Archive of Our Own

It was a pleasant, sunny day in Sherwood.  Birds chirruped in the trees.  Frogs croaked on riverbanks.  Fish blew bubbles under the water.  Hedgehogs snuffled.  Bats and owls snored.  Little furry animals did whatever it is that little furry animals are wont to do on warm, sunny days.

The outlaws, bored, sleepy and in dubious temper were in their hideout, watching the Nottingham road.  There had been nothing to do, lately.  Very few people seemed to be passing through the forest these days – and those that were tended to be as poor as the proverbial church mouse – although Tuck often remarked that if a church mouse was as well-off as most clerics seemed to be these days, he couldn't be doing too badly.

“I’m bored,” complained Much, scratching himself.  “I wish somethin’ would ‘appen.”

“Let’s play a game, then,” John suggested.  “I spy with my little eye something beginning with – T.”

“Tree,” replied Much.

“Correct.  Your go, Much.”

“All right.  I spy with my little eye somethin’ beginnin' with – T.”

“Tuck?”

“Nope.”

“Tunic?”

“Nope.”

“Tresses?”

“Nope.  Give up?”

“Aye.  What was it?”

“Tree.  My go again.”

“’Ang abaht,” said Will.  “You can't ‘ave ‘tree’ two times in a row.  That’s not ‘ow you play the game.”

“Well I couldn’t think of anythin’ else,” Much retorted.  “Anyway, it’s my turn now, not yours, so shaddup, Will.  I spy –”

“This boy is one arrow short of a quiverful,” Will said, to no-one in particular.

“I spy with my little eye somethin’ beginnin’ with – A.”

“Apple?”

“Nope.”

“Arrows?”

“Nope.”

“Arrow ‘ead?”

“Nope.”

“Give up.”

“Another tree.  I spy with my little eye somethin’ beginnin with – C.”

“Clout round the ear?”  Will was beginning to lose patience and had started to attack the tree bark aggressively with a dagger.

“Nope.”

“Chicken?”

“Nope.”

“Clump of blue-bells?”

“Nope.  Give in?”

“Yeah,” sighed John.  “What was it?”

“Cart,” replied Much.

“Cart?” retorted John scornfully.  “Where?”

“Over there,” replied Much, pointing helpfully.

“He’s right!” said Tuck eagerly.

“Looks like it belongs to someone rich, too,” Marion added hopefully.

“Not before time,” commented Will acidly.

“I wonder who it is, though?” puzzled Robin.

The cart, sturdy but surprisingly elaborately decorated, bore a coat of arms – a black serpent entwined around a dagger – which none of them recognised, and which wasn’t in Robin’s invaluable parchment Ye Outlaw’s Guide to Recognising Coats of Arms and Heraldic Devices; but then, he still hadn’t managed to get hold of the revised edition which had been published earlier that year.

“Well,” Robin added, about to utter the blindingly obvious, “we won’t know who it is unless we go and find out!”

Nasir leapt down from the tree first, as stealthily as a cat, closely followed – with varying shades of agility – by the others.  Bows raised and arrows nocked, they advanced on the cart and forced the driver to stop.

“Come out of there and show yourselves!” ordered Robin.  “My men and I are armed!”

The cart driver looked terrified, and turned, whimpering, to the strange, hairy creature seated beside him.

“Must be some new kind of guard-hound,” John whispered to Will in a non-too-quiet voice.

“'Oo – ‘im, or that great ‘airy thing?” Will whispered back, equally as loud.

Time passed – but of the occupants of the cart there was still no sign.

“I’m losing my patience, friend,” Robin said loudly, as they waited for some movement from inside the cart.

After a few moments’ more silence, Robin called out again – and at last, there was a response:  a long, loud, irritated “Oh God...”

A tall male figure, dressed entirely in finely-made and obviously expensive black clothes, stepped down from the cart.  His black, curly hair was cut in the Norman style, but he also sported a neat little beard.  Sulkily handsome and clearly contemptuous of those responsible for delaying him, his dark eyes swept idly – but thoroughly – over each of the outlaws in turn.

Then, in a weary, arrogant voice, he spoke:  “Oh, God.   It’s the blonde thickie earl’s son and his merry band of social misfits.”

“I – what?” gasped Robin.

“You heard,” retorted the man.  “You’re the man they call Robert, Thickie Son of the Earl of Huntingdon at court.  Now known as the Even Greater Thickie Robin i’ the Hood.”

"How dare you!" exclaimed Marion.  “I don’t know who you are, but you’re obviously a very rude man!”

The Norman turned to Marion with a jaundiced smile.  “Then perhaps I should introduce myself, my dear girl.  I am Sir Edmund Blackadder:  Baron of Brent Knoll and Weston-Super-Mare.”

