RoS: “The Swords of Wayland.” (Part Two)

~~*Previously, on Robin of Sherwood*~~

Team Norman.

Eeeeevil Lucifer-worshipping not-nuns.

When we left poor Robin, he was being pulled to the Earl of Godwin by soldiers, who believe they’ve apprehended a dangerous criminal and have no idea that they’re indirectly serving Satan by keeping Herne’s Son captive. And the men are none too efficient, since Robin was captured in broad daylight at the end of part one–

–but at the beginning of part two, he’s being dragged piteously into the sunset, water sparkling beyond his still-outstretched and now very sore arms, because they couldn’t have just trussed him, slung him over a saddle, and galloped swiftly to Gwydion Castle.

Back in Ravenscar Abbey, Morgwyn and Verdelet sit on opposite sides of a screen. At first this looks like a confessional scene, and I’m about to start laughing incredulously, when their conversation reveals that they’re actually discussing the recently-acquired Robin. “Who is he?” Morgwyn whispers warily, and though I’m expecting the obvious answer–

Roooooooooooooooooooooooooobin. :dah dah daaaaaaah:
The Hooded Man! :dah daaahn!:

–the show fortunately has higher standards than mine, so Morgwyn continues her line: “And why do I fear him?” Verdelet assures her that the wolfshead is now powerless and, moreover, that the sword Albion has been taken to the Earl of Godwin and thus lies now within their reach. With that reference to the Seventh Sword of Wayland – which is required by the duo’s coven of fake-nun/sorceresses in order to properly conduct their secret nighttime basement devil-summoning – we dive right back into this batshit crazy plot, also known as:

Over in Sherwood Forest Exmoor National Park, the outlaws rest while Will asks questions of Much, who was the only witness to Robin’s capture. At last Much remembers what he overheard the men say, about Robin’s destination:

Much: They said Godwin! That’s it – Earl Godwin!
Marion: Godwin? My father’s friend! Do they know who Robin is?
Much: No.
Marion: If they find out, they’ll hunt us!
John: If we’re caught, they’ll kill us all, or take us to Nottingham.
Tuck: Same thing.

While the Merries despair and try to think of a plan, we’ll head over to Gwydion Castle, home of the Earl of Godwin, where – because no-one in power has any work to do – musicians strum pleasantly in the great hall as the Earl plays chess. Godwin will probably be an antagonist to the Merries, because he prefers the more Norman (Normaner?) game of chess to the Saxon hnefatafl (1), and the upcoming scene shows him to be a dignified, skeptical, and intelligent man with excellent taste in metalwork; in fact, his necklace is so striking that I have to ask, before going any further–

–who wore it better? (Above: Earl Godwin in this episode. Below: Peter de Leon in The Prophecy.)

Then Robin is dragged in, and the Earl begins an interrogation. Robin readily reveals his real name and tries to respond honestly to the Earl’s questioning, but the episode’s outlandish magical plot undermines his credibility: the more truth he tells, the more ridiculous he sounds:

Godwin: Sherwood is five days’ march from here, so what were you doing in Uffculme?
Robin: Defending it.
Godwin: Were you now? Well, that’s original at least. Defending it against whom?
Robin: The Hounds of Lucifer.
Godwin: [to his captain] It seems you’ve brought me a madman.
Robin: Ask the people of–
Gisburne Captain: Be silent!

Godwin asks in astonishment, “You expect me to believe that you and your companions tracked across England to defend a village against devils?” The audience chimes in with I KNOW, RIGHT?!, and then Godwin starts in on the matter of Albion. But Robin wisely remains silent about the sword’s provenance–

–and simply replies that Godwin wouldn’t believe the sword’s origin even if told. Godwin agrees:

Godwin: No, I don’t suppose I would. You see, I’ve dealt with villains like you before. They’re never content with ordinary lies. Ordinary lies would make them ordinary villains. And they’re so stuffed with conceit they believe themselves beyond ordinary justice.

Having spent the last fifty-four minutes actively opposing the End of Days by blocking the Unholy One’s attempts to clothe himself in human form and become the Antichrist, Robin finally explodes with extremely justified anger, exclaiming that he didn’t kill Adam the Miller, but that Adam killed himself after being discovered as the Hounds’ leader; he then reveals to Godwin that the EEEEEVIL coven’s leader is a local Abbess.

