Robin Hood - The Shadows of Sherwood Forest E-Book

Tilman Roehrig

• Herausgeber: Arctis US
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 605

Beschreibung

When peasant John Little witnesses the Sheriff of Nottingham's men destroying his village for John's crime of poaching deer to feed his people, he flees into the tangle of Sherwood Forest with the only other survivor, his young foster daughter Marian. But dangers lurk there, too: the outlaw Robin Hood soon catches them and takes them prisoner. Robin Hood does not quite match the heroic stories that are already told about him. For all Robin's dazzling bravado and clever tricks, the reality of his fight against oppression by the Norman nobility is a rough and dirty life in the forest, outlawed and constantly hunted. As the newly dubbed Little John gets an education in how to fit into Robin's dangerous band, Marian, too, grows into a force to be reckoned with. Thrust into life in a world of fearless bandits, uncertain allies, and merciless vendettas, Little John and maid Marian earn their place—and build an unshakable friendship with Robin Hood. Told with earthy historical detail and unforgettable characters, this is a must for any young reader fascinated by knights and fights, kings and peasants, or who wants to delve into the many tales that built the Robin Hood legend

Leseprobe

Tilman Roehrig

Robin Hood

The Shadows of Sherwood Forest

I

WEST OF FRANCE. CHINON CASTLE.

“The king is dead.”

Whispers were spreading through long corridors, past chambers and halls. They quickly descended to the kitchen, and from there they leapt into the quarters of the maids, servants, and valets. Even before the news had left the palace courtyard on this sixth day of July, year of Our Lord 1189, the servants were already raiding the manor’s contents. Candlesticks, furniture, velvet, the silver tableware, whatever they could carry was seized by greedy hands and carried away. The servants entered the royal bedchamber and robbed the deceased of his rings and chains. And they tore off his clothes.

Then silence.

Hours later, some of the vassals who were still loyal to their lord finally arrived. They stormed through the looted halls and stared in horror at the deathbed. Henry Plantagenet, King of England and ruler of the western provinces of France, Henry II, the Norman prince, so powerful in life, lay half dragged from his bed, naked and motionless before them.

The loyal ones brought new robes, clothed the dead man, and folded his hands on his chest. Only then did they cry out, “The king is dead!”

ENGLAND. LONDON.

“Long live the King!”

Two months later, the great city on the River Thames was garlanded. Shoulder to shoulder, the crowds swayed through the streets between St Paul’s Cathedral and Westminster. Not just the citizens of London had left their shacks and houses to attend. They had come from all parts of England, on horseback, in carriages and carts, or on foot. Merchants and beggars, freemen and bonded men, they had all been waiting for the grand event since the early morning hours of the thirteenth of September, 1189.

The villagers from the shire of Nottingham stood close together. They were hardly more than a handful: the tinker, some women, and two children. They had sold well yesterday and the day before—carved ladles, spoons, jars, and woolens.

In the crush, the weaver woman practiced with her little son. “Say it: Long live the King!” The child struggled. The mother repeated it patiently. Suddenly, she paused. Her gaze grew stern. Her nine-year-old daughter wiped her dirty hands on her gown again. “Stop it, Marian! And stand up straight!” The mother sighed. “And please, when the king comes, shout as loud as you can!”

“I’ll shout what I want.” Marian ducked away and shook her head, sending untamed blond curls flying.

Armed men in chain mail pushed the people aside to form a wide passageway to the open portal of Westminster Abbey.

Fanfares! The ceremony was beginning.

Barons, earls, bishops, the noblest of the island, led the coronation procession. They were not met with applause or cheers. The citizens stretched their necks in silence. With closed faces, they watched as chosen knights and nobles carried the symbols of royal power past them: the scepter, the golden spurs, the purple cloak emblazoned with heraldic lions.

Restlessness. Suppressed curses. Here and there, artisans, fishermen, and grocers hid clenched fists behind their backs.

“Prince John,” the tinker hissed to the women of Nottingham. “So, that’s him.”

Rumors were circulating about the younger brother of the new king, terrible rumors. And yet he was allowed to carry one of the three golden swords the long distance from the cathedral to the Coronation Church at Westminster.

Many who saw him for the first time that day shuddered.

A splendid garment hung over his slight bent shoulders. The small head turned left and right. The eyes scrutinized the crowd from under half-closed lids. Whoever happened to meet that icy gaze quickly turned away in fright.

“By St. William,” the tinker muttered. “Better I stay in London for now. He has no authority here.”

The prince who used to be known only as John Lackland had been in England for two weeks, and for two weeks, his servants had been pressed in the taverns every night. “Tell us about him!”

And for a jug of ale, a pitcher of wine, the grooms and footmen and bellboys quickly forgot all caution. “He is false and wrathful. No one is safe from his knife.” They showed scars on their faces, their necks, their arms.

The prince was ruthless to everyone. John had always looked for an advantage. He betrayed his father, betrayed his brother, then shortly after begged them on his knees for forgiveness. John played friend and foe against each other, and now he had finally succeeded. He could shed the nickname Lackland. To keep the peace, the future king had bestowed upon his brother several counties, including sole dominion over Nottingham’s castle and city, with its fertile fields and vast forests.

The tinker’s glance followed the Prince. How the little head twitched to the right and left! “No, no,” he reaffirmed. “Best not to go back home for a while.” He scratched his bearded chin. Back home up in Nottingham, and farther north to York, the poor people would now have even more reason to be afraid. Greed, unbridled cruelty, and lust for power were truly the only qualities the twenty-three-year-old prince was known for.

Solemnly and slowly, the procession moved through the crowds.

“Over there. Do you see?” The weaver carefully turned her son’s head. “There goes our old queen.”

“Long live—”

She quickly covered his little mouth. “Not yet.”

Queen Eleanor, the mother of these unequal sons, smiled openly and warmly to the people at the roadside, and it was returned with equal warmth.

At last—here came Richard, walking under a silken canopy. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with red hair and a red beard, and his gray eyes were set firmly forward.

The weaver lifted her son above her head. “Now.”

“Long live the king,” her son crowed in a bright voice.

Marian watched the tall man, her eyes shining. She supported her little brother at the top of her voice. “Long live the king!”

“Hurrah! Hail!” the bystanders shouted.

The new king radiated such strength. Even the tinker extended his arms to him and was not ashamed to do it.

