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Robin Hood (78 of 79)

Posted: 11 Sep 2011 09:30 PM PDT

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78
—of —
79
Robin Hood
by J. Walker Mcspadden
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Chapter XXIV: How Robin Hood Met His Death

"Give me my bent bow in my hand,
And a broad arrow I'll let flee;
And where this arrow is taken up,
There shall my grave digg'd be."

Now by good rights this story should end with the wedding of Robin Hood and Maid Marian; for do not many pleasant tales end with a wedding and the saying, "and they lived happy ever after."

But this is a true account—in so far as we can find the quaint old ballads which tell of it—and so we must follow one more of these songs and learn how Robin, after living many years longer, at last came to seek his grave. And the story of it runs in this wise.

Robin Hood and his men, now the Royal Archers, went with King Richard of the Lion Heart through England settling certain private disputes which had arisen among the Norman barons while the King was gone to the Holy Land. Then the King proceeded amid great pomp and rejoicing to the palace at London, and Robin, the new Earl of Huntingdon, brought his Countess thither, where she became one of the finest ladies of the Court.

The Royal Archers were now divided into two bands, and one-half of them were retained in London, while the other half returned to Sherwood and Barnesdale, there to guard the King's preserves.

Several months passed by, and Robin began to chafe under the restraint of city life. He longed for the fresh pure air of the greenwood, and the rollicking society of his yeomen. One day, upon seeing some lads at archery practice upon a green, he could not help but lament, saying, "Woe is me! I fear my hand is fast losing its old time cunning at the bow-string!"

Finally he became so distraught that he asked leave to travel in foreign lands, and this was granted him. He took Maid Marian with him, and together they went through many strange countries. Finally in an Eastern land a great grief came upon Robin. Marian sickened of a plague and died. They had been married but five years, and Robin felt as though all the light had gone out of his life.

He wandered about the world for a few months longer, trying to forget his grief, then came back to the court, at London, and sought some commission in active service. But unluckily, Richard was gone again upon his adventures, and Prince John, who acted as Regent, had never been fond of Robin. He received him with a sarcastic smile.

"Go forth into the greenwood," said he, coldly, "and kill some more of the King's deer. Belike, then, the King will make you Prime Minister, at the very least, upon his return."

The taunt fired Robin's blood. He had been in a morose mood, ever since his dear wife's death. He answered Prince John hotly, and the Prince bade his guards seize him and cast him into the Tower.

After lying there for a few weeks, he was released by the faithful Stutely and the remnant of the Royal Archers, and all together they fled the city and made their way to the greenwood. There Robin blew the old familiar call, which all had known and loved so well. Up came running the remainder of the band, who had been Royal Foresters, and when they saw their old master they embraced his knees and kissed his hands, and fairly cried for joy that he had come again to them. And one and all forswore fealty to Prince John, and lived quietly with Robin in the greenwood, doing harm to none and only awaiting the time when King Richard should come again.

But King Richard came not again, and would never need his Royal Guard more. Tidings presently reached them, of how he had met his death in a foreign land, and how John reigned as King in his stead. The proof of these events followed soon after, when there came striding through the glade the big, familiar form of Little John.

"Art come to arrest us?" called out Robin, as he ran forward and embraced his old comrade.

"Nay, I am not come as the Sheriff of Nottingham, thanks be," answered Little John. "The new King has deposed me, and 'tis greatly to my liking, for I have long desired to join you here again in the greenwood."

Then were the rest of the band right glad at this news, and toasted Little John royally.

The new King waged fierce war upon the outlaws, soon after this, and sent so many scouting parties into Sherwood and Barnesdale that Robin and his men left these woods for a time and went into Derbyshire, near Haddon Hall. A curious pile of stone is shown to this day as the ruins of Robin's Castle, where the bold outlaw is believed to have defied his enemies for a year or more. At any rate King John found so many troubles of his own, after a time, that he ceased troubling the outlaws.

But in one of the last sorties Robin was wounded. The cut did not seem serious, and healed over the top; but it left a lurking fever. Daily his strength ebbed away from him, until he was in sore distress.

One day as he rode along on horseback, near Kirklees Abbey, he was seized with so violent a rush of blood to the head that he reeled and came near falling from his saddle. He dismounted weakly and knocked at the Abbey gate. A woman shrouded in black peered forth.

"Who are you that knock here? For we allow no man within these walls," she said.

"Open, for the love of Heaven!" he begged. "I am Robin Hood, ill of a fever and in sore straits."

At the name of Robin Hood the woman started back, and then, as though bethinking herself, unbarred the door and admitted him. Assisting his fainting frame up a flight of stairs and into a front room, she loosed his collar and bathed his face until he was revived. Then she spoke hurriedly in a low voice:

"Your fever will sink, if you are bled. See, I have provided a lancet and will open your veins, while you lie quiet."

So she bled him, and he fell into a stupor which lasted nearly all that day, so that he awoke weak and exhausted from loss of blood.




