Robin: A Historical Adventure Novel

By Brenda Marshall

Robert Hode, son of a forester in Earl Warrens park, lives a comfortable life in Wakefield in the north of England where his mother is active in the Craft, a religion focusing on healing, friendships and exotic ceremonies.

But, at the age of seven, Roberts pleasant life changes when he is humiliated after a beating by his cruel schoolmaster. Afraid to return to school, he plays truant, exploring the town and forests and learning about the miserable and sometimes fascinating lives of his neighbors.

As a teenager working with his father in the forest, Robert becomes known for his philandering ways but his behavior changes when, on a visit to wealthy relatives, he meets Matilda. Determined to marry this powerful, beautiful woman, Robert builds a fine house in the center of Wakefield. Matilda accepts his proposal but their happy lives are disrupted when the Earl of Lancaster seizes all of Warrens lands and Robert is summoned to fight for the Earl of Lancaster against the army of King Edward II.

Robert flees the disastrous battle and searches Barnsdale forest for a mysterious hermit he once met as a child. Matilda and others from nearby conquered towns join him in the forest. A skilled archer, Robert becomes the leader of a notorious band of outlaws, calling himself Robin Hood and his bride, Maid Marion. With Marions extensive knowledge of the Craft, they conduct erotic celebrations where Robin serves as High Priest and Marion as High Priestess.

Intrigued by the legends of the infamous outlaw who robs the rich and helps the poor, the weak and effeminate King Edward pays a surprise visit to the forest and invites Robin and Marion to serve him in the Tower of London. But life in London is not what they expected.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477282694

Brenda Marshall

Brenda Marshall, a former newspaper reporter from Birmingham, England, has been freelancing in Los Angeles since 1965. “Robin,” which she began writing in 1979, is her first novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Words. Strange words. They meant nothing to young Robert. Uncomfortably stiff from hours of sitting on the hard, stone bench, he stared vacantly at the gloomy grey walls wondering if the rain was still making muddy puddles in the village streets.

Why must he recite these Latin phrases, endlessly, incessantly, until his mind couldn’t think any more?

His gaze traveled slowly up one of the huge pillars of the church aisle to the vaulted roof high above him—the tallest he had ever seen—then down to the curved designs of the carvings below the roof’s molded arches. Were they leaves, or flowers? They reminded him of the forest. He’d love to touch them, but they were far beyond his reach.

Instead, he placed his hand gently on the stone bench beneath him, experiencing its unfamiliar texture with his fingertips. Stone was so cold and uncomfortable—not at all like his wooden stool at home.

With a deep sigh, Robert turned to stare at the stained glass window at the far end of the aisle. When the sun shone, the colors were so bright and glowing that the strange figure with wings and a sword seemed to leap right out of the window. But, on this day, the angel looked dull and lifeless, so he supposed it was still raining.

Was it almost time to leave, to run outside, through the fenced churchyard, past the huge, stone parsonage house and into the village? Maybe Geoffrey would play with him again, later. He did, yesterday, and it was raining then, too.

It was such fun yesterday, just like having a big brother. Meeting Geoffrey was the only happy experience during his first few days at school, a small, somber gathering in the north aisle of Wakefield’s parish church. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he’d be his best friend and they could play every day?

The chanting of the other students became a distant hum, as he glanced with admiration at his new friend. The pale, thin young man returned his gaze, acknowledged him briefly then, with a look of warning and without breaking his recitations, quickly turned away.

Robert didn’t understand his friend’s reaction. Surely Geoffrey remembered yesterday. It was market day and the market place close to the church was so colorful as they ran from stall to stall, laughing, admiring the displays and jumping in every puddle.

A rich lady led a monkey on a chain. It wore a red jacket and a green hat with a feather in it. And, when they stopped to talk to the animal, it began jumping around, chattering and pulling on the chain until the lady picked the pet up in her arms and began scolding it.

All the merchants were there. They had come from many nearby towns, traveling for miles along the muddy roads to Wakefield, with brooches, mirrors, ribbons, spices . . . But the food!

Robert smelled it in his mind and wondered what his mother might be preparing for supper so, as darkness fell, his father would come home to a cooked meal. He wondered how the dampness of the forest smelled around his home—the forest his father loved so much. And he thought about his mother.

