“What's wrong?” Matilda asked, seeing the fury burning from her sister-in-law's eyes and thinking she'd done something to hurt the girl. “Are you alright?”
“No, I'm not, and I never will be, will I?”
The practice sword was thrown to the ground in disgust and Marjorie sank onto the grass beside it a moment later, her knees drawn up to her small chest. She looked like a child, despite her fifteen years and pity filled Matilda who began to move forward, to cuddle the girl, reassure her.
Then she stopped herself, pulled her hand back. Marjorie wanted to learn how to fight didn't she? Self-pity wasn't something that should be encouraged; it wasn't the way to engender a winning mentality in a soldier.
“Oh, poor you,” Matilda spat, glaring down at the surprised girl. “Little Marjorie, the runt of the litter, never able to eat more than a morsel of bread and half a cup of beer. Always destined to be the weakest girl in Wakefield. What a shame for you.”
Sarcasm dripped from her words and Marjorie's eyes flared, but still she didn't get back to her feet. “What would you know?” she started, but Matilda broke in, not allowing the girl to launch into a self-pitying monologue.
“What would I know? I know that you were a twin. Rebekah wasn't strong enough to survive the famine. But you were. God saw fit to spare you for some reason, and now, at the first hint of hardship you're ready to throw away your sword and just give in?” She could see that her mention of Rebekah had struck right to Marjorie's heart but before the girl could react, Matilda carried on. “You're good with the sword – you clearly have the skill for it running through your blood. Blood which you share with Robin Hood, the legendary archer and swordsman.” She held up a hand to halt any objections. “Aye, I know you haven't been blessed with his shoulder muscles or the stamina that lets him run from one village to another without stopping, but so what? Should we all just give up because we're not as strong as someone else? Get up. Now!”
Matilda held out her hand imperiously and dragged Marjorie to her feet. The girl was still angry but her dressing down had left her cowed and ashamed at her petulant behaviour.
“Look at you. In the few weeks that we've been training your posture's improved, your appetite's growing and your skill with the sword gets more impressive every day. Not so long ago you wouldn't have spotted my first blow coming – you'd have been left with rapped knuckles and an angry curse on your lips.” Matilda stepped in close and grasped her student by the shoulder. “Aye, it's harder for you because of what happened to you as an infant. But you have to face your body's limitations and either work with them or break them down.” She released the girl and stepped back, sword raised. “So, what's it to be? Are you going to pick up your weapon and continue sparring, or are you going back to the village to live the rest of your life as a whining cur?”
For a second Matilda seriously feared she'd gone too far with her verbal assault and Marjorie would feel too humiliated to do anything other than walk away. But the girl had an inner strength and Matilda smiled in satisfaction as she grasped the fallen sword and climbed back to her feet to stare into her mentor's eyes.
“You're right,” she admitted. “I can't give up now. But I'm going to make you pay for your words.”
The young girl charged forward, launching a blistering attack and Matilda genuinely had to use all her skill and speed to defend herself. It didn't last very long, as the attacker's stamina again failed her and they separated, Marjorie breathing heavily and, as before, looking frustrated by her weakness. This time, though, she didn't throw away her sword, didn't thrust out a petulant lower lip, she just stood in a defensive stance, watching her opponent circling, prepared to fend off any thrust or swipe that might come her way.
They sparred for a while longer then Marjorie held up a hand, bending over to try and catch her breath.
“Enough!” she wheezed. “I promised my ma a fish for the table. You get back to your work; I'll try and get one for you too.”
Matilda grinned, feeling like an important bridge had been crossed that day. Maybe Marjorie had the temperament to be a decent swordswoman after all.
CHAPTER SIX
“Quiet this morning,” Robin yawned, rubbing sleep from his eyes with his fingers. “Where's Allan?”
The minstrel's voice was often the first thing the outlaws heard each day, as he went about getting ready for the day whistling a tune or singing, depending on how hungover he and the rest of the men were. Today though, there was silence around the camp, broken only by the back-and-forth tweeting of a pair of blackbirds hidden in the trees overhead.
“Dunno,” Little John grunted, shoving a lump of bread into his mouth, crumbs already lacing his unkempt brown beard. “Must have gone off hunting or something. I haven't seen him.”
“Gone off?” Robin helped himself to some of the ale from the barrel they'd broached the previous night and sat on one of the fallen logs next to John and a couple of the other early risers. “That's not like him.”
The giant shrugged, but Will Scarlet had learned from bitter experience not to ignore Robin when he made an observation about one of their men acting out of character. He stood up and moved around the camp, counting heads.
“Gareth's not here either,” he reported, returning to the rest of the men and grabbing some of the loaf John had almost devoured already. “Where d'you think they've gone without telling anyone?”
“Maybe they did tell someone,” Stephen suggested. “You'll need to ask the rest when they wake up.” He took a sip of his ale, not being overly fond of the brew this close to dawn. “You think something's up?”
Robin shook his head with a confidence he didn't really feel. “No, Allan's a big boy. I just don't like it when anyone leaves the camp without letting one of us know.”
