Rise of the Wolf (The Forest Lord Book 3)

by Steven A McKay

  Matt Groves twisted his lip in the scowl the captain had grown to detest and shrugged. “Fine. I never came to Hull to be a damn fisherman anyway. I'll find a ship sailing to Portugal or Flanders. At least it'll be warm and won't stink of fish.”

  The first mate and another stocky crewman came in then, wondering what the shouting was about.

  “Show Matt here out, lads,” the captain ordered them. “He's going to Portugal.”

  The first mate grinned. He couldn't stand the surly Groves who was continually undermining his authority with the men. “With pleasure, captain.”

  A short time later Matt stood on the dock, surrounded by the noise and bustle of sailors and merchants readying their cargoes for the next money-making trip. After he had betrayed Robin and the other young outlaw from Wakefield, Much, to Sir Guy of Gisbourne, Groves had headed east with a pocket full of silver and plans to make a new life as a sailor, which was a job he'd done long ago in his youth.

  This was the third vessel he'd been forced to leave. His time living in Barnsdale as an outlaw, where he could do almost whatever he liked, had made it impossible for him to bow to authority or accept the rigid order on board a ship. His constant questioning and refusal to carry out menial tasks made him an unpleasant companion.

  He hadn't been popular when he was part of the outlaw gang either, but at least there he could take himself off to a village for the night, or visit a brothel to work out his aggression. Aboard a ship the crew had no way to escape the man's relentless grumbling, and, although he never admitted to being an outlaw, it was obvious he was a very dangerous man, making his presence on the lonely sea an altogether unsettling and unpleasant one.

  He growled and spat a thick gob of phlegm onto the dock in frustration. The reward Gisbourne had given him to turn Judas on Robin and Much was long gone and he was sick of these base-born fishermen treating him like he was a nobody.

  He wouldn't bother looking for that ship to Portugal or Flanders, after all. No... he had a better idea...

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Calm down, girl! Anger might seem like a good motivator but when it comes to a fight, it's much better to be calm.” Matilda shrugged, feeling slightly foolish as she lectured the girl in front of her. She was no killing machine, but she had trained with Robin and the outlaws so, when Marjorie asked her to pass on her knowledge she had reluctantly agreed. “When people are angry they don't think things through; they just act, regardless of the consequences. The best swordsmen – or women – hold their emotions in check.” She flicked her lightweight wooden practice sword out and was pleased when her pupil saw it coming and managed to parry, breathlessly.

  Marjorie had always been a weak, sickly girl, despite her older brother Robin's impressive physique. She'd suffered terribly in the famine of 1315, her then seven year-old body wasting away despite her parents' best efforts to find food for the family. Robin, eleven at the time, had just enough weight on him to survive the worst of the hunger pangs but Marjorie's twin sister, Rebekah, had died.

  She'd always remember her sister, and how she looked when she'd succumbed to the dreadful hunger: skin and bones, even though her empty stomach was bloated and round as if she'd eaten like a queen for weeks. It was a cruel way for a little girl to die.

  Marjorie had survived – just – but, despite all the wholesome food her mother and father had prepared for her over the years, she'd never managed to put much meat on her bones. Even now, when Robin was a famous outlaw and a wealthy man who brought lots of fruit and vegetables, meat and eggs for his family to feast on, his sister remained thin, bordering on being malnourished.

  “Block!” Matilda aimed a thrust at Marjorie, who appeared lost in thought, but the girl managed to twist away from the practice-sword and aim a blow of her own, which was easily batted aside although Matilda smiled encouragingly.

  After the foresters had almost arrested them for trapping that hare, Marjorie had been ashamed of her fear. Ashamed of how useless she'd been, leaving her sister-in-law to protect her while she stood passively, waiting for the men do whatever they would.

  Then, when news had come of Sir Guy of Gisbourne's return to action and Robin had left to go back to the forest again Marjorie had been irritated by the reaction of the people of Wakefield. The majority of them, even the men – and Matilda too! – had grown fearful at the prospect of the brutal bounty-hunter's soldiers coming back into their comfortable lives.

