Pulp Spirit #4, Then "The Secret of the Aero Plane" from Issue #12
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Illustrations by Rob Davis, ?borrowed" from illustrations in Ian Watson's ROBIN HOOD: KING OF SHERWOOD. I The Bishop of Hereford danced. It was an absurd jig, capering around the immense tree that would henceforth be called the Bishop’s Oak1. Whenever he slowed down, Robin Hood hastened him with another smack on the backside with the flat of a sword. The Bishop’s attendants and guards watched helpless to intervene. They’d been brave enough when they’d spotted the half dozen ragged peasants gutting a deer at the side of the 1 The remnant of this famous oak, called the Bishop’s Tree Root, is found in Skelbrook Park near Wentbridge. road and ruthless in pursuing them into the bushes. They’d lost their taste for the hunt when the disguised outlaws had led them to the spot where two score of well-armed bandits waited with nocked arrows.2 The portly divine ran around the wide tree trunk until he was red in the face and gasping. Only when he was about to drop did Robin relent enough to let him stop. “Now you’ll have less energy to flog serving boys for spilling your cider,” the young outlaw told the Bishop. “But we’ll take your treasury off for you to save you the strain of carrying it.” The raid was done. Much the Miller’s Son and George a’Green fastened the servants’ arms behind their backs. Will Scathlock, who’d earned the name Scarlet the bloody way, divested the clergyman of his rings and chains. “The poor thank you for your donations,” Maid Marion assured the Bishop. “Next time don’t wait for an outlaw to force your Christian duty on you.” The Bishop looked like he wanted to make a rude and noisy answer, but he glanced at Robin Hood and held his peace. He didn’t want to dance again. “Ware!” called David of Doncaster, on lookout. The bandits of Sherwood were careful to set a watch. They were about to made a hasty departure into the greensward when David called all clear. “It’s Little John.” Robin patted the Bishop of Hertford on his cheek, thanked him again for his contribution, and set off down the road to meet his returning lieutenant. Marion fell into step beside her forest lord. “John went north to see how things lie now Baron de Puiset’s been deposed,” she remembered. “Is the Sheriff’s writ unchallenged now?” Up to last summer three powerful men had contested the control of England. Richard Lionheart had appointed two Justiciars to rule during his absence on crusade. Hugh de Puiset, Bishop of Durham and Earl of Northumberland had been displaced and demoted by his fellow Justiciar, Lord Chancellor William Longchamp – who had in turn been dispossessed by the scheming Prince John. The Sheriff of Nottingham, sour William de Vendenal, now had authority over the vast tracts of Yorkshire and Derbyshire as well as his own county. “The Sheriff won’t be unchallenged,” Robin promised his lady. “I’m easily bored.” The unmistakable figure of Little John came over the crest of the road. He was huge and sheepskin-clad, his seven-foot quarterstaff barely topping his shaggy head. Riccon Hazel and Gilbert Whitehand trailed behind him; and one other. Old Arthur a Bland recognised the lithe young woman with the streaming black hair. “Uh oh,” the wiry poacher breathed Marion glanced at Robin, then back to the maiden approaching with John of Hathersage. The stranger was clad in green velvet decorated with yellow ribbons. She walked confidently, assured and collected, and she carried a crook. “Clorinda, Queen of the Shepherdesses, I presume,” Marion said to Robin. “I think that’s her name, yes,” the young outlaw answered in casual tones. “I, er, met her once.” “I heard the ballad, Robin. ‘Met’ is a pretty tame word if everything Alan sings is 2 This opening summarises the ancient tale Robin Hood and the Bishop of Hertford, ballad number 144 in the 19th century collection English and Scottish Popular Ballads by Francis James Child. Version A of that popular ley concludes, “Robin Hood took the Bishop by the hand/And he caused the music to play/And he made the Bishop to dance in his boots/And glad he could so get away.” true.” Clorinda of the high peaks and hidden valleys, the outlaws had called her.3 “Alan a Dale should shut up,” said Robin with feeling. Little John approached with the lovely shepherdess. He looked sheepish. “Look who I found,” he ventured, trying to