But when Robin utters the name “Morgwyn of Ravenscar,” the entire hall falls silent, reacting with the stunned, furious silence that usually attends ominous saloon entrances in old Western films. Godwin’s angry captain – who’s been waiting for an excuse to play Whack-the-Serf – backhands Robin across the face, in a nice parallel to Robin’s very first scene in the series.

And Morgwyn is good; by “good” I mean that, despite her secret identity as Lady Nastyrobes FakeWimple, she’s established a public reputation as “one of the most holy and venerated women in the kingdom,” so that the very notion of her worshipping LUCIFE-E-E-ER is unthinkable to the people of Devonshire. Robin is hastily dragged down to the dungeons, and as he unwillingly departs, he begs Godwin to protect the blade Albion from Morgwyn, whom he insists will send for the sword. But the Earl brushes off the apparent balderdash and decides to serve this pretentious outlaw with some “ordinary justice”:

Godwin: He’s a wolfshead; I’m sure of it. Captain!
Gisburne Captain: My lord.
Godwin: Send a messenger to Nottingham. If he’s wanted there, that dreadful little man de Rainault, the Sheriff, can deal with him.

Then the Earl issues orders for the other outlaws to be hunted down. But Godwin’s brain seems weird, and I have contentions:

(1) The Earl only guesses that this “Robin of Sherwood” is an outlaw who might be wanted in Nottinghamshire, despite the fact that Robin and his Merries are legendary by now, important enough for tales of their exploits to have reached King Richard on the battlefields of Normandy four years earlier. I suppose Devonshire could be some middle-of-nowhere backwater that never gets news, except that Godwin earlier deemed Sherwood Forest to be “five days’ march” from Uffculme. Since the Earl’s a nobleman and probably rides horses everywhere, and he seems to have no idea of current events in Nottinghamshire, how does he know how long it takes to walk to Sherwood from Uffculme?
(2) He then correctly names Nottinghamshire’s chief official and assesses de Rainault as a “dreadful little man.” But how could the Earl know the Sheriff of Nottingham’s surname and character, without ever having heard of the Sheriff’s infamous arch-nemesis Robin Hood? We viewers still link those two, eight hundred years later!
(3) Robin references “the Hounds of Lucifer,” and the Earl answers with a question about devils. This directly contrasts the response he should have given, which was, “What on earth are ‘the Hounds of Lucifer’?”

Anyway, sure enough – as predicted unerringly by HERNE’S SON, YOU STUBBORN FOOLS – Morgwyn, Verdelet, and an armed escort arrive at Gwydion Castle only a few minutes later, and the Sacred Abbess Morgwyn of the Definitely Not Evil Ravenscar :cough: is received warmly by Godwin. She then makes a show of dispensing with pompous social graces and inquires directly after the outlaw’s sword. The Earl, startled that Robin’s absurd warning should prove true, asks, “Forgive me, reverend lady, but why should you concern yourself with a sword?”

Oh, Morgwyn’s good, and I don’t mean morally; this woman could give the Sheriff a few lessons in shifty-eyed fibbing. She claims to have come in search of the holy sword of Sir Geoffrey of Aconbury, a Crusader who refused to renounce his faith after he was captured and tortured by Saracens in the First Crusade, a noble martyr who requested interrment and a chapel at Ravenscar Abbey, where his weapon was placed on his tomb and remained as a venerated relic until it was stolen, and she believes that Robin may have been the thief. And despite all of that poppycock, her trousers remain remarkably unsinged as she grasps Albion, recognises “Sir Geoffrey’s sword,” and exclaims, “Satan er, I meant Saints I TOTALLY MEANT SAINTS be praised!”

I had no idea she was even a fan.

