~~*Previously, on Robin of Sherwood*~~
We begin with a musical montage, depicting the many delights of outlawing. First, the Merries stop a prosperous-looking traveler and send him on his way after exacting a sizeable “toll”:
Then they throw silvers to Wickham’s children and laugh joyously while the kids scramble to retrieve the coins:
What fun! It’s like nobody’s starving at all!
Then the outlaws run from Nottingham guardsmen and foil them by climbing up a hill, since the soldiers are carrying spears for some reason and can’t clamber up after them. Finally, Huntingdon kills a forester who’s whipping some peasants and then saves a poacher from punishment. “Bless you, Robin Hood!” the latter cries, reaching out his still-intact hands to clasp his rescuer gratefully:
Huntingdon’s about to blurt out BUT I’M NOT– until Little John’s expression warns against the correction, because it’s to everyone’s benefit that their new leader be known to all as–
Roooooooooooooooooooooooooobin. :dah dah daaaaaaah:
The Hooded Man! :dah daaahn!:
–who now must discover the leadership-legitimizing secret of:
The haze of bluefilter indicates early morning in Leaford Grange, and if you squint, you can discern two men rolling by on a cart – an unfamiliar bald-pated fellow and a Nottingham guardsman holding a crossbow:
Marion watches them pass with a look of deep concern, already awake and seemingly aware that this dangerous duo is up to no good:
Then a man approaches her, and quickly, she pulls him into her room before he can be glimpsed; once inside, the torches reveal him to be Huntingdon, who’s risked coming to Leaford in response to her summons.
Marion has called Huntingdon there to warn him, as her servant has a brother who works in Nottingham Castle, and now the Nottingham servant has warned the Leaford servant to tell Marion that the Sheriff’s hatching a plan which might expose the Hooded Man. (I was expecting this scheme to involve the Sheriff’s father’s brother’s nephew’s cousin’s former roommate, but it turns out I was just overcomplicating the whole thing…)
“Have you heard of the King’s Devil?” Marion asks quietly. Huntingdon pronounces him to be the most feared torturer in England – there are torturer rankings in England, y’all, and Robert of Huntingdon follows the stats – and is then informed that the man’s on his way to Nottingham. Marion begins to darkly pronounce what might happen if he reaches the castle, but Huntingdon promises her that he won’t get there.
I wish he’d let Marion finish her sentence, because I’m not sure how the mere presence of a torturer could endanger Robin Hood, considering that nobody privy to Hood’s secret is currently imprisoned. Moreover, if Marion can communicate with the outlaws without detection, then why didn’t her message say “terrible torturer en route to Nottingham,” instead of “come to Leaford Grange for some one-on-one exposition”? But she now shows Robert and the audience exactly why her message was worded that way, as she pulls out Albion and tilts it to glow mystically from Robert’s features:
Though Huntingdon never met Loxley and shouldn’t know what this “Albion” is, he correctly identifies the sword as Robin’s weapon, and Marion tells him to take it. But this youth takes angst successor’s rights with strangely selective seriousness, and so, despite having donned the mantle of the Hooded Man, learned to draw the same bow that Loxley wielded, and accepted the divine charge issued by a fog-framed tatter-robed shaman-priest, Huntingdon now asserts that he’s unworthy of Loxley’s sword and can’t accept this one item until he earns it. And though I’m sighing HUNTY, IT’S A PIECE OF POINTY METAL, JUST GET OFF THE WAAAAHMBULANCE AND TAKE THE THING!, Marion doesn’t argue, and especially not in favour of relinquishing her only remaining memento of her dead husband.
Instead, she re-wraps the sword and changes the subject, inquiring after her friends in Sherwood. Through a lot of dutiful guilt-ridden back-and-forth, we learn that the others are fine, and she misses them, but she can’t join them in Sherwood, even though she really wants to be with them, but it would break her father’s heart, and negate her purchased pardon, and she’s Sir Richard’s only child, and she’s aware that certain events which may or may not occur in the next forty-five minutes might force her to join them, and she both longs for and dreads that day, and WOE, and finally, a bird sings and ends our her broodful back-and-forth. Huntingdon stares at her meaningfully and suggests that the songbird is in love–
–and she smiles back like YES, AND THAT’S QUITE SWEET, AS LONG AS IT’S NOT, LIKE, A METAPHORICAL SONGBIRD OR ANYTHING:
Because one of the Apple Gallery does sound work professionally, I can certify that the bird is either a robin or a great warbling tit. And the jokes I could make about a great warbling tit are more tempting than the forbidden fruit, y’all, but I’m going to be bigger than that and go with “robin.” Bird imagery was quite richly symbolic in medieval art and literature; I’ll expand upon that motif in an addendum to this review, but suffice it to say, the robin sings sweetly from a branch outside, and this happens because Huntingdon li-i-i-i-i-i-i-ikes Mariooooon, ooooo-oooooh!
