The miller's son - Brothers
(Some time before it all began)
"Half-wit, half-wit!"
The children's voices sounded loud through the morning. Much, sitting between his father and his brother on the box of the cart, flinched and made a face.
Matthew the miller exchanged a glance with his foster son over Much's head, sighing. Half fondly, half hopelessly he considered his youngest son.
Much was almost sixteen now. A wispy boy with a mop of ginger-coloured hair. Much was almost always happy, no matter what happened to him, clumsy, trustful and good-natured to daftness. The children in the villages had found out early enough using it now with the innocent cruelty of children. Much never fought back. More than once Robin had rescued him out of big trouble.
Again Matthew exchanged a glance with his foster son. It was a good thing that Much had Robin. Much would never be able to work the mill properly. Oh yes, he was a capable miller who knew his craft, but in dealing with the peasants he lacked authority. He was just too friendly. The peasants would fleece him regularly. In the beginning the thought that his own son would never be able to keep on his work of a lifetime had grieved Matthew, but in the end he had got used to it. Robin would make sure Much survived.
Robin was five years older than Much; a tall, dark-haired boy on the verge of being a man. Much adored Robin. Everywhere that Robin went Much followed him like a shadow and had done so ever since he could walk. Robin endured it good-naturedly. When it became too much for him, he would disappear like a shadow into the forest. Then Much sat down at the threshold of the mill or on the jetty by the river, waiting for Robin.
And yet there was a side to his sons that Matthew approved of much less than he did of their solidarity.
Robin, being a fine archer himself, had taught Much how to use bow and arrow. Now Much was a capable archer, too. And Much also had a sure hand with the slingshot. He had taught himself during endless days when his task had been to keep the crows away from the beanfields.
Their skill with weapons would surely get them into trouble sooner or later.
Matthew stopped the cart in front of the gatehouse of Nottingham castle. Every miller was obligated to hand over to the sheriff a certain amount of flour per year.
The guards let them through.
The sheriff's steward awaited them in front of the storerooms. Together with his sons Matthew unloaded the sacks and stored them. Afterwards they stood talking with the steward about future business, the prices of grain, the weather and more.
Robin stayed with the men but Much soon got bored. He stole away for a stroll across the castle grounds. Outside the stables he met the stable-boys, a bunch of half-grown boys. They were bored and this good-natured half-wit was just the right victim for their cruel games. They started bullying him. Much stayed friendly. Then they surrounded him, pushing him around. Much became afraid. He tried to break free but couldn't. Finally they started throwing horse dung and muck at Much. The boy cowered at the stable wall, covering his head with his arms, screaming for his brother.
Robin came over the cheering boys with the force of an avenging angel. He had come looking for Much because their father wanted to leave and he had heard the boy's screams. He was a couple of years older than the stable boys and from the hard work in the mill he definitely had the strength to take on all of them.
He grabbed the one who cheered the loudest by the neck, shaking him like a rat. Two others began howling with fear when he slapped them. The others fled.
Robin caught his breath for a moment. Then he went over to Much, who was still cowering at the stable wall.
"Did they hurt you?" he asked. Much shook his head fiercely.
"It's always you, isn't it," Robin said. Much looked up. "I didn't do nothing," he defended himself. Light traces of tears ran through the grime on his cheeks. His hair was covered in horse dung and his clothes were caked with filth.
Robin helped him up. "Blow your nose," he said, "It's about time you learned to fight back. You can't just put up with everything. I thought you knew how to fight."
Together the brothers went back towards the inner bailey, to the cart. Some yards from the gatehouse one of the stable boys came towards them. Obedient and servile, he walked next to a young blond nobleman with cold blue eyes. On seeing them, the stable boy pointed with his finger, saying, "That's them, Sir Guy. Them's the two villains that attacked us. We was sittin' all merrily 'round havin' breakfast when they sudd'nly lunged at us. Disturbed the 'orses quite a bit, them did!"
The nobleman grabbed Robin's shoulder. "What's this entire riot about?" he barked.
"We haven't done anything. The stable boys hit my brother. We only defended ourselves," Robin answered calmly.
"You're impudent. I don't believe you. The way this one stinks, the stable boys wouldn't have touched him anyway," the nobleman said with an unpleasant smile.
Much looked at the ground unhappily. Robin clenched his fists, trying to control his anger.
Matthew approached the little group.
"My lord Gisburne, they're my sons. Forgive them for making trouble. You know, boys will be boys; untamably sometimes!" Matthew bowed repeatedly, a forced smile on his face. Robin opened his mouth to object, but caught a warning glance from Matthew and forced himself back.
The nobleman looked coldly at Matthew.
"These are your sons, aren't they? You're the miller. Keep your sons under control or I'll have them whipped next time!"
Without further words he went to the stables. Undoubtedly to see if his horse was alright, Robin thought bitterly. In a low voice he growled, "Their animals are worth more to them than we are!"
Matthew pleaded with Robin to keep quiet. At least until they had left Nottingham. Much watched the nobleman go.
"Who was that?" he asked while he climbed onto the box of the cart.
Grinning, Robin pulled him back.
"You better sit in the back of the cart. This horse dung didn't do a lot of good to your smell, you know. Once we're home I'm going to throw you into the river." Obediently Much indeed sat in the back of the cart, at the same time repeating that Robin shouldn't even try to throw him into the river.
Matthew, happy that his sons for once were this easy to distract, led the cart out of the castle and through Nottingham, while his sons kept on with their amicable bickering. Only after they'd left the town gates well behind, they got back to their topic.
Matthew told them, "That knight is Sir Guy of Gisburne. He's Steward to Abbot Hugo, but hangs around in Nottingham more often than in 's. He's ambitious and ruthless. Keep well away from him."
Angrily Robin asked, "Shall we just put up with the Normans pushing us around?"
"As long as we can't defend ourselves – yes," Matthew answered calmly. "Think about what happened to your father. He was brave, but it was the wrong time."
"I'm hungry," announced Much from the back of the cart.
The men on the box laughed.
"What's the matter?" Much asked, annoyed, "I really am hungry!"
"It's alright," his father answered, "If we're lucky, your mother will have the bean stew ready when we get home."
Much muttered that he was sick and tired of beans. He wanted meat and he would get it.
A sudden gust of wind from Sherwood drew Robin's eyes as well as his mind to the forest. It was as if somebody had called him.
Sometime…
3