His mother. Oh, how he loved her. Her long, straight hair was blonde enough for royalty, like a French queen. Yet his own hair was black as night with curls that fell uncontrollably around his face. He took after his father, he supposed. But his father’s hair was grey.

Did that mean he was growing old? No, fathers don’t grow old. They teach you how to fight and hold a bow. They run with you and play. They don’t grow old.

Robert dismissed the idea and thought instead about his mother’s hair—blonde as the corn or the leaves in Autumn. And her eyes? Everyone said he had his mother’s eyes, blue and piercing. It was his mother’s eyes he remembered as he pictured her boiling meat, cooking the vegetables, feeding the chickens and the goat outside their home, or sweeping out the cottage with her broom.

Her broom? Why did she always take this with her when she disappeared into the darkness of the earl’s forest late at night? And why, when asked about it, did she just laugh—that joyous laugh she had when she was happy?

The meetings made her happy. When her eyes sparkled with excited anticipation and she sang all day around the cottage, Robert could guess there was a meeting. Those were his favorite days—following his mother, sharing her good humor and, best of all, learning such wonderful songs.

Robert had listened to traveling minstrels when he went with her to the village on market day. Their songs told stories of royalty, adventure and brave heroes. But his mother’s songs had magical words about spring, the harvest, the sun and the moon and the Goddess Diana. Many times he’d ask her to repeat the same song over and over so he could learn the words. And then, as the day grew to a close, he’d ask about the meetings—and the broom.

I have my broom and your father has his pitchfork. The broom means I’m the woman and I rule the home. The pitchfork means your father provides for us—for our food and for our clothing.

But he doesn’t use a pitchfork. He protects the forest.

These are symbols—just symbols.

Mother, when will you be home?

Go to sleep. When you hear the cock crow and see the morning, I’ll be here. Blessed be.

Isn’t Father going, too?

Not tonight, Robert. Not tonight.

Then she’d smile, kiss him gently, pick up her broom and quietly leave.

Why, after a day of sharing, did she have to give him the kind of grown-up talk that never answers questions? Did he dream it, or did she leave the cottage one evening with no clothes on at all? What was the odor in the room that night, which lingered long after she had gone? At first, it made him feel sick and drowsy. Then he seemed to experience a wonderful, weightless sensation, until he imagined his small bed was no longer beneath him, but that he was floating somewhere above it.

Maybe Geoffrey would know the answers. Perhaps his mother had a broom, too.

A sharp pain shot through Robert’s thigh and he writhed in discomfort in an effort to get rid of the aching cramp.

Robert, you have stopped. Recite the verse! Do you think you have less to learn than those who have attended so much longer?

The harsh, cruel voice of Master John de Wakefield, Rector of the School, brought the new student abruptly back to the cold, damp church. Still tormented by the crippling stiffness in his legs, he struggled to understand what was being said.

Sir, I . . . .

Are you not grateful, Robert Hode, to be among the fortunate boys who are able, because of their privileged circumstances, to attend this grammar school?

Robert opened his mouth but couldn’t speak. A chilling fear descended into his stomach as he stared in stunned disbelief at the long, chiseled face of his master, a master who had been so unwillingly thrust upon him as soon as he turned the age of seven.

What do you have to say?

In the ominous silence that had now filled the dismal classroom, Robert felt his heart beating faster and faster and sensed the eyes of all the other students focused intently upon him.

Mommy, Daddy, why? thought the confused young boy, in terror. You said it was for my own good, that I was lucky. But, Father, I want to be with you in the forest. And, Mother, I could help you. Why must I be sent away? I’m only seven. This man . . . I’m frightened . . . Help me . . .

An icy shiver ran through his entire body. Perhaps this was just a bad dream and he’d wake up soon in the comfort and security of his own bed in the corner of the main room of their cottage—the warmest corner, close to the dying fire. Then he’d hear the familiar sounds of his mother in the kitchen, and of his father, outside the house, whistling contentedly as he prepared for the day ahead, another day of protecting the earl’s forest from poachers and wolves. That’s what he’d like to be, too—a forester.

Geoffrey!

Master Wakefield’s commanding voice rudely interrupted Robert’s thoughts and, in shocked amazement, he wondered why this tall, thin, frightening man should be calling out for his quietly attentive and obedient friend. What could Geoffrey possibly have done to annoy him?