Then we go from songbird as representative of freely-given love, to birds-of-prey implying oppressive ownership and lust. Over at Nottingham Castle, our villains are preparing for a hunt later that day, and Gisburne is still pestering de Rainault about this “Robin Hood and Robert of Huntingdon are the SAME GUY MAN, they even have the same initials, why won’t anybody listen to meeeeeee” thing. The pair strolls through a makeshift aviary, and de Rainault – while examining the birds and asking questions of the falconer – tries to counter Gisburne’s irksome persistence. But the knight keeps whining until the Sheriff finally has to spell out the obvious for him: they need evidence, because Huntingdon is the heir of a powerful Earl, and falsely accusing him of Robin Hoodery could get them both executed. So Gisburne pouts, having gone two whole episodes without killing anybody, and even the raptors seem to be disturbed by the Sheriff as they start squawking and struggling against their bonds, such that even the testy and unobservant Gisburne glances down at the agitated creatures, wondering WAIT, ARE THESE, LIKE, METAPHORICAL FALCONS?
In the end, the Sheriff selects two male birds to accompany himself and his deputy, SO YES, METAPHORICAL FALCONS. Then Robert soothes Guy’s ruffled feathers – see, that was, like, a bird thing there – by reassuring the deputy that he’s ordered one of his lackeys, Oliver, to watch Leaford Grange, in case Marion tries to meet up with any of her former partners-in-crime. (1) The Sheriff then pauses for a moment of CONFIDENT MAN HOLDING BELT, and the mournful, WROOOONGED Gisburne looks like he’s barely restraining himself from either grabbing or backhanding him, and d’awww, you guuuuys!
Team Norman: Subtext, with style.
The scene fades into a lovely swath of purple fabric, decorated with swirls of golden embroidery, and what a cloth-tease this is; I was hoping it was a new robe for the Sheriff, but no, it’s just a dumb covering for dumb Albion. :sulk:
Now alone, Marion again unwraps the sword and lifts it to study its row of runes, murmuring, “what does it mean?“, because after living with Robin of Loxley for nine thirteen years (2), she’s only just now asking what Albion’s inscription says. But within her mind, Herne’s voice intones a surprising answer: “Herne’s Son is my master. I cannot slay him.” (3)
Suddenly, the power of lens flare Albion transports Marion to a lake. She sees the Merries drawing their bows, in an attack on the King’s Devil, and watches in fascinated horror as the assault goes not entirely according to plan: the torturer is apparently killed, but his escorting guard shoots Huntingdon in the thigh:
Marion drops the sword in shock–
–and the scene goes to the outlaws, with Huntingdon lying injured on the ground and everything having happened just as Marion’s vision showed:
Little John and Will ransack the man’s cart to examine the wares he carried, and John yells to the others, “Marion was right! He was a torturer! On his way to Nottingham Castle!” Now, wait, wait, wait a second; Marion never described the torturer to Huntingdon. So the Merries just attacked this guy, without anybody confirming his identity until now? They just chose the first escorted traveler who appeared on the Newark-Nottingham road and shot him and hoped for the best?!
John then starts removing iron implements from the cart, somberly declaring that they’re “branding irons, manacles…terrible things,” and I’m wondering how he knows what these “terrible things” are. Little John was a shepherd and serf and, as far as I know, was never himself tortured, but he’s identifying these instruments by name instead of holding them up and muttering WELL, GOLLY, WILL YOU LOOK AT ALL OF THESE PECULIAR METAL THINGAMABOBS? But the novel explains it: “There were chains, whips, spikes, and strange metal objects which you’d need a sick mind to be able to identify.” Alrighty then! Then Little John and Nasir throw all of the torture devices into the lake, where they can rust and poison the water supply, as opposed to keeping them for future Gisburne-tormenting purposes.
In the next scene, another man comes rushing into Leaford Grange and goes right to Marion’s room; this time, it’s Sir Richard, who’s heard news of the Merries’ latest exploits – the robbed merchant and the murdered forester from the opening scenes – and announces that Robin Hood is back with a vengeance. He wants Marion to promise him that she’ll have nothing more to do with the outlaws, and when she hesitates, he tells her, “Marion, there’s only one way it can end.”
But she retorts that she lived with that mortal, ultimately futile danger, every moment she spent in Sherwood. So he leaves her to her wretched internal conflict, and we return to the lake, where Huntingdon slumps beneath a tree and awaits removal of the arrow in his thigh.
“Nas?” John says, and ugh, since when did they call him Nas?! But the Saracen ignores the nickname and takes up his knife, using it to pull out the arrow. Then he holds up the quarrel, to which neither gore nor tissue clings, and passes the perfectly clean bolt beneath his nose before speaking forebodingly to the youth: “It is bad. The arrow was poisoned.”
Robert thus needs immediate treatment, and Much suggests a wise woman in Wickham known as “Old Peg.” Will starts arguing BECAUSE WILL ANGRY, and despite some of the same tetchy squabbling that parted the outlaws a year ago, they eventually decide to bind Huntingdon’s ‘wound’–
His left thigh was shot; can you tell?
–and carry him into Wickham to see Peg.
Back in the forest, we see the wounded torturer struggling between trees, gripping his arrow-pierced shoulder–
–having survived the attack by playing dead until the outlaws moved on – which means that the Merries just left (what they presumed was) a corpse on the road to rot, which is gross and also seems unwise. Anyway, this man is so gravely injured that he’s forgotten how to use water, which he demonstrates by kneeling at the lake and splashing its contents about, apparently trying to hydrate and clean himself by association. He then rises and manages to stagger along for a few paces before collapsing, and whether or not he’s succumbed to his injuries remains to be seen.
