RoS: “Herne’s Son.” (Part Two)

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

So. :sets bottle of Scotch upon the table: Let’s begin. :puts out shot glass: The opening titles finish– :pours shot: –and we start right away with:

We go first to a glum, gloomy, sodden mire, the land upon which Little John and Much eke out their miserable, grey, Saxonly serfian existence, and the men interrupt their sheep-tending for a few moments upon noticing the approach of Tuck and Huntingdon. The shepherds eye Tuck, clearly elated to see their old chum after all this time–

–and after a few unpleasant social pleasantries, John asks who the blond stranger is and what he wants. Tuck quickly explains Marion’s psychotic Welsh predicament, and in support, Huntingdon tries to play the I saved you last year card. But instead of capitulating easily out of gratitude, Little John expresses his long-simmering anger and grief, and points out exactly why this sudden request is so exasperating:

*Huntingdon helped the outlaws a year ago but then abandoned them, returning to his comfortable future-Earl-dom and neither leading the Merries nor joining them. And this cowardly behaviour is reminiscent of another nobleman relevant to this situation, namely–
*Sir Richard of Leaford, whose life the outlaws saved, and who repaid them by securing a pardon for Marion alone and not interceding for any of the others. Of course, nobody would expect Richard to have troubled himself over a gaggle of serfs, because he’s a nobleman, much like–
*Huntingdon himself, who now dares to approach the former outlaws for favours after all they’ve suffered – especially as, being a Norman Earl’s son, Huntingdon has never endured the indignities of starvation, subjugation, and violence that have been inflicted upon people like John and Much. And this stands in stark contrast to–
*Robin, who was a peasant, and whose bright idealism and belief in men as equals gave the outlaws hope and inspiration.

It’s a great interaction, the highlight of the episode, and Mantle gives a fantastic performance, bristling with righteously affronted dignity as he confronts this ignorant youth with some harsh realities. I truly hoped that Huntingdon would respond with the grace and humanity that John’s speech deserved, and anticipated a stricken, heartfelt reply that would speak to John’s compassion, something along the lines of, “You’re right. Herne chose me, and I was too afraid to join you. I didn’t want to know that kind of suffering. No man should. It’s because I believe that, that I can’t go back. And I can’t do what Herne’s asked of me alone. I can’t ask your forgiveness…but I do need your help.”

While he doesn’t phrase it in exactly those terms, Huntingdon does indeed seem to realise how sheltered he’s been from the horrendous realities of Anglo-Norman oppression, and he answers John with newly-awakened understanding and deeply-touched humili—hahahahaha, no he doesn’t. He answers with exactly the sort of slapworthy Norman twaddle that the serfs expect to hear: “Little John? Little brain, more like.”

While I gawk at the screen, John reacts with more immediate anger, for he’s just revealed a very private and intense pain to a stranger and received only scorn in reply. “You’ll pay for that,” he growls, then stalks to the side of the house, where he and Much keep a full store of staffs for all of their noble-smiting needs:

He chooses one, and Huntingdon just takes Much’s staff because OH HEY, YOU’RE NOT USING THIS FOR ANYTHING, RIGHT, SERF?

Much growls at John to teach the pup a lesson, and Huntingdon again smiles – with the same smugness he turned on Owen of Clun – and goads him with, “yes, John. Teach me.” Of course this apparently arrogant youth wouldn’t have picked up a staff if he didn’t know how to use it; although their first fight ends with John triumphant, John’s clearly surprised that the youth can match sticks with him at all. He throws the boy’s staff back to him, and the second match ends with Huntingdon stomping John’s weapon out of his hands. I sure wish I could have screenshot these fights for you, but the cameraman seems to have gotten his camera confused with an Etch-a-Sketch and is now shaking it vigorously to help advance the action. I can’t tell if these trembly, wobbly visuals are supposed to create suspense, but you might want to down some Dramamine thirty minutes before watching the scene.

The men then decide to go for the best two out of three, but before they can face off again, Tuck steps between them and declares an end to their time-wasting foolishness:

John throws down his staff and goes inside the hut; Huntingdon follows, and only now that they’ve worked out John’s man-anger in appropriate man-duelly fashion does the youth respond with honesty and warmth, explaining that he was raised his whole life to believe that the Earldom was his sole duty and destiny:

He also tells John that – having just met Marion a week ago and seen her for, oh, gosh, a couple of hours at least – he just knows that she’s still one of them. John finally decides that he can no longer pretend to be fulfilled by life in a Derbyshire mud pile, then asks, with a wry smile, “Who taught you to use a quarterstaff?”

“One of the guards in the castle,” replies Huntingdon with a little laugh, and already I’m imagining the Earl squawking through the castle like ROOOOOOBEEEEERT HOW DARE YOU PRACTICE SERF WEAPONS WITH SOME UNTITLED GUARD, YOU’RE GROUNDED UNTIL YOU LEARN SNOBBERY APPROPRIATE TO YOUR RANK ROOOOBEEEERT! What lowly guardsman would have dared teach an Earl’s son how to spar with staffs, and how on earth would they have hidden this noisy education from the gravelly Earl?