True, Richard Plantagenet was a Norman, like his father. A Frenchman, a stranger to this island. For more than a hundred years, since the great battle of Hastings, Norman kings had ruled over the English people from a distance. However, their liegemen and bishops had settled here, had taken the best lands, built castles, and extended the monasteries’ power. The fancied-up nobles turned up their noses at the people—they’re just barbarians, the nobles said, without courtly manners or culture. They parlayed in French and laughed at the language of the oppressed. They were more ruthless than the marauding knights of old, and pressed more and more taxes from the defeated.

Who could break the tyranny of the almighty lord sheriffs, the barons, and the merciless bishops? What good were law and order if they were not applied equally to the rich and to the poorest of the poor? Up to now, the Norman kings had been too weak, or they had come to England only rarely and far too briefly. Thus the Norman nobility had ruled over the Saxons without restraint.

And yet, the people rejoiced today. Richard was strong—strong enough. His heart possessed the strength of a lion, and he had given his word: “Before me and before the law, there is no difference between Normans and Saxons.” Perhaps soon they would know a life without fear? Perhaps peace and justice had really returned to the land?

“Richard the Lionheart! Long live King Richard!” All the hope of the oppressed lay in his name.

Countless candles lit up the church. The Archbishop of Canterbury daubed the head, chest, and arms of the thirty-two-year-old prince with holy oil. “Do you solemnly swear to uphold your oath?”

“Yes. With God’s help.”

Richard Plantagenet knelt before the altar. The archbishop slowly placed the glittering, gem-encrusted crown on his head.

Queen Eleanor looked proudly at her beloved son. Next to her, his head slightly turned away, John rubbed the white knuckles of his fingers against his teeth. His gaunt frame trembled.

“Long live the King!” Fanfares sounded from all the towers of London. “King Richard invites you to feast!”

The smells of roasted meat and fresh bread filled the streets. Foaming ale spilled out of overflowing pitchers. The weaver’s son held a honeyed bun in each hand and did not know which one to tuck into first. Marian stood beside her mother with glowing cheeks, amazed and laughing.

Drums rolled. Jugglers performed daredevil tricks. Bonfires blazed until late into the night.

“Long live . . .” the tinker murmured drunkenly as he curled up against a wall.

And not a thing got better. Richard the Lionheart had no time for England, nor for the plight of his subjects.

Queen Eleanor confronted her son. “You gave your word. Your people are being tormented and enslaved. You are their hope. Do not disappoint them!”

“First, I must go to the Holy Land. My Crusade pledge is older than the oath I swore to the English people.” Gently, the great man put his arm around the now-elderly dowager. “Do not worry, Mother. In two years at the most, we will have driven the infidels out of Jerusalem. When I return, I will—”

“And what happens until then?” The queen angrily freed herself from his embrace. “Who shall be your representative? Your brother John? He has the right.” She sighed and quietly continued, “He also is my son. But even I am afraid of him.”

“Do not worry. I appointed one of my closest friends as high judge. He will represent me during my absence. John must bow to him.”

With a bitter smile, Eleanor looked at the king. “How little you know your brother.”

Heavy clouds gathered. Rain. At the first gray light of December eleventh, Richard’s ship weighed anchor.

“Safe homecoming!” On the shore, the king’s courtiers and lieges shouted and waved. “We wish you safe return!”

Prince John waited motionlessly for the wide Norman ship to turn into the wind and set course for France with a billowing sail. “You shall never return,” he whispered. He pressed his narrow lips together. You gave me six counties. That is not enough. I want England, your throne, and everything you own.” His eyes gleamed icily. “And I wish you death, brother dear!”

II

The latest dispatch from the Crusade: In June and July of 1191, Richard the Lionheart and the Crusader army besiege the coastal city of Acre. Sultan Saladin cannot hold the gateway to the Holy Land.

NOTTINGHAM SHIRE. SHERWOOD FOREST.

He cut the struggling animal’s neck. Still crouched in hiding, he rubbed his blood-smudged hands with earth and cleaned them on the dewy grass. It was early, just graying, a chilly October day. The smell of steaming blood and intestines hung in the air.

The giant man slipped out of the undergrowth with a brief glance back. No one would discover the spot, and by tomorrow, foxes and crows would have dispersed the bloody remains. He quickly walked away with his load. The bushes were still. No twig snapped to the right or left of the path. With the gray hood of his thick, tightly woven wool cloak pulled down to his forehead, John Little carried the dead deer draped over his shoulders and neck.

He had had good hunting. His lips stretched into a smile under his thick black mustache and beard. Forbidden hunting. He had to bring the game safely to the village before the forest rangers or the mounted soldiers of the Lord Sheriff of Nottingham started their daily patrols through Sherwood.

A jay sprang high, its warning cry audible far and wide.

“Be quiet,” John growled. His fists tightened their grip on the deer’s legs. He had slung the longbow on his left shoulder, and the bowstring pulled his short cloak tight against his worn leather jerkin. Antlers down, the mighty deer head hung in the crook of his right arm. John looked up and narrowed his eyes. Here and there, the first rays of sunlight flashed through the crowns of the trees. “I’m late.” He quickened his pace. No sign of danger yet. “And may it stay that way.” He would check the rabbit snares later.

The giant carried his heavy prey without effort. “There will be enough meat today.” He pictured the wide eyes of the children, the grateful look of the women, and smiled. “Enough for us all.”

His village—five huts, the stable, and fourteen people, children included—belonged to Newstead monastery. The men and women worked hard for the monks’ welfare, and the peasants hardly had time to cultivate their own narrow strip of land. And this past wet summer, the fruits in the fields had rotted. Hunger loomed. The pious brothers would give nothing of their wealth, neither now in autumn, nor during the winter months.

Marian’s mother always clenched her fists when she mentioned the monks. “The prior fawns over his sheep and pigs. He doesn’t care what happens to us, John. While we must slave away for those black-robed vultures . . .” After a while, she added bitterly: “Until we are dead. Oh, John, it was supposed to get better for us, King Richard promised. I heard it myself. But it is worse . . .”

“Hush! I’ll take care of it,” he had assured her. It was no comfort to her, John Little knew that. He had lived with the weaver and her two children ever since her husband had been killed by a falling tree the previous spring. His wife had died in the harsh winter three years before. He had learned to live with the loss, but her own wound was still too fresh for Marian’s mother. He did not pressure her. He gave her, her little boy, and her girl Marian his bear-strong protection, and waited.