“Sir Edmund Blackadder?” repeated a bemused Robin.  “I don’t think I’ve heard of you.”

“I have,” said Tuck uncomfortably.

“And anyway, I’m not thick!” retorted Robin, indignant at this laughable calumny.

“Not thick?” Edmund sneered.  “You gave up a life of ease and pleasure and all the girls you could shake a stick at to protect peasants, and uphold the rights of those who shouldn’t have any rights in the first place – and all on the say-so of a forest-dwelling loony?  Some mumbo-jumbo speaking tree hugger whose idea of top-flight millinery haute couture is a discarded hat-stand?  I think the evidence speaks for itself.”

“If it wasn’t for us,” Robin answered haughtily, “the people would suffer more harshly under the oppression of the Normans than they already do.”

“Is that so...” said Edmund dangerously.

“Yes!”

“So let’s get this straight.  You uphold the interests of those who are oppressed, do you?”

“We do!”

“Yes, well; I’m feeling pretty oppressed at the moment, but I don’t see you doing too much worrying about my interests.  So:  you uphold the interests of the oppressed and have widespread popular support, eh?”  taking in the incredulous faces of the outlaws, Edmund paused and then continued.  “Right.  Just excuse me one moment.”

He walked round to the front of the cart and motioned to the hairy little creature on the driver’s seat.  “Step down here a moment, will you?” he said.  He paused again as he walked back to the outlaws.  “And Percy – for God’s sake stop snivelling.  I paid good money for that get-up you’re wearing and I won’t have you wiping your nose all over the sleeves.  One day someone will write a song about a person who does that and then you’ll be sorry.  Everyone will be going around saying ‘Oh look, there’s that complete and utter prat, Percy Greensleeves’.”

Much sniggered quietly and promptly received a clout around the back of the head from Will.

The little hairy creature hopped down from the cart and ambled across to his master.  To the outlaws’ surprise, the creature was, in fact, human.  “Hullo,” it said amiably.

“This,” said Edmund, clapping the creature on the shoulder and then thinking better of it, “is my servant, Baldrick.  Now:  you’re a peasant, aren’t you, Balders?”

“I am that, my lord.  Man and root vegetable.”

“Now Baldrick here is the same as any other peasant in this country – filthy, malnourished, and reeking of dung, mildew, and poverty.  But you won’t hear any whining about being oppressed from him.  You don’t mind being oppressed, do you, Baldrick?”

“No, I don’t, my lord...”

“There you are,” said Edmund smugly.  “Rather wasting your time, aren’t you!”

“...’Sept as I don’t actually know what ‘oppressed’ means, I don’t know if I should mind it or not...”

Glaring balefully, Edmund cuffed Baldrick round the back of the head.

[AN EMINENT HISTORIAN WRITES:  “Many scholars will, of course, by now be consulting the history books prior to writing in to point out that this depiction of Edmund Blackadder, Baron of Brent Knoll and Weston-Super-Mare and Baldrick, his servant, is historically inaccurate.  They will, quite rightly, point out that the earliest references to an Edmund Blackadder (Son of Richard IV and Duke of Edinburgh) come in the 15th century so-called Heretical Chronicles written down by the mysterious Graham of Gloucester (Graaemus Chipping Sodburiis).

“These references paint a much different picture to the one that we have here; in Graham’s account, Edmund Blackadder is a gormless, cowardly, spineless dandy, with pretensions and a criminally deformed hair-cut, whilst Baldrick is a quick-witted jackanapes with many a cunning plan.  Indeed, it is not until the 16th century and beyond that we find accounts of the descendants of the original Edmund Blackadder which in any way match the picture of this fascinating man given in this account of a 13th century encounter with the famous outlaw, Robin Hood.

“However, this can now be explained in the light of modern knowledge concerning genetics.  Quite clearly, Edmund’s ancestors were genetically pre-disposed to being scheming, selfish, thoroughly nasty pieces of work, and Baldrick’s to a level of intelligence that would render the average amoeba to the level of a Nobel Prize-winning physicist.

“With this in mind, the 15th century aberration is made simple:  here we see at work a genetic throwback.  A glitch, if you like.  A temporary hiccup in the warp and weft of things.  A pulled thread in the great tapestry of life.  A – oh, sod this for a lark; I’m off to the pub:  you can just work it all out for yourselves.  Or watch my documentary on the History Channel.  Unless, of course, there’s a really good match on Sky Sports at the same time, in which case...”

MEANWHILE, BACK IN SHERWOOD:

Robin was having great difficulty in parting Edmund from his money and the resulting tussle had been reduced to a tedious verbal duel:

ROBIN:        Give your money to us, Sir Edmund!

EDMUND:      No!  Sod off, you objectionable little oik!

ROBIN:        If you give your money to us, we will give it to the poor and needy.