But anyway, John’s now coming to aid in Marion’s rescue, and although he instructs Much to stay behind and tend the sheep, Much is all like I’m grown-up now, and it sucks here, and I’m pretty sure sheep can eat grass without my help, so you can take your mud and shove it ’cause I’m coming too.

We then travel a shire’s distance, to the lovely unmuddy Nottingham Castle. And say what you will of the Normans – and their unnatural stone fortresses that block the bounteous flow of life and warmth and human connection – you still have to give them credit for building the most symbolic windows in architectural history. When last we saw Team Norman, Gisburne was bemoaning the singular degradation inflicted upon him by his mocking master, as he sulked alone before this gleaming twin-flamed window of meaningfulness. Now, the tables have turned, for here the Sheriff stands in brooding isolation, his aloof and shining solitude made starker still by the pair of lights into which he stares:

It seems that – as with John and Huntingdon – de Rainault is also at cross-purposes with a pretty blond, and I get the feeling that liege and vassal have been arguing for most of the morning, because Gisburne blurts out this statement as though it settles everything:

Guy: I’m convinced that Robert of Huntingdon is the Hooded Man! Let me track him down, my lord!
Robert: [turns from the window and whirls on the man with a surge of sudden fury, which seems Welsh-level crazy unless he’s just sick of arguing with a stubborn underling] Well…do as you wish! Go!
[Guy grins smugly and strides out of the room, shutting the door behind him.]
Robert: [growling to the door] Robert of Huntingdon!

It’s never quite explained why Gisburne suddenly develops gumption and refuses to back down on this particular point, and it makes no sense that the Sheriff shows such disdain for a perfectly plausible scenario, especially as he’s already witnessed the Huntingdon boy behave with rebellious idealism in defense of “Lady Wolfshead.” Even if the “Hooded Man” isn’t Huntingdon, the Sheriff – who nearly got himself exiled to Normandy as a meat shield last episode – should be deeply concerned, after being warned of this legendary outlaw band reuniting under a mysterious new leader.

But de Rainault’s impotent, inexplicable denial is required to advance the plot, because this episode would be over in five minutes if he took the threat of Wolfsheads Assemble seriously and dispatched Nottingham’s garrison to Hathersage – which, as chief judiciary, he should be doing anyway, because Tuck is still an outlaw regardless of who’s riding with him.

Alas for Team Norman, the Sheriff’s sole concession to this looming lawless danger is to allow Gisburne to investigate (:facepalm:), and to stand around Nottingham Castle chatting with the doors while Guy and his SILENT SLEUTHING TALENTS!!!! ride off to Derbyshire. Forget skepticism – this is just sloppy, in a way that de Rainault has never been.

Anyway, speaking of slop, Robert’s angry exclamation of the boy’s name then cuts to the youth himself, and Huntingdon looks a bit listless as he eats from a large communal bowl of mushy stuff, his sombre expression implying I REMEMBER WHEN FOOD TASTED GOOD AND WAS SERVED ON PLATES. The minus-two-Merries are sharing a meal, while discussing how to track down both Will and Nasir, and then John pipes up with this memory:

John: He once told me he had a brother.
Tuck: Nasir?
John: No, you fool, Scarlet!

The earlier three-line argument between the Sheriff and Gisburne was bizarrely brief, and here, this bit of brusque conversation was when I began to realise that this episode was suffering from choppy edits. (Indeed, season 3 episodes tend to bounce around more than those of seasons 1 and 2, and it often feels like scenes are missing bits of information that would help explain or deepen the story.)

Anyway, we now find out that Will left the group because of a quarrel and that, while his current whereabouts are unknown, he does have a brother who owns a village alehouse. So the Merries must prepare to leave for their next destination: Lichfield, in the county of Staffordshire, 107 kilometers south of Hathersage.

But first, we return to Clun Castle, where Gulnar has crafted an entire mad scientist laboratory out of repurposed craft supplies and vintage Avon bottles. The sorcerer babbles like a gurgly infant as he waves a metal eggplant over a cauldron filled with dry ice, and for no practical reason that I can discern, the eggplant is balanced precariously atop a flat tray of interlaced popsicle sticks:

Gulnar then announces that the Feast of Arianrhod will occur in three days and predicts for Lord Owen that this festival will mark his marriage to Lady Marion. “This will make her more than willing,” the magician wheedles, holding out the bottle to the delighted Owen:

“I LIKE PIE.”

Then the tray’s slatted pattern falls in shadows over Owen’s face, forming the appearance of a gatework lattice:

Gulnar smiles with some secret, prop-rigged foreknowledge, but answers Owen’s inquiries with the assertion that he’s seen nothing.

