The outfitter was, like the inn-keeper, surprised when the two enormous, hard-looking men had walked into his shop and asked to buy the biggest grey cassocks he sold.
“Are they for,” the man eyed them suspiciously, “yourselves?”
“Aye, they are,” Little John nodded. Despite his great size, the giant had an open, honest face and his smile could disarm almost anyone. “We're heading to Manchester to visit a friend of ours. He heard a rumour we'd become friars so we thought we'd turn up dressed in cassocks to see the look on his face.” He laughed, the infectious sound filling the small premises. “Can you imagine? Us? Franciscans? It's hilarious!”
The man smiled, not entirely convinced by the story, but the younger of the two men pulled a purse from his belt and opened it to fish out some coins. Clearly these two men – soldiers from the look of them – had earned enough money to throw it away on something as frivolous as a jest. And who was he to care who he sold his wares to? Their silver was good as any man's.
Sizing up Little John the tailor nodded and slipped into the back of the shop where he could be heard rummaging around for a short while. Eventually, he returned with two massive dark grey cassocks, shaking them out and holding them high up to show their length.
“They look ideal,” Robin nodded approvingly. “We weren't sure if you'd have any big enough to fit us.”
The man held one against John's great frame with a practised eye, murmuring to himself. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Clergymen come in all shapes and sizes, they're not all thin old men. That being said,” he looked up at John again, “I've never seen one as tall as you. But then, I've never seen anyone as tall as you; I'm afraid this will be rather short. You realise that, to complete the disguise, you'll have to shave your heads?”
John threw Robin a venomous look at the idea of wearing the clergyman's hairstyle but his young leader simply shrugged and grinned. The tailor was right – they'd need to lose their unruly thick hair.
They paid for the garments, promising to tell the tailor how their trick worked if they were ever back in Chesterfield again before collecting their horses from the Hermit's Arms and riding south again.
To London. And the king.
* * *
“Get that filth cleared, you two!” The dean hooted at Tuck who had, again, been sent to clear out the latrines with his companion for the morning; Osferth, the monk that had helped Edwin open the door when he'd first returned to the priory.
The big friar ignored the mocking laughter from the prior's right-hand man, using his shovel to throw the human waste out of the building and down into the ditch far below, wishing Henry of Elmstow was lying suffocating underneath the mound of shit.
Not only had the former outlaw been made to do the filthiest, most menial tasks since his return to Lewes, but he'd also been told to take his meals – reduced in size under de Monte Martini's orders no doubt – with the novices, and the Benedictine monks had clearly been told not to converse with him. That was the worst penance; he didn't mind shovelling shit, or sitting with the youngsters, or even having less to eat than he was used to... no, it was the lack of companionship that really got to him. He was a sociable fellow and some of the brothers here had been friends of his before he'd joined Robin Hood's gang.
At least today he had someone to share the work with. Brother Osferth must have annoyed the prior too, to be given a task like this, although the younger man hadn't said a word to him since they'd started work that morning.
With a grunt that was half a sigh Tuck threw out another spadeful of watery, stinking muck and resolved not to let the prior grind him down. God had placed de Monte Martini's missing holy relic in Tuck's hand for a purpose he believed; he was meant to return here for some reason.
He'd just have to ignore the harsh treatment and pray the prior got bored with tormenting him soon.
As he worked he contemplated the idea of returning north to rejoin Robin and the rest of his outlaw friends but he rejected the notion sadly. His body was past it – the illness he'd suffered the previous summer after Sir Guy of Gisbourne had shot and nearly drowned him had taken its toll. Although he'd put some weight back on over the months, he now felt old; his bones ached. It was a hard thing to accept but it was true. The noisome fumes in the latrine made it difficult for him to breathe too, even through the damp rag, and he'd recently developed a racking cough that occasionally saw him bent double with the force of it.
His days of living in the greenwood were over; that chapter of his life was done. He knew when he returned here that the prior – an unpleasant man at the best of times but with a grudge against Tuck to boot – would make his life hard. It appeared the prior's steward had also made it his personal task to mete out Tuck's penance.
He mouthed silent prayers to God, sweating freely from the hard work in the confined, foetid space and asked for the Lord's strength and guidance.
Or at least a few days rest from shovelling human waste...
* * *
Marjorie avoided Matilda after their falling out. Any time the older girl tried to talk to her, to set things right, Marjorie would ignore her and leave to collect berries, or firewood, or flowers to decorate the house. Anything to get away from her sister-in-law.
It couldn't go on forever though. Matilda came into the Hood's house one morning when Martha and John were out, closing the door behind her and blocking it with her body.
“I'm sorry, Marjorie. Truly, I am. You have no idea how stressful it is trying to finish your work on time while watching an infant that has no sense of danger.”
Marjorie glared at her, but said nothing.
“Look, you have to stop trying to be something you're not. Accept yourself for who you really are. Aye, you're no good at hunting – so what? Not many local girls are. Why should you be any different?”
Marjorie sighed and sat down in one of the chairs beside the trestle table the family used to eat their meals at. It was a fine table, well-made, and the family folded it away every evening to save space in the small dwelling.