Cattle were more valuable to the prior than the serfs who guarded them! What was left for the bondsmen of the Augustinian monastery? Someone had to supply them with meat.

All game in Sherwood was King’s game. Such was the law. Before the coronation feast, Richard the Lionheart had granted the shire to his brother. From that day on, hares, roe deer, wild boar, and every animal of the forest belonged to the hard-hearted John. His governor and judge, the Lord Sheriff of Nottingham, had no mercy. Pity the man who was found poaching an animal. His trial would be short. Mutilation, dungeon, or death awaited him after the verdict—and woe to the village where royal game meat was found. The inhabitants were at the mercy of the judge’s cruel whim.

John Little knew every trail, every deer passage in Sherwood. His fists were hard, his arrows always struck, even at a hundred paces. And so he went hunting for everyone.

Luck of the hunt, this morning he returned with great spoils. He stopped still in the shelter of the woods and peered through the leaves into the wide clearing.

Children were fighting over a wooden ball. The sod-covered huts stood together in a circle. Thin columns of smoke rose from the roof openings. There was the familiar smell of hearth fire. Two women were already sitting outside on the village yard, plucking sheep’s wool from the distaff, making the spindle dance as they wound the yarn. Across the yard, next to the stable, the blacksmith and the three other men of the village were plastering the new barn’s wood-post walls with clay.

“Not too late.” John Little saw no black robe anywhere. The monk who supervised the day’s work was not yet there.

Satisfied, he released his breath. With a swaying step, he carried his prey toward the huts. As soon as the children spotted him, they forgot their game and let the ball roll carelessly away.

“John!” They ran toward the hunter, cheering. The giant man made a frightening grimace for them, clawing back and forth like a bear in front of the giggling pack.

“Turn around! Turn around!”

“That’s enough, now,” he growled after a moment.

The little mouths shut immediately. The children silently ran from door to door. “A deer,” they whispered. “Come quickly.” Their spread arms were not long enough to show the size of the animal.

Marian stormed into the open. Her little brother followed right after. In his eagerness, he stumbled, miserably shouting after his sister. Marian did not care. She laughed at the bearded hunter, examined the prey, and took in the sight of the large antlers. “How many did it take? Say it!”

“One arrow. Straight through the heart.”

“On your honor?”

“It is as I said, girl.”

“Someday, I’ll be able to do that, too.” She whirled around in circles, blond curls flying.

The weaver woman was waiting for him outside his hut. “I’m glad you’re back.”

John paused a moment to give her a loving gaze, and reassure her. “It’s all right.” He smiled.

Behind the stable, the men of the village had already erected a wooden frame. John heaved the carcass from his shoulder, and together they hooked the game by its hind legs to the crossbar.

“We share.” The giant pushed his woolen hood back around his neck. “But this time, I want all of the hide.” Almost embarrassed, he wiped the sweat from his forehead up into his black mane. “I need a new jacket. There won’t be much left after.”

“And the antlers!” Marian reached for them.

“Let it go, girl,” mumbled John. As he walked away, the neighbors carefully began to peel the deer out of its hide. What a day! Anticipation lit up their faces. There would be a feast, and everyone would be able to eat their fill!

In the hut, the hunter loosened his longbow and put it down next to the quiver. “Be right back. Just quickly checking the snares.”

Marian’s mother looked up from her loom. “Take care of yourself! We need you, John.”

“Yes, yes.” He briefly checked the hunting dagger in its sheath and reached for his oaken staff. In his hand, the man-tall, arm-thick trunk became a dangerous weapon. He could bring down rabid boars with a single blow. Push and strike: in a fight, he let the stick whirl and feared neither sword nor battle-ax.

Marian was waiting for him outside the hut. “Take me with you!” She had girded her wool frock with a leather strap, at her narrow hip she carried a knife. In her hand, she weighed the stick John had carved for her.

“I can’t, girl. It is too dangerous now. Go help your mother!”

“To weave? I don’t feel like it today.”

“Mind what I say . . . It’s getting late. You’ll slow me down.” Gently but firmly, he pushed her aside and left the circle of huts.

Marian ran along beside him. “Just because I’m not a boy? Is that why?” Her blue eyes sparked. “You are a coward.”

He gave her no answer.

“Yes, a coward and a fool.”

John walked faster toward the edge of the clearing.

“You probably needed more than one arrow for the stag.” Fury drove her on. “Yes! You lied!”

The giant suddenly stopped. The scar though his beard on his right cheek flamed red. He bent down to the furious girl. “No.” His voice became dark. “I will never lie to you, you know that. Or to your mother.”

With that, he left Marian and plunged into the brush at the edge of the clearing. No sound of rustling marked his passage as he disappeared from her view. Not a twig snapped.

Marian looked after him and stamped her foot. “Vile man!” Only when she had reached the village yard did her shoulders sink. The day was spoiled. And it was that big oaf’s fault. Marian wiped her eyes. Should she help her mother now? No. Maybe later.

Unnoticed, she crept her way around the cottage. Right behind the henhouse, she crouched down, pushed the reed-woven lid a little to the side, and climbed into an underground chamber. She closed the hatch again, but just enough to allow a slit of daylight to enter. John and her mother stored their supplies here in the coolness. There was not much this year: two loaves of bread. A trough half-filled with grain. Next to it, some apples, pears, and nuts. And pots full to the brim with honey-sweetened berries.

Marian loved the smell of the bread and fruit. When she had been in a fight, when she was unhappy, this is where she fled. Nowhere else could her thoughts be put in order again and her heart be calmed. Marian closed her eyes. Oh, John, I was mean to you. You never lie to me, I know that. But a girl can be just as fast as a boy. Why can’t you understand that?

Horses! Marian flinched. The thunder of hooves came closer, had already reached the village. Orders. Shouting.

Now children were crying. The women called out loudly for them. Marian pressed her hand to her mouth and pushed her face up close to the gap of light. No, her mother was not among them. She was in the hut with Marian’s brother, for sure.

“King’s game!”

The raw roar of strangers was everywhere.

“You stole a deer from Prince John!” one cried out over the noise. “Round them all up!”

Marian closed her eyes. Her heart was pounding. Armed men, the soldiers of the Lord Sheriff, had discovered their stag. Holy Mother of God, do not abandon us!

Only fragments of sentences reached her hiding place.

“Have mercy . . .”

“Spare us . . .”

