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Authors: Rosemary Sutcliff
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justice with pleading hands outflung. ‘Speak for me, Lord Justice.’
‘Nay,’ said the justice smoothly. ‘I hold to the law. I can give you no help.’
Sir Richard turned back to the abbot. ‘Gentle abbot, for the sake of Him who never refused mercy, give me my lands again, and I will be your humble servant until the debt is paid.’
The abbot refused, shortly. He was growing tired of this pestilent knight who was interfering with his meal. No one spoke for the man who knelt so humbly before them; those of them who had been his friends avoided his eye. ‘Unless I have my lands again you shall bitterly regret it,’ said Sir Richard, very quietly.
Then the abbot’s brow darkened once more with rage,his puffy face grew crimson, and he shouted thickly at Sir Richard: ‘Get out of my hall, you false knight!’
There was a moment’s silence; then Sir Richard rose to his feet and stood facing his persecutors with flashing eyes. ‘Liar!’ he cried. ‘I was never a false knight, and well you know it. I have been true to the vows of my knighthood. How have
you
kept the vows that you swore on the day you were made a monk? Answer me that, you bloated, grasping fiend!’
No one—save, perhaps, Robin Hood—had ever spoken to the abbot thus. He turned from red to purple, the veins swelled in his neck, and for a moment he seemed about to choke. Then he let out a bellow of rage and half rose in his carved chair, shouting insults at the knight, who watched him with a look of quiet contempt.
The startled guests and clergy sat as though turned to stone, staring aghast at raging abbot and scornful knight. The first to recover himself was the Lord Chief Justice, and as the abbot paused in his tirade for lack of breath, he turned to him and demanded: ‘What will you give me if I persuade this man to sign the deed of release? For without it you will never hold the land in peace.’
The abbot took a deep breath, swallowed thickly, and replied: ‘A hundred pounds for yourself.’
By now it was nearly noon, and Sir Richard thought it was time to drop the game, for he had no mind to risk his lands again. ‘Not so fast,’ said he, and turning towards the curtained doorway he called: ‘Little John!’
The tapestry was pulled aside, and into the hall strode Little John, bearing a leather bag, which he carried across to the table.
‘Give the Lord Abbot his money, Little John,’ said the knight; and the outlaw untied the neck of the bag and poured out the golden coins among the trenchers and wine-flasks.
The abbot stared at the gold with goggling eyes and open mouth,too astonished to move or speak, and the others about the table were in no better case. The ancient cellarer was the first to move, and putting out a greedy hand he began to count the coins.
‘Yes, count them well,’ said Sir Richard, with a hard laugh. ‘You will not find one missing.’ And when the counting was over, he turned back to the abbot: ‘Take your money, Lord Abbot, and give me my quittance. Not to-day do my lands pass into the keeping of St. Mary’s Abbey!’
The quittance was brought, also a quill and ink-horn, and the abbot signed it with a shaking hand. Sir Richard took it from him with a stately bow and, folding it, thrust it into his wallet. ‘I call all those here to witness that I have kept my day and paid my debt in full,’ he said, looking round the table. Then he turned on his heel and, followed by Little John, stalked out of the hall.
At the gates of York they parted and Sir Richard rode blithely homeward, while Little John made his way back to the Stane Ley to tell the joyous tale to Robin Hood.
A year passed, all save a few days, and in his castle at Linden Lea Sir Richard bethought him that the time was almost come to repay his debt. He spoke of it to his wife one evening as they strolled among the sweet-briar and sops-in-wine in her garden.
‘I must set out for Barnesdale in a few days to repay my good friend Robin Hood
‘Nay,’ said the justice smoothly. ‘I hold to the law. I can give you no help.’
Sir Richard turned back to the abbot. ‘Gentle abbot, for the sake of Him who never refused mercy, give me my lands again, and I will be your humble servant until the debt is paid.’
The abbot refused, shortly. He was growing tired of this pestilent knight who was interfering with his meal. No one spoke for the man who knelt so humbly before them; those of them who had been his friends avoided his eye. ‘Unless I have my lands again you shall bitterly regret it,’ said Sir Richard, very quietly.
Then the abbot’s brow darkened once more with rage,his puffy face grew crimson, and he shouted thickly at Sir Richard: ‘Get out of my hall, you false knight!’
There was a moment’s silence; then Sir Richard rose to his feet and stood facing his persecutors with flashing eyes. ‘Liar!’ he cried. ‘I was never a false knight, and well you know it. I have been true to the vows of my knighthood. How have
you
kept the vows that you swore on the day you were made a monk? Answer me that, you bloated, grasping fiend!’
No one—save, perhaps, Robin Hood—had ever spoken to the abbot thus. He turned from red to purple, the veins swelled in his neck, and for a moment he seemed about to choke. Then he let out a bellow of rage and half rose in his carved chair, shouting insults at the knight, who watched him with a look of quiet contempt.
The startled guests and clergy sat as though turned to stone, staring aghast at raging abbot and scornful knight. The first to recover himself was the Lord Chief Justice, and as the abbot paused in his tirade for lack of breath, he turned to him and demanded: ‘What will you give me if I persuade this man to sign the deed of release? For without it you will never hold the land in peace.’
The abbot took a deep breath, swallowed thickly, and replied: ‘A hundred pounds for yourself.’
By now it was nearly noon, and Sir Richard thought it was time to drop the game, for he had no mind to risk his lands again. ‘Not so fast,’ said he, and turning towards the curtained doorway he called: ‘Little John!’
The tapestry was pulled aside, and into the hall strode Little John, bearing a leather bag, which he carried across to the table.
‘Give the Lord Abbot his money, Little John,’ said the knight; and the outlaw untied the neck of the bag and poured out the golden coins among the trenchers and wine-flasks.
The abbot stared at the gold with goggling eyes and open mouth,too astonished to move or speak, and the others about the table were in no better case. The ancient cellarer was the first to move, and putting out a greedy hand he began to count the coins.
‘Yes, count them well,’ said Sir Richard, with a hard laugh. ‘You will not find one missing.’ And when the counting was over, he turned back to the abbot: ‘Take your money, Lord Abbot, and give me my quittance. Not to-day do my lands pass into the keeping of St. Mary’s Abbey!’
The quittance was brought, also a quill and ink-horn, and the abbot signed it with a shaking hand. Sir Richard took it from him with a stately bow and, folding it, thrust it into his wallet. ‘I call all those here to witness that I have kept my day and paid my debt in full,’ he said, looking round the table. Then he turned on his heel and, followed by Little John, stalked out of the hall.
At the gates of York they parted and Sir Richard rode blithely homeward, while Little John made his way back to the Stane Ley to tell the joyous tale to Robin Hood.
A year passed, all save a few days, and in his castle at Linden Lea Sir Richard bethought him that the time was almost come to repay his debt. He spoke of it to his wife one evening as they strolled among the sweet-briar and sops-in-wine in her garden.
‘I must set out for Barnesdale in a few days to repay my good friend Robin Hood
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