Meanwhile, the outlaws ride into Lichfield village and dismount, and I truly don’t mean to pick this episode apart over trifles, but this moment stands out to me because the Merries have almost never had horses. Only the Norman blue-bloods have the time to hone equestrian skills and the money and space to maintain stables, so horseflesh rarely appears outside of noble circles. By contrast, peasants can’t afford to buy and keep horses, and a group of riding peasants would be a very unusual and memorable sight.

So how did the Merries get mounts, and why are they risking detection by making themselves conspicuous? We saw that Huntingdon had a horse already, and he might have packed some money to finance his cause. But he’s also dressed as a peasant now, and it’d certainly arouse suspicion if he visited a courser and offered payment in silver marks. It’d also be a foolish risk for the Merries to steal horses and chance being caught and captured so early on.

But anyway, driven to improbabilities by plot advancement needs, the Merries leaped onto horses and rode boldly forward, crossing distances too far to cover on foot, and ensuring that the Fury-riding Gisburne could follow without overtaking them, and preparing to stage a swift and horse-dependent rescue for poor Marion – who, thank goodness, is being kept imprisoned and untouched while brutal Owen waits for his crazy sorcerer to concoct a seasonally-appropriate, vegetably-stored aphrodisiac, because “consent” is an important issue for the guy who forces male prisoners to play blood games in his death pit while he bets on the victors.

Back in Lichfield, a saloon-silencing scene straight out of an old Western plays out, as the outlaws enter an alehouse and ask for Scathlock:

A surly-looking man with familiar gruff features answers, sauntering up to them and introducing himself as Amos Scathlock; he seems decent enough, but I guess rage runs in the Scathlock bloodline – and isn’t solely provoked by horrific traumatic events – because he becomes instantly suspicious and angry when the strangers inquire after Will. So he invites them to look around and to take note of Will’s conspicuous non-presence among the alehouse customers. Huntingdon then tries to get all imperious on him, ordering Amos to fetch Will, as though commanding a canine to retrieve a ball.

Before the scene can grow any more tense, they both hear the heavy tread of an approaching man:

A pair of natty leather boots appears on the staircase, followed by the staggering figure of Will Scarlet, and Huntingdon recognises him right away despite the two having never met before*. Will has apparently responded to Robin’s death by crawling into an ale jug, so he pounds back an entire cup of the brown slop – so fast that most of it pours out of his mouth–

–and immediately demands more. While he waits, he asks sinisterly of the fair-haired stranger, “And who might you be?” Huntingdon, setting his jaw resolutely, appears to realise that he’ll have to prove his mettle to this tough fighter, but then gives the most foolish public reply to this question possible: “Herne’s Son.”

Will seems to take this surprising response in stride, visibly relaxing and nodding with apparent understanding. Then he rears back and punches the nobleman IN THE FACE, shouts furiously for THE AAAAAAALE–

–and I kind of felt like a bad person for cheering that an alcoholic boxer has just assaulted a young man for introducing himself. Huntingdon also is not impressed and gathers his wits (and face) about him–

–sighing to Much that “well, we tried talking.” So he taps Will on the shoulder, and when Scarlet turns, it’s right into the kid’s fist. Amos helpfully revives his brother by pouring ale over his head:

Then he shoves Will forward to take on Huntingdon, and IT IS SO ON, Y’ALL.

So, while they leap on each other and start rolling around in the straw because MAN-TALK HAPPENS WITH PUNCHES, Gisburne arrives in Lichfield. Prettily disguised in a Celtic-style tunic, breeches, and mantle, Guy has trailed the outlaws to the village undetected and has finally, finally demonstrated the ability to act with subtlety. :sniffle: Y’all, our li’l Gizzy’s all grown up!

…well, sort of. Recall that Gisburne ran off immediately after the Sheriff gave him permission to go. Clothes were handmade back then, and if Guy wanted to catch up to the Merries, he wouldn’t have had time to get new garb sewn. But here, he’s donned an obviously new, well-tailored Saxon ensemble that fits his 6’2″ Norman frame perfectly. So he must have owned the outfit already, and now I’ve got mental images of an excited outlaw-catching Gizzy, rummaging through his trunk of Saxon dress-up clothes to find a good Lichfield-skulking costume, which is both adorable and disturbing in equal measures. (1)

Gisburne eyes the village suspiciously – noting that same grey horse he remembers so well – then dismounts and rushes towards a building that, while appearing no different than the other Lichfield hovels, is apparently the office of the local Sheriff’s sergeant. Swiftly Guy storms in and orders the officials to summon their men:

The startled magistrate moron announces that this – and by “this,” he seems to mean “with candour and efficiency” – is simply not how they do things in Lichfield. Guy stares in disbelief, then introduces himself as Sir Guy of Gisburne (:drink:) and explains that there are five outlawed men currently in Lichfield. But these men don’t recognise his name, and care neither who he is nor what he’s prattling on about.