Geoffrey. Get the rod! Robert. You come here!

Sir, I . . . Robert’s knees felt too weak to support his small, trembling body as, numb with fear, he rose hesitantly to his feet.

Robert, come here, repeated the master. Geoffrey, get the rod.

Moving slowly towards the front of the class, Robert glanced nervously at his companion. Slender, auburn-haired Geoffrey, who stood six inches taller than Robert, had turned as pale as the flour at the mill, or the snow in winter.

Why, Sir? Geoffrey began.

You do not question me, bellowed Master Wakefield. I say you get the rod. Get the rod!

A hushed stillness descended among the small group of students. Their frightened eyes followed Geoffrey as he faltered, unsteadily, towards the thin birch rod leaning menacingly against the wall—a symbol of office given to Master Wakefield when he became Master of Grammar at the University and, to his students, a fearful reminder of the severe punishment for misconduct. With a look of anguished desperation, Geoffrey turned suddenly and faced his teacher.

Sir . . . . ?

Bring the rod here, Geoffrey Green.

Geoffrey took the rod in his slender, trembling hands.

You are a friend of Robert Hode?

Yes, Sir, I . . . .

You were together, yesterday, in the market place after school?

Yes, Sir.

You were making much noise, acting like hooligans.

No, Sir . . .

Horse him.

Sir?

Horse him, repeated Master Wakefield.

No, Sir . . .

No! You tell me, no! This young man does not know the importance of schooling. He does not recite the verse. We must teach him, Geoffrey. Bring the rod here.

Fear, anger and a feeling of frustrated helplessness overwhelmed Geoffrey, as he handed the birch rod to the master. Robert gazed up at his friend in frightened bewilderment.

Horse him! commanded Master Wakefield.

Slowly Geoffrey bent down. You must get on my back, Robert, he whispered.

Why, Geoffrey? asked Robert.

The innocent, wide-eyed expression on the scared face of his small friend gave Geoffrey renewed courage.

Please, Sir, he begged, standing up to his full height and facing the master. Don’t do this to Robert. He didn’t know the verse. He’s only seven.

That’s why he must learn, smiled Master Wakefield. From this day forward, he will pay attention to his lessons.

Please, Sir . . .

Don’t argue with me, roared the master, so loudly that the building seemed to shake. Horse him!

In total despair, Geoffrey again bent down, helping the small boy on to his back. I’m sorry, Robert, he whispered, hoarsely.

Geoffrey glanced at the rod held high in the air by Master Wakefield and was aware of Robert’s arms tightly around him as the first blow hit the boy’s back, throwing Geoffrey forward by its sudden force.

With clenched fists, Robert’s arms tightened even more around the taller boy’s neck. After a second blow, Geoffrey could feel the dampness of his friend’s tears as Robert’s head fell forward on to his shoulder, his tousled black curls resting against Geoffrey’s face. Geoffrey tried, desperately, to hold back his own tears as, with every strike of the rod, he could feel his friend’s pain.

The thrashing over, Robert dropped to the floor, wiping his pink cheeks with tiny fists and staring up at his friend in disbelief.

Geoffrey looked down at him, distressed, embarrassed and ashamed. I’m sorry, Robert, he whispered, again.

Robert’s gaze turned to the evil grin on the face of the master. A feeling of deep hatred filled his entire being, engulfing and overwhelming him. He had never, in his young life, experienced such an emotion before. All he had ever known was love, trust and friendship. He had never had cause to hate.

With a wild, devilish shriek, Robert leapt swiftly to his feet. For a moment, he glanced around the room at the startled faces of the other students. Then, with a look of deep loathing towards Master John de Wakefield, and a powerful desire for another new emotion—revenge, he ran frantically through the church, out of the heavy wooden door, into the church yard, passed Master Wakefield’s imposing stone parsonage house, and into the muddy streets of Wakefield.

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CHAPTER TWO

In l297, the Manor of Wakefield comprised a large part of the West Riding of Yorkshire, England, extending from Normanton, on the east, to the borders of Lancashire, on the west.