EDMUND:      If I give you all my money, I’ll be poor and needy!

ROBIN:         The poor need your money more than you do – they have little enough to live on as it is.

EDMUND:      Stuff the poor!  If they’re so hard up, why don’t they just get up off their fat backsides and do a decent hard day’s work for it, like everyone else?  That’s what I have to do.

...And so on and so forth.

Finally, Robin decided to resort to brute force.  He didn’t like having to do it, but this was one occasion when he had no alternative.  Launching himself at Edmund, he ordered John to grab the Baron around the neck and Much to seize the money-bags at Edmund’s belt.

During the ensuing struggle, whilst Edmund kicked, snarled and swore at John, Much and Robin, Baldrick approached the others.  “Percy and I haven’t got any money,” he said bashfully.  “But I’d like to help.”  He handed a small leather pouch to Marion.  “Here, you can have this.  Promise me you’ll look after him?”

“Him?” asked Marion nervously.

“Yes,” replied Baldrick shyly.  “That’s Quentin.  He’s my pet.  You promise to look after him?”

“I promise,” replied a bewildered Marion.  “Thank you very much, er –”

“Baldrick, miss,” said Baldrick, wriggling like a bashful three year old.

“Er – Baldrick,” said Marion.

“Don’t worry,” he added conspiratorially.  “No-one ever can remember my name.  In fact, up until very recently, I didn’t even know that my name was Baldrick.  It wasn’t until an old friend of the family told me that my name wasn’t actually ‘Hey you – yes, you; the disgusting little dung-ball with the interesting skin complaint’.”

“Really...” said Marion, backing away hurriedly, holding the leather pouch at arm’s length.

Suddenly John and Much let out yells of delight – they had finally succeeded in liberating Edmund’s money-bags.  Tossing the money over to Tuck, John, and Robin let go of the wriggling Baron, depositing him gracelessly onto the forest floor amidst laughter and cat-calls.  “Bet you don’t feel so superior now,” they yelled.  “This adder’s bark is worse than his bite!”

...And so on.

Much was the merriment made at the expense of Sir Edmund Blackadder (with a hey nonny nonny and a ying tong tiddle eye po).  Many were the jests and fine ripostes made concerning the flexibility of his face and the largeness of his nose.  Much was the glee derived from the sight of this arrogant noble scuffling on the ground where the deer dwelt and the fox cubs played and the fluffy little bunnie-wunnies came to empty their bowelly-wowellies since timey-wimey (from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint, like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly stuff) immemorial.

“You bastards,” snarled Edmund, picking himself up and dusting off his clothes.  “I’ll get you for this!”

“Be on your way,” ordered Robin haughtily, wondering why the others were so quiet.  “I want you to get out of Sherwood as soon as possible!”

“Oh, I will,” sneered Edmund.  “Don’t you worry!”

“I bet you’re on your way to see the Sheriff in Nottingham,” said Much.

“Oh – er – no, I – er – don’t fink ‘e is,” said Will uneasily.

“Indeed, I’m not,” said Edmund, sensing victory.  “You should be more like your friends and pay some attention to what goes on, my dear Robin.  In case you hadn’t heard, Robert de Rainault has been recalled to London and will be installed temporarily as Sheriff of Peckham Rye in the hope that he might be able to rid the area of two other notorious outlaws, Derek and Rodney de Trotteur.”

“So – we’ve got rid of the Sheriff?” suggested Robin hesitantly.

“Er no, not exactly,” said Edmund.  “You see, in the meantime, King John has to have someone here in Nottingham to take Robert de Rainault’s place.”

“So who’s the new Sheriff, then?” demanded Robin.

“Hello!” said Edmund, waggling the fingers of one hand at them all.  “That’s me; Sir Edmund Blackadder, Baron of Brent Knoll and Weston-Super-Mare – and now Sheriff of Nottingham.”

The dumbstruck outlaws looked on in horror as he sauntered across to Tuck.  “And I’ll have my money back, too,” he said, quietly smug.

“What about Quentin?” asked Baldrick.

“Oh, all right – and Baldrick’s slug.  If you think that you absolutely can’t live without him, Baldrick.”

Sir Edmund snatched back the money-bags that Tuck was holding and then disappeared into the curtained cart.  Baldrick, meanwhile, retrieved the leather pouch from a pale-faced Marion and then underwent an emotional reunion with his slug.

Suddenly Edmund’s head re-appeared from behind the curtain.  “Oh, and by the way – don’t think I’ll let this incident slip by me.  I’m the new Sheriff, and I’ll be a damn sight harder on you sponging bastards than my predecessor was.  Oh yes, mark my words – I’ll make you bastards pay.  After all, as you say yourselves:  nothing’s forgotten – nothing is ever forgotten!”