The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood by Howard Pyle (ebook reader online free txt) 📕

“Ay, marry, that do I,” quoth the Cook boldly, for he liked the Steward because of his talk of the wine and of the ten shillings. “Get thee gone straightway to thy room, and I will bring out this knave by his ears.” So saying, he laid aside his spit and drew the sword that hung by his side; whereupon the Steward left as quickly as he could, for he hated the sight of naked steel.

Then the Cook walked straightway to the broken pantry door, through which he saw Little John tucking a napkin beneath his chin and preparing to make himself merry.

“Why, how now, Reynold Greenleaf?” said the Cook, “thou art no better than a thief, I wot. Come thou straight forth, man, or I will carve thee as I would carve a sucking pig.”

“Nay, good Cook, bear thou thyself more seemingly, or else I will come forth to thy dole. At most times I am as a yearling lamb, but when one cometh between me and my meat, I am a raging lion, as it were.”

“Lion or no lion,” quoth the valorous Cook, “come thou straight forth, else thou art a coward heart as well as a knavish thief.”

“Ha!” cried Little John, “coward’s name have I never had; so, look to thyself, good Cook, for I come forth straight, the roaring lion I did speak of but now.”

Then he, too, drew his sword and came out of the pantry; then, putting themselves into position, they came slowly together, with grim and angry looks; but suddenly Little John lowered his point. “Hold, good Cook!” said he. “Now, I bethink me it were ill of us to fight with good victuals standing so nigh, and such a feast as would befit two stout fellows such as we are. Marry, good friend, I think we should enjoy this fair feast ere we fight. What sayest thou, jolly Cook?”

At this speech the Cook looked up and down, scratching his head in doubt, for he loved good feasting. At last he drew a long breath and said to Little John, “Well, good friend, I like thy plan right well; so, pretty boy, say I, let us feast, with all my heart, for one of us may sup in Paradise before nightfall.”

So each thrust his sword back into the scabbard and entered the pantry. Then, after they had seated themselves, Little John drew his dagger and thrust it into the pie. “A hungry man must be fed,” quoth he, “so, sweet chuck, I help myself without leave.” But the Cook did not lag far behind, for straightway his hands also were deeply thrust within the goodly pasty. After this, neither of them spoke further, but used their teeth to better purpose. But though neither spoke, they looked at one another, each thinking within himself that he had never seen a more lusty fellow than the one across the board.

At last, after a long time had passed, the Cook drew a full, deep breath, as though of much regret, and wiped his hands upon the napkin, for he could eat no more. Little John, also, had enough, for he pushed the pasty aside, as though he would say, “I want thee by me no more, good friend.” Then he took the pottle of sack, and said he, “Now, good fellow, I swear by all that is bright, that thou art the stoutest companion at eating that ever I had. Lo! I drink thy health.” So saying, he clapped the flask to his lips and cast his eyes aloft, while the good wine flooded his throat. Then he passed the pottle to the Cook, who also said, “Lo, I drink thy health, sweet fellow!” Nor was he behind Little John in drinking any more than in eating.

“Now,” quoth Little John, “thy voice is right round and sweet, jolly lad. I doubt not thou canst sing a ballad most blithely; canst thou not?”

“Truly, I have trolled one now and then,” quoth the Cook, “yet I would not sing alone.”

“Nay, truly,” said Little John, “that were but ill courtesy. Strike up thy ditty, and I will afterward sing one to match it, if I can.

“So be it, pretty boy,” quoth the Cook. “And hast thou e’er heard the song of the Deserted Shepherdess?”

“Truly, I know not,” answered Little John, “but sing thou and let me hear.”

Then the Cook took another draught from the pottle, and, clearing his throat, sang right sweetly:

THE SONG OF THE DESERTED SHEPHERDESS

“_In Lententime, when leaves wax green, And pretty birds begin to mate, When lark cloth sing, and thrush, I ween, And stockdove cooeth soon and late, Fair Phillis sat beside a stone, And thus I heard her make her moan: ‘O willow, willow, willow, willow! I’ll take me of thy branches fair And twine a wreath to deck my hair.

” `The thrush hath taken him a she, The robin, too, and eke the dove; My Robin hath deserted me, And left me for another love. So here, by brookside, all alone, I sit me down and make my moan. O willow, willow, willow, willow! I’ll take me of thy branches fair And twine a wreath to deck my hair.’

