead.” If only he was as confident as he sounded…

The huddle of horsemen parted to reveal a portly man in stockings and a thick leather jerkin who marched to the front of the formation. He scanned the group of outlaws before him until his twinkling eyes fell on Robin Hood, who was now stood atop the wagon.

“Which one of you is Robin Hood?” The Sheriff’s eyes didn’t leave the wagon.

“There is no Robin Hood here!” Will Scarlett was perhaps the boldest of the Merry Men. Too bold. Robin knew there were old outlaws and there were bold outlaws but there were no old, bold outlaws.

The Sheriff smiled sympathetically. “Young man, I applaud your bravado but I’m afraid, if you lie to me again, I will kill you.” There was no anger, only stoic certainty.

At this, Robin spun his bow around and notched the arrow previously concealed in his sleeve. The soldiers hardly had time to register. “You have more men and better equipment Sheriff, but if your men attack, you will die.”

A short pause as the two men sized each other up. Then, the Sheriff snorted with the ease of a man who didn’t have an arrow pointed at his head. “If you miss, you’ll be in an awful lot of trouble.” Robin didn’t dignify this with a response. I don’t miss.

The arrow remained trained on the Sheriff’s head as soldiers and Merry Men alike watched on, their weapons hanging awkwardly from their hands. Eventually the Sheriff shrugged and turned away.

“Seize the wagon but keep the men here – I don’t want any of them to leave your sight.” The soldiers around him scurried to obey, leaving the Merry Men confused as to why they weren’t being attacked. “Robin,” the Sheriff’s eyes hadn’t left the small man in the green tunic, “I assume that’s who you are.” A pause. No answer. “I’d like you to have lunch in my pavilion. It’s a short walk from here.”

Despite the protests of his comrades, Robin shouldered his bow and slid the arrow back up his sleeve. He leapt from the wagon with the grace of a dancer and strolled towards the rows of soldiers. He could see the Sheriff’s eyes now, dark and opaque, yet glittering strangely. There was something else behind the icy façade… was it… gratitude?

As Robin approached, so did a large footman with a head like a spade. “Sheriff, what should we do with the wagon? The Merchant’s Guild will want the stolen goods returned.”

“Don’t be silly Gerald,” the Sheriff sighed. “Take it to the market and send the profits to the poorhouse. Robin, with me if you will.” They walked in silence to the pavilion.

The inside was rather more austere than Robin imagined. A set of armour and weaponry in one corner, a tower of crates and carriers in the other, and a small wooden table flanked with two chairs. As they took their seats, a serving girl entered with a platter of bread, hard cheese, and cold meats alongside two cups of ale.

“Robin I’ve never been one for pointless pleasantries.” He spat the last word with casual contempt. “You’ve been operating in Sherwood Forest for too long. I need this to change. We’re too under resourced to arrest you all and, frankly, I don’t want to kill you.” Straight to it then.

Robin took a finger of cheese and nibbled at it thoughtfully. For a man who spent his life surrounded by companions, he was unusually comfortable with silence. As was the Sheriff, whose stony eyes never left Robin’s. Robin looked up and coal-black met electric blue.

“I can’t do that, Sheriff.” And you know why.

“Robin, you don’t have to live like this. I could give you a position at the castle. Food and board for your men, most of whom are better fighters than anybody in the garrison.” It was a half-hearted effort. A formality. Robin let the offer wither and die before his eyes.

The Sheriff sighed and took a long draught from his cup. Again, a glimmer of emotions emerged from the depths of his black eyes. Frustration, resignation and, perhaps, curiosity.

“You really do give it to the poor, don’t you?” Robin nodded.

“We have to Sheriff. People will starve otherwise.” Because of you. He left the last part unspoken but it was heard in the hardening of his tone.

“Listen Robin,” the faint redness where his cheekbones were most prominent betrayed the first stirrings of anger. “Your antics have crippled the local economy. Frankly, I’m surprised you can still find traders on the road as most of them now steer clear of Nottingham! Investor confidence has crumbled and I’m having to explain to the lord why our economy is stagnating whilst the rest of the country prospers.”

