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England, Nottinghamshire, 1199
Guy, sighing heavily, scratched the hefty dog's jaws. The terrible beast, whose jaws easily gnawed the neck of a seasoned wolf, trustingly laid his head on the lap of his only protector, and also sighed, but with pleasure. For a quarter of a candle now, Guy had been agonizing over the solution to the problem of how to save an animal that was innocent of anything. The sheriff was adamant: the dog had to be killed, and only the intervention of the deputy prevented this from being done on the spot. The culprit in this incident was sitting on the mantelpiece and shaking his leg.
— Loxley, let’s think too!
Guy gave him a frown.
—What am I?
—How - what? All because of your stupid trick! Why did you pull his tail?
—I don’t understand, Gisborne, why are you suffering?—Robin shrugged. — Sell the dog if you don’t want to kill it.
— Maybe you can also advise who to sell it to? Yes, not a single person in the county will buy it. Nobody wants to get in trouble with the sheriff.
— Why is that? Baron Thornton asked de Rainault many times to sell this beast, you said it yourself!
—Well, I did. Thornton will buy it, no doubt about it. The sheriff himself will not contact him. But a dog is not yourbrigandine,[1] the sheriff recognizes the dog, and the dog recognizes the owner. Guess three times who the sheriff will be unhappy with? Do I need this?
“Then sell it to someone else,” Loxley responded and, briefly stopping shaking his leg, asked: “What does the brigandine have to do with it?”
— It had nothing to do with it, it came to pass! —Guy barked and added calmer: —Think further.
— Listen, what if you offer it to someone not from Nottinghamshire?
Guy sighed sadly again, scratched the dog behind the ears, then suddenly squinted and looked at Robin. He jumped off the mantelpiece and came closer
—Did you come up with something?
—I figured it out, I think. The Queen is coming to Nottingham soon. Maybe we will be able to seduce some dog lover from her retinue.
— Why is it “we”?
—That's why! And just try to scare Her Majesty Isabella or the ladies of the court.
—I'm always nice to the ladies and don't scare them!—Robin was indignant.
— And Baroness Ashville last month?
—Oh, this... It happened by accident.
Robin raised his hands in apologetic manner. Guy chuckled. By chance, of course.
***
However, instead of Queen Isabella, the Gloucesters unexpectedly showed up, and also with a crowd of people. Hiding behind the barn, Guy watched the twitchy, frail young man from the Duke's retinue, who was walking around the kennel and questioning the dogkeepers. With his thin, long neck and long nose, he looked ridiculously like a goose. Robin stood next to Guy, leaning against the wall.
— Do you think this one will do?
— Quite. Now listen to what is required of you...
***
— Do you like dogs? — Guy smiled kindly.
—I love it! Are you too?
What followed was a business conversation between two noble sirs about the merits and demerits of the dogs from the sheriff's pack. Robin no longer listened to the details: he needed to quietly and unnoticed bring the dog from Guy’s chambers and place it so that the enraged guy would see him in all his glory and, as suddenly as possible. The plan was a success. Seeing the huge black beast, the guy became a nightingale about its undoubted merits, and Guy willingly agreed with him. It looks like the matter was coming to a successful conclusion.
—Listen, Bertie, do you like the dog?
—Actually, Barty...
—But “Bertie” suits you better. So, would you like to buy it?
—Well... Actually, that would be nice! But why are you selling it?
—Circumstances force. So are you interested or should I suggest it to someone else?
— How much?
— Five marks.
— Damn... I don’t have that much.
—It's a pity... Okay, I'll try to offer it to William de Cressy.
—De Cressy? Yes, he understands dogs worse than a scrubber knows daggers!
—Yes? But I'll try anyway.
—You'll waste your time. He lost to smithereens the other day; he doesn't have a farthing. Maybe you can give up the price a little?
— A little is how much?
—I can give you two marks.
—Well, you know...— Guy chuckled disdainfully. — Okay, forget it.
—Believe me, no one in the Duke’s retinue will pay you that much, but I’m serious!
—Two marks are not serious.
— Three?
Guy rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and Robin grunted into his fist with laughter. This conversation amused him more and more. Finally they agreed on four marks. The broadcast was supposed to take place before the evening.
