Robin Hood

“Well, Robin, what folly do you employ yourself on? Do you cut sticks for our fire o’ mornings?” Thus spoke Master Hugh Fitzooth, King’s Ranger of the Forest at Locksley, as he entered his house.

Robin flushed a little. “These are arrows, sir,” he announced, holding one up for inspection.

Dame Fitzooth smiled upon the boy as she rose to meet her lord. “What fortune do you bring us today, father?” asked she cheerily.

Fitzooth’s face was a mask of discontent. “I bring myself, dame,” answered he, “neither more nor less.”

“Surely that is enough for Robin and me!” laughed his wife. “Come, cast off your shoes, and give me your bow and quiver. I have news for you, Hugh, even if you have none for us. George of Gamewell has sent his messenger today and bids me bring Robin to him for the Fair.” She hesitated to give the whole truth.

“That cannot be,” began the Ranger hastily, then checked himself. “What wind blows our Squire’s friendship toward me, I wonder?” he continued. “Do we owe him toll?”

“You are not fair to George Montfichet, Hugh—he is an open, honest man and my brother.” The dame spoke with spirit, vexing that her husband should thus slight her news item. “That Montfichet is of Norman blood is sufficient to turn your thoughts of him as sour as old milk——”

“I am as good as all the Montfichets and De Veres hereabout, dame, for all I am but plain Saxon,” returned Fitzooth crossly, “and the day may come when they shall know it. Athelstane the Saxon might make as good a King when Henry dies as Richard of Aquitaine, with his foolish notions and runagate religion. If you like, there will be bobbing of heads and curtseying to us. Squire George of Gamewell would be sending messengers for me cap in hand—doubt it not.”

“For that matter, there is ready welcome for you now at my brother’s house,” said Mistress Fitzooth, repenting of her sharpness at once. “Montfichet bade us all to Gamewell, but here is his scroll, and you may read it for yourself.” She took a scroll from her bosom as she spoke and offered it to her husband.

He returned to the open door so that he might read it. His brow puckered as he strove to decipher the flourished Norman writing: “I have no leisure now for this screed, mother; read it to me later, and you will.”

His tone was kinder again, for he saw how Robin had been busying himself in these last few moments. “Let us sup, mother. I dare swear we all are hungry after the day’s heat.”

“I have made and tipped a full score of arrows, sir; will you see them?” asked Robin.

“That will I, so soon as I have found the bottom of this pasty. Sit, Mother and Robin, and we’ll chatter aft