Now it was Robin’s turn to be indignant. “Forgive me Sheriff but these macroeconomic musings of yours are meaningless to ordinary people. What is the point of economic prosperity if there’s no equitable redistribution of wealth?”

“Robin I’m not a monster! I want everybody to be prosperous but the only way of ensuring this in the long run is to grow the pie rather than simply slicing it in different ways. If we allow tradesmen to go unmolested, the economy will grow, resulting in prosperity for all.”

“I understand the principle, Sheriff, but the reality is quite different. You simply cannot expect people to go hungry now on the vague and theoretically shaky promise that the profits of the wealthy will eventually ‘trickle down’ to them! I think if you were to actually visit a poorhouse, you’d see just how dire the situation is.”

“I do visit the poorhouses,” came the quiet retort. “As I say, I’m not a monster…” Slightly thrown but determined to press the advantage, Robin continued.

“The worst thing is, Sheriff, that people might be able to handle the poor harvests, the job losses, and the oppressive code of laws if their problems were compounded by these absurd taxes of yours.” At this, the Sheriff’s unflappable visage fell for a moment, and a shadow of frustration passed across his face. His voice fell to a whisper.

“Do you have any idea the pressure I’m under? King John requires two thousand shillings from Nottingham alone by the end of the week.”

“What could one man possibly need two thousand shillings for?”

“What else would an English king need money for?”

“War with France,” they both said in unison.

“But it’s absurd!” Robin finished his cup and the servant quickly refilled it. “Why should the smallfolk starve so King John can fight and presumably lose again to a bunch of frog-eating adulterers?”

“I’m not sure that’s politically correct…”

“I don’t care,” Robin exclaimed. “How can you enforce such a rotten system?” The Sheriff gazed into the last of his ale, as though contemplating the question himself.

“I can’t, Robin,” he paused as his cup was refilled. “That’s why you’re here.”

“You’re not going to arrest me?”

“No.”

“You’re not going to kill me?” A short pause.

“No.”

“You’re not going to…”

“Why don’t I just tell you?” The Sheriff leaned forward conspiratorially, the trace of a smile tugging at his thin lips. This man has never broken a rule in his life. “You will stop stealing from the merchants. You will stop stealing from the King’s men. You will stop stealing from the lord and his associates.” He licked his lips. “Instead, you will steal from me.”

“From you?”

“Yes, or rather from my men. You see, when the taxes are physically collected, they are also noted down in the books which then go to the King’s Chancelry.” Here, the penny dropped, and Robin’s electric eyes grew evermore bright.

“You want me to steal from your own tax collectors, only after they have recorded their takings.”

“Spot on.”

“Then I assume you want me to redistribute the money to the poorhouses?”

“That’s two for two.” Robin paused, mulling over this most unexpected proposal.

“What if my companions and I are caught by the King’s men, or the lord’s men, or some of your men who aren’t onside?” The Sheriff’s face tightened.

“Then they will probably execute you, Robin.” Message received. I’m the pawn, you’re the player.

“I still don’t fully understand what’s in it for me, Sheriff.” The Sheriff dispatched the last hunk of bread and snorted.

“Well the main benefit you derive from this arrangement is that I won’t have to throw you in jail once I’ve finished my drink.” He paused as the smile withdrew from his face, leaving a pensive look that better suited his black eyes. “What’s more… they’ll write songs about you.”

“What?”

“The smallfolk will respect and honour you for what you’re doing?”

“With songs?”

“Yes, or poems, or stories.”

“What kind of songs?”

“Look, you’re getting too hung up on the songs.” He took a deep breath. “The point is you’ll be a hero, and I’ll be the villain – the evil Sheriff of Nottingham. But that’s alright.” His eyes suggested otherwise. The lunch was over. The two men stood up, shook hands, and left the pavilion. Soon, the Merry Men were on their way.

“What happened boss? You give him a good talking to? Put him on the straight and narrow?” Gerald’s singsong voice bore a twinge of impatience. Unsurprisingly, he would have liked to execute the lot of them.

“I hope so Gerald. I hope so…” the Sheriff sighed as his men set about putting down the pavilion. He watched the green tunic fade into the distance and become one with the shrubbery. “Go well, Robin Hood.”