  Marjorie could understand her big brother being wary of Gisbourne and going out of his way to avoid the man but – Christ above – the villagers needed to stand up for themselves. Why were they all content to be pushed around?

  Eventually she realised the people accepted their treatment because they were weak. Not as physically weak as she was, no – the blacksmith, for example, was a bear of a man, by God and he liked to tell folk off if they got in his way. But he was no soldier; had no military training even though he'd been called up to the armies of the local lord over the years and had even seen what could loosely be termed 'action'.

  He'd never faced an enemy sword on sword, or watched his own arrow pierce the body of an on-rushing foe.

  Even if he had, Marjorie knew, he'd still be scared of the black-armoured king's man that people called the Raven.

  Yet what could she do? She was only an abnormally skinny fifteen-year-old. She'd never, no matter how she tried, be able to draw a hunting bow never mind one of the giant warbows Robin or Little John used.

  Similar thoughts had assailed her for years, even before Robin had become an outlaw. Her frail body had always angered her, but she'd never believed she could do anything to overcome the weakness.

  Then the foresters had terrified and humiliated her, and Robin had left again, leaving them all to look after themselves, and Marjorie had decided enough was enough. She couldn't count on anyone to look after her – not her parents, not the burly blacksmith, not even her charismatic wolf's head brother.

  Matilda came at her again and, as before, Marjorie managed to twist to the side with a strangled cry, just evading the blow although the effort left her gasping and she could feel a pain in her side that was growing worse with every passing moment.

  She'd had enough of being the village weakling; the girl the adults looked down upon from sad, pitying eyes when they passed. She wanted to be like Robin. Of course, she wasn't stupid – she knew she'd never be the muscle-bound bear of a man her brother was, but she desperately wanted to toughen herself up. To learn how to wield a sword, or perhaps a crossbow since a bow would always be beyond her. Anything that she could use to defend herself and those she loved from the likes of Gisbourne and that filthy bailiff who had wanted to rape Matilda two years ago.

  Marjorie had never been told the full story about what had happened when Adam Gurdon had arrested Matilda, but she'd listened to the gossip and had formed a rough idea in her head which she suspected was pretty accurate.

  She was impressed by what the people said Matilda had done to defend herself. Marjorie, at fifteen, had not been with a young man yet but many of the girls her age or even younger were already married and gossiped freely about it, so she had a good idea what a hard, blood-engorged spindle looked like. Knowing Matilda had managed to bite almost right through Adam Gurdon's manhood told her all she needed to know about her brother's wife: she was the perfect teacher.

  So, here they were.

  Matilda had, at first, refused outright to train Marjorie. Not only was the girl thin and sickly, but Matilda doubted her own ability to teach anyone the ways of combat. Besides, they had more than enough to occupy their time, since she herself assisted her father in crafting arrows and Marjorie helped her own mother around the house.

  But the girl had been persistent and eventually Matilda acquiesced. She didn't think the training would last for long before her student grew tired and fed-up and they could go back to normal life.

  “Ha!” Marjorie, who had seemed exhausted just a moment before, suddenly jumpe
d forward, ramming the point of her own little practice sword into Matilda's ribs.

  “Ow, you little bastard!”

  Marjorie grinned and raised her sword defensively as her sister-in-law grasped her bruised side and glared balefully at her.

  “You told me to thrust rather than swing the sword,” the girl shrugged innocently. “I'm just following your orders.”

  Matilda gritted her teeth and suppressed a smile. Will Scaflock had shown her how to fight with a sword and he'd based much of his technique – so he said – on the old Roman way of combat. They'd used short-swords rather than the unwieldy long-swords that men favoured nowadays and those smaller bladed weapons were ideal for women, Will had said.

  One of the things he'd taught her was how to thrust with the short-sword, directly at an opponent, before stepping quickly back into a defensive stance. Most people didn't expect it, since the common long-sword – never mind the axe or two-handed bastard sword – was too slow for such a manoeuvre. It simply wasn't done.