“Allan might be able to handle himself,” Will growled. “But Gareth can't, and if he's been on the drink again he could stir up a lot of mischief we could do without.”
Robin momentarily held his palms up in resignation. “We've no reason to think anything's amiss yet,” he told them. “They've probably just gone off hunting as John says.”
“Aye,” the big man nodded. “Gareth might be a skinny wee bastard, but even he can set a rabbit trap well enough. Give it till lunchtime; they'll be back with something nice for Edmond's pot later on.”
Robin smiled but he remembered the look on Allan's face when they'd talked the day before about the value of the silver arrow. He prayed the minstrel hadn't decided to try and win them all the pardons they craved...
* * *
“Why did you want to come anyway,” Allan-a-Dale asked his companion, who shrugged and looked away evasively.
“I'm fed up with the forest, feel like seeing the big city for a change,” Gareth replied, fingering the coin-purse he carried hidden under his gambeson.
“Hoping to find some of that grain drink you got from the barber in Penyston, eh?”
“Nah,” the younger outlaw shook his head nonchalantly. “Can't handle that stuff, I'll stick to ale. At least I don't get cramps in my guts with ale.” He grinned over at the minstrel but Allan saw through the protestations.
Gareth wasn't much of a travelling companion, and he wouldn't even be entering the tournament since he was too weak to draw a longbow or wield a sword very well, but Allan hadn't wanted to head into Nottingham by himself so he was glad when Gareth had offered to come along to keep him company.
“What d'you think Robin'll do when he finds out where we've gone?”
Allan had wondered that himself, but he wasn't sure of the answer. “Either he'll go crazy that we've not followed his orders to stay in the camp, or he'll accept that we're all our own men and can do what we want.”
Gareth didn't reply as they hurried along the road towards Nottingham.
“He'll cheer up when he sees the silver arrow I've won, though. Then we can sell it and win pardons for us all!”
The two men grinned at that. It wasn't such a fanciful ide
a – Allan was an excellent shot, his skills honed to a fine point by the hours of practice Robin insisted the fighters in the group performed each week. He had a very good chance of winning, should they be allowed to enter the competition without anyone realising they were wolf's heads. That didn't seem too big of a threat: neither had been to Nottingham any time recently so the guards wouldn't recognise them and both were unremarkable looking so they could lose themselves in the crowds.
Gareth might have wanted to head into the city to look for strong alcohol, but Allan was looking forward to performing in front of a crowd again. It had been nearly two years since he and Robin had entertained Lord John de Bray's guests in the great hall of Hathersage manor house. He missed the excitement, the nervous tension, that feeling of uncertainty that even the most experienced of minstrels felt when they put themselves in front of an audience. Shooting in the archery competition, before what would surely be a huge gathering of locals, would be much like playing the gittern for a hall full of rowdy nobles.
He smiled and revelled in the warm spring breeze as they walked.
This was going to be fun.
* * *
Tuck had ridden at a leisurely pace when he left the outlaw's camp, not being in any great hurry to return to Lewes like the prodigal son the prior had never expected to see again...
The friar was no fool. He knew de Monte Martini wouldn't look kindly on him when he showed his face there again. Not only had he 'lost' the prior's priceless artefact years earlier, but he'd then allowed outlaws to steal his superior's cart full of money and, to add insult to injury, Tuck had joined the outlaw gang who had gone on to further humiliate de Monte Martini when he and the Sheriff of Nottingham had tried to capture them.
The kindly clergyman grinned. Ah, but it had felt good to get one over on the nasty prior, it truly had. The smile fell from his fleshy lips, though, as he contemplated the welcome de Monte Martini would have for him when he appeared unexpectedly in Lewes. The fact that he was returning the lost relic – something the prior had paid an obscene amount of money for – would, he hoped, mollify the senior churchman and allow him to stay with the Benedictines at least until the Church found some other place for him, within his own order perhaps.
At the very least, Tuck hoped he'd survive the reunion.
“Hey, priest! Get off the fucking horse, now.”
The harsh voice jolted Tuck back in his saddle and his hand strayed instinctively to the heavy cudgel he habitually carried within the folds of his grey cassock.
He pulled gently on the palfrey's reins, bringing it to a halt, his eyes scanning the area as he calmly assessed the situation. He'd gone along with Robin and the others often enough on robberies just like this to have a good idea of how things worked, so he knew urging his mount into a gallop would probably result in an arrow in the back.
He remained in the saddle, waiting for the would-be thieves to show themselves. Moments later, three men appeared from the thick foliage on either side of the road, while at least one other man coughed from behind him, letting the friar know he was covered on all sides.
“I told you to get off the fucking horse!” the man in the middle of the trio on the road ahead spat. He was a small man, bearded and dirty looking, with a slight build while the two that flanked him were much larger. Tuck had met men like this outlaw before – the maniacal gleam in his dark eyes suggested what he lacked in physical stature was made up for in violent lunacy.
Although his comrades were much bigger, they deferred to the little dark man. Tuck knew he had to be very careful if he didn't want to lose the coin-purse he carried inside his habit. Or his life. He dismounted, making a show of his clumsiness and clutching his back as if he was in great pain from riding.
