beggar. Still, be a nice day for a hanging. I never miss one, you know. Never.” The man squinted up at Robin, shielding his eyes against the white glare of the sun. Robin left him and rode over the drawbridge into the castle courtyard. He did not think twice about what he was doing. In fact, he did not think about it at all. He just did it.
The courtyard was full of soldiers, and a smith was shoeing from a smoky shed nearby. Robin tied up his horse and strode into the castle. He tried to look as if he knew where he was, all the time searching for a stairway that might lead him down to the dungeons below. No one challenged him. No one even appeared to notice he was there. He saw two soldiers emerging from a narrow doorway below the main staircase. As he passed them, one of them spoke. “Like Samson. Sheriff’s own words.”
“Sheriff’s idea was it then?”
“I heard it was Guy of Gisbourne,” said the other. “He said that if this fellow was big like Samson, well then, maybe we’d better treat him like Samson. He did it himself by all accounts.” Robin’s heart chilled. The stone stair spiralled down into the darkness, lit only sparingly by torchlight. He came to a long corridor, two guards at the end of it, sitting at a table playing dice. Robin walked towards them, hand on the hilt of his sword.
“You come for Samson?” said one of the guards. And he didn’t even wait for a reply. He threw him the key.
“In there,” he said, pointing Robin to one of the dungeon doors. “Help yourself. He’ll hang well, that one. Good and heavy.” And they went back to the dice.
Robin unlocked the door and went in. His father sat on the stone floor, his head in his hands. When he looked up, Robin saw there was a bandage around his eyes and a rope around his neck. Robin crouched down beside him and helped him gently to his feet. “It’s me, Father,” he whispered. “It’s Robin.” His father reached out, felt for Robin’s face and held it tight between his hands.
“They’ve put out my eyes, Robin,” he said. “I’m no use to you any more, no use to anyone. Let me die, Robin. Just leave me and let me die.”
For some moments father and son clung together and wept silently. “Until now, Father,” said Robin, his voice hushed, “I have obeyed you in everything, but blind or not, I shall not leave you here to die.” And he loosened the rope around his father’s neck as he spoke. “We shall walk out of here, me as a sheriff’s man and you at the end of this rope as my prisoner. Just play the games I play, Father, and we shall both live.”
“What for? What is there to live for?”
“To fight. We will fight this tyrant, and we shall bring him to his knees, I promise you – if it takes my whole lifetime.” He pulled gently on the rope. “Forgive me, Father, but from now on I must treat you as they would. It won’t be for long. And curse me back all you like, it’ll be all the better if you do.” He took a deep breath, and then shouted into his father’s face. “Up, you scum-bag! Up!” He threw open the door and dragged his father out past the guards.
“A bit early, aren’t you?” said one of them.
“Sir Guy of Gisbourne’s orders,” Robin said. “Come on, Samson, move yourself, you great oaf.” And Robin jerked on the rope and hauled his father up the winding stairs, across the great hall of the castle and out into the courtyard beyond. Through the arched gateway Robin could see the milling crowd in the market square, and the horse waiting, tied to one of the cages where he had left it. There was still the wide courtyard to cross and then the drawbridge, and at the far end of it were the castle guards. Somehow Robin and his father had to get past them without arousing suspicion. Slipping past unnoticed would be impossible. Robin went around behind his father, drew his sword and jabbed him in the back, none too gently.
“When I kick you, Father,” he whispered, “fall over. Understand?” His father staggered forward across the courtyard, through the gateway and out on to the drawbridge, arms outstretched in front of him. Robin was taunting him and prodding him on, much to the delight of all the onlookers. “I’ll show you, Samson. Kill the king’s deer, would you!” Once on the drawbridge and close now to the guards, he stepped back and took a running kick at his father who stumbled to his knees, groping in front of him, cursing and crying at the same time. Robin laid into him with the flat of his sword and kicked him again. “Up, you beggar. Get up.” Then he called out to the guards. “Here, give us a hand, will you? Sir Guy wants him paraded around the square before we put him in his cage. We’ll stick him up on that horse. They’ll see him better.” So, between them, the guards heaved him up on to the horse. “Once round the square and into his cage,” said Robin, taking the rein over the horse’s head to lead it. “That’s what Sir Guy said, so that’s what I’ll do. It’ll be the last time this one’ll be going to market.” The guards laughed at that and watched them go.
Robin walked away as slowly as he dared, calling out as he went. “Look at this! Look at this! See what happens to poachers. We put his eyes out and we’re hanging him at noon. Death to all poachers. Throw what you like at him. Just don’t hit me, that’s all.” And the crowd howled with laughter and began to throw anything they could, rotten apples, turnips, even pig’s muck. Much of it missed, but enough found its target to encourage others to do the same. They were halfway round the market square now, at the furthest point from the sheriff’s men, who were still lounging by the bridge. Feigning to adjust the girth, Robin leapt nimbly up behind his father, put his heels to the horse’s side and rode off past the traders, through the crowd who seemed to see it as part of the fun, particularly when he caught a rotten apple and squeezed it over his father’s head.
Robin gave only one glance backwards as he turned out of the square and down the street. The sheriff’s men were just beginning to notice, one of them was running after him and shouting for him to stop. They would be after him soon enough now. Robin just hoped and prayed he had enough of a headstart.
“Hold on, Father,” he cried. “Just hold on.” Scattering people and pigs and sheep in all directions, he thundered down the streets, through the city gate and out into the open country beyond. The guards at the gate could only gape. He was past them and gone before anyone could even try to stop him.
But now would come the real test. There were four or five miles of open farmland before they could reach the safety of Sherwood. A look over his shoulder, and Robin saw the chase was on. The sheriff’s men were through the city gates and already closer behind than he had thought possible, twenty of them, maybe more, and every time he looked they were gaining on them. The horse laboured under their weight, his head nodding lower and lower as he drove his legs on. Sherwood lay up ahead, just the hill to climb, but it was a long hill and the horse could barely make a trot by now. Desperately Robin looked around for somewhere to hide, anywhere. But there was nothing but hedgerows and haystacks between them and the forest. They had to keep going. He could hear the pounding of the hooves behind him now and then the first arrow flew by, missing them, but he knew they were well in range. He pushed his father forward to lie over the horse’s neck and then lay on top of him. “We’ll make it,” he cried, but it was more in hope than in belief. The horse’s legs and flanks were white with lather. He had given his all, and Robin knew it.
Robin looked up. The road narrowed ahead as it entered the forest. Just a minute more, maybe two. But all the while the horse was slowing, weaving. At this rate, even if they reached the forest ahead of the sheriff’s men, even if they were not hit by a lucky arrow, the sheriff’s men would be so close behind that there would be no escape, even in Sherwood. The horse was staggering, his lungs wheezing. Any further and he would die under them. Still short of the forest Robin dismounted quickly,