The market town of Wakefield, situated on gently rising ground on the north bank of the river Calder, consisted of four main streets: Westgate, from the west; Northgate, from the north; Kirkgate, from the south; and Wrengate, from the east. These four streets crossed each other in the middle of the town, near the market place, known as Bickhill, and Wakefield parish church.

Wrengate was often called Warrengate, or Warren’s Gate, for it led to the gate, or entrance, to the lodge and park of John, the 7th Earl of Warren, on the north east side of the town. Seven-year-old Robert Hode, the only child of Adam Hode, the forester, a much respected man in the service of the earl, lived a comfortable, sheltered existence in his parents’ cottage, just within the boundaries of the twenty-seven-acre park.

Robert had seldom seen the aging earl, for the lord owned the entire Manor of Wakefield, with all its towns and castles. This vast area of green Yorkshire countryside had been given by the crown to the 2nd Earl of Warren two hundred years before Robert was born and had belonged to the Warrens ever since.

The young boy understood that his father’s lord spent little time at the Lodge. Warren was either at one of his castles, or fighting in wars against the Scots.

That was why his father must protect the lord’s park from trespassers. The forester was required to slay any wolves seen lurking in the woods; to catch poachers who might kill and steal the wild animals; and prevent the netting of fish from the river Calder, and any of its tributary streams, as they flowed through the manor grounds. For this he was paid one penny a day—a generous sum, so his father had said.

Robert knew the Earl spent much of his time at Sandal, a village only one mile south. From the market place, he could see Sandal Castle because it stood high on a hill overlooking the vale of Calder, lush meadows and small market town. Many times he had stared in wonder at the impressive stone fortress in the distance, wondering if he might one day visit the castle. He had been told it was surrounded by a park even larger than theirs—thirty acres, with grander wild beasts, fish ponds, and even its own mill. His father sometimes went there for special sessions of the Manor Court, and was even friendly with the Savilles of Thornhill, who had served as stewards at the castle for generations.

But, on this terrifying autumn day, Robert’s mind wasn’t on castles, or the Warrens. He was a small, pathetic, damp and disillusioned figure, running wildly through the narrow streets of timbered cottages, kicking, in frustration, at straying, clucking chickens and wondering where to go and what to do.

There was a cold fear inside of him and he realized some of his dampness might be from the unfortunate accident he had had in the schoolroom. He felt the wetness on his thighs and was scared and ashamed.

Robert knew he couldn’t face Geoffrey. How would he ever be able to look him in the eyes again? It was a short friendship. But how could they remain friends? There would always be the memory of his head on Geoffrey’s shoulders during the beating and the knowledge that his tall companion knew of his shameful tears and was embarrassed at being placed in such an uncomfortable situation.

Then Robert remembered one trusted friend—his mother. He needed her, now. Yes, she’d help him. She would understand.

Although sore and in pain from the beating, he quickened his pace, rushing passed the crossroads of the town, by the White Hart Tavern, and towards Wrengate, the mud staining his green tunic and hose as he hurried through the dirty, wet streets

He was close to home, now. He could see the earl’s gate. The tears were drying on his pink cheeks, as he ran through the stone archway and headed towards the forester’s cottage.

He noticed some of their chickens had strayed far from home but knew they’d be returning as darkness fell. And he smiled, in spite of his misery, at the sight of Emma, their tethered goat.

Robert.

The boy stopped abruptly. He hadn’t seen his father standing there outside the cottage, sharpening arrows with his much treasured knife—a familiar sight, in his knee-length tunic, green hose, leather shoes and plain cloth hat fitting snugly over the ears.

Father.

You’re early.

Yes.

What’s the matter?

Nothing.

Unable to look directly into the forester’s eyes, Robert began kicking nervously at the soggy, yellow leaves, shuffling uncomfortably, anxious to get away.

You’re all muddy again. What will your mother say?

Where is she?

Inside. How about that archery lesson? Adam slipped his knife back into the leather sheath, attached to his belt.

I’d like to go inside first, please, said Robert.

No. There’s plenty of time to talk with your mother during supper. She’ll shout at you, anyway, for getting so dirty. Come over here.

The strong, weather-beaten forester headed towards their special oak tree, potted with arrow holes from constant target practices. Robert had always looked forward to his archery lessons before supper. These were the times with his father that he treasured the most. But, on this day, the boy was reluctant.