“What can I do for you, my son?” he asked, smiling deferentially at the little man. “A blessing? Do you seek –”
“Enough, priest,” the robber growled, sidling over and standing to look up at the palfrey whose ears were back as it sensed something was wrong. “We need no blessings in Sherwood. What we need is silver and gold. And food. And judging by the belly you're carrying around on you, you've got enough of everything to share with me and my companions here.” He raised the sword he carried, unusually, in his left hand, brandishing it menacingly, and Tuck noticed the man was missing more than one finger from his right hand. Punishment for being caught stealing before perhaps, although that method of justice had – mostly – been done away with years earlier.
Dangerous, but hopefully stupid.
The friar looked back across his shoulder to see a tall young man holding a longbow with an arrow already nocked. His hands were steady, but the expression on his face was one of distaste. Not at the clergyman, no... the big man's eyes flicked to his leader for a moment and Tuck knew the youngster wasn't happy to be here doing this.
“Aye, he's got you covered, old man,” the robber leader grinned, showing a mouthful of surprisingly complete teeth. “And the rest of us'll split you wide open – priest or not – if you don't hand over what you've got. Including that nice horse.”
There was little point denying he was carrying money, Tuck thought. The robbers would know he'd need coin to pay for food and board as he travelled.
“Will you let me be on my way if I give you what I have?” he asked in a trembling voice, moving towards the small man and fumbling in his cassock. As he reached the robber, he smiled, remembering a similar scene a couple of years earlier when he'd first met Robin and the men.
“Here you go, have the lot!”
The two robbers further back on the road stood in stunned silence for a moment as their leader collapsed in front of them. Tuck had whipped the cudgel concealed in his robes up and into the jaw of the robber, then, as the man stumbled backwards, the friar brought it around in a tight arc into the side of the man's neck, sending him flying across the road, senseless.
Before anyone could react, Tuck turned and jumped forward, ramming the cudgel into the man on the left's face, feeling teeth crunch as his target reeled back and landed on his backside with a furious howl of pain.
By now it was obvious this was no normal priest and the final swordsman struck out with the battered old blade he carried, a killing blow aimed right at the clergyman's neck.
Tuck had been fast when he was young, but now... he twisted sideways, lashing out with his own weapon which hit the back of his opponent's skull with a shocking crack, sending the robber crashing to the hard earth of the road. The friar let out a breath of relief as he realised his flesh was unbroken – the oaf's blade had only slightly torn his cassock.
He made sure the three downed robbers were incapacitated then glanced back to the bowman and was relieved to see the youngster staring at the scene before him, mouth open in surprise, bowstring not even drawn taut. Still with one eye on the archer, Tuck moved over to the man with the wounded mouth and kicked out at the side of his head, hard enough to send the man reeling.
“What's your name, son?”
The young man watched the friar return to his horse and pull himself back into the saddle, longbow still held low at his side.
“James.”
“And where are you from?”
“Horbury.”
Tuck shook his head with a frown.
“I can tell just from looking into your eyes that you're not like these men. You don't have the violence burning inside you that they do, especially the little one.” He glanced at the unconscious robber leader and crossed himself before turning his gaze back to the young archer. “He's got the devil inside him, that one. You'd do well to get away from him now, before he leads you into trouble you can't escape.”
James removed the nocked arrow from his bowstring and stuck it back into his belt with a grunt of agreement.
Tuck nodded in appreciation.
“The Lord's blessing on you for not shooting me. Perhaps one day I'll be able to repay your mercy.” The friar grasped the pommel of his horse's saddle, placed his r
ight foot into the stirrup and, with a grunt, hauled himself ungracefully onto the palfrey which danced nervously beneath him. “Take yourself home to Horbury. Stop robbing people with these men but, if ever the law are after you and you have nowhere to turn – seek out Robin Hood. Tell him Friar Tuck sent you.”
James's eyes widened. “I knew you weren't just some fat clergyman.”
“That's where you're wrong,” Tuck replied with a smile, kicking his heels into the horse which trotted back towards the road. “I'm on my way back to Lewes exactly because I am just a fat clergyman.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Allan and Gareth were nervous as they approached the Carter Gate into Nottingham. They'd met some other travellers on the road – a bald little merchant who rode a fine-looking horse, with his two bodyguards – and joined their party. Now they all stood in the short yet slow-moving queue waiting to enter the city. The guards were checking everyone who sought entry and the outlaws could both feel the sweat trickling down from their armpits despite the chill afternoon air.
“You lot, move up!”
The merchant took the lead, smiling at the gatekeepers as he submitted to a perfunctory search for concealed swords; citizens as well as visitors being banned from carrying them during this period. Gareth and Allan only had daggers with them, which they were allowed to keep, but the merchants two bodyguards were made to hand over their long-swords, for safe-keeping until they left the city. There was much cursing and huffing at this which Allan understood. Although the blades the mercenaries wielded were poor quality they marked them as men of a certain class and a soldier felt as good as bollock naked without his sword.
“What you all here for?” one of the guardsmen asked, his voice betraying the boredom he felt at this repetitive task.
Rise of the Wolf (The Forest Lord Book 3) Page 6