“Thieves must be punished, you know that . . .” Laughter, terrible laughter. “Chop off their hands.”

“Stop! Wait.”

That’s the blacksmith, Marian thought.

“You must not do this without the judge. Wait—” His voice broke off with a gurgling sound. Silence.

Into the silence shot a sharp cry: “Murderer! You murderers!”

“M-mother,” stammered Marian. “Please don’t. Please!”

But the weaver fearlessly hurled her indignation toward the henchmen. “We belong to Newstead Abbey. You can take us to court, that’s all you can do. But now you are murderers, a murdering gang, nothing more. Now the father prior himself will bring charges against you with the sheriff. And we will all bear witness to what you did to our blacksmith.”

Again the squad leader laughed and laughed. Suddenly he stopped. “No one will say anything.”

Marian heard her mother’s horrified cry. “Spare my child!” Then Mother screamed and sobbed.

Again and again, Marian shook her head. “Don’t! Don’t! It’s not true.” Tears flowed down the girl’s cheeks.

“Kill them! No survivors.” The leader of the troop laughed. “And you, woman, will watch. I’ll kill you last.”

Stomping hooves. The villagers cried out in terror, whimpering until their moans died away.

I must help Mother. “Must help.” Marian opened the hatch and climbed outside. She pushed herself along the hut wall. Frozen, she stopped. Her neighbors lay in the square. Children, women, and men. Four riders rode back and forth over the dead, still stabbing them with their spears.

“Must help.” There was Mother.

The troop leader had wrapped his left arm around her mother’s neck from behind and pulled her pressed against his chain mail. “Open your eyes!” He shook her.

Marian whispered: “Must help. Must help.” She could not move. She saw her brother, lying at their mother’s feet. The cloth over his chest was dark red. “Must help.”

Now the leader raised his right fist. A dagger! Marian tore open her mouth to scream. But no sound came. In her head, she kept screaming, shrill.

The man carelessly pushed his victim away.

The loud scream inside of Marian died away, but a steady muffled echo remained and filled her up. Almost gently, the world shifted away from her a little. She watched her mother fall.

The girl stood there but not there, her eyes wide.

As if from far away, she heard another roar.

The iron men spurred their horses around and formed a line. Ready for battle, their leader drew his sword. John Little was already upon him. His oak staff struck the Lord Sheriff’s man right in the face. The man’s head snapped back. Another roar—circling, the giant knocked two riders out of their saddles. Another roar—his blows tore through the chain mail. The fourth man stabbed with his spear at the raging giant. John repelled it, pulled the fellow down, and killed him before he reached the ground. In wild haste, the last of the murderous gang spurred his horse. The mare leaped over the corpses and rushed toward the forest.

John Little did not pursue him. Breathing heavily, he scanned the village square. His eyes found the woman slumped next to her son. John staggered over. The oak staff slipped from his hand. His mighty shoulders trembled. Silently, he dropped to both knees. As if he was afraid to wake her up, he leaned gingerly over the dead woman, lifted her long hair, and pressed it to his eyes.

The bell of the monastery rang out. The chime tore John out of his pain. He had to flee before the monk reached the village. No matter what the mounted men had done to the peasants, the man who had escaped would blame John. The Lord Sheriff believed his own men over any serf. John knew that. And if the prior went to Nottingham to give witness? No, that would not change a thing. There would be no tedious investigating; only one man would be blamed for the slaughter. “They will hunt me down like a wild beast, like the outlaws who live in the woods,” he murmured.

John Little placed the boy’s body in his mother’s arms. One last look. He hastily grabbed the staff and stood. No one must find him here. Longbow, quiver, flint and sponge, some bread, especially the leather water bag! In the hut, John gathered up the essentials and hurried outside again.

There he found the girl. She stood motionless next to the entrance.

“Marian.” Despite his misery, he felt joy. “You’re alive. You were waiting for me.”

Her pale eyes looked at him, blankly.

“Marian? It’s me.”

She did not answer. John gently took her hot hand, touched the ashen face. “Say something!” She was silent.

“There’s no time. Come on, now. I’ll take you with me.” She did not move a muscle. The bell of Newstead Abbey rang hard. With no further hesitation, he picked up the girl and draped her body around his broad neck. “Fear not, little one! I’ll take care of you.”

He left the clearing at a run. Northward, but not via the great trade road along the forest’s eastern edge, not along the cart tracks that ran from village to village through Sherwood. John knew the old, almost overgrown craftsmen’s trails. But quickly now—he would have to cross the forest before the pursuers could cordon off the area. There was not much time, perhaps only until the next noon, and at night it would be too dangerous to run, and the limp girl only further slowed his progress.

Not too much haste; he must not tire himself out too quickly! John slowed his speed. His mind forced his muscles to rest. From there on, his steady, measured breaths determined the steady, persistent pace of his steps. Now and then, he spoke to Marian but received no answer. So the giant only made sure that no branch, no thorny vine hurt the girl. They would not be safe until they had crossed the border to Yorkshire. Alone and in dry weather, the route usually took him a day via the trade road. “Two days this time,” he estimated.

The night fell far too quickly over Sherwood. The outlines of the trees turned black. Before darkness descended completely, John Little sought a sheltered campsite.

“Have a drink, child.” He squatted next to Marian in the moss, held her curly head, and placed the leather bag’s horn mouthpiece against her cracked lips. At first, the water ran down her chin, but then Marian opened her mouth. A first sip, a second.

“That’s the way.” John smiled. When he felt her hand on his arm, he murmured, “I will hold the bag. You just drink.”

Next, he took the horn between his teeth. Without stopping, he quenched his great thirst.

“Do you want bread?”

The girl shook her head slowly.

“Say something,” he asked and waited.

Marian was silent. Suddenly she trembled all over her body. Helplessly, she opened her mouth, and tears ran down her cheeks.

“Don’t. Leave it, then. Let it be!” He stroked her skinny back. “No more crying!”

Later, John cleared the hiding place of rotten branches. On top of the moss, he piled more moss, so that his charge would be comfortable. “Sleep now, little one!”

She stared at him.

“We must rest. Tomorrow will be hard.”

Marian curled up.

“That’s right,” he murmured. Lying on his side, he moved the girl closer to him so that she could sleep on the mossy bed, protected in the crook of his giant body.

III

NOTTINGHAM SHIRE. SHERWOOD FOREST.