Now, her story’s not totally foolproof, and Godwin had a small chance of exposing this elaborate fiction, because Morgwyn invents that Sir Geoffrey of Aconbury had a chapel established for him at Ravenscar Abbey. The abbey is fictitious, but the village of Uffculme – a real place in Devonshire – is supposed to be nearby, and that’s located 180 kilometers from Aconbury (in Herefordshire). What sort of sainted knight would make his friends and relations travel 360 kilometers round-trip just to put some flowers on his damn grave? Malvern Priory would have been the closest religious house at the time, a more respectable 34 kilometers’ distance, and you’d think that Godwin – who apparently has the map of England memorised – would’ve responded BUT REVEREND LADY, THIS TALE SEEMS GEOGRAPHICALLY IMPROBABLE. However, because Plot, Godwin doesn’t react suspiciously to Morgwyn’s story at all and cheerfully hands over the sword, all too happy to believe in the “holy and venerated” Morgwyn, unjustly insulted by an evil, stupid, irreligious serf who’s dissatisfied with mere banal lawlessness.

Back in Exmoor, the Merries have settled upon a plan, so the others watch as Marion and Tuck venture forth from the woods. Marion has changed from breeches into a dress (3), and she and the Friar approach and enter Gwydion Castle, where Godwin has the new visitors admitted immediately after hearing the name “Lady Marion of Leaford.” He welcomes Marion with great pleasure, reminiscing about last seeing her as a child at Leaford Grange. But Marion also has a purpose and, like Morgwyn, she quickly comes to the point: “to beg for mercy for Robin of Sherwood,” her husband:

With a gasp of expertly feigned horror, Morgwyn interrupts them to take her leave of this sorry scene, sighing with a heavy rebuke of WOE, THAT THIS POOR DELUDED CHILD IS WEDDED TO A MULLETED LIARFACE MCTIGHTYPANTS; I SHALL PRAY TO SATAN FOR HER IMMORTAL SOUL, FOR VERILY, I AM SO HOLY on her way out.

The Earl is stunned to hear that sweet delicate Marion has grown into a sweet delicate wolfshead, but she pleads to be allowed to visit Robin. So Godwin assents, ordering his Captain to lead her to the prison.

I’ll give Godwin’s captain full marks for remembering to disarm Marion, because you know Gisburne wouldn’t have even considered checking her for weapons, just stammered something brilliant like BUT, BUT, BUT A LADY COULD NOT POSSIBLY CARRY A DAGGER, FOR IT IS STABBY AND UNDAINTY.

Deep in the murky dungeon below, Marion runs to Robin, who’s bound to a post, and pretends to caress and kiss him while they whisper urgently:

Robin quickly explains to her that the Abbess is a satanic sorceress and that the outlaws must catch her before she uses Albion’s magic for evil. Finally the Captain tugs them apart and sends Marion away, evidently jealous of…well, at least one of them, and given this show, I’m not going to venture a guess as to which one.

So Marion returns to the hall and quietly relays Robin’s instructions to the waiting Tuck. Tuck then loudly declares that his task in escorting Marion to the castle is complete; he releases her to the Earl’s care as though adopting out a puppy–

Tuck: [lifts his hands and announces sanctimoniously] Oh, how easy it is for the young to fall into temptation! Reminds me of my dear sister…
Godwin: What happened to her, Friar?
Tuck: She made a fortune.

–and leaves amidst the laughter provoked by that surprisingly raunchy jest. His “charge” remains behind, to break out support her imprisoned husband, and because Marion is curlyheaded awesomesauce, she immediately attends to her first order of business:

“I believe you have MY KNIFE.”

Morgwyn and Verdelet, meanwhile, go smugging through the forest, preening about how the wonderful Lord Lucifer surely led them to Albion and how their newly-completed one-of-a-kind Swords of Wayland set will either summon the Devil or fetch a certain fortune on Yon eBaye. Morgwyn announces that it’s time to summon the Cauldron, but just as she and Verdelet are grinning triumphantly over their EEEEVIL triumph, the Merries suddenly surround them and interrupt all of their pleasant plotting:

Following Robin’s orders bravely, the band is determined to keep Morgwyn from going any further with Albion, and after some posturing and threatening, the Abbess appears to capitulate. She dismounts and demands the sword from Verdelet who, for the second time, pouts as he’s forced to give up the pretty shiny.

