Rise of the Wolf (The Forest Lord Book 3)

by Steven A McKay

  “As easy as that?” Walter shovelled the porridge into his mouth with his hand, licking oats from his fingers as he looked warily at Robin, as if he expected the big man to skewer him any second.

  “As easy as that,” Robin agreed, watching the friar devour the meal with a twinkle in his eye. “Once you pay us for your bed and board.”

  Walter spat in fury and a mouthful of food dribbled down his chin.

  “Whatever's in your purse will be enough to cover your debt I'm sure.”

  Before the outraged Franciscan could react the outlaw stepped in close and, with a knife that seemed to appear in his hand from thin air, sliced through the leather thong that held his purse onto his belt.

  Moving back to sit by the fire Robin tossed the purse up and down, feeling the weight with a satisfied nod. “Yes, this'll be just enough I'm sure. I trust you enjoyed your stay here in Barnsdale?”

  “You heathen scum –”

  Little John and Allan-a-Dale appeared behind the protesting friar and shepherded him from the camp, back towards the main road, screaming for God to rain hell-fire and brimstone on the wolf's head.

  Robin, grinning wickedly, clasped young Hubert by the shoulder and pressed the coin purse into the youngster's hand surreptitiously. “There you go lad, keep that hidden under your cassock and buy yourself a pie whenever you get a chance. You best be off or Brother Walter will tell the Custos on you.”

  Laughing, the skinny page made the sign of the cross, blessing the wolf's head, before stuffing the remainder of a loaf into his mouth and running into the trees after his elder.

  * * *

  “You really think this will work?” Gisbourne placed his black crossbow on the table beside him and rubbed irritably at his ruined eye-socket. Most people would have worn an eye-patch but the bounty hunter understood the power of appearances and liked to seem as menacing as possible. The sight of his weeping scar was enough to frighten most people.

  Matt Groves nodded confidently. “Aye, I do. Hood himself isn't reckless, or stupid, enough to fall for it. But one of the gang members will want to win that silver arrow and they'll enter the competition. Then it's just a matter of capturing the fool and waiting for Hood to come and rescue them. The loyalty he shows to the men is admirable. And stupid.”

  Gisbourne grunted non-committally. It seemed a hopeful plan to him, but, even with Groves's knowledge of the outlaws and their habits, they'd not managed to come close to finding the wolf's head and his followers in the past few weeks. If Matt's idea flushed them out into the open it would certainly make things a sight easier. Going back into the dense undergrowth of Barnsdale didn't appeal to Gisbourne – his depth perception, and, as a result, his fighting ability, had been hopelessly damaged with the loss of his eye. So, he now had to rely on strategy and cunning more than simple brute force if he was going to kill the wolf's head and his followers.

  Besides, Groves's suggestion that Hood was too smart to fall for their ruse was something the bounty hunter questioned. He had a good idea how the wolf's head's mind worked. The man was proud, and he wanted the people to love and respect him. That was why he'd turned up to fight Gisbourne one-on-one on the bridge at Dalton, even though he must have known he had next to no chance of winning the duel. Yes, his reputation meant the world to Robin Hood, and winning a silver arrow from his hated enemies would truly make him a legend. Could he pass up such an opportunity?

  Maybe the young archer would turn up in person to enter the tournament after all. Only time would tell.

  Sheriff de Faucumberg had, surprisingly, been quite open to the idea of a tournament with a silver arrow as the prize for the best archer when the bounty hunter had approached him in the great hall. Gisbourne had expected he'd have to persuade, argue or even fall back on the king's name to get the man to agree to Groves's plan, but de Faucumberg was almost as sick of the outlaws plaguing his jurisdiction as Gisbourne was. Anything that might get rid of them once and for all was worth a try. God knew, they'd tried everything else in the past few years, without much success.

  “Yes, it seems like a reasonable idea. We can simply paint a normal arrow with silver paint; no one will be able to tell from a distance,” de Faucumberg had suggested, rolling up parchments on the great oak table that separated him from the Raven and taking a sip from the silver goblet by his right hand.