Meanwhile, Will and Huntingdon take their quarrel outside, to the amusement of the toothless filthy Lichfield populace–

–some of whom have climbed atop the tavern roof to cheer on the fight. Will quickly wearies of being heckled by spectating rabble, however, and collapses their structure with just a few well-aimed kicks – hinting that Lichfield’s builders were also drunk on Scathlock’s ale – before beating all of them up.

Inside, Gizzy argues hotly that the outlaws are dangerous, with a price on their heads, and the camera feels the need to focus intensely on his face as he argues:

Apparently the entire Lichfield constabulary is related and/or inbred, so the man – William Sparrow by name, though I’m going to continue to call him “Moron” because I actually like sparrows – summons his cousin Ambrose, who’s hygienically challenged and dimwitted enough to make Gisburne look like a Nobel laureate, and I hope the hate mail from modern Lichfield residents flowed like an effing river after this episode aired. Anyway, Moron here–

–introduces their visitor as “Sir Guy of Ginsbone,” at which Guy shouts “Gisburne!”

Alas, poor Gizzy’s attempt to blend in is backfiring – with these dull, incompetent administrators assuming that Guy should be as filled with apathy and lassitude as they are – so let’s go back to the fistfight. Unfortunately, it’s not going much better, just a lot of punching and smacking and more punching, and we see Will give one of the residents a nosebleed and then return to thwacking Huntingdon.

Sigh. Back in the Hovel of Great Justice, Gisburne demands to know whether the men are going to elevate their posteriors from their cushy resting-places and go arrest the freakin’ wolfsheads already. Then the following exchange takes place:

Moron: Arrest them? I don’t even know them!
Guy: You’ve heard of Robin Hood? And Little John, and Will Scarlet? They’re in Lichfield!
(Okay, wait, wait, wait a second. Even the outlaws didn’t know for sure that Will Scarlet was in Lichfield, so how does Gisburne? Guy went indoors to deal with the bureaucrats as soon as he reached the village; he talked to no-one else, didn’t go into the alehouse, and can’t see the two men who are currently fighting!)
[The men continue to look unimpressed.]
Guy: [exasperated] They’re outlaws!

Moron: In Nottingham! Not in Lichfield!
[Lichfield’s in Staffordshire and indeed lies some 18 kilometers outside of our Sheriff’s domain. But the Merries were outlawed by the King, who probably won’t care one whit about this “shire border” tomfoolery, because, you know, king and all that. I’m beginning to understand Gisburne’s frustration with this episode.]

We finally discover the motivation behind these morons’ reluctance, when Moron reveals that “Scathlock’s serves the finest ale in Lichfield”; he simply doesn’t want to arrest anyone connected with their favourite watering-hole, and especially not the owner’s brother. Even that remark is suspect, however, because here’s how the novel describes Lichfield (and trust me, the episode depicts it accordingly):

“It must be said that Lichfield was not an altogether agreeable place. For a start, it stank – with raw sewage running free in the streets. Occasionally old crones appeared on the second floor of their homes only to throw buckets of slops out on to the pavement – without even looking to see who might be passing below. And why should they? They owned the pavement along with the house and it was your fault if you happened to be standing on it at the wrong time.
The butchers added to the filth, slaughtering their chickens outside their shops and splattering the street with blood. Black flies bothered and buzzed around everyone and everything. Pigs scavenged freely, pushing through the pedestrians, their snouts eternally pressed to the ground. Only the pigs could drink from the town well, whose water would surely have killed any human being.”

The town basically sounds, and looks, like a pig-wallow repurposed for human residency. Does it seem probable that this wretched place would support multiple alehouses, much less that they’d be well enough patronized to create the perceived gradient of quality in their wares implied by the word “finest”?

Anyway, Gisburne finally stumbles upon the right phrasing to catch the lazy layabouts’ attention, informing them that the outlaws are worth thirty silver marks apiece:

After he adds that up for them – because thirty times five is indeed one hundred and fifty silver marks, and Herne, you know the plot’s in trouble when Gizzy is doing the math – Moronus Primus orders his men to start moving.

