Free Outlaw by Michael Morpurgo Page A

remember?”
    “So I did,” said Robin, running his hands along the arrow. “Here’s one arrow I’ll never shoot in anger.” And with that he gave it to Marion just ashe had promised he would. “For you and little Martin. Keep it always with you, Marion. It’ll be our talisman and a token of our love.”
    They buried their dead the next day in the clearing beyond the encampment. As they were lowered into their graves, Friar Tuck blessed each one, and when it was all over, closed his eyes in prayer. “May the good Lord love them and keep them in His good grace. And may He deliver us from the beast of Nottingham, for the beast is only wounded and the wounds will heal. Give us the strength, Lord, to finish what we have begun.” And everyone cried “Amen!” to that.
    For some months afterwards there was an uneasy peace. Every day the Outlaws expected an attack, but none came, and in time they came to hope and then to believe that none would ever come. They began to feel safe again. Even Robin dared hopethat they had done enough, that they had seen the last of the Sheriff of Nottingham. He was wrong. They were all wrong.
    Back in the castle at Nottingham the sheriff sat day after day staring blankly into the fire, still so enraged that no one but Sir Guy of Gisbourne dared speak to him. Every scheme for revenge that Sir Guy came up with he dismissed out of hand, until one evening in late summer. Sir Guy, quite recovered from his wound, was sharpening his sword. Suddenly he stopped. “I have it,” he cried. “There is a way.” The sheriff, still sunk in his humiliation, said nothing. “Didn’t you tell me he has a son?”
    “So?”
    “What if somehow we were to spirit him away? Robin would be bound to come after him, wouldn’t he?”
    The sheriff looked up. “You mean kidnap him?”
    “Why not? We could bring the child back here. What father would not try to save his son? And we’d be waiting for him.”
    The sheriff sprang to his feet. “Yes!” he cried. “Yes! But how? How do we do it?”
    “Leave it to me, my Lord Sheriff,” said Sir Guy of Gisbourne, a weasel smile twisting his lip. “I shall ride tomorrow to your sister, to the Abbess of Kirkleigh. I have an idea she might be able to help us. It may take a while, my Lord Sheriff, but this time I will bring you Robin Hood, that much I promise you. Upon my life I promise it. Would you like his head on a plate like John the Baptist’s?”
    “Alive,” the sheriff hissed through clenched jaws. “I want Robin Hood alive.”

  
    There was only one road from London to the North, and it ran through Sherwood for twenty miles. So for twenty miles every traveller had to run the gauntlet of Robin Hood and his Outlaws. They never laid an ambush in the same place twice, and they picked their targets carefully too. The poor had nothing to fear. Indeed, it was not at all uncommon for a beggar to find himself invited for supper with Robin and his Outlaws, and then be sent on his way the next morning with a suit of warm clothes and enough money to live on for ayear. But for the rich and powerful, the journey through Sherwood was always hazardous. They sought protection in numbers, passing through the great convoys of carts and carriages, armed escorts to the front and more bringing up the rear. It did them little good. As far as the Outlaws were concerned, the bigger the convoy the better. There was rarely much resistance and so little need for killing. They would block the road ahead of the convoy, and behind it, with fallen trees; and then simply drop on them out of nowhere. The rich too would be invited to share a meal of the king’s venison around the fire, but unlike the poor, Robin would invite them to pay for their dinner. The price was always the same, half of what they had. But if they ever lied about the amount of money or jewels or cloth they were carrying – and they often did – then Robin would take everything they ownedbefore setting them on