***
Guy put the coins in his pouch, gave the thick leather leash to Bartholomew Wooster's servant, Clem, and, looking after the two horsemen and the dog, went back to the castle. Robin caught up with him not far from the gate.
—It's done. You can breathe freely.
—I will breathe freely when they leave the county, and the dog will not run away from them along the road.
— Gisborne, what were you saying about the brigandine?
— Loxley, leave me alone!
— No way.
— Loxley, I don’t have time!
— I suspect that we then...
— Who is “we”?
—Okay for you! After all, the sheriff doesn’t know that every time you allegedly ordered a new brigandine, you actually took the old one from the gunsmith?
Guy rolled his eyes with a sigh.
—You also had no idea about this until I spilled the beans. And I hope you're not going to educate the sheriff on this?
— No, of course. But how did you pull it all off that no one has figured out yet?
—Why no one? Your Tuk and the Saracen guessed it the third time.
—And they didn’t tell me?! - Robin was dumbfounded.
—They had their percentage.
— Well... —Robin wanted to reward his friends with unflattering epithets, but cut himself off mid-sentence.
Guy patted him on the shoulder with a smile.
—Don't be angry. They didn't say anything to Huntington either, if that's any consolation.
“It will console you,” Robin muttered and suddenly asked worriedly: —Gisborne, do you think the dog will be happy in the new place?
—I don’t know,— Guy answered sadly. — But anything is better than lying like a skinned skin in front of the fireplace.
***
England, Devonshire, 1903
Two teenagers, scions of one of the noblest families in England, tiptoed into the library of the family estate and looked into the ancient fireplace. The legend of the ancient dungeons interested them much more than their arithmetic homework.
— Clara, hold the flashlight and shine it there, otherwise you won’t see anything.
—John, are you sure this is the right fireplace?
— Of course! Barrymore said the fireplace in the library had not been restored. Are you following my train of thought? This is the only thing left from the old castle.
—What if he just doesn’t know? Was the fireplace rebuilt... well... for example, under the Tudors? And...
— If Barrymore didn’t lie and the entrance to the dungeon exists, then it is located here.
—What if we break something? — Clara doubtfully tapped the heel of her boot on the fireplace grate. “Mom will be upset then.” And if mom is upset, then dad will be angry. What if dad gets angry...
— We didn’t do anything...
—Listen to me, dear brother! — the green eyes of the young lady flashed in the light of the lantern. “So, if dad gets angry, he won’t buy me a pony for Christmas, and we won’t go to London to see Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.” I'll somehow survive another year without a pony. But Mr. Holmes promised to give me a real bulldog, and Dr. Watson promised to show me how to shoot over the shoulder. So, if we don’t go to London, I will no longer cover your dates with the innkeeper’s daughter. And I won’t be silent about cigars either! Are you following my train of thought?
—Okay, okay, Clara, don't be angry. We won't break anything, I promise, we'll just have a look... Oh, I think I've found something!
—What?! Where? Let me...
But Clara’s exclamation was drowned in a terrible grinding sound. A bronze figurine of a hooded archer fell from a shelf, and tow fell from the chimney, enveloping the young adventurers in a cloud of soot. Having sneezed, they looked around, but did not find any passage into the dungeon.
— So Barrymore lied after all?
John looked sadly at the pile of soot and tow and suddenly smiled.
—Don’t tell me, Clara, don’t tell me. Even if there is no dungeon, there is definitely something in the library... Look, here.
He pointed his finger at the strange scratches on the floor in front of the fireplace, which became visible only when soot clogged them.
—I think there’s a mechanism here, like in that book about locks! Let's look for him.
A barely noticeable lever was found behind the Birds of Britain encyclopedia. The huge bookcase moved easily, revealing a passage that, after five steps, led to a small chamber. But there were no treasures there, only rotted rags that crumbled in John’s hands, some bottles with their contents turned to dust, and a large box made of bog oak. There was something rustling and clanking in the box.
—Hmmm! This dungeon could have been more underground! - John drawled disappointedly, shining a flashlight into the corners of the room.
—Oh, what a little chest! I'll keep jewelry and bullets in it!
Clara took the box and headed back to the library.
—You don’t have bullets,—John responded gloomily, following her.
—They will be, very soon,—Clara said, shaking the contents of the box onto the floor.
—Then I’ll take this for myself.
John picked up a stack of scrolls and a small bone-hilted dagger from the floor.