“I have to be good at something,” the girl said. “Everyone is good at something.”
Matilda sat down next to her, relieved to have finally broken the barrier between them.
“You're young yet. I know, I'm not all that much older than you, and when I was your age I wasn't sure what I wanted to do with myself either. The thing is, life has a habit of leading you wherever it is you need to go – wherever you're needed.”
Marjorie looked unconvinced as Matilda forged on.
“You're not a hunter, and you'll never be the greatest sword-fighter in England, right. But neither will I. Look at you – the training you've been doing has toughened you up – put meat on your bones. It will come in handy one day, just wait and see.”
They sat in silence for a time but it wasn't an awkward silence. Their old friendship was back, and Marjorie was glad of it.
“I have to get back,” Matilda said, standing up and smiling at her young companion. “We still haven't completed that order for the merchant. My da keeps finding loose fletchings and making me redo them. Feels like my fingers will be nothing but bloody bones by the time we get the order all done.”
She opened the door, sunlight streaming into the gloomy house. “Come over to mine later – Arthur's been asking after you.”
Marjorie smiled and promised she would visit sometime, but, when the door had closed again and she was left by herself she stared, unseeing, into space, wondering where her life was going.
She was only young but she felt very old. She'd seen so much in her short life and it got to her sometimes. She had to admit, though – training with Matilda had made her stronger in every way. She liked the feeling; enjoyed the sense of purpose the exercises gave her.
“Time to get back to work.”
She stood up, feeling not quite as if she'd found her true calling but realising life would go on whether she wallowed in self-pity or chose to get out and make the most
of things.
Matilda was right – life would find a use for her eventually.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The journey south took Robin and Little John the next three days but they enjoyed the ride despite its ultimate purpose. Spring was in full bloom so the fields were green with barley and rye, the grass and foliage that blanketed the countryside was thick and lush and the sun cast a warm light on the countryside meaning the night they camped out was fairly comfortable.
“Aye, England truly is a green and beautiful land,” Robin said, watching the unhurried passage of a large black and orange butterfly with a contented smile.
“It is,” John agreed. “When it's not pissing down or some ugly forester's trying to smash your teeth into the back of your skull.”
“I've never been this far south before. In fact, before I was outlawed I don't think I'd ever even left Yorkshire.”
John nodded. It wasn't uncommon for people to spend their whole lives within their own county – there wasn't any need for a peasant or yeoman to travel to a city and, even if they wanted to, the price of an inn was enough to discourage most.
“I've been here before,” Little John said, looking around thoughtfully. “At least, I seem to have a memory of some of the landmarks we've passed today. My family travelled to the capital once, when I was very young, on a pilgrimage. My grandmother was ill, and the priest in St Michael's suggested we come away down to pray for her in St Paul's Cathedral. I don't remember much about it to be honest.”
Robin was impressed that his friend had travelled so far in his life. “Did your prayers work? Did your grandmother recover from her illness?”
“No. She died a week later.” The giant shook his head ruefully then his smile returned. “Waste of bloody time that pilgrimage.”
It was unusual for John to mention his family, even now that they'd been friends for a couple of years, and Robin wanted to take the opportunity to find out something of the big man's past.
“Did you never travel with Amber and wee John?”
“Nah. My wife was a maid for one of the merchants in Hathersage – still is, in fact. She couldn't just take weeks off to travel to no good purpose.” John's eyes stared fixedly on the road ahead as thoughts of his wife and son came to him. He sighed heavily. “I have more than enough money now that I could travel anywhere I like. Even Rome, or one of those other famous old places the minstrels sing about. I bet John would have a great time climbing those big monuments – you remember the ones Allan goes on about? The colloso... collosem or something I think one's called.” His hand disappeared inside the grey cassock and touched the cheap amulet he wore on a thong around his neck that had been a gift from Amber long ago. “I have all the money to do what I want with my family and no chance to do it.”
“You will,” Robin assured him, meeting the giant's eyes. “I promise you. Somehow we'll win a pardon and you can take your family to Rome.”
John grinned and looked back at the road ahead. “Ach, my wife would be just as happy travelling to Sheffield to visit her sister. Speaking of which, how's young Marjorie? Not so young now I suppose, she'll be nearly a woman eh?”
“Aye,” Robin said, thinking fondly of his younger sibling. “She's well enough, although she'll never be as sturdy as my ma, or even Matilda. I expect my da will be looking for a husband for her soon enough – hopefully whoever it is looks after her. They'd fucking better or else...”
The pair fell into a somewhat maudlin silence as their thoughts lingered on loved ones far away and their mounts carried them towards the city. The light began to fail before they could get there though, so, as the sun slowly set and the road became treacherous for their mounts, they chose to spend the night in another small town, not that far from the capital's walls.
Before entering the place they found a small stream and, using their eating knives, shaved one another's heads in the same way Friar Tuck did, with the crown bald and the back, front and sides left as they were.
“You look like a right fucking oaf,” John giggled, squinting at his friend in the dim light while running a hand over his own scalp and looking down at the bloodstained fingers ruefully.
