Outlaw by Michael Morpurgo Page B

still alive. He was convinced of it, so convinced that he would never have dared to venture into Sherwood himself. Word from his spies had left no doubt in his mind. Robin Hood was gathering about him in Sherwood a small army of malcontents and rebels. True, no one had actually seen Robin Hood in person for three years or more now, and in all that time no one had robbed travellers on the road throughSherwood. But the stories about Robin and his Outlaws had spread like the plague, into every backstreet, into every tavern. Sir Guy had heard it with his own ears. One man, about to die at the end of a rope, declared with absolute conviction: “Robin will avenge us!” And then died, defiant with faith, his eyes burning with it till they closed in death. They were eyes that haunted Sir Guy of Gisbourne.
    “Robin the Good”, they called him. “Saint Robin, Sheriff of Sherwood”. To some he was a friendly sprite, a Jack o’ the Green, a part of the living forest; to others he was dead indeed, but like Jesus Christ before him he would come back to save them. There was even a rumour that Robin Hood was the true son of the imprisoned King Richard and so heir to the English throne. What Sir Guy of Gisbourne knew for certain was frighteningenough. Robin Hood lived. He was a bowman without equal in the land. He could split a willow wand at five hundred paces. He could do it every time, wind or rain. And the Outlaws in Sherwood would follow him anywhere. Worst of all, and most dangerous of all, the people loved him.
    Time and again Sir Guy of Gisbourne tried to persuade the sheriff that Robin Hood was still alive. Every stag’s head his men found he threw down at the sheriff’s feet.
    “I tell you, my Lord Sheriff,” he insisted yet again, “he lives. He has followers, maybe hundreds of them by now, and he has weapons. He will come against us with his Outlaws, and when he does, none of us will be safe in our beds.”
    But the sheriff had had enough. “What in Hell’s name is the matter with you, Guy?” he stormed. “We’ve seen neither hide nor hair of the man inyears. All you have is stories, tavern tittle-tattle and a few stags’ heads. Anyone can kill a stag.”
    “But, my Lord Sheriff…”
    “No buts.” The sheriff banged the table and leapt to his feet in a terrible rage. “I’ve listened enough to your buts. Have you once been into the forest to look for him? No, of course you haven’t. You’re gutless, gutless. I am surrounded by cowards and imbeciles. I’ll show you! I’ll show you! To prove to you once and for all that I am right, that Robin Hood is dead and dead as a doornail, I shall go myself into Sherwood, and what’s more I shall go alone. And after I return, if anyone, anyone, even speaks the name of Robin Hood again in my hearing, I’ll have his tongue out. Do you hear me?” And snatching up his sword and helmet, he strode out of the hall, leapt on his horse and galloped away over the drawbridge. In the market square hisescort made to mount up and come after him, but he waved them back. “I do not need you, nor anyone,” he thundered. “I ride through Sherwood alone. I am not frightened of a ghost, not Robin Hood’s, not anyone’s.” So they let him go. But his last words had been heard by everyone in the market square, including a charcoal burner whose family had been put out of their house by the sheriff and were only kept alive through the cold months of winter by Robin and his Outlaws. He knew what had to be done and was more than happy to do it.
    The sun was high and hot by the time the sheriff reached the shade of Sherwood. Glad though he was to be in the cool again, the sheriff had no intention of staying in Sherwood any longer than he had to. Never in his life had he ventured alone into Sherwood, even before the days of RobinHood. For Robin Hood was not the only danger lurking in Sherwood; deep in the forest there were wolves too. And then, his temper cooled at last, a sudden