  Gisbourne had been adamant though. “Out of the question, sheriff. People are going to come and see it before the tournament – they'll be able to tell immediately if we just paint a normal, wooden arrow. No, we must have the local smith make us the real thing if we're to entice the wolf's head into coming here for it.”

  “And where are we going to find the silver to make this precious missile?” de Faucumberg wondered.

  Gisbourne had laughed mirthlessly. “Come, now, sheriff. There's more than enough coin from taxes in your coffers to make something as small as an arrow. Melt some of it down. We're going to have a city full of soldiers on the lookout for Hood and his men, there's no chance they'll be able to ever get the arrow out of the city, so it's not like you'll be risking your silver.”

  The sheriff snorted angrily. “We had a locked city full of soldiers looking for the bastard just a few months ago, yet he managed to escape from the dungeon and walk right out through the gates. I wouldn't be so confident if I were you.”

  Gisbourne waved a hand dismissively but de Faucumberg carried on.

  “Besides, what if none of the outlaws turn up? Or, say they do turn up, but someone else wins the competition? What then?”

  “We give them a small bag of silver and send them on their fucking way!” Gisbourne barked, shaking his head. “You're the king's representative here, you wield more power than you seem to realise. Use it, man.”

  De Faucumberg took the rebuke with a frown, realising the bounty hunter was right. Hood and his outlaws had been allowed to do as they pleased in his forests for too long. Maybe it was time to play a little dirty.

  “Fine,” he agreed. “Take just enough silver to make your arrow. But you better make damn sure you and your men guard it with your lives, because if you don't... your lives won't be worth the dog shit I stepped in this morning, Gisbourne, trust me.”

  The Raven threw the sheriff a smug grin, the scar tissue that had healed around his missing eye wrinkling horribly as he raised a hand in mocking salute and strode from the room with a laugh, his black boot-heels echoing as he went. “I trust you, de Faucumberg. It's time you placed some trust in me. The wolf's head is as good as dead.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Robin had ordered the men to move camp again on hearing Allan's news that Matt Groves might have taken up with the feared Gisbourne. Matt knew all of their usual camp-sites, having been a member of the outlaw gang for longer than most of them and Robin didn't want to make it easy for the turncoat to lead their doom straight to them.

  Their usual hiding places had been chosen years ago by Adam Bell who, as an ex-Templar knight, had a great understanding and knowledge of how to use terrain to his advantage, be it to hide his own men or to mount attacks on others. But they needed to find completely new places to hide in now. Thankfully, Robin, although he didn't have the martial training of a knight, had an instinctive understanding of the forest and how to use it properly.

  As ever, Will Scarlet and Little John helped advise their young leader when he found a spot, making sure they had easy access to a little stream for fresh water, while being well hidden amongst the thick foliage of beech, oak trees and lower level bushes, ferns, or long grass. It was not too far from the road between Penysale and Penyston and seemed ideal as there was a local market held close by every Tuesday which would allow the outlaws to collect supplies without having to travel too far afield. The stall-holders and patrons would also, no doubt, be a good source of information on rumours of Gisbourne's whereabouts.

  “We should have stopped using those old camping grounds long ago, when Robin killed Adam,” Little John murmured, lyin
g back contentedly on a brown patch of grass in the middle of their new home. “It feels good to be somewhere different. Even if we're still not in soft beds, with a nice pair of tits to cuddle into.”

  It was an overcast, muggy, spring afternoon, with heavy black clouds covering the sky that threatened to burst and soak the land at any time, but the men had a cosy fire going and the new camp-site gave them a sense of security and safety. The thick trees which encircled them felt more homely than any grey castle wall ever could.

  Robin laughed wistfully at his huge friend's words, appreciating the blunt language and pleasing imagery it conjured. “True, big man, true.”

  “True, perhaps,” Will interjected. “But the men – including me, I admit - wouldn't have taken kindly to Robin ordering us to give up our old haunts back then. It's a mark of the respect we all have for you now, lad, that you can get us to follow you somewhere new without a shouting match.”