But the greater mystery to me is why the torturer was going to Nottingham in the first place, because the Sheriff doesn’t actually have any prisoners yet. Oh, he’s watching Marion just in case, and he expects that something will come of it eventually – that she’ll let her guard down sooner or later – but you can’t request the most prominent, feared, and skilled torturer in the kingdom to come hang around just in case some torturable captives arrive. I’m guessing that either the Sheriff has become incredibly, foolishly overconfident, or else lied to the King about having already taken one or more outlaws prisoner.
But anyway, the Merries currently have greater concerns than my murbling about plot continuity, so they move swiftly into Wickham, not stopping to check if any of the Sheriff’s men are afoot, and walk in a group with their weapons openly displayed instead of sending one or two men ahead as subtle scouts. Fortunately, the people of Wickham don’t seem to have any work to do, so they’re all hanging around their hovels waiting for the outlaws to arrive, making Edward available to reveal that Old Peg died a couple of months ago. That leaves the only remaining option as Marion, and though Huntingdon protests ironically, crying out, “no! They may be having her watched!” – although that didn’t stop him from visiting her earlier – Much eagerly volunteers to go get Marion and bring her to Wickham. And evidently, Much must do this in person, despite the episode establishing not twenty minutes ago that a message can pass undetected between Sherwood Forest and Leaford Grange.
So, although convenient and confusing danger looms, Tuck silences their leader’s opposition by issuing a stern warning to him: “I’ll tell you what’s dangerous: that wound. And the longer you leave it, the more dangerous it’s going to get.” John then pipes up with, “He’s right, Robin!”
Everyone stares awkwardly at him, until he realises his mistake and mutters, “…Robert.” But this is no time for emo, so they carry Robin Huntingdon into a home, and Much departs. And thus, instead of keeping in Wickham the fair-haired, plain-clothed boy who resembles every other village resident, and sending away, say, the swarthy, leather-clad, obviously foreign man who doesn’t fit in Wickham at all, and who knows how to approach a target stealthily, creep about undetectedly, withstand torture, and kill efficiently, they keep Nasir as a lookout on a Wickham rooftop–
–and dispatch Much on this top-secret mission that, if botched, could end Huntingdon’s life and ruin Marion’s. So it’s little surprise when, in the very next scene, the Sheriff’s lookout Oliver spies Much striding determinedly up to Leaford Grange, making no effort to disguise himself:
Oh, the lad pulls up a hood and grabs a face-obscuring bundle of branches once he’s inside the gates, but by then it’s too late. But Much remains oblivious, as he drops off the twigs in a pile of firewood and then creeps directly to Marion’s door; good grief, is there a map to Marion’s room posted on the outer walls?!
Seriously, this is astonishing guesswork, because Much should be completely lost right now. (Remember how, in Seven Poor Knights from Acre – the episode when the Merries all went to Leaford Grange – Much was held captive by the Templars for most of the episode and didn’t go with the others?) Anyway, Marion comes running down the steps and asks about Huntingdon’s injury before Much can even tell her about it. The astonished Much confirms that Huntingdon’s been hurt and explains that the old healer in Wickham died, so Marion agrees to come. Then they “stealth” out, running quickly instead of walking slowly as though nothing’s wrong:
Even Oliver – who’s drunk and doesn’t seem the most reliable spy – notices that the ginger visitor is now fleeing with a suspiciously familiar female companion in tow, so he leaves his hideout and pursues them.
Back in Wickham, the outlaws are growing increasingly anxious as they await Marion, concerned about both Huntingdon’s wound and the discovery that Marion’s delay might portend. They start quibbling again while, in the forest, Oliver continues his inept chase. Marion realises that they’re being followed and urges Much forward, but then, a very strange thing happens:
Much and Marion conceal themselves behind trees, and Oliver climbs down to a river, evidently wondering if the outlaws have gone that way. For some reason, they emerge from their hiding-place and show themselves, and when Oliver turns to look up at them, he loses his balance and falls. Though he only topples a short distance down from the riverbank, he breaks his neck on some rocks and dies conveniently instantly:
And this accident apparently happened three feet from Wickham, because as Much and Marion rush down to examine the fallen man, five villagers come running into the water in answer to some invisible summons. So they lift the heavy body and lug it into Wickham in a panic:
Edward bends down, feels for the man’s pulse, and from pressing against his jugular, determines that his neck’s broken. He proclaims the corpse to be that of Oliver, one of the Sheriff’s men, and while Marion is urgently ushered into Huntingdon’s fletchingly fetchingly vulnerable presence–
–the villagers try to figure out how to cope with this latest disaster:
Edward explains to the outlaws (and audience) that, if Oliver’s death is discovered, Norman law will rule against the serfs: the innocent Wickham folks will be accused of murder and the entire village assessed (at least) twenty silver marks as wergild – a far higher sum than they could pay, even with the patronage of outlaws who earlier threw them silver coins like candy from a piñata. So they decide to bury Oliver deep in Sherwood and say nothing more of the matter, and Edward decrees that, because it’s “bad luck to bury him after dark,” the village men must go now, to do the deed in broad daylight.
