ROBIN HOOD AND FRIAR TUCK: ZOMBIE KILLERS – A Canterbury Tale
by
Paul A. Freeman
Published by Coscom Entertainment at Smashwords.com
This book is also available as a paperback at your favorite online retailer like Amazon.com, or through your local bookstore.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons living or dead or living dead is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-926712-24-6
Robin Hood and Friar Tuck: Zombie Killers – A Canterbury Tale is Copyright © 2009 by Paul A. Freeman. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce in whole or in part in any form or medium.
Published by Coscom Entertainment
www.coscomentertainment.com
Text set in Garamond
eBook Edition
Cover art by Sean Simmans
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To Kenneth, Deborah, Cathy and Mandy—for encouragement beyond the call of duty. And to those countless internet scribes who make the loneliness of a writer less lonely.
ROBIN HOOD AND FRIAR TUCK: ZOMBIE KILLERS – A Canterbury Tale
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Prologue to the Monk’s Second Tale
As night drew in, young Geoffrey Chaucer’s band
Of pilgrims, sensing darkness was at hand,
Demanded that the next narration told
Should terrify and make the blood run cold.
So at a woodland inn the palmers stopped
And off their carts and weary mounts they hopped.
Then gath’ring in the hostelry they sought
To keep on track their storytelling sport.
They asked for one who’d spread a dose of fear
To frighten them whilst supping wine and beer.
The Monk spoke up to volunteer a tale,
Then putting down a flagon full of ale
Requested that the keeper of the inn
Suppress all boist’rous revelry and din.
“Illuminate this cheerless, brooding room
With candles,” added he, “then in the gloom,
Amidst the spooky shadows I shall tell
Of grave events and horrors that befell
The peasants and the gentlefolk who dwelt
Round Nottingham and in the woodland belt
Surrounding that fair town some years ago.
“Yet ere from twixt my lips this tale doth flow
Of Death’s reanimations and of days
Spent fighting Satan’s devilish malaise,
Allow me to describe the stricken state
Of England when King Richard’s sovereign fate
Was hanging in the balance and his lands
Were held, in trust, in crafty Prince John’s hands.”
The landlord did as bidden to arrange
For candles put in every sconce till strange
And ghostly silhouettes of those arrayed
About the room upon the four walls played.
Then once an air of creepiness was set
The Monk fulfilled his storytelling debt.
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Here Beginneth the Monk’s Second Tale
Chapter I
Whilst England’s brave King Richard was away
In Palestine, embroildèd in the fray
’Gainst Mussulmen to make Jerus’lem home
For Christians and the Holy Church of Rome,
His brother, John, in London hatched a plot
To steal the regent’s kingdom and allot
Its fiefdoms to those knights for whom a sop
Of land ensured their loyalty they’d swap.
Their switched allegiance came at dreadful cost
To those who tilled in sun, and rain, and frost
And through their labors kept the clergy clothed;
For by their Norman lords these serfs were loathed,
Disparaged for their lowly Saxon birth—
Condemning them to turn the thankless earth.
The barons and the abbots levied tax
Upon these needy workers, filling sacks
With coinage made of silver and of gold;
Then one stood up against them, one so bold,
That on his head was placed a large reward—
As much as his detractors could afford.
This hero’s name was Robin of the Hood;
He harried nobles riding through the wood
Round Nottingham, then shared the pilfered gains
With those who bore the Normans’ binding chains.
He gave this stolen bounty to the poor,
Indifferent to Prince John’s stringent law
And hoped there’d be a pardon in the air
Once Richard sat again upon the chair
Of sovereignty and distanced from the throne
His brother with the heart as cold as stone.
Though Robin had adventures by the score,
Enough to fill a manuscript or more,
Not one could match the time our honest champ
And several of his men unearthed a camp
Hid deep within the forest by a stream.
Upon a skewer lay a roasting bream,
Yet ere the hungry group of outlaws fell
Upon the fish, young Much decried a bell.
“This mournful sound foreshadows naught but ill!”
The miller’s son called out. “So hold ye still.
Taste not this stranger’s food, nor touch his things,
Since round his neck the leper’s warning rings.”
An owlish hoot from Scarlet Will curtailed
All further talk, for in the woods travailed
The figure of a Friar from whom the knell
Rang ominously through the verdant dell.
“Before we panic,” whispered Robin Hood,
“Let’s learn if this lone priest means ill or good.”
With this the outlaw company concealed
Their whereabouts, then suddenly revealed
Their presence once the cloaked and hooded Friar
Had placed a heap of branches by his fire.
Emerging from amongst the forest trees
Like autumn leaves upon the Sherwood breeze,
The bandits formed a ring around their prey—
A portly man whose threadbare cape of gray
Was pitted full of holes bespeaking wear.
He shed his hood, revealing tonsured hair
And features bronzed and burnished by the sun—
As brown as is an Easter hot-crossed-bun.
Yet florid were his cheeks, with veins of red,
Which told on beer and wine he’d often fed.