Then Morgwyn holds out the blade; before the Merries can take it, she chants Schemes Amathia! (4) The sword glows brightly–

–and the Merries scream.

Meanwhile, Marion is behaving as a properly repentant noblewoman and letting Godwin patronise her some more. As annoying as this act is, it’s also a very intelligent ruse that she and Tuck have played. By presenting herself as an innocent, flutter-headed girl, who’s lost her head to a handsome outlaw and doesn’t see clearly the sort of man he really is, Marion inspires protective pity instead of suspicion from the Earl. So the Earl leaves one woman to watch Marion’s bedroom door, but takes no other precautions against her, and after he leaves, Marion sits awake, waiting for her guard to nod off so she can run for it.

Back in Ravenscar, the Worst Nuns Ever are presenting Albion to LUCIFE-E-E-ER in a weird, creepily sexual rite–

–which ends with Morgwyn bending back in such a way that she appears to be bathed in flames. This sets up a neat visual contrast of our two main female characters, in a quick transition from the demonically embroiled Morgwyn to the good-hearted candlelit Marion:

Fortunately for the plot, Marion awakens from her unplanned doze and then tiptoes out of her room, past the chaperone who herself has fallen asleep. Oddly, the woman drowses a bit and seems to notice Marion’s passing, but doesn’t actually do anything about it; her reaction looks like huh, there goes that noblewoman I’m supposed to be watching, that’s weird, zzzzz. And downstairs in Gwydion Castle, the industry standard of grossly ineffective watchfulness continues, as Marion creeps into the unlocked dungeon, where two guardsmen are ignoring Robin in favour of a game of knucklebones – literally, they’re throwing small bone bits into the air and catching them on their upturned knuckles, because Atari hadn’t been invented yet. Marion crouches down out of the guards’ sight – not that those lugnuts are looking anyway –

–and she quickly cuts Robin free, with the handy dagger that the Captain thought nothing of giving back to her (5). Then the two beat up the guards. ~~*D’awwww, Robin and Marion!*~~

I love them, I truly do. I respect the way they work together as efficient equals, punching and stabbing and rabble-rousing their way through the English countryside, and in this scene, I’m so happy that they don’t commit the classic Hollywood mistake of embracing in a relieved, delighted, time-squandering reunion while their adversaries catch up to them. No, Robin and Marion don’t lose their minds to love; as the alarm bell clanks a warning of escaping prisoners, they grab two horses, set a small fire to delay their would-be pursuers, and race away.

The Earl sees them bolt and calls out some growly commands to contain the situation, but in a subtle and unexpected twist, Godwin then steps forward quietly – where no-one else can see his expression, save millions of home viewers – and smiles as he watches the fleeing couple.

It suggests that the Earl isn’t so scornful of the young, idealistic lovers after all, and maybe even that the “incompetence” in Gwydion Castle was a clever, subtle way of helping them, allowing them to escape without bearing the responsibility of having released them.

So Robin and Marion ride away together, exhilarated by the excitement of their caper and beaming joyously at the wonder of being happy and young and in love and I’m sure this won’t be at all heartwrenching by the end of season 2 and WHO IS CHOPPING ONIONS IN HERE WHILE I’M TRYING TO WRITE A REVIEW?!

The couple then reaches the forest and start looking for the Merries; soon they spy Little John, but Robin senses something’s wrong. Heedless of Robin’s attempts to stop her, Marion calls out to John, who turns around slowly and reveals–

–THE POWER OF LUCIFE-E-E-E-ER: CATARACTS.

Yes, the Merries have all been possessed by the evil forces of fugly contact lenses Lucifer, and a strange, silent chase ensues. I can’t tell whether Morgwyn’s spellcraft has made the Merries blind, farsighted, or just dazed, but they start turning round and around as though they can’t see the couple; instead, they listen carefully, like they’re trying to echolocate them.

Marco?

Robin and Marion realise this odd advantage and send off their horses, hoping to distract the Merries with the noise:

Polo!

Unfortunately, the ruse doesn’t work for long, as they find themselves hunted by the very companions whose hunting skills they’ve helped to hone.