Meanwhile, there’s more flailing about the village between Huntingdon and Will:

They wreck a cloth shop, tear down textiles, and knock a man into a vat of scarlet dye, which was not cheap in those days:

Then a man on a second-floor landing, obviously carried away by the festive ragey spirit, throws a pail of cabbage water onto Will:

Scarlet death-glares the man into trembly-kneed terror; the latter tries to run from the advancing fury, but Will simply lays out Huntingdon and then races to the balcony, pushing the offender onto a henhouse. The roof-thatch collapses, hens go flying, the peasants cheer–

–and then, much like me, Huntingdon and Will are simply unable to continue this absurdity any longer without the sweet, balming oblivion of booze:

Huntingdon hands Will a glass, having bought him a drink of ale; Will, naturally, concludes that he still doesn’t like the young whippersnapper, but accepts the cup and slogs down its contents. Then he smashes the ale pitcher over the youth’s head and starts their fight all over again:

But surely The Man will arrive any minute now, to put an end to these shenanigans? Well…not quite. “We’re very…nearly…ready,” Moron softly assures Gisburne, his comforting tone belied by the laughable slowness of his statement. He keeps a hand on Guy’s shoulder as he says this, and ugh; why is he laying hands on a nobleman and knight, and why is Guy allowing a peasant to touch him?

The dopes then set to work unsnarling a useless tangle of pseudo-weapons, trying to sort out pitchforks from rakes from axes and determine whose is whose–

–and then Battles actually starts to play, as though the redonkulous forthcoming squabble will require a tympani underscore. Guy draws his sword and strides outside, leading this pitiful gang of buffoons, and I can’t help but think that he might have gotten somewhere sooner if he hadn’t tried for stealth, but had stormed into their “office” with armour shining and temper blazing. But what’s done is done, and once again, the men mangle Gisburne’s name – “Sir Guy of Gosbone–” “Gisburne!” – as they make their way to Scathlock’s.

Somehow the fight-riveted villagers notice that The Heat is coming, so the other Merries haul up and drag away Huntingdon and Will, dunking them in water-troughs to revive them–

–while Guy enters the alehouse with his erstwhile associates and orders them to search the place. Gisburne then walks out, and the men look around at the walls and the floor, clearly having no desire to act, but having to keep up appearances as long as they’re out and about. So they open the entrance to a floor-cellar and peer down into it for several long moments, then agree that there doesn’t seem to be anyone down there:

Yep, we’ve got an open trap door, and a bumbling deputy worked up into a fine frenzy, and Herne, you know where this is going, right? The Merries pile onto their horses and flee, just in time for Gisburne to spy their escape and freak out completely. He races back into Scathlock’s, shrieking for the men to follow him and pursue the retreating outlaws – and hurls himself right into the cellar:

We hear a loud crash and some clattering sounds, and then one of the men pretend-scolds another for “forgetting” to close the door:

“Sorry about that, Ginberg!” calls Moron insincerely, as they shut the doors and wander off to enjoy a beer in their favourite pub.

Then the Merries return to…well, not the forest, but a forest, somewhere, and Will bears no obvious markings despite having been punched in the face multiple times, and he’s all HERNE CHOSE AN EARL’S SON, EFFIN’ SRSLY?

The equally-unblemished Huntingdon is all like I KNOW, RIGHT?! then adds that, blatant absurdity aside, they really do need to get to Clun Castle kind of soon-like. But Will insists that – after shepherding, eating, and drinking for the last year, respectively – they’re all rusty, slow, and incapable of succeeding in a rescue attempt:

“We must,” Huntingdon argues, and expresses his belief that the outlaws’ skills are not lost to them because “nothing’s forgotten.” This proves the necessary password for Will to overcome his suspicion and trust the newcomer, and so they’re nearly all together again–

–save for the sad realisation that, while some silent badassery would seriously up their outlaw cred, no-one knows where Nasir is…

…except for the scriptwriters, who immediately guide the camera crews back to Clun Castle; there, Nasir trains in the hay-strewn death-pit, reaffirming his awesomeness for anyone who might have forgotten:

Nasir, because he’s awesome, fights off three opponents simultaneously and then (again) presses his blades to Grendel’s throat. Owen is utterly elated by his new prize and praises Nasir’s skill, then commands him to “win the blood game for me tomorrow, at my marriage-feast!”

It’s pretty improbable that Owen would chat with one of his gladiator-blood-slaves about his forthcoming wedding, but this bit of dialogue does establish for the audience that Marion’s danger is now urgent. (2) Then the camera shows us Marion in her cell, where she sits in quiet tension, apparently realising that she’s run out of time:

An elder woman and a younger woman open her cell door to bring her food, and seeing her chance, Marion throws hot soup into the elderly woman’s face (damn, Marion!). While the lady shrieks, Marion punches the younger one, then locks them both away and makes a run for it.

Oddly, two guardsmen see her bolting, and they clash their weapons to block the path she’s trying to take, but don’t follow her or attempt to recapture her in any way. As she wibbles about, trying to find an escape route, she spies Nasir in his cell and screams his name. He reaches out to her–

–but unfortunately, this endearing moment of recognition stops her long enough for two soldiers to grab her, and they push her to her knees as crazy, creepy Gulnar appears. He hypnotizes her by waving a skull-on-a-stick back and forth in front of her face, chanting (according to the book) incada anag rham, ridor erin bach.