And because nobody in Wickham has anything to do, some village girls play tag around the village, running past as poignant reminders of youth and life–
–while Marion mops the feverish Huntingdon’s brow, declaring with that gesture that she’s done all she can:
Good grief, I hope they pulled her out of Leaford Grange to do something more than wipe Huntingdon’s forehead. But as she gives nervous parting instructions to Will – who’s ANGRY, BECAUSE SCARLET, AND ALSO FRUSTRATION WITH POSSIBLE IMPENDING LEADER-DEATH – it becomes clear that her skills in healing things aren’t enough, and that Huntingdon is getting worse.
In Sherwood, the burial-party hastens to dig a quick grave, while Edward serves as lookout. He hears a bird passing overhead and looks up; “a falcon,” he murmurs–
–but as a Saxon serf, he doesn’t understand the significance of the noble creature, nor of the faint jingling of bells that attends the falcon’s flight. Just as the audience starts struggling to remember, wait, a falcon…then, that means….
DAHN-DAAAAAAAAAAAAAHN, Team Norman, out on their hunt and looking delectable as always. I love watching these two ride together, not only because they’re pretty little bookends–
–but because Addie always looks perfectly in control of his mount, while Grace looks like he’s fighting his in the scene’s general direction, and it’s adorkable. Anyway, there’s a lot more falcon symbolism invoked by the pair, as they argue over the whereabouts of the bird–
–with Gisburne insisting that the creature is lost, until the Sheriff finally hears the bells in the distance. So he guides the party towards the straying falcon, because Robert de Rainault is all about keeping his reluctant creatures in an iron grip, Gisburne.
Then, the raptor’s subtext-laden retrieval cuts to the uncomfortable Marion nursing Huntingdon; through the pain of his wound, he looks at her longingly, while she tries to accept this youth who’s taken over everything her husband was. She understands how things must be, however, reassuring both him and herself that Robin Hood’s work needs to continue and that Huntingdon should take his name to keep the legend alive. There’s a hint here that Huntingdon might have a chance to court her one day, but only if he doesn’t drive her away by pushing too much, too soon.
The Normans, meanwhile, follow the falcon’s bells – which are now jingling so loudly that they’d scare every prey animal for ten miles around – and they discover the interesting little drama transpiring in the woods, entering the clearing where Oliver’s ersatz interment is taking place. One of the men panics and exclaims, “it’s Gisburne! Run!”, stupidly eliminating any chance of this scene looking innocuous. So Gisburne circles the men to get a look at the body and then announces the dead man’s identity to the Sheriff.
“You’re Edward of Wickham, aren’t you?” snarls the peculiarly-forgetful-of-season-2 Sheriff, and when Edward opens his mouth to say, “my lord–” de Rainault viciously backhands the serf and announces that Edward will speak again when the Sheriff commands it: under questioning, in Wickham. And so the Sheriff discards the advantages of fear and surprise, ordering the men back into town and thus giving them time to invent some story on the way back.
But thank goodness that he does, because the leisurely approach of a full hunting-party of mounted Normans gives the lookout Nasir plenty of time to call out warning to the village. The Merries mobilize quickly and – now having no choice but to move their injured comrade – they lift Huntingdon from his sickbed and hustle him into the woods:
It’s not a moment too soon, either, because when the Normans arrive a minute after, the Sheriff orders the villagers rounded up and the village searched. So the guardsmen go to work, the villagers scream and flail, the Sheriff and Gisburne alternate supervisory glances with subtextual stares, and Guy rides around impatiently as though declaring BUT I WANNA KILL PEOPLE SERFS! AND ALSO, MAH PRETTEH, LET ME SHOW YOU IT:
In their makeshift woodland sanctuary, Marion continues to tend scrupulously to Huntingdon’s forehead, and considering that his leg was wounded, I think I see why he’s not-so-much with the recuperation. But fortunately, before Robert of Huntingdon can become Robin the Deaded Man, Herne approaches them–
–and commands the Merries to leave him alone with his Son. Because WILL IS ANGRY, he ANGRILY exclaims, “Herne! He’s dying!” And to the shaman’s credit, he does not reply, “I know, you silly-talking person, that’s why I’m here,” but simply repeats his instruction, more firmly.
Once they’ve been left alone, Herne proffers both healing and vagueness to the young nobleman, telling him, “Your enemies have Albion. Before long you will learn its mystery.” It’s weird that he can’t just tell Huntingdon that the magical blade won’t kill him – especially since he already revealed “its mystery” to Marion about twenty minutes ago – but then he reaches out his hands to his Son, and the scene fades.
Back at Leaford Grange, Marion enters her chamber and stops in shock–
–because the Sheriff and Gisburne are there, having searched her room and found Albion. And whether the Normans have been arranged in this tableau all afternoon, or they just quickly moved themselves into a nice fanned-out arrangement right before Marion walked in – either way, the effect is striking:
The Sheriff then flashes Albion’s blade with insufferable smugness, his arch expression proclaiming your dead husband’s sword is mine now, though how I know it was his sword is anybody’s guess, but screw this particular plot hole because I am fabulous:
“Gisburne even suggested that you’d been captured by outlaws,” he wheedles amusedly, and Marion makes a face like YES! THAT! OH, WOE, CAPTURE. It’s funny that the Sheriff was called a woman-hater in season 1, because it’s Gisburne who usually reacts in the most chauvinistic manner possible – like here, with his idiotic assumption of BUT MY LORD, THE LADY MARION COULD NOT POSSIBLY CONSPIRE WITH HER FORMER COMPANIONS, AS WOMEN DO NOT HAVE MINDS. The Sheriff, on the other hand, knows all too well not to underestimate her, and tells her frankly that he finds the possibility of her “capture” quite unlikely, so Marion’s all DAMN MY POTENTIAL ALIBI, COMPLETELY RUINED BY YOUR DOUBTFUL ASSESSMENT OF IMPROBABLE ODDS!