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    Paranoia (078 of 170)

    Posted: 11 Sep 2011 09:30 PM PDT

    DailyLit  
    078
    —of —
    170
    Paranoia
    by Joseph Finder
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    COPYRIGHT
    Paranoia by Joseph Finder. Copyright 2004 by Joseph Finder.
    All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.


    39

    It was totally out of the question, of course, for me to meet again with Dr. Judith Bolton at Wyatt headquarters, where I might be seen coming or going. But now that I was hunting with the big cats, I needed an in-depth session. Wyatt insisted, and I didn't disagree.

    So I met her at a Marriott the next Saturday, in a suite set up for business meetings. They'd e-mailed me the room number to go to. She was already there when I arrived, her laptop hooked up to a video monitor. It's funny, the lady still made me nervous. On the way I stopped for another hundred-dollar haircut, and I wore decent clothes, not my usual weekend junk.

    I'd forgotten how intense she was—the ice-blue eyes, the coppery red hair, the glossy red lips and red nail polish—and how hard-looking at the same time. I gave her a firm handshake.

    "You're right on time," she said, smiling.

    I shrugged, half-smiled back to say I got it but I wasn't really amused.

    "You look good. Success seems to agree with you."

    We sat at a fancy conference table that looked like it belonged in someone's dining room—mine, maybe—and she asked me how it was going. I filled her in, the good stuff and the bad, including about Chad and Nora.

    "You're going to have enemies," she said. "That's to be expected. But these are threats—you've left a cigarette butt smoldering in the woods, and if you don't put them out you may have a forest fire on your hands."

    "How do I put them out?"

    "We'll talk about that. But right now I want to focus on Jock Goddard. And if you take away nothing else today, I want you to remember this: he's pathologically honest."

    I couldn't help smiling. This from the chief consigliere to Nick Wyatt, a guy so crooked he'd cheat on a prostate exam.

    Her eyes flashed in annoyance, and she leaned in toward me. "I'm not making a joke. He's singled you out not just because he likes your mind, your ideas—which of course aren't your ideas at all—but because he finds your honesty refreshing. You speak your mind. He likes that."

    "That's 'pathological'?"

    "Honest is practically a fetish with him. The blunter you are, the less calculating you seem, the better you'll play." I wondered briefly if Judith saw the irony in what she was doing—counseling me in how to pull the wool over Jock Goddard's eyes by feigning honesty. One hundred percent synthetic honesty, no natural fibers. "If he starts to detect anything shifty or obsequious or calculating in your manner—if he thinks you're trying to suck up or game him—he'll cool on you fast. And once you lose that trust, you may never regain it."

    "Got it," I said impatiently. "So from now on, no gaming the guy."

    "Sweetheart, what planet are you living on?" she shot back. "Of course we game the old geezer. That's lesson two in the art of 'managing up,' come on. You'll mess with his head, but you have to be supremely artful about it. Nothing obvious, nothing he'll sniff out. The way dogs can smell fear, Goddard can smell bullshit. So you've got to come across as the ultimate straight shooter. You tell him the bad news other people try to sugarcoat. You show him a plan he likes—then you be the one to point out the flaws. Integrity's a pretty scarce commodity in our world—once you figure out how to fake it, you'll be on the good ship Lollipop."

    "Where I want to be," I said dryly.

    She had no time for my sarcasm. "People always say that nobody likes a suckup, but the truth is, the vast majority of senior managers adore suckups, even when they know they're being sucked up to. It makes them feel powerful, reassures them, bolsters their fragile egos. Jock Goddard, on the other hand, has no need for it. Believe me, he thinks quite highly of himself already. He's not blinded by need, by vanity. He's not a Mussolini who needs to be surrounded by yes-men." Like anyone we know? I wanted to say. "Look who he surrounds himself with—bright, quick-witted people who can be abrasive and outspoken."

    I nodded. "You're saying he doesn't like flattery."

    "No, I'm not saying that. Everyone likes flattery. But it's got to feel real to him. A little story: Napoleon once went hunting in the Bois de Boulogne with Talleyrand, who desperately wanted to impress the great general. The woods were teeming with rabbits, and Napoleon was delighted when he killed fifty of them. But when he found out later that these weren't wild rabbits—that Talleyrand had sent one of his servants to the market to buy dozens of rabbits and then set them loose in the woods—well, Napoleon was enraged. He never trusted Talleyrand again."

    "I'll keep that in mind next time Goddard invites me rabbit hunting."

    "The point is," she snapped, "that when you flatter, do so indirectly."

    "Well, I'm not running with rabbits, Judith. More like wolves."

    "There you go. Know much about wolves?"

    I sighed. "Bring it on."

    "It's all laid bare. There's always an Alpha male, of course, but what's interesting to keep in mind is that the hierarchy's always being tested. It's highly unstable. Sometimes you'll see the Alpha male wolf drop a fresh piece of meat on the ground right in front of the others and then move away a couple of feet and just watch. He's outright daring the other ones to even sniff at it."

    "And if they do, they're supper."




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