Visible from far across the plain, the castle stood high above the River Trent on a hilltop. Extending close to the edges of the steep cliffs, the defensive walls, towers, and buildings enclosed a courtyard. The only way up or down was through the gate and drawbridge to the northeast. To the right and left of the sloping road, the poorest peasants had built their huts and stables. A little farther down by the market, beside the smoky taverns, stood the houses of the court servants and merchants, substantial houses with carved doors. The most splendid one, only a few steps away from the church, belonged to the Lord Sheriff.

In case of an imminent attack, the inhabitants fled up to the castle fortress. Its walls could withstand any assault, and Nottingham Castle was well equipped for a siege.

The mountain’s sandstone was riddled with countless caves, back and forth and up and down, ancient, carefully closed tunnels and newly excavated passages. Almost all the entrances into them were located in the city. And the more recent shafts had been expanded into chambers by stonemasons. There, grain and salted meat and dried stockfish were stored, enough to hold out until a besieging enemy ran out of supplies.

However, the citizens were careful not to open their ancestors’ tunnels and penetrate deeper into the dark labyrinth of caves. They were often startled from their sleep. Wasn’t that a scream? Can’t you hear the whimpering? Mothers pressed their children to their breasts. Hush! Herne the Hunter is driving the souls of the damned through the mountain. Hush! We are safe here in bed.

The largest cave belonged to the castle. Those who knew its secret could travel the tunnel through many turns all the way down to the cliff directly above the banks of the River Trent. The tunnel’s upper, spacious niches served as wine and ale cellars, and the lower side tunnels were lined with iron grates embedded in the rock. How many of the sheriff’s prisoners had perished miserably in those dungeon cells, tortured, tormented by rats? Up in the castle hall, daylight fell through high slit windows and spread like a shining jewel directly upon the elevated dais at one end. This bright area, surrounded on three sides by tapestries of hunting scenes, was reserved for the count and his guests of honor. The rest of the room remained in a gloomy twilight even during the day, sparsely lit by the glow of the fireplace.

When Prince John was not in Nottingham, his governor and Lord Sheriff took advantage of the freedom. He claimed the stately dais for himself and loved to conduct his official business there instead of in his own house. It gave him pleasure to look down on the accused on court day.

Small in stature, Thom de Fitz dressed according to the latest French fashion. On each hand, he wore three artfully forged rings. In a tournament bout with sharp weapons, the Lord Sheriff had lost the tip of his nose. Since this defeat, he had covered the scarred stump with a false nose of chalk paste every day. Despite his pleas and then his threats, his wife Beatrice had never gotten used to this sight. But no stranger dared to scoff, especially when anger darkened the sheriff’s face and made the mark of his shame stand out even more.

Thom de Fitz was on his guard this morning. As a precaution, he had taken a seat in his master’s high armchair behind a massive oak table. His visitor sat directly opposite him, eye to eye. More than an hour had passed, and again and again, the Lord Sheriff had tried to outsmart the prior of Newstead Abbey.

“He is the only witness!” With an outstretched finger, Thom de Fitz pointed toward his man-at-arms somewhere deep in the hall’s semidarkness. “And he is telling the truth.”

“The truth?” The prior mockingly raised his brows. “Pardon me. Since Prince John appointed you judge here, the truth has become a rare commodity. Hardly anyone has seen it lately.”

“Hold your tongue!”

Unimpressed, the prior smoothed a wrinkle on his dark travel cloak. “The fact is, cher ami: My monk, who supervises the peasants, went over to the village yesterday after the morning bell. There he found all the inhabitants slain. Slaughtered most horribly, if I may say so.” A slight indignant shake of the head. “Even the children!” The pious gentleman continued: “These people belonged to my abbey. I have lost property!”

“Diable! My men were lying just beside them. I am less four armed men. We are even.”

Tense silence. The sheriff pressed his hands against each other, an angry blush spreading over his angular face. Only the white spot on his nose did not change.

They eyed each other. A conciliatory word spoken too soon would cost money, pieces of silver coins.

“The fact is, cher ami, none of the villagers would have dared to attack your henchmen.”

The Lord Sheriff thumped his fists on the table. “Diable!”

“Do not curse in my presence,” the prior admonished him softly. “It will get us nowhere. We are negotiating a transaction, nothing more.”

“Very well. By St. Dunstan, then! Let’s start at the beginning. for the last time.” Thom de Fitz snapped his fingers at his armory sergeant. “What happened yesterday in this village?”

“It was like this . . .” Under cover of the semidarkness, the sergeant repeated his memorized story. They had discovered the stag. As ordered, they had rounded up the people in the village square. “Our squad leader was just about to start the interrogation. Then the monster came out of the forest. Not with a staff, he came at us with a tree trunk. Nothing could be done against the savage. My comrades were dead. I barely escaped.”

“And the villagers? Were they still alive?” the sheriff pressed on.

“When I left, everyone was well.” A long pause.

“Go on, lad!”

“That’s what happened. I heard the screams behind me. That’s what happened. Everyone was screaming, including the children.” The servant fell silent.

“Bien. Are you finally convinced, venerable father?” Thom de Fitz pulled out a small cloth with the ringed fingers of his right hand and wiped his face, carefully dabbing around the stump of his nose. He then ordered his sergeant: “Get out! Wait outside!”

No sooner had the armed man left the hall than the prior added, in the witness’s tone of voice: “And then, the monster mauled the peasants. Yes, it was just like that.” He laughed dryly. “Excuse me. Even the third time doesn’t make the story any more credible. No, cher ami. This is not going well for you. Consider that it is not just some Saxon chief who has had valuable serfs slaughtered like cattle, but I, a Norman and prior of an Augustinian monastery. And this act was not committed by forest rangers, but by Nottingham castle guards. No law gives armed men the right to do this. They only undertake such raids on your express orders. And don’t they have a far greater nuisance to deal with in Sherwood?”

The Lord Sheriff froze, struck to the core . . .

Before Thom de Fitz could compose himself, the pious prior lifted his finger. “Is it not so? Your men are hunting those outlaws in vain. They stalk through the forest like blind sheep. There are rumors everywhere that the vagabonds have become more and more organized during your time as sheriff. They are even said to have a leader. What was the name?” The prior tapped his fingers on his forehead. “Capuchon? Capeline? That they wear over their heads, it’s supposed to be green. I cannot think of the word in the language of these uncouth Saxons.”