sound casual. “Hello, Clorinda,” Robin bade the maiden. “Hello, Loxley. Or do I call you the king of Sherwood now?” “Rob’s fine,” Marion answered for the young outlaw. “Or Mud. Either name’s right.” The queen of the shepherdesses regarded the outlaw lady. “You must be Matilda.” “I must. My friends call me Marion.” The Queen of May didn’t extend that invitation to Clorinda. “Well, isn’t this nice?” Little John said nervously. “A nice meeting of old friends and new. Nice.” Scarlet intervened. “As great as it is to watch Rob squirm, could we do it back at camp? Those Bishop’s men will get loose from their ropes sometime and summon help. These awkward pauses will be a lot less funny when we’re dangling from gibbets.” “An excellent point,” Robin Hood agreed. “Clorinda, good to see you. Meet my heart’s love Marion. Marion, this is the shepherdess queen who made a man of me. Let’s all get some supper.” *** The remorseless tide pulled back from the crumbling cliffs at last. When it was safe enough, Captain Aelstan of Osmondthorpe climbed the rope ladder down to the cove to see the damage. 3 In Child ballad 149, The Birth, Breeding, Valour, and Marriage of Robin Hood, one of the earliest ballads from before Marion enters the Robin Hood canon, our hero meets with the huntress Clorinda, Queen of the Shepherdesses, whom he weds. The old song describes her thus: “As that word was spoke, Clorinda came by; The queen of the shepherds was she; And her gown was of velvet as green as the grass, And her buskin did reach to her knee. Her gait it was graceful, her body was straight, And her countenance free from pride; A bow in her hand, and quiver and arrows Hung dangling by her sweet side. Her eye-brows were black, ay, and so was her hair, And her skin was as smooth as glass; Her visage spoke wisdom, and modesty too; Sets with Robin Hood such a lass!” “It’s brought t’whole entrance down,” said Mickle the foreman, gloomily. “No way to open that ‘un up again. We’ll need to tunnel in a bit along, happen up by t’ Gnipe Howe.” The Sheriff of Nottingham’s guard captain inspected the tumbled rockfall that had closed the tunnel into the sea-cliffs. Massive blocks of friable stone had completely blocked three months’ diligent digging. He spat and swore. “We’ll need new scaffolding and that,” Mickle went on. “T’ flood’s washed all away. And t’miners are refusing t’dig owt now after them lads and lasses were lost.” Captain Aelstan had been a handsome man once. That was before the fury of the York riots and the hot flames of the brazier where the mob had held his head. Now his face was a pink mass of scar tissue and purpled blisters, one burned eye blackened and sightless. He was not an enemy to cross. “They’ll work, by Mary, or I’ll slit the noses of every child in the camp! Aye, and take their ears if I have to!” Mickle nodded, satisfied. “That’d do it, most like. I’ll need the menfolk down here to get’t rig set up. We’ll need to drill some holes in’t back of yon hollow and drive a shaft that way. We’ll catch the jet layer about ten feet in, I reckons.” Aelstan had to be satisfied with that. The Sheriff wouldn’t like the delay, but even he must understand that the sea’s aggression could not be controlled. “There’ll be jet fragments all along this strand where the tide washed out the cave,” Mickle added. “We’d best have t’lasses walking this shore. They won’t want to step where their kinfolk drowned but we’ve plenty of whips.” The Captain nodded. “See to it. Maybe we can get back on quota before Lord de Vendenal gets here.” It would be better for everybody if they did. Mickle leaned down to the shingle strand and picked up a black pebble. He dropped it into Aelstan’s hand. “There y’go. That’s Whitby jet4 for you. Another half ton and you’re back on schedule.” Aelstan looked at the rounded stone in his palm. True jet was rare. It could be carved and shaped. When rubbed on porcelain it left a brown mark. It was sovereign against evil magic, popular for use in clerical jewellery and the mourning garb of princes. It was certainly worth the lives of a few worthless nobodies. “Set them to work, Mickle,” the Captain commanded. He pocketed the jet-stone. “Work them hard. There’s plenty more where they came from!” *** All eyes were on Clorinda’s bosom. She dipped her fingers down into her cleavage and pulled out a tiny carved cross of Whitby jet. “This is what I’ve come to show you,” she told the outlaws.