"Clayton Emery - Robin Hood's Treasure" - читать интересную книгу автора (Emery Clayton)

kissing and hugging, talking. He didn't know if he were ready for the day
or not. "When we steal, it's not for us. It's for the poor and anyone else
as needs it. We're not the receivers. We're just the vessels, carriers for
Our Lady."
"I know some ladies in Nottingham would love to receive some money,"
said Scarlett.
"You never knew a lady in your life," Little John told him.
Robin picked up his great bow and stretched the string, taking
imaginary aim. The weapon fairly hummed. "Gold can't buy anything
important."
Will Scarlett clucked his tongue. "But really, Rob. Why can't we keep
some of what we steal?"
"You know the answer to that, Will. Because it wouldn't be right. We
didn't become outlaws to steal money. We became outlaws and that's
why we steal money. Don't get things backwards. You're always doing
that."
Little John rumbled, "But you know, Rob. He's right about one thing --"
"Ach!" Robin Hood let his bowstring twang, something he never did. "All
this talk about money! I don't remember Jesus talking about getting rich!
I seem to remember just the opposite! All we ever talk about is money!
How many times a week do I have to dig up our treasure chest? Eh?"
Little John rocked his quarterstaff across his lap so the ends thumped
on the ground. "Last time you opened it you frightened a mole."
Robin Hood swung his bow in a great sweeping arc. "Would you look at
this glade? Would you look at that lime tree? This cave? These oaks,
that were saplings when Our Saviour walked on water? This glade, this
forest, yon brook, this way of life we have here -- sitting around a tree
and lazing the day away and watching the sun come up and talking
about nothing at all -- we might's well be steeped in emeralds --"
"In what?" asked Brand.
"-- when we could be chained to some plow scratching a furrow across
rocks, or hobbling crippled a leper on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, or lost,
or alone, or hurt or unloved or without families -- all this, and you lot
want money?"
The outlaws looked at one another. They looked at their camp, which
showed no sign of human life other than the firepit and Will Scarlett's
spare shirt hanging on a bush. They looked at their leader. Robin
Hood's shirt and trousers were worn through at the knees and elbows.
His leather tunic was scuffed almost white, his belt cracked. Only his
deerhide boots, tall and greased, were presentable. Even the feather in
his hat drooped. The King of Sherwood was the poorest-dressed
among them.
Little John cleared his throat. "If we did keep more of the money, Robin,
we could build a chapel."
Robin grunted, his voice tight from pulling his bowstring. "I could build a
chapel without leaving this glade. From stone below and trees above."
"We could have a gilt cross."
"Jesus hung on a wooden one."
"What about our arrowheads, eh? You don't find them growing on
trees."