“Hood!” Thom de Fitz grunted. “Robin Hood is what this fellow calls himself. Par saint Fontin!”

“No swearing in my presence!” The prior glared, menacingly.

The sheriff bit his lips.

“Bien, mon cher. It’s no secret: Because you neglect your duties, the savages run free. Instead, you let the villagers be terrorized. You alone are responsible for the killing and plundering. Pitiable Thom de Fitz, you know your master well enough. Prince John wants his shield to look unblemished . . . on the outside. And you must see to it!”

The sheriff’s face had lost all its color.

Coolly, the prior dealt him the final blow: “What will happen if I report the matter higher up and bring charges before England’s highest judge, King Richard’s deputy? No one in the kingdom will dare to challenge the influential Order of Augustinians, not even Prince John. Mon Dieu, I cannot imagine how he will deal with you in his rage!”

“Enough. No more!” The sheriff leaned far over the table. “What do you want?”

The pious prior modestly folded his hands over his bulging belly. “For each woman and each man twenty shillings. Ten for each child.”

“Bien. This time I will be generous.” Thom de Fitz had already pulled out his coin purse, but suddenly he hesitated. “What do we say if inquiries are made at your monastery or here in the city?”

“Nom de Dieu, my dear sheriff, did your man not mention a monster? Just between us, there was a man of unusual size in the village. I do not know his name, but I have often been told of his amazing strength. It would appear that he killed your men. He has become worthless to me. Let us make use of him: We have our monster. The fact is this: A rabid peasant caused the bloodbath and is on the run.”

“You are a sly fox, my lord.” The sheriff smiled. “You came to me to report this terrible incident. I have ordered a hunt for the killer, as is my duty. When he is caught, he will resist and be killed. No more witnesses. And on top of that, I shall have satisfied the law. Parbleu, mes compliments!”

“If you compensate my loss with coin, I will confirm your story.”

The ringed fingers tugged at the string of the pouch. “How many there were?”

“Four men and three women, and five children. That’s seven pounds and another two pounds and ten shillings.”

Thom de Fitz walked his guest out. High up on the battlement, carpenters were mending damaged planks. As usual, the courtyard of the castle was bustling with maids, manservants, and armed men. The iron-reinforced gate stood wide open, the drawbridge was lowered, and the cries of merchants echoed up from the market.

“One more word of advice, in parting.” The prior took the sheriff’s arm. With a sideways glance at the obediently waiting man-at-arms, he whispered: “Only when there is no one, and I emphasize no witness, left, only then can this affaire funeste no longer harm you. May God be with you!” With this, the prior went over to the two friars of his abbey. One of them held his mule’s bridle, the other helped the corpulent prior into the saddle.

Thom de Fitz watched the Augustinian until he had ridden through the archway. “It is not just your robe that is dark, you cunning cutthroat!”

With a snap of his fingers, he ordered the sergeants of the castle guard to come to him. “The murderer of your comrades is still at large. He is probably trying to head north.” The orders were brief. Five men and a pack of dogs were to follow the trail. “And no mercy, Baldwin. Bring him to me, dead!” He pulled the sergeant down by his beard. “But before that . . .” His thumb pointed to the waiting man-at-arms who had given testimony. “As I have just learned, your mates would still be alive if that bastard had not cowardly abandoned them. Therefore . . .” The ringed hand made a tight horizontal cut across his throat. “You understand, Baldwin? And right away. Nothing should be left of him.”

The man’s hatred was inflamed as intended. “To the kennel with him!”

“No, no. Leave him to the rats! The dogs must not eat now. They must be starving when they chase the killer through Sherwood.”

The sergeant straightened and turned to the man-at-arms. “Hey, you! Before we set off to hunt your monster, we’d better have a drink. The sheriff is treating us to a pitcher of ale. Come along!”

The soldier was only too happy to obey and was already licking his lips. With a broad grin, Baldwin closed the gate down into the cave behind them. “Take the torch and go ahead!”

Before they reached the ale cellar, he rammed his knife into the unsuspecting man’s neck. “Shame. If it had been up to me, I would have let you die slowly.” The sergeant spat and raised the torch. With one hand, he dragged the dead man by his iron collar deeper into the mountain. He left the body below the dungeon cells, in a blind corridor. In time, nothing would remain of it but a skeleton. And who in Nottingham cared about bones and rusty chain mail?

When he returned to the courtyard, Baldwin nodded to his master.

“Bien. Très bien,” murmured Thom de Fitz. “Now there is only one witness left. And he will not escape me.” Elated, he returned to the hall to attend to his official business.

A short time later, five men-at-arms mounted their horses. Each had a crossbow, sword, and lance. Their helmets’ iron nose guards gave their faces a rigid cruelty. The high-legged gray hounds were panting, baring their teeth, impatiently yanking at their long leather leashes.

Sergeant Baldwin raised his fist to the sky. “Fooor-ward!”

The hunt for the monster, for the murderer of his comrades, had begun.

IV

SHERWOOD FOREST

In the morning, Marian ate some of the bread. She had tried to walk, a few steps, unsteady, much too slow for an escape.

“You’ll be all right.” John Little was confident, although the child still did not speak. “You’ll be all right if you eat and drink.”

Before they left, Marian had made it clear to him by signs that she wanted to sit on his shoulders, rather than be draped across them like a carcass.

“Then show me you can!” The giant slung the taut bow on his left shoulder and the fighting staff beside his right leg. Marian hesitated.

“Come on, little one! You can do it all by yourself.”

She finally clambered up over his knee and arm and sat astride his neck. She wrapped her arms around the giant and leaned her face into his black mane.

John snorted and pranced. But there was no laughter, not even a giggle in response. Only a faint tug at his chin beard signaled that his ward felt safe.

Hills and valleys, thick-stemmed oaks, beeches, ash trees, then thick bushes again. They had made good progress through Sherwood. Around noon they reached the rise above the River Meden. “If these fellows are fast, they’ll be waiting for us down there,” John figured. From his shoulder, Marian had clambered onto the broad branches of a beech tree. “Wait here.”

John carefully surveyed the riverbank below. Then, roaring like a bull, he suddenly stormed through the ford to the opposite side. He stopped, waited.

Nothing moved. No ambush. The hunters had not entered Sherwood from the main road along the Meden River. “Then they’ll be trying farther north at the River Poulter. Otherwise, they’ll never catch me.”

