Check back in a few weeks for another free story. For now enjoy this story of a young boy matching wits with a famous bandit.
Cloth of Green
Seldom, if ever, had Ralf eaten so well; never with less pleasure. He was gripped by such rage that he could hardly taste. When the first arrow struck their cart and landed quivering among their packages, he had tried to draw his knife.
“Peace, boy,” had said his father. “We’re surrounded.”
There were four of them, wild, bearded figures with sinewy arms and dark greasy clothing. Every one of them carried a stout bow and a quiver full of arrows and wore a knife in his belt. One wore a sword. He was a lean, graceful man with crinkles around his blue eyes and a lordly air of that sat oddly with his rough appearance.
“A still tongue,” his father had advised. “These merry men will be won by good humor before reproaches.”
So he had stayed silent and let his father answer that they were honest weavers on their way to Laughton to sell their cloth at the fair: himself – John Tucker, and his son Ralf.
“God blesses honest weavers, clear to see,” had said the leader with a chuckle, eying his father’s fine hose and boots. “Who am I to do otherwise? It’s a long walk back, and we shall send you home with full bellies at least.”
They were bidden walk, while two of the thieves took over their cart and set off on some secret trail through the trees, soon disappearing from sight. Their leader walked alongside Ralf and his father, discoursing cheerfully upon mushrooms. Ralf longed to hear his father rebuff him; better yet, censure him for a thief and bully, but he answered mildly, and Ralf burned hotter.
At length they reached a clearing. At its center was a deep-dug fire-pit, and a creek ran fleetly across its upper end. More men, dirtier and greasier than the first, were gathered here. It was a pleasant place, no doubt, and there was something whimsical and attractive about eating in the cool center of a forest, seated on a carpet of oak leaves and pine-straw; but the sight of their own cart and horse parked among the sprawling men, and all their carefully wrapped packages scattered on mossy earth, turned the rich venison to ashes in Ralf’s mouth.
“Your story now, honest weaver!” cried the leader, when they had licked their dripping fingers and begun to pull harder on their wine.
“There is little story to tell,” said Ralf’s father. “You may see our year’s work spread before you. We are bound for Laughton to sell there at fair price.”
The men chuckled as if this were an excellent joke.
“Here, show us these fine wares,” said the leader, beckoning, and his men brought the packages to his feet and cut them carelessly open to show blue-dyed wool and crisp cambric and a length of green-dyed twill. The leader fingered this last thoughtfully while his eyes roved over the whole. “And what’s this?” he said, pointing at a bulkier package, lightly covered with muddy canvas, and the men cut the twine.
“Flowers?” said the men, and some began to laugh. One poked the delicate petals with a dirty finger and set them quivering.
“D-d-don’t touch those!” cried Ralf.
His voice sounded high-pitched and young. His father’s hand descended on his knee, but he avoided it and sprang up, facing them all. The leader was laughing.
“Are these yours, young hothead?” he asked, waving a hand at the purple blooms.
“I’m g-going to sell them!” he said.
Anne next door – poor Anne with the crippled foot – had grown them, and he was selling them for her, but he was not going to speak her name to thieving bastards.
“And – er – what are they, may I ask?”
“Anacamptis m-morio,” he said, spitting it. “Unless you have a g-g-garden – or – or a lady friend – I think you have l-l-little use for them.”
“Spoils of battle, my boy,” said the leader, still entertained. “I’m sure I will think of something. You – er – don’t happen to have either a garden or a lady friend yourself, do you?”
“If you cared anything about our lives” – said Ralf – “you wouldn’t be st-st-stealing our livelihood!”
“Ralf,” said his father arrestingly.
“If he has no stomach for t-truth, let him not p-p-prate about battles and spoils!” said Ralf to his father. “He p-preys on two – when he has twenty-two at his beck and call – and feasts on the king’s deer while honest men rise early, sit late, and sweat for each d-d-day’s health and food. Who is he to c-c-cut himself off from God’s ordering of the world, and batten on our labor when he neither t-t-toils nor spins?”
“Oh, marry, I toil aplenty!” cried the leader. “You know not what you speak of, child.”
“I am not a child,” said Rolf. “I have carded, and woven, and d-d-dyed with my own hands to make what you see here. A man makes, he does not t-take. A child is the one who d-d-demands without counting cost.”
The leader spread his hands and smiled.
“A man protects his property,” he said gently.
“A – a – bargain then!” said Ralf. “You have no right but force; but I shall reckon with your f-f-force. The orchids I will take; I will leave that length of g-green twill with you.”
“And the rest?”
“Is our own. As is the horse and c-c-c-cart. We will p-p-proceed to Laughton as before. Next summer we will do the same; and I p-pledge you another length then.”
“And why should I agree?”
“B-b-b-because you lead nameless men in g-greasy rags,” said Ralf. “Cover them in g-g-green-dyed twill of my weaving, and you will lead a band, not merely a p-p-pack.”
“So the honest weaver’s boy will outfit a band of thieves to save his flowers,” said the leader, laughing. “Excellent! It pleases me well. Pack these up, lads, and nimbly; you are soon to make a fine show. Adieu to you, grave sir and young cockerel. God speed you on your way to Laughton. I shall see you next summer with my cloth of green.”
Copyright 2018. All rights reserved.
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Made Along The Way 