The soundtrack screams and makes heartbeat sounds, and then Gulnar feeds her the contents of the metal eggplant:

She instantly reaches out her arms with an expression of intense ardour but – despite obviously wanting her for himself – Gulnar orders that she be taken away and prepared as the bride of Clun.

Well, since a wedding worked for the season 1 opener, why not now? We proceed to Clun Castle’s non-OSHA-compliant castle keep – seriously, a giant pit in the centre of the floor is not a smart design, guys – where every torch in Wales burns brightly for the marriage of Lord Owen of Clun. The rabble raises a paean to the Goddess Arianrhod, and then Clannad begins singing the entrancingly beautiful Caisleán Óir (Golden Castle).

If I ever marry again, I’m hiring RoS fans to re-create this entire scene – minus the eggplant – just so you know. Anyway, while the bewitched Marion happily celebrates her wacky Welsh wedding, the Merries arrive in Clun, and their first order of business is to shoot down all of the men who guard Owen’s signal-fire station. They let their arrows fly, and Owen’s soldiers are mortally wounded one by one, but one man pulls himself to the firewood and sets it alight before he collapses. So Huntingdon leaps onto the blaze and quickly extinguishes it before the rest of the pile can catch, and thus, the Merries successfully stop the guardsmen from warning Owen that wedding-crashers are approaching.

Inside the castle, the feast continues, and now it’s time for the insane Welsh marital bloodshed, so Nasir enters and dons armour for the blood games. The helmet hides all of his features save his eyes, but those fall in despair as he looks up and sees Marion kiss Owen:

Realising that something has gone very wrong, he unhappily turns his attention back to the arena as a wager of 300 marks is offered, and matched, by Owen and one of his men respectively. Given that this show is quite fond of bookends, and given what happened in the series one opener with a 200-mark wager on a contest of skill, I’m going to wager that this scene also ends in complete chaos.

At the gate of Clun Castle, Huntingdon steps up and adopts a local accent, pretending to be a peddler carrying all manner of exotic wares. The guards lift the portcullis just enough to creep under it and go check out the “peddler”‘s wagon of goods. But the joke’s on them, for the wagon is actually carrying the other Merries, who promptly beat up the men and then spring into action: the outlaws crawl under the gate, raise it all the way and prop it open with a staff, and then chop the rope so that, once lowered, the gate can’t be lifted again.

Then they move on to the bailey, which is eerily calm. “Where is everyone?” Will asks, of the silent, empty courtyard. “On holiday?”

Yes, Will. They’re all on holiday. The entire castle garrison got sick of Wales and went to Bermuda. So when next we see the Merries, they’re boarding a flight for– I mean, seriously, Will?

Inside, everyone is joyously watching the impending killing, while Gulnar twitchily eyes Marion, and she smugly clasps Owen’s arm like HEY, YOU HAD YOUR CHANCE; LOYALTY SUCKS, DOESN’T IT? Enchanted!Marion is kind of awesome, but the Merries seem to disagree, as they sneak into Owen’s keep, see her woadedly hanging on Owen like MAAAAN, BEST EGGPLANT JUICE EVAR–

–and react all like OH CRAP, NOW WHAT:

But Nasir interrupts their shocked speculations fairly quickly, goring his opponent with the spike on his helmet, and this prompts the ecstatic Owen to rise and ask who will be next to fight his champion:

Owen’s men remain silent and still, having developed keen self-preservation instincts after seeing Nasir’s talent for rapid deadification. Finally, Huntingdon shows himself and says that he’ll accept the challenge, but he refuses to fight for money; the instead, prize he demands is Marion:

He then bluffs Owen by declaring that he’s come to Clun Castle with a thousand men, who are waiting down in the valley. “A thousand men?” Owen laughs. “Well, you’re too stupid to live!” Then he whispers to the giggling Marion that Huntingdon will die no matter what happens in the arena:

The camera then briefly flashes to Tuck, who’s stayed behind and is now desperately trying to light the signal fire – you know, the same signal fire that earlier, a man skewered through the aorta with an arrow was able to light in two seconds as he died, that signal fire.

Back inside, Grendel offers Huntingdon a helmet, but the nobleman declares that he’ll remain as he is, and I don’t get this show of bravado, because it’s not a matter of honour to fight bare-headed when your opponent isn’t. But anyway, Huntingdon accepts swords from Grendel, faces off against Nasir, and the two start to clank and clash their way around the pit. Once again, it’s mostly unscreenshottable, but Nasir does not run the youth through in two seconds, which is the outcome I would’ve expected. Instead, after a bunch of back-and-forth, with some more sword-crossing season 3 action–

Like so.

–Huntingdon somehow manages to knife off Nasir’s helmet and is stunned to see the man’s face, softly exclaiming, “Nasir!” The only explanation I can give for this moment is that “Herne showed Huntingdon a vision of all of the Merries, in a scene that was later edited out,” because this is the second time that Huntingdon correctly identifies a man he’s never met or even seen before*.