What’s wrong, Robert? asked Adam, picking up a long bow, which had been placed carefully against the tree. Don’t you like school?

No.

But you’re lucky. Not many boys can have an education. It’s through the generosity of our kind earl. You must be grateful.

I don’t like it.

Well, you’ll get to like it. Come here.

Adam reached behind the huge oak tree and, with a proud smile, held up another bow—shorter than his own, but larger than any Robert had used before.

It’s for you.

Robert stared wide-eyed at the gift.

As every yeoman knows, a bow should be used according to the age and strength of the archer, explained Adam. So, as you grow bigger and stronger, your bows will become larger, until one day you’ll use a bow just like mine.

Thank you, Father.

Here, son. Hold it. Stand back, now, to where we’ve marked the line. This, on the tree, is your target. Here’s the arrow.

It’s the same one.

Yes. We’ll continue to use the shorter ones until you grow bigger. When you have a full-sized bow you can use three-foot long arrows, like mine. Not yet, though, he grinned. You’re only four feet tall.

Robert took the neatly sharpened arrow in his trembling hands and positioned himself, as he had been taught day after day for as long as he could remember, standing upright and tall, his left leg slightly forward, left hand clutching the bow at eye level, the arrow held firmly in his right hand.

Remember, instructed Adam, Lay your whole body into the horns of the bow. Closer to the chest, now. That’s right. Easy. Pull that right arm back, now—strong, steady.

With all his strength, Robert did as he was told and let the arrow fly, but it missed its mark by six inches.

Robert, that’s not good. What’s the matter? You can do better.

I have to get used to the bow. It’s too big.

Well, it’ll take practice.

Can we practice tomorrow, Father? Thank you for the bow. I like it very much. But may I go inside, now, please? I don’t feel well.

Go inside? But we haven’t even started. Here, try again. Adam pulled the arrow out of the oak tree and handed it to Robert.

Again the young boy took the correct stance and, trying as hard as he could to concentrate, shot the arrow, which again missed its mark.

A little better, coaxed Adam, but not good enough. Here. Once more. He moved towards Robert, gripping his huge hand over his son’s small fist. See? You’re not holding it steady.

Father, I really don’t feel well.

Nonsense. Come on, now, urged Adam, handing him the arrow. You’ll soon get used to the bow. Concentrate. Remember what I’ve taught you.

Again Robert missed the target.

Robert, scolded Adam, going towards him, let’s start from the beginning. Here. Lay your whole body into the horns this way. Close to the chest now. Hold steady. When you’re ready, shoot the arrow.

Another failure.

Adam held his head in frustration. Robert, this isn’t like you at all.

I know I’ll do better another day. I’m sick, pleaded Robert, gazing up apologetically at his father.

You are? Well, maybe that’s what’s wrong. There’s nothing wrong with the bow or the arrow. You’re sure you wouldn’t like to try one more time?

Not tonight, Father.

Well, all right, conceded Adam, trying to hide his disappointment. But tomorrow we’ll work twice as long as usual. Remember, a man will never shoot well unless he has been brought up to it. That’s why, as soon as you were old enough to hold a bow, I began giving you lessons. One day you’ll be the best archer in the whole of Yorkshire. No, the whole of England.

Adam retrieved the arrow then, with his arm around Robert’s shoulders, led his small son towards the cottage.

Go inside. Help your mother. Let me know when supper’s ready.

Robert didn’t watch his father leave. Head down, new bow clutched tightly to his chest, he ambled towards their three-room home, wondering what to tell his mother. He could hear her singing as he opened the wooden door and walked across the rush-covered mud floor of the main hall, heading towards the kitchen.

Joan Hode stood at the cooking pot, her white dress tied low at the waist and hanging, in heavy folds, to the floor. She turned, pushing back her long, blonde hair, her blue eyes smiling in pleasure at the sight of her disheveled son.

Robert thought, as he had many times before, that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Other mothers wore black, had dull, lifeless hair, sometimes tied in braids around their heads, and large, heavy hips. His mother looked like one of the angels pictured in stained glass at the church.

Joan was only fifteen when she had married Adam, a fine man, ten years her senior. His mother had been a member of the highly respected de Staynton family of Woolley. Joan, too, came from a good family. Her brother was George Gamwell of Gamwell Hall, a King’s Forester in Yorkshire, and their uncle was Guy, Earl of Warwick.