She then tries to protest, deferentially starting with, “My lord Sheriff–” but the Sheriff pitches his voice into a patronizing caress, interrupting her with, “No no no no, please don’t tell me now. It would spoil the surprise, wouldn’t it? Mind you, I’m dying to know…” He announces that he’s taking her and the sword into custody, because apparently, while the Earl of Huntingdon can’t be crossed, his trusted and treasured vassal Sir Richard of Leaford can have his daughter ripped from his home without cause or consequence. And when Sir Richard demands to know what crime Marion’s committed, the Sheriff speaks quite possibly one of the most witless responses he’s ever given: “We’ll see, won’t we?”
Marion then hides a small smile, as the Sheriff’s all but admitted that he has no evidence whatsoever against her:
So they’re taking her back to Nottingham on the sole pretext that they found a sword in her room, and by refusing to question her until they reach the castle, the Sheriff has again forfeited his own upper hand and granted Marion loads of time to invent a plausible explanation for her absence.
Again desperate to save Marion, and knowing better than to request help from the Sheriff this time, Sir Richard rides to Sherwood and requests to speak with Robert of Huntingdon. They tell him defiantly that in Sherwood, he’s Robin Hood, and when Richard tries to appeal specifically to Tuck, he gets a very surprising and awesome response from the Christian monk, and it’s my favourite Tuck line of the show:
Richard: Where is he, Tuck?
Tuck: [sternly, in a voice that is to be reckoned with] With Herne.
Richard is growing increasingly annoyed in dealing with these criminals who, in his opinion, have no regard for his daughter’s life and keep putting her in danger for selfish reasons. Snippily he tells them that the Sheriff’s taken Marion to Nottingham, then again demands to know where Huntingdon is, so the Saracen Nasir repeats with Herne in a low warning growl. Then they all start arguing, because Sir Richard thinks that Herne the Hunter is only a faery-story, and the outlaws are determined to keep Sir Richard from desecrating Herne’s work, and WILL IS MAD BECAUSE WILL, and just as the situation starts to degenerate, a voice pipes up from the trees, and Huntingdon himself appears. He’s ready to go, now that Herne has healed him and re-styled his hair:
“I’m going to Nottingham,” he announces. As the Merries begin protesting – having no idea what he’s planning, and understandably worried given his recent debility – a look of distraction passes over his features. Suddenly he exclaims “the Newark road!” and with that vague visionary moment, we see that Robin Hood has indeed returned and is once more issuing life-endangering orders based upon bumps of intuition.
Briefly the scene flashes to the injured torturer, who’s still lurching through the woods and trying not to die, with a dedication to his job that would be inspiring if it weren’t for the particulars of his profession. Meanwhile, back in Nottingham Castle, the Sheriff uses a dagger to feed bits of meat to his prize falcon Ajax. The contrast is rather amusing, as de Rainault’s table manners are barbaric, but his voice almost civilised as he asks the bird, “who’s my precious, eh? Who’s my beauty?” And the underlying message of de Rainault’s sweet-talk is clear – “You see? I can be quite lovely to my creatures when they don’t CONSTANTLY FAIL ME, Gisburne“:
But Guy TOTALLY DOESN’T CARE IF THE SHERIFF LIKES A BIRD BETTER, so he ignores Robert’s gloating by instead chomping on a chicken leg and examining Albion:
This lasts about two seconds before the Sheriff notices his deputy’s interest in the sword and removes even that source of cold comfort, snapping the shiny out of Guy’s hand and ordering him to go get Marion. So Gisburne sullens off, and the Sheriff impales a piece of cheese on his dagger, taunts Edward with it, then eats it himself while accusing the villagers of killing Oliver. Edward asks what motivation they’d have to do such a thing, but the Sheriff proves that he’s only a fool when the script calls for it, suggesting that they committed murder to cover up the fact that Lady Marion had gone to Wickham. He then tells Edward that an experienced interrogator is on the way and that Edward will be the first man to undergo the ordeal, so thank goodness de Rainault had sufficient precognition to order a torturer a week in advance.
Right then, Gisburne returns with the “Lady Wolfshead” – because Guy made that joke that one time and is now going to use it forever because TEE HEE HE MADE A FUNNY – and in the hall, Marion lifts her chin proudly and requests to be told why she’s being detained. So the Sheriff approaches her and gives a rather pointed (ha) response to her demand:
“Albion. You were to guard it until the coming of his successor, weren’t you?”
Once again, the Sheriff knows a bit too much about Robin Hood and the occult significance of the Hooded Man’s kit, hinting at some darkly sorcerous motivation that’s never explored. De Rainault then accuses Marion of the lackey’s murder, which is not a smart move, because the villagers are still sitting on the floor five feet away. So now they can all deduce that the Sheriff doesn’t actually know what happened, and is throwing every possible scenario into the ether until somebody confesses to something.