—What's going on here? — Lady Baril's voice rang out.
—Mom?! —the scions of the noble family of the Baskervilles exclaimed in one voice, turning to her their disheveled heads, picturesquely decorated with cobwebs and smeared with soot.
***
Doctor Mortimer shone as brightly as a polished silver coffee pot. In one hand he held a cup, and with the other he kept pointing to the scrolls laid out on a low table nearby, and exclaimed enthusiastically:
—What an incredible find! Especially letters! This is the sixteenth century!
—I can imagine how surprised my husband will be when he returns from London.
— Undoubtedly, dear Lady Baril, undoubtedly! But you can’t even imagine how happy I am that you contacted me!
—You are the only expert in archeology and history in the area, and in these scrolls, some things are written in Latin. And I, to my shame, don’t know a word.
— In fact, there is more Old English interspersed with Latin, Occitan and Old French. I haven’t sorted everything out yet, but this is definitely personal correspondence. Oh, how much such letters mean to a historian! - Doctor Mortimer put the cup down so as not to accidentally spill coffee on the priceless scrolls. “You can glean so many details and little things from them about how and what our glorious ancestors lived in the era of the great Virgin Queen.” These are the letters received by Lady Eliza Baskerville, wife of Baron Reginald Baskerville, from her brother Barto... Bertol... Oh, Bartholomew of Wooster! With Lady Eliza's notes in the margin. This is even more interesting. It turns out you are related to the Yaxley lords. Incredible! With your permission, Lady Baril, I would like to read the surviving fragments.
— Of course, dear doctor, read!
Doctor Mortimer nodded and reverently took one of the scrolls.
— Let me note that some expressions may be somewhat... harsh. But I'll try to get around them.
At these words, John's face acquired a sour expression, and Clara, noticing this, made a mocking face at him.
—Oh, you can read everything, dear doctor,—Lady Baryl smiled. — Well, with the exception of the most... complex phrases.
Doctor Mortimer adjusted his glasses, looked at everyone present with a meaningful look and solemnly began:
— My dear Liz, I hope that this letter finds you in good health, physical and mental... ahem... Crossed out, but you can read it... it’s not so easy with your hubby. I'm sorry, Lady Baryl, children. So, next... I have to inform you that I will not be able to come to you for your husband’s name day, although I promised,—Dr. Mortimer paused. — It’s crossed out here... it seems... the devil pulled my tongue. On the left is Lady Eliza’s note: “You were always good at talking to them!” Not very kind to brother.
Clara and John chuckled quietly.
—So, here it goes further... But I’m sending him a gift, accompanied by our faithful Clem, whom you keep with you, in this viper you will need a faithful person. And here’s another note from the lady: “Finally, this stupid gander has realized it! And it only took three years!”
Doctor Mortimer fell silent, running his finger over the scroll, and soon continued reading, complaining that several lines were blurred from dampness and, alas, not a single letter could be read.
—I bought this dog for the occasion and very cheaply in Nottingham, where the Earl of Gloucester and Her Majesty were passing through. I will report to you, my dear sister, that being in the retinue of the Count, or rather, Her former Majesty Queen Hedwisa, is not as pleasant and fun as everyone, and especially our father, thinks about it, because you have to follow him around such places, that God forbid...
Then the young heir of the Baskervilles intervened:
—And why the former queen Hedvisa? You said this is the sixteenth century? But then the letter must date no later than the beginning of the thirteenth century? And Her Majesty Elizabeth reigned much later.
— Exactly!—Doctor Mortimer even jumped in his chair, and his glasses flew off his prominent nose.—Young man, how good it is that you noticed this! I must admit, I was so excited about the joy that I didn’t put two and two together. Here I am, a blind and stupid mole, such a mistake!