But of course, the Saracen doesn’t recognise him, so Nasir’s raising his weapons to deliver a ferocious death blow–

–when a bright flash of light draws his attention. Y’all, I’m pretty sure that nothing would distract a former assassin in a full assassination frenzy, but here, this subtle little signal from the sidelines shows Nasir the faces of Little John and Will:

They nod to Huntingdon, indicating HE’S WITH US, SO IX-NAY ON THE URDER-MAY, and Nasir’s smile of relief and joy is a lovely thing to see:

Through eye contact and gesture, the two men make a quick plan as they pretend to continue sparring. And after a few more sword-clinks, Nasir gives Huntingdon a lift: the youth leaps nimbly onto the flat of Nasir’s sword, from which he’s propelled up to the platform, where he puts his knife to Owen’s throat:

I CALL NO WAY.

Outside, Tuck continues to struggle, and I have no clue how he just knows when to light these signal fires; remember, the Merries had so little idea of what they were walking into that Will actually asked whether the Welshmen were “on holiday.” There was no real plan, except to rig the door and investigate the castle, and even Huntingdon – Herne’s Son – didn’t know that he’d end up fighting Nasir in a death-cage match. But fortunately, right at this exact moment, Tuck sets the firewood alight, and a man sees the smoke and runs inside to Clun’s keep, screaming that the castle is under attack.

Clun’s guardsmen spring into action, running about the courtyard and scouting from the walls; on discovering the broken portcullis, they quickly realise that they’re being tricked. But it’s too late for Lord Owen, who’s escorted into the bailey at knifepoint–

–past his fabulous castle decorations:

And since Marion has somehow been rendered unconscious during all of these zany goings-on, Nasir walks with the girl slung over his shoulder, glaring balefully at the courtyard to communicate that ONE DOES NOT MESS WITH A MARION-PROTECTING NASIR:

Huntingdon sends his companions through the open gate in turn, so that first the lady-toting Nasir, then Will, then Little John move through the portal and join Much alongside the horses. Of course this sets up a one-on-one, MARION DAMMIT, man-pride duel between Lord Owen of Clun and Lord!heir Robert of Huntingdon. While they go all MAN-SMASH on each other, the Merries yell at Much to get the horses moving and the gate dropped, knowing that Huntingdon is a sacrifice they might have to make in order to escape. The nobleman, meanwhile, is less-than-thrilled about the prospect of being mutilated by be-woaded Welsh psychosis:

Quickly, Huntingdon breaks Owen’s hold, runs through the entryway, and screams at Much to hurry.

Behind Owen, Gulnar reaches out in a gesture of triumph, and his resounding shout of, “Now, my lord!” seems to ring with esoteric insight:

But as Owen steps forward to pursue his foes, the gate’s propping-staff finally gives way, and the lord’s last sight is a spiky lattice crashing down upon him:

Owen’s resultant agony is too great to be limited by mundane considerations like human anatomy, so a raspy scream tears from his throat, his manly death-throes needing neither intact diaphragm nor viscera to produce sound – which is good, since his entire torso is currently crushed beneath an iron portcullis:

Finally, Owen slumps in airless demise–

–and Gulnar shrieks:

“AAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!”

At last, there’s a montage of Together We, as the outlaws sit in…well, not Sherwood, but some forest somewhere in Wales, and the men one-by-one reassure the spell-broken Marion that Owen’s dead and gone, and that she’s now safe from the bloodthirsty, mentally-disordered Welsh.

The plot then swings around to Nottingham Castle, where an infuriated Gisburne limps to the door on a broken ankle to announce the arrival of Sir Richard of Leaford:

The persecuted, wretched, miserable, injured, deeply wronged WROOOOONGED Sir Guy is slouching painfully upon a crutch that’s so ill-fitted, he has to hold onto a guardsman to steady himself, because apparently a) there are no better tree branches in the whole of Nottinghamshire that could be used to craft a more appropriate support, and b) these are the foolish, ignorant Dark Ages, when no-one had yet figured out that two crutches work better than one.

Anyway, it’s the first of the month (3), and the contract between the Sheriff and Sir Richard has now come due. As diabolical as the Sheriff’s plot was, I have to praise de Rainault – I mean, for a reason other than the usual daaaayuuuum – for being the only brilliant character in this storyline, because Richard has no choice but to uphold his end of their bargain despite receiving no actual aid from it. That is, he can’t take legal action against the Sheriff for the hired soldiers’ flight, since their assistance wasn’t legal anyway. But if Richard tries to protest surrendering his lands now, the Sheriff does have recourse: he can bring the matter before the King, explaining that he signed the underhanded contract to teach Sir Richard a lesson and then had the soldiers flee so as not to undermine the King’s diplomatic efforts. So Robert would come out of it looking like an extraordinarily clever and loyal subject, while Richard would probably be imprisoned for treason and Marion’s pardon revoked.