Both families had approved of the match, were pleased with Adam’s secure position as a forester for Earl Warren, and delighted when a son was born to the couple only one year after the marriage.

The birth had been a difficult one and, at times, Joan regretted she could have no more children. Because of this, she devoted her full and loving attention to her husband and Robert, their only child.

Now she was smiling down at him, pleased he was safely home.

Robert, you’re early. Blessed be. Oh, I see you have your new bow. Do you like it?

I like it, but I didn’t do well with it . . . .

It’ll take practice. 1t’s bigger than your old one. How did you get so dirty? Well, never mind. How was your day?

Mother?

Yes?

I don’t want to go back to school. There. He had said it.

Nonsense. Of course you do. She placed her arms gently around him, pulling the small boy to her breast, pushing back his unruly black curls, and kissing him lightly on the forehead.

No, Mother. The schoolmaster. I hate him. He beat me . . . .

He did what?

He beat me.

What for? You must have done something wrong.

No, Mother, he whispered, now close to tears. I didn’t know the lessons, so he beat me.

Well, I’m sure he won’t do it again, she reassured him, trying to hide her concern.

But he will. And Geoffrey. He was my friend. And he’s not, anymore.

You’ll be friends again.

No, never! Mother, he begged, staring up at her in desperation, please don’t make me go back to school.

Well, we’ll have to ask your father. We’ll discuss it at supper. Here, put your bow away somewhere safe, then come back and take these bowls.

Shall I put it by my bed?

Yes, but not too close to the fire. Then, in a few minutes, you can go and tell your father that supper’s ready.

Robert nodded. Fondly stroking his new bow, he carried it into the main room, placing it gently on his feather mattress. Then he returned to the kitchen, picked up the wooden bowls and carried them into the hall, setting them down on the table—a wooden board supported by two large tree stumps.

Automatically he pulled up three chairs, which, aside from the table and Robert’s mattress, were the only pieces of furniture in the hall. His parents had big chairs, with backs on them. His seat was a small stool, built lovingly for him by his father. Foresters were often known for their fine carpentry skills, and Adam was a talented carpenter.

Robert sighed. How he looked forward to the evening meal when the three of them sat around the table and he shared their conversation, elbows on the table, chin in his hands, moving his stool closer and closer to hear every word. His father would talk of the graceful deer, the beauty of the pheasants, the temper of the wild boar, the grandness of the forest, the kindness of the earl, and his adventures killing wolves and catching poachers, whom he reported to the court. Adam was proud he served on the Manor Court and had earned the respect of the townspeople. His mother would smile as Adam talked then tell of gossip from the village or tales of visitors to the market place. Sometimes Robert had questions, and this was the time he could share his thoughts with the two people he loved more than anybody in the world. They were his whole world.

Finally his eyes would begin to close and his mother would carry him gently to his bed, telling him how lucky he was to have a mattress stuffed with feathers instead of rushes. Then she would place over him a heavy, woolen blanket. How cozy this was, snuggled in bed, close to the fire, falling asleep to the lulling sounds of their whispered discussions.

Later, after he was asleep, his parents would retire to their chamber—a small room off the hall, with a feather mattress on a wooden frame, a warm, fur bedcover and, in the corner, a sturdy chest, bound with iron and closed with lock and key, in which they kept their few valuable and secret possessions.

But tonight wasn’t like other nights. This time Robert had problems to discuss which were greater than any he had ever faced before. And he didn’t know how his father would react.

Slowly he left the cottage and stood for a moment at the door, staring abstractedly at his father chopping wood nearby.

Father, he called. Supper’s ready.

Tell your mother I’ll be there in a minute.

The boy returned to the house, sat quietly on his stool and waited. He was hardly aware of his mother setting down three wooden spoons, a basket of bread and large jug of wine.

Did you tell him?

Yes. He’ll be a few minutes.

Come on, Robert. Cheer up. Rabbit stew. Are you hungry?

No. Robert noticed the broom and pitchfork leaning against the wall near the door. Mother, he asked, nervously, are you going out tonight?

No, not tonight. She took a taper from the fireplace, lit