And mony ane sings o’ grass, o’ grass,
And mony ane sings o’ corn,
And mony ane sings o’ Robin Hood
Kens little where he was born.
It wasna in the ha’, the ha’,
Nor in the painted bower;
But it was in the gude green-wood,
Amang the lily-flower.
BALLAD: The Birth of Robin Hood
Although it was a hundred years since the Battle of Hastings, there was no real peace in England. William the Conqueror had divided the country amongst his followers, only in special cases leaving the old Saxon Thanes the ownership of even a small part of what had once been their properties. Often the new Norman earls and barons and knights, and their sons and grandsons also, treated the Saxons as mere slaves – serfs to till the land for them and follow them in war – serfs with no rights of their own and no chance of real justice.
England was still an ‘occupied’ country in the twelfth century, and although there were no big outbreaks after the death of Hereward the Wake, there were many small ‘underground movements’, and in every forest there were outlaws and gangs of robbers. These forests were the property of the king, and the penalties for killing the king’s deer were cruel and barbarous.
No wonder that in the year 1160 there was little friendship between Saxon and Norman: no wonder Sir George Gamwell of Gamwell Hall in Nottinghamshire, a Saxon knight holding the scarred remnant of his ancestors’ lands, did not encourage young William Fitzooth, son of the Baron of Kyme, when he came wooing his daughter Joanna.
Sir George was short-tempered and fierce, a bitter man who could never forget his wrongs, nor forgive the Normans whose fathers and grandfathers had wronged him.
As it happened, young William Fitzooth had a Saxon mother and a Saxon grandmother, and was already beginning to feel that he was neither Norman nor Saxon, but British – and that the way to find contentment and security for the country was by justice and not by cruelty.
But Sir George would not listen to William, and forbade him ever to enter his house again. Nor would he listen to his daughter, but ordered her as fiercely to keep to her rooms and have no more dealings with the accursed Norman.
Joanna went weeping away: but she did not obey her father. That night William Fitzooth stood beneath her window, and they swore to be faithful to one another for ever. And not long after, though Sir George had no idea of it, these two were married in secret, meeting like Romeo and Juliet at a nearby chapel.
Then William visited Joanna night by night, climbing perilously to her window in the darkness, and leaving in haste before the daylight came.
Spring turned into Summer, and William was called away for several months to follow his father to London on the king’s business. When he returned to Gamwell, a messenger brought him in secret a letter from Joanna.
‘I am in sore trouble,’ she wrote, ‘for, though I keep my bed and fain to be ill, my father will soon know what has chanced between us – and then his fury will be terrible. If he catches you, he will certainly hang you – and I do not know what he will do to me, or to our child when it is born. So come to me quickly, dear William, and carry me away, for I am in constant fear until I feel your strong arms around me.’
Then William called to him three of his most faithful followers, and led them swiftly into Sherwood Forest, where they made their camp not far from Gamwell: for he knew that when Sir George missed his daughter he would suspect him, and seek for her first at Kyme.
When the sun had set, William and his men came silently and stealthily to Gamwell Hall, made their way into the garden, and stood beneath Joanna’s window.
She was waiting for them, all ready to flee away, and leapt bravely from the window into the great red cloak which the four held for her. Then William took her in his arms, and carried her slowly and tenderly away from Gamwell and out into the silent forest where the green leaves shimmered in the moonlight and the hoot of an owl or the bark of a fox were the only sounds in the stillness.
When night was gone and the sun shone out, Sir George woke suddenly, and called loudly for his retainers.
‘Where is my daughter?’ he cried. ‘She usually comes to see me at this time in the morning – and there is no sign of her! I dreamt a terrible dream about her – God grant it never comes true! – for I thought that I saw her drowned in the salt sea… But look here! If she’s been stolen away, or if any harm has come to her – I’ll hang the lot of you!’
Then there was fear and commotion at Gamwell Hall, servants running hither and thither, men buckling on their swords, foresters stringing their bows and seeing to their arrows.
Sir George came storming through the midst of them, shouting for his horse and threatening to hang everyone on the spot unless they found his daughter.
At last the chief huntsman came with two of his hounds on a leash, and the whole party set forth into Sherwood Forest following the trail of William Fitzooth.
And later that day they came suddenly upon Joanna, sitting in her woodland bower, and nursing her baby son.
Then Sir George sprang to earth with drawn sword, swearing dreadful things. But when Joanna smiled up at him and placed his little grandson in his arms, he dropped the sword and kissed the child tenderly, exclaiming:
‘By God, I’d like to hang your father – but your mother’s dear to me still, in spite of everything… Well, well, you’re my grandson sure enough, and it would be little kindness on my part to begin by killing your father. Joanna, where is this villain?’
Then William Fitzooth came out from behind a tree and knelt before Sir George, begging his forgiveness and promising to be a special friend to all Saxons for his sweet wife’s sake, and for the sake of his little son who himself was more than half a Saxon.
‘Well, well,’ said Sir George. ‘All shall be forgiven and forgotten. And as for this young person – what do you say his name is? Robert?… Well, young Robin, born in the good green-wood, and no stately hall or painted bower; may you be true to the soil of England and bring help to the down-trodden all your days!’