“My name,” the man announced, “is Friar Tuck,
And trusting to the will of God and luck,
I seek one Robin Hood, for in this shire
A weird contagion soon shall spread like fire
Amongst the Sheriff’s men, creating strife,
Then bringing those infected back to life.”
And pointing to his leper’s bell, he said,
“Although this trinket might attract the dead
It keeps away that murd’rous knight named Guy
Who brought this dreaded sickness from the dry
And dusty lands where Richard now crusades—
From one of our unholy, bloody raids.”
Incredulously, Robin viewed the monk
And wondered if perchance the man was drunk.
“You’ve sought and now discovered me,” he said.
“Yet seemingly within your mind you’ve bred
Some fantasies which urged you root me out,
So tell me what this story’s all about.”
Ere Friar Tuck could tell his baffling news
A man came blund’ring through a stand of yews.
Not clad in Lincoln green like Robin’s men,
But in the Sheriff’s livery, and then,
With fevered eye and chomping jaws assailed
The outlaw Will, whose arms like windmills flailed
In vain to stop this unprovoked attack.
The soldier’s teeth bit deeply in the back
Of Scarlet’s neck, and ripped away some flesh.
He chewed as if the morsel were a fresh
And juicy piece of venison or steak,
Then on Will’s spurting blood he strove to slake
His appetite, and satisfied his thirst.
To Scarlet’s rescue, Robin was the first.
And though the interloper took a knife
Between the ribs it didn’t end the life
Of this infernal denizen from Hell.
But finally the vicious monster fell
When Friar Tuck pulled back his cloak and drew
A sword with which the evil beast he slew.
“A stabbing’s not enough!” the Friar said,
And with one blow cut off the creature’s head.
As Will bled out and gasped, and breathed his last
The Sherwood men stood silent and aghast,
Their shocked expressions filled with disbelief
That men could treat their kin as chunks of beef
Like meat to fuel the body and sustain
That force of Life ingested foods maintain.
Then suddenly the corpse of Scarlet stirred
As if his limbs and torso hadn’t heard
About his premature and brutal end.
“My loyal servant’s mortal hurt doth mend,”
Cried Robin, rushing over to embrace
The rousing man, then noticed that his face
Was pale as death, with bared and gnashing teeth.
“Beware!” the Friar shouted. “For beneath
Your friend’s pretense of life, he’s now a beast
Which on your flesh and blood intends to feast.”
And with these words of warning Friar Tuck
Once more raised up his keen-edged sword and struck,
Decapitating Will with one deft stroke.
Young Much, his dagger drawn, prepared to poke
His blade into the monk’s expansive chest
Till Robin told the lad, “It’s for the best.
This creature only bore Will Scarlet’s guise.
’Tis mercy that we’ve witnessed his demise
And liberated Will’s immortal soul.”
So once the band had made a shallow hole
In which to place their comrade till a grave
Could be arranged, the holy Friar gave
A full account of how this weird disease
That seemingly reanimates with ease
Its victims came to reach the English shores.
“This illness which defies all natural laws,”
Said Friar Tuck, “was brought from distant climes,
A penalty, perhaps, for wicked crimes
Committed by our own crusading knights
Against the local people’s human rights.
So since poor Scarlet’s grave has now been dug,
I’ll tell you how this strange and fatal bug
Originated in those foreign lands,
To punish our crusaders’ bloody hands.
Without ado, to you I shall impart
My story from its inoffensive start.”
And this Tuck did, for here is what he said
About reanimation of the dead:
“When Richard called the country’s knights to arms,
His noblemen enlisted from their farms
A soldiery of serfs to go abroad,
To fight against the brutal Muslim horde.
Then priests who might perform the final rites
Required by God were hired by these knights
To minister to those with wounds so grave
Their lives were deemed impossible to save.
“Amongst these chosen clergymen was I,
Recruited for that ruffian Sir Guy
Of Gisborne, who for Nottingham did ride
Against the Turks, accomp’nied by his bride
The lady, Claire—a wicked, heartless lass
Who hoped upon this trip she might amass
A wealth of pilfered silver, gems and gold.
“The Abbott of St. Mary’s Abbey told
Myself and all my colleagues that he planned
To send unto the blessèd Holy Land
A brother under Guy’s protective wing.
And since my voice was often heard to ring
With stories of the Abbot’s thieving ways
’Twas I on whom he set his haughty gaze.
“When due to leave, the Sheriff came along
Upon his horse to give the martial throng,
And Guy, his nephew, such a stirring speech
That once we stepped upon a sandy beach
In Palestine, each man would gladly kill
The Saracens and do the Church’s will.
“The climate of the Holy Land proved hot,
The sun a harsh and unrelenting blot
Of brightness burning down on us all day
Till nighttime took its punishment away.
And even when the desert sun was hid
Behind infrequent clouds this couldn’t rid
The air of its inherent daytime heat.
“Our infantry was swaying on its feet
From hunger and from thirst until the stamp
Of marching feet was halted at the camp