Robin laughed. “Aye, I bet I do,” he agreed, trying vainly to see his reflection in the stream before cupping some of the chill waters and using it to wash the crimson from the pores of his own head. “But at least we look more like friars now. Wait, you're not finished, you need to shave that beard of yours.”
“My beard? I've been growing this for years.”
Robin grinned. “Can't be a friar with a beard.”
When they were finished even their friends wouldn't have recognised them straight away and, in Little John's case, maybe not at all.
They made their way into the town and, since they had coin enough to pay for decent lodgings were able to spend a comfortable evening in the local inn's common room. There was plenty of meat and ale to fill their bellies, but the overnight delay irritated the pair as they wanted to reach the king as soon as possible.
What they would do when they came face to face with England's monarch they weren't quite sure yet. Would they even make it in to see the king, or would they be recognised as outlaws and cut down before they even made it past the first guardsmen? Even if they did convince the guards that they were clergymen would they be able to fool the king too? Or would they be found out as soon as they opened their uneducated mouths?
Only time would tell but Robin was confident, as always. All would be well...
They were up before dawn the next day, even before the cockerel – which the landlord had promised was a perfect time-keeper – had crowed to signal the sun's ascent into the eastern sky. After bothering the inn-keep for some bread and cheese to break their fast they set off at a brisk pace, only stopping to hide their bulky weapons in a thick clump of bushes a little way off the road – they wanted to look like clergymen, not soldiers after all. Then, remounting they pushed their horses hard and reached the capital city's gates while it was still morning.
London.
Both outlaws had the hoods drawn up on the grey cloaks that they wore in what they hoped was the Franciscan style and, along with the pectoral crosses they'd taken from Hubert and Walter to hang around their necks, they looked like nothing more than normal – if extremely well-built – friars to the gate guards who watched them pass without a word of challenge.
“We should visit the Franciscan... church or priory or whatever the hell they call it,” Little John murmured as they walked their mounts through the unbelievably crowded streets of London. “It's what real friars would do.”
Robin snorted making his horse glare back at him with a bulging eye. “We're not real friars, even if we have spent so many months living with Tuck,” he said, pulling on his palfrey's bridle. “We wouldn't know how to act like them and the Franciscans would see through our disguise in a moment. No, our best bet is to head straight for the royal palace and seek an audience with the king. We can deliver our letter and be on our way again before the day's out.”
Little John smiled although Robin could see the stress of their situation written all over the giant's newly-shaven face. “Aye, straight back to Nottingham to free Allan without a hitch. Piece of piss.”
The companions had never seen so many people gathered in one place: foreign merchants dressed in brightly coloured clothes chattered to one another in strange languages; carts laden with eggs and cheese rattled past; workers drove noisy sheep along the road to market and street vendors hailed them continually, with cries of “Hot peascods,” and “Sheep's feet, come an' get 'em.” Their mouths watered at the sight of the laden trays but they were in too much of a hurry to stop.
They had no idea of the layout of the city or how to get to Westminster Palace but there were enough people to ask directions, and, once they grew nearer, the imposing bulk of the place stood high above any other building in the vicinity.
Although their initial plan had been to find someone to
read Sir Henry de Faucumberg's letter to the king that they'd taken from Brother Walter, in the end Robin had decided against it. Showing the parchment to anyone else would surely draw unwanted attention to them – no real friar or monk would ask a layman to read a letter for them. Especially a letter about the capture of a member of the notorious Robin Hood's band.
Robin felt sure that he'd picked up the gist of the document himself anyway, and he wasn't about to place their lives in danger just to fill in the few Latin blanks that he couldn't make sense of.
“So tell me, then.” John grumbled as they neared the royal palace. “What you think the letter says. You've been keeping it a secret this whole time.”
Robin looked around in wonder at the enormous stone walls and imposing architecture that surrounded them and threw his big mate a happy grin, his teeth flashing from beneath the cassock's hood.
“I believe the sheriff is telling the king that he's captured Allan, but, if I have it right, he's also complaining about Sir Guy of Gisbourne's treatment of the people of Yorkshire.”
John whistled quietly. He hadn't expected de Faucumberg to speak out against the king's own bounty hunter. “I have to admit,” he said, “the sheriff comes across as a decent man. Even if he did double-cross us the other winter. And Gisbourne has been even more of prick lately... What d'you think the king'll do?”
Robin shrugged. “What do I know about the workings of royalty? Hopefully the king will listen to his sheriff and call Gisbourne back here before sending him overseas or to Scotland or, well, anywhere other than Barnsdale.”
“I take it you have a plan, or at least some idea of what to say once we're in front of the king?” John asked, raising a bushy eyebrow questioningly. “What about the letter's broken seal? How will you explain that?”
Robin shrugged again and laughed. They'd reached the palace and nerves grasped his insides but he pushed them aside, knowing he had to appear outwardly calm or the king's guardsmen would see through their outrageous disguise. “Don't worry, of course I have a plan – don't I always?”
Rise of the Wolf (The Forest Lord Book 3) Page 13