  Not so long ago Robin would have blushed crimson at the praise from the hugely experienced Will, a man who had fought as a mercenary in the Holy Land and seen much death and horror in his thirty-seven years. Now, the outlaw captain simply accepted Will's words with a grateful nod.

  “Pah, I would have followed him if he'd suggested it,” John snorted, his mouth twitching mischievously. “You lot just like an argument. Bunch of sour-faced lack-wits.”

  Allan-a-Dale and some of the other long-term outlaws bristled at that, shooting insults back at the bearded giant, while the newcomers like Stephen and Edmond, the fish-lipped former tanner from Kirklees, grinned and hoisted their ale mugs aloft in a cheer, enjoying the banter.

  Robin threw John a thankful smile, knowing his friend, despite the humour, spoke the truth. Before he became their leader, the men hadn't completely trusted Robin. John had taken his side right from the start though and the young man would never forget that loyalty.

  “Dinner's ready!” Edmond shouted, taking a last sip of his ale before swapping the wooden mug for a ladle. “Come and get it, lads.”

  Edmond had found it hard at first to settle amongst the close-knit outlaws, who were more like a military order than a random collection of violent criminals. The lads had been welcoming but a lifetime of being bullied and abused by his peers had made it hard for the tanner to lower his defences and build friendships. Men like Robin and Little John had gone out of their way to make the young man, with his thin beard, stumpy limbs and thickset body, feel like one of them.

  More than any of them, though, Friar Tuck had helped Edmond come to terms with the fact he had captured Stephen's master, Sir Richard-at-Lee, and led him to his death on the gallows in Nottingham. Although he had now begun to feel at ease with the outlaws, the tanner felt Tuck's absence from their group keenly.

  “How do you think the friar fares?” he wondered as the men settled down happily to eat the stew he'd made for them. “Will the Prior take him in again?”

  “Ach, he'll be fine,” Will waved his spoon confidently. “Tuck knows how to look after himself.”

  “I hope you're right,” Allan-a-Dale replied, wincing as the hot food scalded the roof of his mouth.

  “I wish he was still here,” Edmond mumbled, eyes downcast, chewing on a hunk of bread that he'd dipped into his stew.

  The comment was met with silence, the rest of the men agreeing whole-heartedly with it.

  “I wish he was still here too,” John growled, after spooning some of the food into his mouth. “Tuck could make much tastier stew than this piss-water you've cooked up for us.”

  Everyone laughed, even Edmond, glad to avert the melancholy that was so easy to fall into living out here in the forest as a wolf's head.

  “He'll be fine,” Robin said authoritatively. “Honestly, have no fears for Tuck. He used to earn his living as a wrestler; he can take care of himself.”

  Talk turned to other things as the stew – rather more appetising than John had suggested – filled their hungry bellies and a new cask of freshly-brewed Penysale beer was broached. Robin felt instinctively that he was right: Tuck would be fine. The portly friar could fight like a Templar, yes, but he also had a likeable charisma that often acted better than any heater shield or buckler.

  The outlaw leader stood and made his way over to the big cooking pot to help himself to more food, smiling in thanks as Edmond grabbed his mug for a refill. Aye, Friar Tuck would be fine.

  He wondered how his family fared, though.

  * * *

  It had been a while since Marjorie and Matilda had been able to spend some time training together. They both had chores to do at home and at work helping their parents in their own occupations.

  That morning had dawned cool and misty, but Marjorie knew that the sun, once it was fully up, would burn the haze away and it would be a fine afternoon, perfect for sparring.

  “Can we finish our jobs as soon as possible today,” she asked Martha, her mother. “I'd like to go fishing later on, if it's nice.”

  Martha smiled. She was very close to her daughter, especially since Robin wasn't around much any more. “Of course, that sounds like a good idea. Let's get it all done and make the most of any sunshine – God knows we haven't had much of it lately. Here.” She handed the girl an old basket. “Fetch some fresh rushes for the floor. Try and cut some sweet flowers too – they make the place smell nice.”

  Marjorie grabbed the basket and a knife from the table and hurried off.