And on they went. They bypassed two settlements. No dog barked, nobody noticed them. In the early afternoon, rain set in. At first, they heard the patter high above them, in the leafy canopy. Eventually, the water came through, and soon the path was sodden. John let Marian get down. Her curls hung in limp strands, the wet frock stuck to her. She stared past him absently.

“You shall not freeze.” He loosened the neck strap of his gray wool cloak, and wrapped the cloak around the girl, pulling the hood over her wet head.

In the vast, jagged valley of the Poulter, they waited. The only way to cross over was between the upper and lower lakes, where the water flowed past the village of Carburton and through a narrow riverbed for a good two miles.

And from there, John already heard the hoarse barks of a pack of hounds and the horn signals of the Lord Sheriff’s men-at-arms.

“We can’t get past them that way,” he whispered to his rider. “Hold on tight! It’s going to get rough.” Marian tugged at the beard hairs. She had understood.

John left the path and entered Sherwood to the west. Gradually the barking of the dogs faded away. The cloudy sky covered the sun. In order not to lose his bearings, John wandered within sight of the upper lake. He knew that the shore would eventually lead him north again. His progress was laborious. On paths torn into by the storm, he was blocked by giant fallen trees. And rain, ever more rain. The hidden gullies were dangerous. Often, he groped with his staff like a blind man across heights covered with thickets and moss. The giant lost time, valuable time.

At dusk, rocks rose up on their left. “We mustn’t go any farther, girl. Creswell lies beyond that.” The village was in the shire of Derby. The Sheriff of Nottingham also ruled Derby.

John found a dry cave, built a fire, and persuaded Marian to eat some bread. She took only two bites. “We’ll make it across tomorrow,” he promised. The girl had closed her eyes and sank forward. Gently John caught the slumping body and leaned her head against his side.

The space was too narrow for him. He tried to sleep, but terrible images rose through his dreams. John groaned and pressed his fist against his forehead. He wanted to get some rest, at the least.

Dense wafts of mist hung in the treetops. The rain had stopped.

John gathered some mushrooms to strengthen them. “They won’t find us in the fog. What do you think?” Tense, he waited, hoped. In vain. Marian remained silent.

“Well, never mind. You’ll see, one day, everything will be good.”

She refused to climb onto John’s shoulders, paced up and down the cave to prove to him how strong she was again. John clapped his hands. “That’s it, girl.”

He gave her time. For a grueling mile, Marian bravely kept up. After she had stumbled the third time, she yanked at his leather jacket and pointed to his shoulders.

“Well, come on up! I have plenty of room.”

They crossed the upper reaches of the Poulter. In a wide arc, John returned to a path that tradesmen had once used on their way north.

The fog lifted. The trees stood far apart, with more bushes and shrubs instead. They had almost reached the edge of Sherwood when the smell of roasting meat warned John. He stopped at once and held the fighting staff tighter.

It was too late. A voice from behind commanded, “Move on, man! Nice and slow . . . or you’ll have my arrow in your back.”

John obeyed. With Marian on his shoulder, he could not let himself fall, nor could he suddenly jump to the side and turn to attack the enemy behind him.

“Now, go left!” the voice ordered.

John obeyed. “Don’t be afraid!” he whispered to Marian. They came through the bushes to a clearing. Three men sat around a fire. Each of them was roasting a hare on a stick.

Forester rangers! The silver emblems on the dark leather caps and the almost-black leather jerkins were unmistakable.

They had hardly spotted the giant when each one threw his roast into the grass and reached for a bow—three arrowheads were aimed at John’s mighty chest.

“Quiet, people!” came the voice with another order. “He won’t risk anything.” With that, the fourth forest ranger slipped past John. He stood there, standing broad-legged, and mocked, “He is obedient as a lamb.”

I could crush you. John conquered his rage. His opponents had the advantage, and he could not fight them. Just as well, he thought.

The forester had to tip his head back to look face-to-face with his prisoner.

“Where are you from?”

“From back that way.”

“What’s your name?”

“John.”

“What are you doing in Sherwood?”

“Goin’ up that way.”

The woodsman shouted over his shoulder to his comrades. “A bit dimwitted, this one. What do you fellows think?”

“I don’t know,” said one.

“Be careful,” said another.

The leader narrowed his eyes. “You’re under arrest.”

“I’m not.”

“Any man caught with a bow and arrow in Sherwood will be arrested,” the leader announced. “We’ll take him over to Worksop. He stays in jail until court day.”

With both fists, John deliberately clutched the man-size, arm-thick oak staff and put one foot forward.

The forester jumped back. The others stood ready to shoot.

John did not seem to notice the danger. He sniffed, stared at the roast hare, and licked his lips. “I’m hungry.”

“Yes, he is dim.”

“Ask him about the brat,” someone demanded.

The forester pointed at Marian.

John was silent.

“Well, come on.”

“What?”

“Who’s that?”

“Daughter.”

“Drop the girl. But before that, hand over your bow and quiver.”

The giant obeyed only when one of them aimed the arrow at his ward.

Marian stood still. Her blue eyes showed no fear, but stared blankly through the men. The forester asked her name, but she did not answer. He shouted at her. He grabbed the girl by the shoulders. He shook her. No reaction. Upset, he raised his fist.

A rumble made the guy spin around.

“She’s got the awful fever.”

Horrified, the royal forest rangers stepped back. John grinned stupidly, babbling, “The Master has cast us out.” He let his big head dangle back and forth, stepped from one foot to the other, and uttered strange sounds.

“Both have it. By St. Godrick. Both of them!” Fear seized the troop. “Chase them away,” one of them demanded hastily.

“Don’t move!” The forester ducked and crept closer, picked up longbow and quiver from the ground, and hurriedly threw the weapons into the fire. “There. And now grab your brat! Get lost!”

John shouldered the oak staff, shook his head, and nodded to Marian. He pushed her closer to the fire. The men’s drawn arrows followed every move of the giant.

“I’m hungry.” Calmly John bent down and took a wooden skewer together with a brown-roasted hare and laid it on his shoulder with the fighting staff.

“Away with you,” cried the forester.

Without haste, without turning around again, John led the girl from the clearing. No sooner were they out of sight than he lifted Marian on his arm. “Hold on, little one!” He made off at a run.

Soon, Sherwood opened. John stopped running. At a safe distance, he walked west past the town of Worksop, breathing with relief. A vast sunny landscape opened up in front of them: villages, rolling hills, fields and meadows, scattered small copses of trees. “We’ll be down there by evening.”