Indeed, the Sheriff’s determined to get the story from somebody, informing Marion that she’ll either tell him what happened or watch the Wickham villagers die. And while all of this is going on, Gisburne’s gone back to eating and is watching the scene passively as though this manipulative cruelty is some dinner theatre sketch. Finally, de Rainault’s own mental instability catches up with him: he throws down Albion, orders the villagers removed, and tells Marion that she can save both herself and them by simply revealing the outlaw leader’s name. So she smiles and states that the man is called Robin Hood.
The Sheriff really doesn’t like that response–
–calling Marion a “devious drab” and losing his composure completely, screaming at her with such overblown fury that it makes her laugh:
I’d probably find it funny, as well, if this raving psychotic didn’t hold the villagers’ lives in his furiously trembling hands. He shouts to Marion that, if she doesn’t confess, she will never leave Nottingham. But right at that moment, Robert of Huntingdon enters the hall, limps dramatically towards their table, and announces that he’s come to make a confession, feeling it only right that he tell the local authorities everything.
Team Norman reacts like wh-wh-wh–WHAAAAAAA?!
And Robert invites him to be seated and take his time. Huntingdon sits with apparent gratitude, then – haltingly and with great(ly feigned) difficulty – reveals that, despite the terrible humiliation of the whole wretched affair, he must admit to being attacked and wounded by Robin Hood.
I have to hand it to Huntingdon here, playing the offended noble peacock with entertaining deviousness; he rails furiously against the indignity of it all, gritting his teeth as he tries to explain the depths of his embarrassment: “Imagine it, Sir Guy: a trained swordsman being beaten by peasants!” It’s one of my favourite lines of the whole third series, a nicely veiled insult, and it sure shuts Guy up quickly! But Robert notices his deputy’s dismay and asks Huntingdon to describe the assailant, and the youth answers quite truthfully that Robin Hood was about his height and fair-haired.
“Could he be…mistaken for you?” asks Robert carefully, eyeing Guy, who smiles with apparent sheepish gratitude at the question, and d’awwww, you guys. Naturally, that little moment of concord doesn’t last long, as Huntingdon gives the affronted reply, “Certainly not!! He was a peasant!” This leads Robert to echo the youth’s denial and stare pointedly at Guy like you see? idiot!, which makes Guy glare back, which instantly returns them to Smarmy and Sulky business as usual:
Then Huntingdon nods politely to Marion, inquiring after her father’s health and asking what brings her to Nottingham. Upon learning that Marion’s being detained in the castle, and refuses to reveal Robin Hood’s identity, he begs her to tell his name and even defends the Sheriff for keeping her imprisoned:
But she remains proudly silent and, blistering with evident exasperation, Huntingdon requests a moment’s counsel and hooks an arm around the Sheriff’s shoulder, leading him away from the table to confer in private. Once out of earshot, he coldly suggests that a stay in the dungeon might loosen Marion’s tongue. And the Sheriff – delighted to acquire a charming, vicious ally, who perhaps isn’t the useless popinjay he seemed to be – is only too pleased to comply:
Gisburne, too, is thrilled, not only to have an excuse to assert man-superiority over the recalcitrant woman, but to call her “Lady Wolfshead” again and engage in some haughty mockery of a noble even more disgraced than he is. So he invites her to climb down into the pit, with a smug flourish:
Nottingham then becomes a beacon of festivity in the next scene, honouring Huntingdon’s stay with appropriate fanfare. The youth regales the Sheriff with truly horrible jokes, of the sort your average Norman dipshit would tell, and they howl with hilarity as Gisburne – who’s allergic to fun, and miffed to have been wrong, and UNCONCERNED THAT THE BRAT IS MAKING THE SHERIFF LAUGH – gets swiftly, morosely drunk:
It’s a fun scene to watch for the sake of focus: Huntingdon puts all of his energy into charming the Sheriff, while the mirthful Sheriff preens and tries to entice Gisburne to join in, and Guy is sulking by his sore-loser self and ignoring them both. Eventually, Huntingdon declares that it’s time to be serious and discuss what to do about that dastardly outlaw Robin Hood; the Sheriff, still chortling, replies he can’t openly discuss official matters. But Huntingdon says that he has a plan, and that certainly gets Guy’s attention; bitterly, the deputy asks whether this spoiled prat honoured guest really believes there are any plans that haven’t yet been tried, and then he bites into a richly symbolic Apple of Eff You:
Meanwhile, the Sheriff also seems to have more important things on his (blissfully drunken) mind, and it isn’t Huntingdon catching that lascivious gaze:
But reluctantly, they both hear out the young nobleman. So Huntingdon describes his scheme, pretending to invent some of the details on the spot, and as he speaks, we see the plan taking shape in film. He suggests that they use the prisoners as bait, pretending to take them under guard to Newark for further questioning. Since the Newark road is wooded on either side, they can take foresters, guards, and a cart with the prisoners – the three of them riding behind this convoy – and then attack when the outlaws make their inevitable move. And indeed, we see the Merries on the road, awaiting the Nottingham party’s approach, so it’s a good thing that the Sheriff agreed to this exact plan, instead of changing some tiny but crucial detail like the route.