  That was why Matilda had shown the move to Marjorie. The girl was a fast learner she realised, clutching at her burning, agonized ribs.

  But no amount of training could make up for a weak body and Robin's young sibling was wheezing already, her sword by her side rather than held up defensively as Matilda had shown her.

  The girl would never be a match for a good swordsman in a fair fight, Matilda knew.

  But not all fights were fair...

  She waited until Marjorie had come to check she wasn't injured then slashed her own practice-sword around and into the girl's calf.

  “There's your next lesson,” Matilda grinned as she stood, glaring down at her fallen young foe. “Never underestimate your enemy!”

  * * *

  After Gisbourne's failed attack, Robin had led the men to a new camp-site, on the other side of Wakefield. As ever, it was well hidden by the foliage and terrain, and close enough to a stream that they could collect fresh water for cooking and washing.

  Friar Tuck had gathered his meagre possessions that morning and now he sat by the fire with the rest of the men, chewing a piece of bread. A few days earlier he had made the trip east to St Mary's church in Brandesburton where he'd met with Father Nicholas de Nottingham. The priest – 'rightful' owner of the holy relic Tuck was taking back to Lewes with him – had been peeved to be losing the artifact which he'd only loaned to Robin Hood. The friar had explained things to him, though, and donated a sizeable sum of money as compensation.

  Father de Nottingham had been impressed by the likeable Franciscan, and thought he might be right in thinking God had returned the holy relic to him for a purpose so, eventually, had given Tuck his blessing to take the exquisite little box back to Prior de Martini.

  A good man, de Nottingham. One the big friar would have liked to share a few ales with, but, with the rumours of Gisbourne being on the hunt again, he'd wanted to get safely back to camp as soon as possible. Maybe sometime in the future Tuck would get a chance to spend more time in Brandesburton with the priest. He'd like that...

  Robin had tried to persuade Tuck to stay but he would have none of it.

  “I must leave Robin, today. God has sent this relic as a sign. Maybe it was returned to me because I've to go back to Prior de Monte Martini and save his soul... I don't know. I do know my body can't take any more of this life though. I'm old” –

  “You're not much older than me!” Stephen, the former Hospitaller sergeant-at-arms muttered. He'd not been with the outlaws for as long as the rest of the men, but, like all of them, he'd grown to like and value Tuck's calming presence around the camp.

  “Maybe not in years,” Tuck agreed, with a small sigh. “But I feel old in my bones.”

  Will Scarlet shared a look with Robin. The Franciscan had been trapped in Nottingham with them just a few months ago – not long after he'd been shot by Gisbourne and almost drowned in the Don too – and he'd seemed hale and hearty then. In the months since he'd regained most of the weight he'd lost back then and, looking at him now, it seemed like he could offer any of them a challenge in a fight.

  Robin knew better than anyone how being close to death could alter a man's perception of the world, though. He had almost given up hope when Gisbourne had captured him, beaten him within an inch of his life, then thrown him in a cell under Nottingham Castle. Although the young wolf's head had come back stronger than ever, Tuck, with his advanced years, clearly felt the after-effects of his own ordeal more keenly than Robin did his.

  “You're not even a Benedictine, like the prior and all them in Lewes,” Peter Ordevill, the old sailor from Selby grunted. “You're a Franciscan. De Monte Martini won't let you – a greyfriar – live amongst his Black Monks will he?”

  Tuck shrugged and got to his feet, ready, at last, to make a move. “I don't know. Before I joined you lads I didn't really have a settled home. I was sent from place to place, escorting important people and relics and money and the like. Lewes Priory was where I spent most of my time though – de Monte Martini needed my services a lot so it became the closest thing I had to a home, despite the fact I wasn't one of their order.” He shrugged again, uncertainly. He really wasn't sure what would happen when he reached Lewes. He didn't think he'd be much use as a bodyguard for the Church's shipments any more, but he knew he had to placate Prior de Monte Martini or he would never be a free man again.