They rested in a sheltered grassy hollow. John enjoyed the smell of roast hare. “King’s quarry.” He winked at Marian. “No one has ever voluntarily given one to me.” Happily, he cut a tender piece from the back for her. “Here. This is the best.”

Marian took it. For a moment, she looked at him clearly and openly.

John leaned over to her. “Yes. Come on, say something. Yes, try!”

Marian clenched her fingers into the meat. She moved her lips, struggled. Tears rose.

John quickly stroked her head. “Never you mind! If that’s how it is, that’s how it is.”

They ate the rabbit. The girl took only a little, John ate the rest, nibbled every bone clean.

As they headed along the edge of a cart track, Marian sat on his shoulders again. After an hour, John tugged her foot. “I don’t understand, little one. Before I ate the rabbit, my hunger was not nearly as bad as it is now. Do you understand that?”

She grabbed his mane of hair and shook his head.

Then he laughed.

Farmers’ wives passed them. A wagon overtook them. Nobody paid much mind to the man who carried a child on his shoulders and greeted them politely. John was convinced: “The men-at-arms won’t look for me this far north.” And if they did, if he was stopped? Very well. He was merely a father taking his sick daughter to the next town. Who would be suspicious? Unless . . . ? John thought of the sole one of those murderers who had escaped. No. He brushed the thought aside. They won’t look for me that far north.

At last they crossed into Yorkshire, late in the afternoon. Like a big wheel, the giant let the staff whirl around his right hand, then grabbed it again firmly. “Tonight, little one, we sleep well. I promise.”

He spotted a mill by a stream and knocked. With a bland expression, the miller listened to the father’s story about the sick daughter and asked no questions. It was fine with him. They could sleep in the hay.

His wife brought a cup of milk over to the barn. She had pity on the exhausted, mute girl. Uncertain, the woman stood there, staring John in the face and then turning her back to him. Falteringly she asked, “Might you know my son?”

“What is his name?”

“Much. Yellow-haired boy.”

“No, I’ve never met him.”

“He’s on the run, too.”

John sucked in his breath. “What are you talking about? I’m taking my daughter—”

“Stop! I saw it in your eyes. They change, I’ve seen it.” The miller’s wife turned around again. “Don’t be afraid! We won’t say anything. We never say anything.” Her lips trembled. “When you meet my son . . . Tell him we are thinking of him. But he must not come here, tell him. Tell him it was the Baron’s own servants. They killed the steward. And Sir Roger ordered it. Tell him that!” And she raised her hands in despair. “But Sir Roger blames my boy. Because he needs someone to blame.”

She began to hurry away. After a few more steps, she stopped again. “Much. That’s his name. Much. Remember that!”

John scratched his beard, staring after her until she disappeared into the cottage. “Fine, then,” he murmured. “I’ll remember.”

Later, he lay stretched out on his back. Marian had curled up next to him. “You know, girl, we are going over to Doncaster. That’s a real town. I’ll ask at the blacksmith. I bet he could do with another pair of strong hands. We’ll stay there through the winter.” John paused and listened. In short, regular pace, Marian breathed in and out. “Poor thing. At least I can hear that much from you.”

Before he fell asleep, he thought, Next time, I’ll take all their rabbits.

V

YORKSHIRE. DONCASTER AND FARTHER NORTH.

John had asked twice. And for the second time, the blacksmith had shaken his head. With sharp hammer blows, he stretched the red-hot iron on the anvil, thrust it into the water, until he was satisfied. Only then did the blacksmith look at the tall man and say, “Look! I won’t feed two mouths.” He pointed to Marian. “The mute there is worth nothing.” In a mollifying gesture, he offered the giant a sip of ale. John refused.

“I can do the work of three.”

“You must understand . . .” The blacksmith drank until the brownish ale ran down his chin and neck. “I could use you. But first, you have to get rid of that one. Mutes in the house bring bad luck. You best leave her outside a convent.”

John breathed heavily. The scar through his beard turned dark.

The blacksmith didn’t notice. He carried on. “Or better still, sell her to a beggar. They like to have mutes with them because mutes make good thieves.”

“I’ll shut you up!” John grabbed the man by the leather apron with his left fist and lifted him up to his face. “By Dunstan! I’ll—”

Marian tugged at the giant’s coat and shook her head pleadingly. Her fear brought John to his senses. He eased his anger. “It’s all right, little one.”

No sooner was the blacksmith safely back on the ground than the man puffed himself up. “Out! Or I’ll call the guards. Get out!” He gasped for breath. “Everyone here knows me. Even our Sir Roger. Because I am the Baron’s blacksmith. You’ll find no work in Doncaster, I’ll see to that. You understand me?”

Without a word, John turned around. Marian was already waiting at the wide-open door of the workshop.

“Get out! Don’t you dare come here again,” cried the blacksmith. In the street, John could still hear him cursing. “Damned scum! Where are you from anyway? You come here with a mute? Miserable vermin!”

Without a look left or right, they left Doncaster. Marian walked beside the giant. Since the day before, since the miller’s barn, he had not had to carry the girl. Her gaze was now mostly clear and alert.

John was silent. Now and then, Marian poked him on the arm. He smiled briefly but said nothing. Anger and powerlessness kept their grip on him.

In the afternoon, the walls of a monastery appeared beyond green pastures. Marian crouched down in the grass. She pointed to the bag of provisions the miller’s wife had slipped to them when they left.

“Good eating, little one.” John sat with her.

Cheese and apples. Marian ate her fill, then she got up.

“Not so fast. No one will look for us here.”

Their faces were at the same level. She lightly tugged his beard, turned around, and walked away across the pasture toward the monastery.

It took a while before John realized what she was planning to do.

With one motion he leaped up, was beside her in giant strides, obstructed Marian’s path. “Don’t, girl. Don’t!”

Her eyes were determined. She pointed over to the monastery wall and tried to pass him.

“No. I won’t give you away.”

Her eyes remained fixed on the wall.

“Your mother would . . .” John faltered. For the first time, he’d spoken of the weaver, and he could not speak any further. He wiped his eyes. “You know, Marian. I, too, have . . . you know . . .” With his big hands, he gently enclosed her outstretched hand. “You know, Marian . . . I need you. You can’t leave me alone!”

Her narrow shoulders sank.