In fact, this is a rather crappy plan, when you consider that its basis is “ride near Sherwood with a big group of people,” which never works. But the Sheriff has again become gullible in order to advance the plot, so he just totally goes along with this nonsense. As a result, Much and Little John take out the foresters, while Nasir and Will leap from the trees, pulling Gisburne and the Sheriff (respectively) down from their mounts. Some of the Nottingham guards are knocked out and left lying on the ground; others try to flee and get shot in the backs as they run.
So Gisburne and the Sheriff revive from the shock of ground-smashing to find Huntingdon gone, and then they hear Little John’s loud, stern voice exclaiming that they’ve taken the Earl’s son and now demand the prisoners as the youth’s ransom. Although he tries to yell a few posturing protests, de Rainault knows he has no choice but to order the captives’ release:
Robert: Fetch them, Gisburne.
Audience: :drink:
Guy: But my lord–
Robert: [interrupting] What happens if they cut his throat?
Guy: [thinks for several moments, until bitter realisation dawns]
Robert: Fetch them.
Gisburne goes to obey, and trying to salvage a small shred of dignity from this mess, the Sheriff shouts treeward that Marion will die if Huntingdon is harmed. Huntingdon, meanwhile, is standing out of sight and quite unharmed with the other outlaws, and he informs Will that he’s returning with the men to Nottingham so that no-one suspects him. “‘Robert of Huntingdon’ is proving very useful to us,” he whispers gleefully.
Meanwhile, Team Norman squabbles:
Robert: You took long enough.
Guy: [incredulously and angrily] Are you going to trust him?
(Wait, Guy’s having critical opinions now?!)
Robert: [speaking with quiet resignation and defeat] What else can I do?
(And Robert’s not only allowing this, but responding in a chastised way??)
So Huntingdon is “set free” and makes his way towards them, while the Sheriff murmurs to Gisburne in relief.
Again, just for a moment, we see the torturer, still doggedly alive and still striving to reach Nottingham, and then the camera crews just leave him there and head back to Nottingham itself. The Sheriff lounges in his throne and drinks depressedly, while Gisburne dresses down Huntingdon like WELL, NICE WORK YOU DUMB SHIT, NOW THE PRISONERS ARE FREE AND IT’S ALL YOUR STUPID FAULT, as he hangs on the Sheriff’s throne like MINE:
Then he actually calls out the Sheriff, asking peevishly, “Why did you listen to him? Because he’s the Earl’s son?!” (This remark is included only for purposes of foreshadowing and future irony, so that it’ll be really funny when we get some future information about another pretty blond Earl’s son, whose opinions don’t matter one whit to the Sheriff.) “Be silent,” the disheartened Sheriff growls, though with less vim than usual. Huntingdon resolves that he must stay in Nottingham and do his best to aid them in another attempt, but de Rainault is like NO, GOD NO, JUST GO HOME TO YOUR FATHER WHILE YOU’RE STILL BREATHING, YOU INCOMPETENT BLUE-BLOODED TWIT–I MEAN, UM, NO THANKS, WE’RE GOOD, ONE BLOND IMBECILE IS ENOUGH–I MEAN, UM, BYE.
But just when it seems that their similar self-serving characters and shared defeat has forged a lifelong friendship between Robert de Rainault and Robert of Huntingdon, there’s a rustle at the front of the hall, and a guardsman walks in with the torturer, leaving the man to wait at the door as he, for some reason, approaches Gisburne instead of telling the Sheriff that his expected guest has arrived. At the urgent psst psst psst psst, Gisburne excuses himself and goes subtly to the door to quietly confer with the torturer, while Huntingdon and the Sheriff continue to fawn over each other. And the youth implies that his noble, wealthy father will surely show de Rainault (costly monetary) gratitude for his son’s rescue, while the torturer confirms to Guy that he shot Robin Hood in the left leg, above the knee:
So thank goodness that Herne only partially healed Huntingdon, leaving him just enough of a limp to play on the officials’ sympathies and then be unmasked ten minutes later. Even Gisburne is able to figure this one out, and as the Sheriff goes to escort out his new bestest buddy–
–Guy draws his sword in a proud gesture of RIGHT ALL ALOOOOOOOOONG, SUCKAAAAAS:
The Sheriff, stunned, steps in front of the youth and demands to know what’s going on; Gisburne explains what the dying torturer has just told him, and the Sheriff, too, quickly realises they’ve been tricked:
Huntingdon can see that the jig is up, so he throws the Sheriff at Gisburne, buying himself time to draw his sword. Gisburne pushes his master aside, and the obligatory episode-ending duel begins, featuring–
–Clasped Wrists, a Stru-u-u-u-u-ggle of MAN-STRENGTH, and Crossed Blades.
While this is happening, the Sheriff turns to face a wall and draws his dagger, then lunges for the youth; somehow, Huntingdon senses this attack, whirls, and slashes the Sheriff across the stomach:
De Rainault crumples to the floor, and Huntingdon turns his attention back to Gisburne. Guy is quickly disarmed, so he grabs Albion from where it still rests atop the dinner-table, as Huntingdon cuts a lamp-rope and uses it to SWING ACROSS THE EFFING ROOM LIKE THIS IS EFFING CAPTAIN BLOOD OR SOME SHIT. Gisburne chases after him, and the men perform what looks like an interpretive dance version of sword-fighting:
Then, because there’s a table, they work some Tabletop Rolling into the prancing choreography:
Finally, Guy grabs two serving-maids to use as human shields–
–and ruthlessness works just beautifully, because Gisburne then disarms Huntingdon and triumphantly lifts Albion to deliver a death-blow. But Albion cannot harm Herne’s Son, and so this moment does not go quite as Guy expects:
Instead, the blade sears Gisburne’s hands–
–until he finally releases it, before falling to the floor and twitching in agony.