Cripes, even Much is scary, sitting up in a tree and making evil bird sounds:

“Morgwyn’s made them her slaves!” Robin whispers to Marion, because by this point in season 2, Robin’s seen about a hundred variations on this particular scenario and has become England’s foremost authority on demonic possession. But despite his hard-won expertise, Robin is finally found, by Will–

–and they start to fight. Robin tries to break Morgwyn’s power by bringing Will back to himself, demanding to know why Will changed his name to Scarlet and stopped using his original surname Scathlock. Marion, meanwhile, just stands there, because being an independent, liberated Merry Woman goes only so far when there’s duelly man-honour at stake. So I’m almost amused when Much creeps up behind her and takes full advantage of her inaction–

–allowing the Merries to cop Robin and Marion as presents for Morgwyn. They all set off for Ravenscar, and I wish I could screenshot this for you; unfortunately, the scene’s in constant motion. But it’s really quite funny, as Marion is allowed to walk by her own power, while Robin is lashed to a long stretcher and AGAIN dragged away.

So, at this point – as you might expect from this particular story arc – a random madman comes clambering over the cliff top, babbling in Welsh, because why not?

As printed in the novel, the words he’s gibbering are, “Diawliaid dirifedi! Rhwygant eu cnawd! Chwipiant hwy! Cynrhon fydd eu dillad!” Given my nonexistent knowledge of Welsh, this means something along the lines of, “I’m a crazy Welshman! Look at my distracting prancing! (Pssst, Robin, I’m the deus ex machina! Hold tight!)” Or it could just translate to, “Random syllables! Words that sound Welsh! Just listen to those ‘w’s! This was extensively researched!” (6)

Because the Merries can all see quite clearly now, everybody stares perplexedly at the ragamuffin’s capering–

–and the man surreptitiously slices Robin’s ropes, while continuing to attract attention to himself. Robin seizes the opportunity and makes a break for it, leaping from the high cliff to his apparent doom:

Everyone runs to the cliff edge to gawk; Robin’s still-bewitched comrades laugh uproariously at the sight of his floating corpse (7), while the devastated Marion shrieks her husband’s name:

They pull Marion away and continue their journey, and when they finally bring her before Morgwyn, the latter begins an apparent recruiting speech:

Morgwyn: The true lord of this world, Marion, is Lucifer. You must believe me. His power is everywhere, in all of us.

When Marion looks singularly unimpressed, Morgwyn announces that the Merries have served their purpose, then lifts her arm–

–and I’m trying not to see this in my mind–

“Yes, master. You can snap me in and snap me out.”

–as Morgwyn does exactly that: snaps her fingers and breaks her hold upon the men. They return to their senses and, while Morgwyn and Verdelet gloat–

–the Merries scream in grief and outrage, realising they’ve just witnessed their leader’s death. But have they? Because the cameras then show us Robin, who’s resting on a riverbank; he seems weary but certainly not deceased, just drying out on a rock and recharging his chestular energies in the sun:

Then he rises and moves to the foot of the cliff, having no choice but to start climbing; good grief, this is going to take a while, so let’s go back to Ravenscar.

Morgwyn has now changed into the Official Robin of Sherwood Evil Uniform of Black and Gold – which also explains why she’s a Saints fan – and recites the names of the Seven Swords–

–before explaining them all to Marion, in a stunning speech from the Department of Sinister Backstory:

Morgwyn: On each of them, words of high magic, unspoken since they were made. Wayland knew the danger. Oh yes, he knew.
(THEN WHY DID HE MAKE THEM?!)
Morgwyn: That’s why he scattered them.
(THAT. NEVER. WORKS. EVER. Doesn’t anyone read?!)
Morgwyn: And for hundreds of years, they remained apart. Two of them buried, others lost in battle, and some so cunningly hidden no-one had knowledge of them – except the Cauldron of Lucifer. They knew, and searched for many years. Many lives.
Marion: Why? Why do you need them?
Morgwyn: Can’t you guess?

Meanwhile, Robin struggles to the very top of the cliff, where the still-lingering madman offers him a hand up – well, the poor guy actually gives Robin a hand up and an amputated wrist-stump up. But just as we’re starting to guess what sort of viciousness might have driven this poor soul insane, the one-handed wild man pipes up with a mischievous admission: “I only play at being patsy. To frighten them off. Don’t like people. They can be so cruel!”

