Folklore -- England; Robin Hood (Legendary character) -- Legends
They traveled onward, Robin following his fancy and the others following
Robin. Now they wended their way through an open dale with cottage and
farm lying therein, and now again they entered woodlands once more.
Passing by fair Mansfield Town, with its towers and battlements and
spires all smiling in the sun, they came at last out of the forest
lands. Onward they journeyed, through highway and byway, through
villages where goodwives and merry lasses peeped through the casements
at the fine show of young men, until at last they came over beyond
Alverton in Derbyshire. By this time high noontide had come, yet they
had met no guest such as was worth their while to take back to Sherwood;
so, coming at last to a certain spot where a shrine stood at the
crossing of two roads, Robin called upon them to stop, for here on
either side was shelter of high hedgerows, behind which was good hiding,
whence they could watch the roads at their ease, while they ate their
midday meal. Quoth merry Robin, "Here, methinks, is good lodging, where
peaceful folk, such as we be, can eat in quietness; therefore we will
rest here, and see what may, perchance, fall into our luck-pot." So they
crossed a stile and came behind a hedgerow where the mellow sunlight was
bright and warm, and where the grass was soft, and there sat them down.
Then each man drew from the pouch that hung beside him that which he had
brought to eat, for a merry walk such as this had been sharpens the
appetite till it is as keen as a March wind. So no more words were
spoken, but each man saved his teeth for better use--munching at brown
crust and cold meat right lustily.
In front of them, one of the highroads crawled up the steep hill and
then dipped suddenly over its crest, sharp-cut with hedgerow and shaggy
grass against the sky. Over the top of the windy hill peeped the eaves
of a few houses of the village that fell back into the valley behind;
there, also, showed the top of a windmill, the sails slowly rising and
dipping from behind the hill against the clear blue sky, as the light
wind moved them with creaking and labored swing.
So the yeomen lay behind the hedge and finished their midday meal; but
still the time slipped along and no one came. At last, a man came
slowly riding over the hill and down the stony road toward the spot
where Robin and his band lay hidden. He was a good stout knight, but
sorrowful of face and downcast of mien. His clothes were plain and
rich, but no chain of gold, such as folk of his stand in life wore at
most times, hung around his neck, and no jewel was about him; yet no one
could mistake him for aught but one of proud and noble blood. His head
was bowed upon his breast and his hands drooped limp on either side; and
so he came slowly riding, as though sunk in sad thoughts, while even his
good horse, the reins loose upon his neck, walked with hanging head, as
though he shared his master's grief.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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