  It was still early but the men were already off ploughing the fields or mending the fences that penned in their livestock.

  She waved cheerily to one of the neighbours, a pleasant old woman with small eyes that the children called Hogface, and shooed a barking dog that ran along after her for a time hoping for scraps.

  She reached Ings Beck, breathlessly startling a kingfisher which took flight, then brought out the knife to collect the long green rushes that grew in abundance there. The blade was fine and sharp and it didn't take her long to fill the basket. As she made her way back home she kept an eye out for wildflowers or herbs which she plucked and tossed into the basket.

  Her favourite was lavender, and she knew where some grew not too far off, but she wanted to finish her chores so made do with the daisies and buttercups that were so readily available along the road. They might not have strong, sweet odours, but at least their colour would brighten the room.

  Her mother had swept the dirty old rushes out by the time she returned so, together, they spread the fresh ones on the floor of the house, smiling contentedly at one another when they were done.

  “Your da will be happy when he gets home,” Martha nodded. “Now. Since it's going to be such a nice day, according to you, we should wash the bedding and towels so they get a chance to dry off in the sun. Come on.”

  Not long after midday the pair had finished the laundry, eaten a small meal of salted ham, bread and ale, and it was indeed fine and sunny.

  “All right, you've been a good help this morning,” Martha grinned. “Off you go and catch us some fish then. Be back in time that we can have it ready for dinner. I'll feed the chickens then sit outside and do some spinning.”

  When her mother went out the door Marjorie collected her fishing pole.

  “I'll catch us a big one,” she shouted, waving as she hurried off towards the fletcher's workshop.

  Matilda was busy, surrounded by baskets of swan's feathers and wooden arrow shafts, but she gladly agreed to take a break for a time.

  Recently, Marjorie had been working on her own with the wooden sword, just going through different moves that Matilda had shown her, both defensive and offensive. She'd also been trying to eat more and even managed to do a few exercises to strengthen her muscles every day. She wasn't able to run for long, but she had been sprinting over short distances and, although she had no way to be sure, she believed that her speed had improved.

  As a result of all her hard work she really thought she had grown stronger not just physically, but mentally too. She felt good whe
n she was exercising, which had come as a real surprise. Yes, it was hard, and her lungs would burn for a long time afterwards while her muscles ached from all the new stresses and strains, but somehow she felt happy when she was training.

  She was still slimmer than almost any of the other village girls, but as they walked to the little shaded clearing where they practised together Matilda noticed a distinct change in the younger girl's carriage. She held herself erect, her chin up and her shoulders back, where before she'd had a hunched, downtrodden look about her. Matilda smiled, pleased at her charge’s new-found swagger and made a mental note not to damage Marjorie's confidence by beating her too easily today.

  They reached the clearing, glad no-one was around since they didn't really want people to know what they were doing. Their fellow villagers would probably laugh at them – women weren't supposed to be soldiers.

  “All right, ready?”

  Marjorie nodded and they did a few limbering up exercises to get their muscles warm before Matilda produced their practice swords from the bundle she'd brought from home. For now the swords were all they had to work with; Marjorie couldn't draw a hunting bow and, although she desperately wanted a crossbow she had no way of getting one. Her big brother would, no doubt, have brought her one if she'd asked him but, for now, she didn't want even Robin to know what she was doing. He loved her dearly, she knew that, but he'd not look kindly on the idea of her learning how to fight in case she got hurt. Besides, where would she hide such a weapon from her parents?

  “Ha!” Matilda noticed her student apparently lost in thought and lunged forward, ready to rap the girl on the knuckles to teach her to stay alert, but, surprisingly, the blow whistled through empty air. Marjorie had seen her opponent's muscles tense, a tell-tale sign of imminent attack, and had danced back before the wooden sword could catch her.

  Matilda found herself on the back-foot instantly, as Marjorie tried to turn defence into an attack of her own. Their swords met with a sharp crack and they held them there, teeth gritted, until the older girl's strength won out and Marjorie had to draw back, panting, and angry at her puny muscles.