Though the man can no longer shoot his lovely Welsh longbow, he still carries it, and proudly shows it to Robin, explaining that he was once quite a good archer before he got a taste for venison. The ethereal Herne theme plays – HINT, HINT – as the bewildered Robin stares at the bow, and asks the same question that the audience is wondering:

Robin: Why are you still keeping it?
Wild Man: Because I’m a fool. [He lays the bow and the arrow-filled quiver on Robin’s lap.] And don’t go after venison. (8)

Robin nods his gratitude to the man and, newly armed, he runs forth to save his friends. The wild man moves on, trilling something in his own tongue, and then lifts his arms, calling reverently to a figure in the distance:

“Lord. Herne! Master!”

Back in Ravenscar’s EEEEEEVIL Basement of Really Demonic Storage, Morgwyn is plugging her Lucifer cult to the Merries, with all of the relentless zeal of an infomercial salesman; she even tries to intimidate them, by issuing a rather peculiar pseudo-threat:

Morgwyn: I could make you worship him! But you must come to him willingly.

So, she asserts, “I could force you!…..Except I can’t!” I’m so glad we cleared that up, and never mind the last episode, when most of the Hounds of Lucifer were revealed to be enslaved villagers who were made to sign demonic pacts by threat of agonizing torture and death. Morgwyn then tries to tempt the band, by explaining that Lucifer will grant them power and riches and satisfy their every longing. This doesn’t work either, even when Verdelet chimes in with ferocious pouts in the Merries’ direction; finally, Will speaks for all of his comrades when he yells:

Will: Tell her to go to hell!
[Verdelet smiles viciously.]
Verdelet: She expects to.

Outside of the Abbey, Strange Land plays as a vivid scene plays out, an unusual gathering of soldiers and bishops and nobles, of all different classes and vocations uniting inspirationally in a common cause; unfortunately, it’s the cause of LUCIFE-E-E-ER, because they’re all coming in response to the Cauldron’s summons. We see the Hounds guarding the gates of Ravenscar and admitting only those who are headed for the Basement of Diabolical Destiny, where the devil-worshippers are circling deosil and widdershins in concentric circles, chanting. And here’s one reason that large group scenes can get unwieldy: it is devilishly (ha) difficult for a group of people to chant comprehensibly in unison. Remember the call-and-response litany that Verdelet led Adam the Miller to recite? Here’s how it plays out in a crowd:

Morgwyn: Who is your Lord?
Cauldron: Lucifer.
Morgwyn: Who is Lucifer?
Cauldron: BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH.
Morgwyn: What must we do?
Cauldron: Prepare for his coming!

Outside, Robin uses his lovely new Welsh longbow to kill one of the guardsmen and take his rippling robes – which, while not quite reaching de Rainault levels of pizzazz, are nonetheless pretty fabulous – donning them as a disguise and then sashaying in to Ravenscar Abbey to save his friends:

And he’s not a moment too soon, because Morgwyn is starting to kiss all of the swords – uhhhh, whoa –

–and recite Lucifer’s names, while the Merries watch and panic in their cage:

John: What will they do with us?
Will: Kill us.
Tuck: Aye, sacrifice us to Lucifer.
Much: All of us?
John: The more powerful the spell, the more blood they’ll need.

I have two questions:
I) If the Cauldron required blood for the rite, then why was Morgwyn trying to convince the Merries to join the ranks of the worshippers? Shouldn’t she have been cutting their throats instead? And who would they have sacrificed if the Merries had all decided to become cultists?
More importantly–
II) How does John know that the coven will need lots of blood to invoke Satan?!
WHAT THE HELL IS EVERYBODY READING IN THIS GODFORSAKEN COUNTRY?!

Anyway, THE RITUAL:

Morgwyn orders Verdelet to go attend to the hanging mobile blood-dispensers, shrieking, “The sun is turning to blood! Verdelet – the sacrifice!”