  “This is pointless,” Little John broke in, his rumbling voice filling the small clearing where they'd set up their new camp. “He's made up his mind.” He strode over and grasped the surprised friar in a massive bear hug which made his face flush red, from the giant outlaw's strength and embarrassment at the unusual show of emotion. “You look after yourself,” John warned. “That bastard prior is one for the watching. If you think you're just going to walk back into his monastery, hand him his relic and all will be forgiven you should think again. He's going to make life hard for you.”

  It was true of course, but the thought of being a free man again brought a smile to Tuck's lips.

  He moved among the men, clasping hands and sharing smiles then, with a final wave of goodbye, he disappeared into the trees.

  * * *

  Edward of Caernarvon, King of England tapped his fingers on the arm of his high-backed wooden throne and sighed loudly, drawing looks of disapproval from his courtiers, although they were careful not to let the king see them.

  Another day of politicking, in Knaresborough Castle that day, which his father had paid a small fortune to rebuild, and he was already bored even though it wasn't yet midday. He could think of lots of better things to be doing on a fine spring day; rowing, or horse-riding, or just listening to his minstrels playing music would be infinitely preferable to this nonsense.

  But he had his duties to attend to, so here he was, stuck indoors again. Although he was the most powerful man in the country – and there was no question of that since he'd put down the Lancastrian revolt so successfully the previous year – he still couldn't do whatever he wanted, curse his luck.

  He'd been crowned king at the age of twenty-three, when his father, also Edward, had died but his reign had not been a particularly good one, or so the people of England seemed to think. The Welsh appeared to have an affection for him, even now, but his English subjects didn't think much of his rule. He had tried his best but the simple fact was, he wasn't really interested in the things a good king was supposed to do.

  He enjoyed the company of commoners, for example, which scandalized most of his nobles. He'd even learned how to shoe a horse along with thatching, hedging and ditching – all necessary tasks, to be sure, but not ones to be performed by a king! Even his much-admired physique was mostly thanks to his love of rowing and swimming which were, again, seen as scandalous pursuits for a royal to be so involved in.

  The truth was, Edward enjoyed such rustic pastimes so much because he felt lonely at court. Lonely and bored. It wasn't easy being the king and something as simple and good as rep
airing the thatch on a cottage brought him a great sense of peace.

  “Sire..?”

  The petitioner before him, a minor noble from Harrogate, looked embarrassed to be, essentially, upbraiding the king for his inattentiveness but it was clear Edward was lost in his own little world and wasn't paying the slightest notice to what was being said.

  “Yes, yes, carry on, my lord, I'm listening,” the monarch lied, waving a hand and forcing himself to sit straighter as the man blabbered on about some bridges needing repairing. Why the king had to know about it Edward had no idea, but he watched the petitioner and tried to look as if he was listening.

  It had been good to put down the Contrariants, especially his cousin the Earl of Lancaster. For years they had been trying to undermine him – they had even killed his first and greatest friend, Piers Gaveston. He sighed again, remembering the handsome, charming young man who he had loved yet everyone else seemed to hate. But he had avenged Piers's death when he'd crushed that rebellion and executed the ring-leaders and, now, at last, the country was at peace.

  The petitioner finished speaking and bowed his head before looking expectantly at the king for his decision.

  “You make a good case, sir,” Edward nodded, a genuine smile creasing his bearded face, glad that the man was finished at last. “I agree with the points you make.” He waved a hand towards his treasurer, Walter de Stapledon, Bishop of Exeter. “Your Grace, please see to it. We can't have bridges collapsing, can we? The country would grind to a halt.”

  The nobleman smiled, pleased to have been granted the funding he'd travelled to Knaresborough to ask for. It had been a stressful morning for him too – the king almost never saw anyone these days, leaving much of the country's administration up to his new favourite, Sir Hugh Despenser the younger. But Despenser, the king's chamberlain, was away in Wales at that time and so the monarch had decided he must see to business himself that day.