He returned his glasses to their place, carefully sorted through the parchments and finally exclaimed:
— Without a doubt, this is a scroll from the time of John the Lackland! Well, let's continue... Here Nottingham, although it is a royal residence, is such a hole that it is worse even than your Baskerville Hall, although it cannot be worse! And then there is a note: “And who married me off to this hole in the swamps and to this boar?” Then the letter itself: Imagine, not a single decent lady. And especially indecent. And next to it: “Serves you right, you goat of lust...” So, it doesn’t matter... “But, nevertheless, even to this godforsaken place the fashion for castle ghosts has reached. As soon as I enter into an inheritance, I will certainly acquire the same one. And I advise you - it really enlivens the interior and at night gives incomparable horror a special charm.” Another note: “What a wonderful idea! As soon as you arrive, my dear brother! As soon as you arrive!” However, this lady... But further: “This ghost of theirs is shown to few people, and the local deputy sheriff saw it most of all. By the way, this idiot sold me a magnificent dog, which is worth much more, for only four marks. But don’t tell your spouse, he won’t appreciate it, I know him...
Dr. Mortimer paused again, noting with regret that it was not possible to read a significant portion of the letter.
—But what place are we talking about? Is this the same Nottingham and the same sheriff? From the legend of Robin Hood?—asked Clara, whose eyes lit up from this story.
—I think it’s just about him, young lady. Everything seems to coincide in time,— Dr. Mortimer muttered thoughtfully, peering at the further text of the letter.—My God, did ladies really speak like that in that era? It's incredible!
—Read on, doctor, please! — Lady Baril intervened, also consumed by curiosity.
— Of course, of course! —he nodded— Oh, here are Lady Eliza’s notes preserved: “This is a completely uncontrollable beast of unknown blood, on the very first day he almost crippled our best wolfhound, but my husband still took him hunting.” Here, unfortunately, a piece falls out again. Further... “I’ll strangle this bitch...” well, that doesn’t matter either... Here’s another: “This little gift ate up half the pack and ran away, however, that’s where he belongs, the devil will take him way! Praise the Lord, Reggie returned home safe and sound, but rumors of a terrible beast in the swamps..."
—Wait! What kind of beast in the swamps is it talking about? — Lady Baryl said in extraordinary excitement.
Doctor Mortimer stared at her over his glasses in shock.
— Dear Lady Baril, it seems to me... No, I am sure that we have now opened an unknown chapter in a legend that is all familiar to us.
—Which one? - Young John spoke up. - About Robin Hood or about our family dog?
—That’s a good question, young man,—Doctor Mortimer smiled. — And you know, I don’t exclude the possibility that it’s both at once. Lady Baryl, may I ask for more coffee? I can't wait to continue, but my throat is dry!
— Of course, dear doctor.
Lady Baryl rang the bell and ordered the maid to appear and bring a new coffee pot. Suddenly the wind opened the window sash, threw up the blue curtains, and felt the autumn cold. The gas jets under the glass caps began to flicker, and several parchments fell from the table. Lady Baril hurried to close the window, Doctor Mortimer rushed to collect the scrolls, and Clara and John looked with round eyes at two young oak leaves that had fallen into their laps from nowhere.
***
— Well, Gisborne, have you admired your brother’s descendants?
— By the way, Locksley, you haven’t stopped saying, I want to look at Marion’s descendants.
—Well, yes, I wanted to. But you were the first to say.
Robin smiled and patted the neck of a black horse with eyes burning like coals—he impatiently beat his hoof. Guy jumped into the saddle of exactly the same horse. Samhain was still more than a month away; it was too early for the Hunt to leave, but other horses, even from fairy herds, would not have been able to cross the border of the mortal world.
—Okay, okay, I’ll go first, Your Majesty,” Guy grinned. Arguing with Robin, as always, was useless and more expensive. — The boy, by the way, is the spitting image of Robert, and probably has the same character... disgusting.
—But Clara is all Marion, a pure angel,—Robin sighed and also flew up onto the horse’s back.
—Angel, angel,— Guy chuckled.— He's learning to shoot. Shall we visit them on Yule? I want to see how she will shoot over her shoulder.
— Of course, my knight. It’s not for nothing that I left them a gift.
The horses took off without touching the ground with their hooves. Robin whistled, and the resulting whirlwind lifted fallen leaves into the air. A loud bark was heard in the distance, and soon a huge black dog caught up with them, jumped around, trying to lick Guy in the face as he went.
—Ew, fool, eew! The devil dared me to find you then! Ugh, I said, I’ll turn you over to Hern!
Robin laughed and hit the horse's sides with his heels, and a new whirlwind erased the two riders from the human world.
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- Brigandine (German brigantine; English brigandine) - armor made of plates riveted overlapping under a leather or cloth base (jacket) .[return to text]