So Verdelet sets the crypt beneath the Merries’ cage on fire, and I’m thumbing through the novel because this was supposed to be a blood sacrifice, not a burnt one, right? But I guess Satan likes his people extra-tasty-crispy, and…you know what? I just can’t even protest this episode anymore. I give in. We’ve got a pending fire sacrifice of unwilling outlaws to Lucifer, who’s being invoked by an evil coven of fake nuns. Got it!

So this happens–

–and then this—

–and THEN Lucifer starts to manifest BECAUSE WHY THE HELL NOT?

Already I know this will not end well because – as any hardcore Star Trek fan can tell you – you should never trust a glowing blue face of disembodied pseudo-godhood:

So the disguised Not!Hound Robin must save the world from the Blue Head of the Apocalypse, and at last, he battles his way past armed fanatics to reach the basement, where he rushes to the Merries’ cage, which teeters precariously over the flaming pit. (Because the Cauldron couldn’t have kept the human sacrifices caged on the ground and just pushed them into the flames. That would have been too mundane.) As Robin struggles to stop the cage’s descent, Verdelet notices Robin’s interference, and they do a punching weaponless man-duel, the sort that fellow Star Trek fans will recognise as usually being soundtracked by dah-dah-DAHN-DAHN-DAHN-DAHN-DAHN-DAHN DAAAAAHN DAHN-DAHN DAAHN DAAHN.

The cage’s rope splits, unravels, and finally snaps, sending the cage into free-fall; Robin rolls out of its way, leaving Verdelet to be crushed by it. So the Merries are freed, and Robin then races over to the diabolical altar, somehow selecting and lifting Albion from the array of shining swords in about two seconds, even though the blades are glowing and all look basically the same, and as a former serf, he probably can’t read their names. This improbable act not only reunites Robin with his weapon–

–but breaks the circle of luminous power by which Lucifer is becoming manifest. Lucifer’s head is not pleased:

And neither is the entire Cauldron:

Recognising that it’s time to slay some nuns, the other Merries grab swords from the circle and commence the Epic Climactic Battle of Good Versus Evil, which actually just turns out to be a rout of mostly unarmed crazy cultists who abandon Ravenscar in a panic. As usual, this chaotic fracas is the height of the episode’s action, and because it’s filled with frantic motion, I can’t get a single photo that isn’t a pixellated blur of indecipherable flailing limbs and stupid facial expressions. The bottom line is that ~~*The Merries Win*~~, and they gather up the swords, throwing all of them – save Albion – into the fire to be destroyed.

The fires of the six Swords dissolve into a sinister solar eclipse, which glows malevolently–

–over Morgwyn, who runs all the way down the hill of Mont St. Michel Ravenscar and onto the beautiful reflective beach, where her mind’s voice, filled with fearful exclamations and memories, plays over her image as she flees:

Mounted Hounds pursue her, chasing her down, and with the crimson light spilling over the sky, the stunning scene is bathed in blood. In the book Morgwyn is run down and trampled by the blind flight of her own Hounds; in the episode they just kind of…maliciously surround her to death, but the visuals are perfect (9), such that the point of her downfall – a punishment for her failure – is clearly made:

And in a verdant forest, far removed from the lapping waters and bloody sun of Ravenscar, Robin again kneels before Herne.

Herne: Nothing we make is good or evil, until we use it. The power in Wayland’s swords was blind. There lay the danger.
Robin: And Albion?
Herne: Albion is in good hands.

So, the moral of this story is that the Merries could have gained unbelievable power – and there were Seven Swords of Wayland, to match our seven outlaws – if they’d simply kept the “blind” weapons and wielded them for truth and justice instead of pitching them into hellfire. But Robin seems unfazed by this missed opportunity, as he cheerfully bids the people of Uffculme farewell:

Robin: We’d like to stay in Uffculme all summer! But Sherwood’s our home. And the Sheriff might have missed us!

So the Merries head for home, and over in Nottingham, the Sheriff’s all like:

Coming up next is the finale of season 2, The Greatest Enemy, in which the show becomes just ______ of Sherwood, and I alternate shots of Scotch at Robin’s doom with deep draughts of haterade every time I look at the Sheriff’s mustache. Booze will be copious, numbing, and necessary, with the next Robin of Sherwood.