So, Sir Richard has come to beg charity of the men, as he’s apparently unable to pay for the “help” purchased on credit the month before. But Hugo and Robert have been drooling over Leaford Grange since the very first episode, and they’re sure as hell not about to give it up now in the name of “mercy”:

Viewers will certainly remember this toothsome acreage well, since Hugo argued over it several times, and it was also the site of the soft, plush bed where Robert first wooed the golden Templar Seal. The brothers are therefore just dying to re-acquire those luscious tracts of land, and haughtily, coldly, they refuse Sir Richard’s pleas.

Then Richard neatly decimates Robert’s plan and basically pwns the entire scene: he plops down moneybags filled with gold, easily paying back the debt after all, having tested the officials’ character and found it sorely lacking. Just how Richard hid those heavy, bulky sacks beneath his cloak is beyond me, but the triumphant nobleman then rages against the Sheriff and Hugo for their double-crossing perfidy–

–scolds Gisburne for his cowardly treachery–

–and invites them all to have a look out of the double-flamed window of symbolism. There, in the courtyard, Marion – rescued against all odds – sits, smiling calmly–

–and the apt lighting silhouettes the de Rainault brothers quite well as they turn away in defeated disbelief:

Richard then smugs out, and the Sheriff – needing a target for his fury at the ruined scheme – turns on Gisburne, causing the pooooor pitiable deputy to shrink beneath that tormenting glare because ZONOES WORDS. I wish I were making that up, but no; this tall, strong knight – who has eight inches of height on Robert and could probably crack him in half with his bare hands – actually cowers from his master, clutching his inadequate crutch to wring maximum Tiny Tim pathos from this scene–

–as the Sheriff orders, “Well, count it, Gisburne!” and then storms out with Hugo. Gisburne then gazes dejectedly and sadfacedly at the money, overwhelmed by the burdensome task of counting to five hundred–

–and damn, but I miss Gisburne being violent and vaguely dignified.

Back in the woods, Marion prepares to depart for Leaford with Sir Richard, and the Merries wave to her ruefully as they part. “Do you think they’ll accept you?” she asks Huntingdon, out of the others’ hearing. “Would you?” he asks, with all sorts of meaningfulness. She replies with the blocking equivalent of a stammer, shakily turning her horse and riding away with her father, and there the episode ends, with the Merries mostly together again.

So, Herne’s Son has reunited the outlaws, by way of (one-sided) love at first sight, a chivalry-motivated duel to protect a woman’s honour, a dramatic saloon entrance, a bar brawl, a tangle with bureaucratic red tape, some death cage matches, a cringing underling mistreated by his domineering lord, and even a few hokey NOOOOOOOOs, and at one point I honestly wondered if the episode was trying to mock the American viewers joining the audience for season 3. Is this what Americans are supposed to like?

Well, I’m American. And I don’t. And I’m done.

Next up, we’ll be exploring The Power of Albion to discover exactly why Cool Sword Is Cool. This forthcoming episode has its own particular set of problems, but at least it gives me several opportunities to cite medieval poetry in multiple subtextual contexts. (No, seriously, it’s really relevant; even university-educated researchers agree.) We’ll have more thoughts, and less liquor, next time on Robin of Sherwood.

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Fun Things:
*Gisburnes: 5.
*Apples: An apple rests on the Lichfield officials’ table at 14:58, and a Clun Castle guard has one knocked from his mouth at 34:46.
*Quotes: A few quotes from this strangely sparse script may be found here.
*If you’d like to see some of the places referenced in this episode, point your browser here to view and read about Clun Castle, or take a look at Huntingdon Castle here. And since Hugo exits the series now, I should give a little shout-out to St. Mary’s Abbey – not a real place in Nottinghamshire, but probably based upon the institution of the same name in York.
*A lovely lady living in Wales writes some very heartfelt words about Goddess Arianrhod here, for anyone who would like to know Her a bit better.

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Notes:
(1) It’s “disturbing” to speculate upon why Guy would own Saxon clothing, because every possibility that comes to mind is more distressing than the last. In order to spare you the further evil workings of my brain, I’ll let this relatively minor issue lie, and certainly won’t evoke any mental images involving the Sheriff and Nottingham’s dungeons, nor mention the word “fetishwear” in connection with any of this. You’re welcome.

(2) It also brings me back to the timeline I’ve been trying to keep. I already timed the end of season 2 at midsummer 1202; now, it seems to be cold outside, several characters have mentioned that a year has passed since Loxley’s demise, and Owen keeps “the feast of Arianrhod,” a festival celebrated on a particular day. Those clues all help date this scene to December 1, 1203. (At least, that’s where we’d be if the show had held to a continuous timeline. Alas, the novel sets this episode in 1209 and places the entire third season between 1209 and 1211!)

(3) Or January 1, 1204.

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