Huntingdon retrieves Albion and makes a run for it, while the wounded Sheriff stares after the fleeing youth like–
–EXOPHTHALMOS!! (ALSO SHOCK AND DISMAY.)
And back in the forest, the Merries solve the Wickham villagers’ woes with a solution they could have employed a half-hour ago, handing Edward thirty silver marks to pay the anticipated fine:
They announce cheerfully that they’ve got everything they need in Sherwood, and as if underscoring that optimistic statement, their leader returns to them. He bears the unhappy news that he’s been discovered and that no-one, not even his father, will be able to acknowledge “Robert of Huntingdon” any longer:
But on the up side, in a gobsmacking, utterly shocking twist, Marion’s realised that she’s no longer safe in Leaford and has decided to remain in Sherwood as well. Then Huntingdon draws the sword and randomly changes the subject, telling Marion, “The sword. Albion. It saved my life.”
She again gazes at the runes, reading them for him: “Herne’s Son is my master. I cannot slay him. Albion is yours now.”
So now Huntingdon is officially Robin Hood, having been charged and dubbed and hooded and sworded and made too legitimate to cease by every means possible, and then, this surprisingly lovely moment ends the episode:
Herne: To help the weak, defend the helpless, and fight against tyranny. Robin in the Hood! So must it be!
All: So must it be.
Huntingdon Robin: So must it be.
The Power of Albion strikes me as a story that was written with much love, and my opinion is that it simply needed more time; for all that I’ve been so pedantic with this plot, most of its issues could have been resolved with fairly minor script revisions. But once again, the episode goes at a choppy pace – glossing over important events and covering less vital points with bone-dragging slowness – and I get the feeling that it was rushed into production.
At this juncture, Carpenter took a brief break from series 3 and handed over the next installment to children’s book author Anthony Horowitz; the resultant mess of a script accounts for a disproportionate number of entries on RoS‘ TVTropes page, its plot being stereotypical, chauvinist, and too convoluted to be memorable. Anyway, ALL of the non-Carpenter stories are titled either “Name” or “The *Thing the Episode’s About*”, so the next episode is called The Inheritance, and it’s about AN INHERITANCE. I’ll dissect it ruthlessly – and even explain why this blog is called “Sword, Table, Antlers” – next time, on Robin of Sherwood.
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Fun Things:
*Utterances of “Gisburne”: 15.
*Appearances of Apples: One at 29:05 on the Sheriff’s plate, and one in Gisburne’s hand at 37:05.
*Gleanings of Quotations: On IMDB here.
*Some engaging thoughts on the history of Robin Hood may be found here.
*Finally, you can read a rather hardcore interpretation of Robin Hood – with a different story about forester-killing – here. (The same site also helps clarify Robin dressing as Guy in The Witch of Elsdon. If they ever do a RoS remake, I want this writer doing the scripts.)
(And with that link, I officially welcome Brooke into the Apple Gallery, giving long-overdue praise for both aiding me in these reviews and reading them faithfully despite having never watched the damn show. I should get you folks dorky T-shirts or decoder rings or something.)
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Notes:
(1) I hate stories in which an intelligent character cooks up some elaborate scheme instead of doing something simpler and more straightforward that would actually accomplish his goal; this one is particularly ridiculous, because the Sheriff used to be too politically savvy to make such basic errors in statecraft. Why is he setting a watch on Marion’s house, instead of taking action that could actually catch the outlaws? I’m about as apolitical and stupid as they come, and and even I was able to think up an alternative.
See, the problem is that we never saw young Huntingdon write a note to the effect of, “Dear Dad, gone on vacation to Bermuda Wales. Put down the bird, you shrivelled old coot. No love, Robert.” So as far as we know, the Earl of Huntingdon’s sole heir has been absent without explanation for over a month, after offering public insult to a powerful and easily-angered Welsh lord. How is every soldier in Huntingdonshire not out looking for him? There should be a manhunt raging through the English Midlands right now, and as a result, Robert doesn’t have to accuse the Earl or his son of anything. All he has to do is go see the Earl, pretend a liking for the youth’s brave spirit and concern over his fate, and express a resultant desire to aid the missing-persons search, offering “help” to the Earl to solve a crime that may cross over into his jurisdiction. Hell, if the Sheriff played well enough upon the fears of a stern but loving father, the Earl would probably lead the next hunt through Sherwood himself.
(2) Back to my futile timeline of futility: the outlaws have been outlawing for a little while now, and it seems to be spring in Sherwood, as the mornings are breath-foggingly cold while the vegetation is green. I doubt that Gisburne would still be hassling the Sheriff about Huntingdon’s identity a full year later, so I’m fruitlessly timing this episode at spring 1204. (By the show’s own timeline, it’d be spring 1210.)
(3) The inscription doesn’t actually say that; item #10 on this FAQ offers a brief, amusing discussion on Albion’s runes if you’d like to read more. Incidentally, I now kind of want a blade inscribed with ‘I increase the wheelbarrow, injuring the ninth wet stepson’.
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