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Fun Things:
Gisburne Albion: 7, Orias: 2.
Apples: None seen, but there’s a verbal reference to Marion picking one at 10:45.
EEEEEVIL Quotes: Here.
And a really brilliant fan-made trailer for this episode may be found here.

===
Notes:
(1) Well, of course you can still play hnefatafl today! You can even do it online, because the Internet is a thing of great wonder. Start here; you can read up on the game’s history and rules and then click “play” to try it out.

(2) The original jest linking to this note is gone, but I’ve left the note here for the information it contains: The Robin of Sherwood novel implies, in season 3’s The Power of Albion, that the Sheriff – for all his airs – is not himself of noble birth.

(3) Marion donning pants looks like an acceptable practicality to us modern folk. But this essay – while aimed at medieval re-creationists wanting to adopt a persona of a different gender than their own, specifically women considering male alter-egos – gives a good perspective on historical cross-dressing and hints at how shocking Marion’s garments would have been for a 12th century lady, especially a noblewoman.

(4) Schemes Amathia means “Sun, be silent,” the first word of which occultist Richard Cavendish links to the Canaanite sun-god Shemesh and the Babylonian Shamash. In The Lesser Key of Solomon, a 17th century French grimoire and classic text of demonology, this phrase is given as a demon-summoning name/tool and explained as the words “which Joshua spoke and the sun stood still in the sky.”
Also, the first section of the Key – the Ars Goëtia (“the art of witchcraft”) – is where you’ll find the Seventy-Two Demons to be invoked; I mention this because it’s the list from which six of the Seven Swords of Wayland were named: Morax, Solas, Orias, Elidor, Beleth, and Flaures. Robin’s Albion is not among them – being an old name for England rather than a demonic moniker – but it’s been suggested that Albion might correspond to the demon Abigor.
You can find their sigils and attributes here, if you’re into that sort of thing.
Incidentally, Richard Carpenter wrote this episode before the Internet or Wikipedia, meaning that either he was already familiar with The Lesser Key of Solomon, or else he made some poor librarian very uncomfortable by sitting at a big table with black arts tomes piled all around him, scribbling notes frantically on a legal pad while she pressed the Creepy Reading Material panic button beneath the check-out desk.
Herne, how I love this show.

(5) To be fair, a knife or seax was the mark of a free-born Saxon and was carried by both men and women as an everyday working tool.

(6) Incidentally, every Welsh character who appears in this show is nuts, and every reference to Wales is accompanied by some subtle (or not-so-subtle) put-down. I’m uncertain if this is some insider joke or just a coincidence.

(7) Here’s a vaguely relevant lesson in cinematic history:

Back when the film Star Trek II was set for theatrical release, word leaked out that one of the main characters was going to die. When the movie finally came out, it included a scene at the very beginning where a ship-wise catastrophe caused numerous explosions, one of which knocked said character onto the floor, where he lay apparently dead. But then a door opened, and the event was revealed to be a flight simulation – only a test, a training exercise. The audience members breathed a sigh of relief, laughed at how silly they’d been to believe such a ridiculous rumour, and the movie continued…

Two hours later, that character sacrificed himself to save everyone on the ship. And the viewers, having been lulled into a false sense of security, were gutted.

It makes me wonder if a similar rumour attended the conclusion of Robin of Sherwood‘s second season, or if this scene of Robin floating on the water was just very interestingly timed.

(8) I’m rather curious about this line, because it’s different from the book version, which is, “Don’t ever go after venison now!” When the wild man tells Robin, “And don’t go after venison,” he speaks as though issuing a gentle command. Is this the well-meaning advice of a maimed man – or instruction on behalf of an exasperated Herne, who’s had enough of the Merries worshipping a Stag-god with bellies full of deer?

(9) The visuals were too perfect, really – scarily real, like other aspects of this episode; not only was the filming apparently touched by minor accidents and eerie incidents of ill fortune, but a solar eclipse actually did occur. Such a thing wasn’t originally written into the script, of course, but the crew knew incredible luck when they saw it, and grabbed their cameras in time to capture some of the most haunting and astonishing images of the entire series.

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