“But ne’er came herring from the sea, But good as he were in the tide; Young Corydon came o’er the lea, And sat him Phillis down beside. So, presently, she changed her tone, And ‘gan to cease her from her moan, ‘O willow, willow, willow, willow! Thou mayst e’en keep thy garlands fair, I want them not to deck my hair_.’ “

“Now, by my faith,” cried Little John, “that same is a right good song, and hath truth in it, also.”

“Glad am I thou likest it, sweet lad,” said the Cook. “Now sing thou one also, for ne’er should a man be merry alone, or sing and list not.”

“Then I will sing thee a song of a right good knight of Arthur’s court, and how he cured his heart’s wound without running upon the dart again, as did thy Phillis; for I wot she did but cure one smart by giving herself another. So, list thou while I sing:

THE GOOD KNIGHT AND HIS LOVE

“_When Arthur, King, did rule this land, A goodly king was he, And had he of stout knights a band Of merry company.

“Among them all, both great and small, A good stout knight was there, A lusty childe, and eke a tall, That loved a lady fair.

“But nought would she to do with he, But turned her face away; So gat he gone to far countrye, And left that lady gay.

“There all alone he made his moan, And eke did sob and sigh, And weep till it would move a stone, And he was like to die.

“But still his heart did feel the smart, And eke the dire distress, And rather grew his pain more sharp As grew his body less.

“Then gat he back where was good sack And merry com panye, And soon did cease to cry `Alack!’ When blithe and gay was he.

“From which I hold, and feel full bold To say, and eke believe, That gin the belly go not cold The heart will cease to grieve_.”

“Now, by my faith,” cried the Cook, as he rattled the pottle against the sideboard, “I like that same song hugely, and eke the motive of it, which lieth like a sweet kernel in a hazelnut”

“Now thou art a man of shrewd opinions,” quoth Little John, “and I love thee truly as thou wert my brother.”

“And I love thee, too. But the day draweth on, and I have my cooking to do ere our master cometh home; so let us e’en go and settle this brave fight we have in hand.”

“Ay, marry,” quoth Little John, “and that right speedily. Never have I been more laggard in fighting than in eating and drinking. So come thou straight forth into the passageway, where there is good room to swing a sword, and I will try to serve thee.”

Then they both stepped forth into the broad passage that led to the Steward’s pantry, where each man drew his sword again and without more ado fell upon the other as though he would hew his fellow limb from limb. Then their swords clashed upon one another with great din, and sparks flew from each blow in showers. So they fought up and down the hall for an hour and more, neither striking the other a blow, though they strove their best to do so; for both were skillful at the fence; so nothing came of all their labor. Ever and anon they rested, panting; then, after getting their wind, at it they would go again more fiercely than ever. At last Little John cried aloud, “Hold, good Cook!” whereupon each rested upon his sword, panting.

“Now will I make my vow,” quoth Little John, “thou art the very best swordsman that ever mine eyes beheld. Truly, I had thought to carve thee ere now.”

“And I had thought to do the same by thee,” quoth the Cook, “but I have missed the mark somehow.”

“Now I have been thinking within myself,” quoth Little John, “what we are fighting for; but albeit I do not rightly know.”

“Why, no more do I,” said the Cook. “I bear no love for that pursy Steward, but I thought that we had engaged to fight with one another and that it must be done.”

“Now,” quoth Little John, “it doth seem to me that instead of striving to cut one another’s throats, it were better for us to be boon companions. What sayst thou, jolly Cook, wilt thou go with me to Sherwood Forest and join with Robin Hood’s band? Thou shalt live a merry life within the woodlands, and sevenscore good companions shalt thou have, one of whom is mine own self. Thou shalt have three suits of Lincoln green each year, and forty marks in pay.”

“Now, thou art a man after mine own heart!” cried the Cook right heartily, “and, as thou speakest of it, that is the very service for me. I will go with thee, and that right gladly. Give me thy palm, sweet fellow, and I will be thine own companion from henceforth. What may be thy name, lad?”

“Men do call me Little John, good fellow.”

“How? And art thou indeed Little John, and Robin Hood’s own right-hand man? Many a time and oft I heard of thee, but never did I hope to set eyes upon thee. And thou art indeed the famous Little John!” And the Cook seemed lost in amazement, and looked upon his companion with open eyes.

“I am Little John, indeed, and I will bring to Robin Hood this day a right stout fellow to join his merry band. But ere we go, good friend, it seemeth to me to be a vast pity that, as we have had so much of the Sheriff’s food, we should not also carry off some of his silver plate to Robin Hood, as a present from his worship.”

“Ay, marry is it,” said the Cook. And so they began hunting about, and took as much silver as they could lay hands upon, clapping