"And a l.u.s.ty yeoman he," said the knight. "Men say much good of him. I thought to dine to-day at Blythe or Dankaster, but if jolly Robin wants me I am his man. It matters little, save that I have no heart to do justice to any man"s good cheer. Lead on, my courteous friend. The greenwood, then, shall be my dining-hall."
Our scene now changes to the lodge of the woodland chief. An hour had pa.s.sed. A merry scene met the eye. The long table was well covered with game of the choicest, swan, pheasants, and river fowl, and with roasts and steaks of venison, which had been on hoof not many hours before.
Around it sat a jolly company of foresters, green-clad like the trees about them. At its head sat Robin Hood, his handsome face lending encouragement to the laughter and gleeful chat of his men. Beside him sat the knight, sober of attire, gloomy of face, yet brightening under the courteous treatment of his host and the gay sallies of the outlaw band.
"Gramercy, Sir Woodman," said the knight, when the feast was at an end, "such a dinner as you have set me I have not tasted for weeks. When I come again to this country I hope to repay you with as good a one."
"A truce to your dinner," said Robin, curtly. "All that dine in our woodland inn pay on the spot, Sir Knight. It is a good rule, I wot."
"To full hands, mayhap," said the knight; "but I dare not, for very shame, proffer you what is in my coffers."
"Is it so little, then?"
"Ten shillings is not wealth," said the knight. "I can offer you no more."
"Faith, if that be all, keep it, in G.o.d"s name; and I"ll lend you more, if you be in need. Go look, Little John; we take no stranger"s word in the greenwood."
John examined the knight"s effects, and reported that he had told the truth. Robin gazed curiously at his guest.
"I held you for a knight of high estate," he said. "A heedless husbandman you must have been, a gambler or wa.s.sailer, to have brought yourself to this sorry pa.s.s. An empty pocket and threadbare attire ill befit a knight of your parts."
"You wrong me, Robin," said the knight, sadly. "Misfortune, not sin, has beggared me. I have nothing left but my children and my wife; but it is through no deed of my own. My son--my heir he should have been--slew a knight of Lancashire and his squire. To save him from the law I have made myself a beggar. Even my lands and house must go, for I have pledged them to the abbot of St. Mary as surety for four hundred pounds loaned me. I cannot pay him, and the time is near its end. I have lost hope, good sir, and am on my way to the sea, to take ship for the Holy Land. Pardon my tears, I leave a wife and children."
"Where are your friends?" asked Robin.
"Where are the last year"s leaves of your trees?" asked the knight.
"They were fair enough while the summer sun shone; they dropped from me when the winter of trouble came."
"Can you not borrow the sum?" asked Robin. "Not a groat," answered the knight. "I have no more credit than a beggar."
"Mayhap not with the usurers," said Robin. "But the greenwood is not quite bare, and your face, Sir Knight, is your pledge of faith. Go to my treasury, Little John, and see if it will not yield four hundred pounds."
"I can promise you that, and more if need be," answered the woodman.
"But our worthy knight is poorly clad, and we have rich cloths to spare, I wot. Shall we not add a livery to his purse?"
"As you will, good fellow, and forget not a horse, for our guest"s mount is of the sorriest."
The knight"s sorrow gave way to hope as he saw the eagerness, of the generous woodmen. Little John"s count of the money added ample interest; the cloths were measured with a bow-stick for a yard, and a palfrey was added to the courser, to bear their welcome gifts. In the end Robin lent him Little John for a squire, and gave him twelve months in which to repay his loan. Away he went, no longer a knight of rueful countenance.
"Nowe as the knight went on his way, This game he thought full good, When he looked on Bernysdale He blyssed Robin Hode;
"And when he thought on Bernysdale, On Scathelock, Much, and John, He blyssed them for the best company That ever he in come."
The next day was that fixed for the payment of the loan to the abbot of St. Mary"s. Abbot and prior waited in hope and excitement. If the cash was not paid by night a rich estate would fall into their hands. The knight must pay to the last farthing, or be beggared. As they sat awaiting the cellarer burst in upon them, full of exultation.
"He is dead or hanged!" he cried. "We shall have our four hundred pounds many times over."
With them were the high-justice of England and the sheriff of the shire, brought there to give the proceeding the warrant of legality. Time was pa.s.sing, an hour or two more would end the knight"s grace, only a narrow s.p.a.ce of time lay between him and beggary. The justice had just turned with congratulations to the abbot, when, to the discomfiture of the churchmen, the debtor, Sir Richard of the Lee, appeared at the gate of the abbey, and made his way into the hall.
Yet he was shabbily clad; his face was sombre; there seemed little occasion for alarm. There seemed none when he began to speak.
"Sir Abbot," he said, "I come to hold my day."
"Hast thou brought my pay?" asked the abbot.
"Not one penny," answered the knight.
"Thou art a shrewd debtor," declared the abbot, with a look of satisfaction. "Sir Justice, drink to me. What brings you here then, sirrah, if you fetch no money?"
"To pray your grace for a longer day," said Sir Richard, humbly.
"Your day is ended; not an hour more do you get," cried the abbot.
Sir Richard now appealed to the justice for relief, and after him to the sheriff, but to both in vain. Then, turning to the abbot again, he offered to be his servant, and work for him till the four hundred pounds were earned, if he would take pity on him.
This appeal was lost on the merciless churchman. In the end hot words pa.s.sed, and the abbot angrily exclaimed,--
"Out of my hall, thou false knight! Speed thee out, sirrah!"
"Abbot, thou liest, I was never false to my word," said Sir Richard, proudly. "You lack courtesy, to suffer a knight to kneel and beg so long. I am a true knight and a true man, as all who have seen me in tournament or battle will say."
"What more will you give the knight for a full release?" asked the justice. "If you give nothing, you will never hold his lands in peace."
"A hundred pounds," said the abbot.
"Give him two," said the justice.
"Not so," cried the knight. "If you make it a thousand more, not a foot of my land shall you ever hold. You have outwitted yourself, master abbot, by your greed."
Sir Richard"s humility was gone; his voice was clear and proud; the churchmen trembled, here was a new tone. Turning to a table, the knight took a bag from under his cloak, and shook out of it on to the board a ringing heap of gold.
"Here is the gold you lent me, Sir Abbot," he cried. "Count it. You will find it four hundred pounds to the penny. Had you been courteous, I would have been generous. As it is, I pay not a penny over my due."
"The abbot sat styll, and ete no more For all his ryall chere; He cast his head on his sholder, And fast began to stare."
So ended this affair, the abbot in despair, the knight in triumph, the justice laughing at his late friends and curtly refusing to return the cash they had paid to bring him there. His money counted, his release signed, the knight was a glad man again.
"The knight stert out of the dore, Awaye was all his care, And on he put his good clothynge, The other he lefte there.
"He wente hym forthe full mery syngynge, As men have tolde in tale, His lady met hym at the gate, At home in Wierysdale.
""Welcome, my lorde," sayd his lady; "Syr, lost is all your good?"
"Be mery dame," said the knight, "And pray for Robyn Hode,
"That ever his soule be in blysse, He holpe me out of my tene; Ne had not be his kyndenesse, Beggers had we ben.""