“Stand up straight.” As Edward spoke the guards moved in close, weapons held ready should either of the big friars seek to attack the monarch.
Little John's eyes flicked uncertainly towards Robin but he knew better than to refuse a command from England's ruler so he pushed his shoulders back and raised himself to his full height of almost seven feet.
There were gasps from the guards and from the petitioners lined up behind them as they took in the great size of the man – the friar – before them.
King Edward, though, grinned and stepped in closer, to stand so near to the giant outlaw that John could smell the delicate flower-scent that the king daubed on himself each morning.
“You're a big lad,” Edward smiled approvingly, using his hand to mark his own height against Little John. The king wasn't a small man by any means – in fact he was just as tall as Robin, who watched the bizarre interchange with one eyebrow raised in surprise – but he only came up to John's neck. “How tall are you?”
John shrugged. “I don't know, sire. I've never measured myself.”
The king grinned appreciatively and turned his eyes on Robin. “Friars, eh? I'm sure you did chase off those outlaws,” he said, his voice full of wonder. “Excellent!” He returned to his throne and sat down, still smiling happily as he lifted the letter from Sir Henry de Faucumberg again. “I've never seen friars as big as you two before but I suppose you were soldiers at one time before renouncing the warrior's way of life and taking service with Christ. Good. I'd wager any more outlaws in my forests will think twice before they try and rob the pair of you once word gets around!”
Robin let out a nervous breath as the king tore open the rolled-up parchment without inspecting the seal too closely and began to read.
He grunted as he read before, at last, he snorted with laughter and handed the letter to the greybeard by his side.
“How did you two come to be de Faucumberg's messengers? And who is this Allan-a-Dale? What do you know of him?”
The king grilled Robin for a long time, the tall young 'friar' responding to the questions apparently truthfully and thoroughly entertaining the monarch with the tale even as the other petitioners lined up behind them muttered in annoyance at the delay in stating their own cases.
When he reached the end of his story the king looked at Robin thoughtfully, his eyes moving to Little John who tried to stand still but couldn't help fidgeting every now and again like a child apprentice under his master's harsh gaze.
“Do you know what the rest of de Faucumberg's letter says?” the monarch finally asked.
The outlaws shook their heads and Robin replied. “No, lord.”
Edward grunted. “No, I don't suppose you would, would you?” He looked at the counsellor at his right hand who shrugged and shook his head, not sure what the king wanted to hear from him.
“The sheriff wants me to recall Sir Guy of Gisbourne. Apparently my bounty hunter has become something of a liability. And a violent one at that.” The king threw the parchment onto the table irritably. “De Faucumberg needs a kick up the arse. You two will return to Nottingham with my reply, yes?”
“Of course, sire,” Robin nodded deferentially. “We were to return there to continue our mission anyway. It would be our pleasure – nay, our honour, to carry your word back to the sheriff.”
Edward smiled and muttered, “God be praised,” before turning to face his steward who sat taking notes at a small table in the left-hand corner of the huge hall. “Make sure the good brothers are rewarded for their service to the crown,” he told the man. “A donation to – where did you say you were from? Yes, Gloucester. Send a donation of fifty pounds to Custos de Bromley on my behalf. In the meantime, take a letter to Sir Henry in Nottingham.”
Robin and John bowed their heads gratefully to the king for the donation to 'their' friary as the monarch dictated his reply to the sheriff before the steward placed the parchment in an envelope, dripped a great red candle onto it and Edward pressed his ring into the soft wax.
“Sire,” Robin took the letter with a respectful bow. “We will gladly carry this to Sir Henry but... I fear he may not like your reply and...”
The king met the young man's eyes and nodded in understanding. “And he will blame you two. I see.” He waved over to the steward again. “Write another letter for the brothers to carry – one that makes it very clear they are under my protection and should be treated with all the respect loyal subjects of mine deserve. Now...” England's ruler smiled at Robin and John. “You two have livened up these dull proceedings and I thank you for it, but you may go. Return to Nottingham and my sheriff. I pray we meet again some day for I've enjoyed your company. Do you row?”
The question was directed at Little John who shook his head. “No, sire, I much prefer dry land.”
“That's a pity,” the king sighed, pressing his ring again into the wax of the letter of protection his steward had written out for them and looking at the huge man in the grey Franciscan robe appreciatively again. “You would have made a fine addition to my team.”
He waved them away with a smile and the pair walked from the room as fast as they could, trying not to appear too relieved to have survived the royal meeting.
“That went well,” Little John murmured as they passed the two pikemen guarding the hall doors.
“Aye,” Robin agreed, pulling the hood on his cassock back over his head as they made their way towards the spring sunshine that struggled to light the chilly stone corridor. “Now we just need to deliver these letters to the sheriff and pray to God he believes they're genuine. We might not get rid of Gisbourne but at least I managed to persuade the king that Allan wasn't as bad as the sheriff's letter made out... ”
* * *
The black-armoured bounty hunter had always made the villagers around Yorkshire nervous, ever since he'd first appeared in the area to work on the king's behalf the previous year. But after he'd suffered the terrible injuries to his face at the hands of Robin Hood he'd become even more frightening and the locals all over Yorkshire now dreaded a visit from Gisbourne and his men.
Patrick Prudhomme, headman of the village of Wakefield, repressed a shudder as the soldiers, at least a dozen of them, walked past him. Even Gisbourne's new sergeant, Matt Groves, a man Patrick knew well enough from his time as an outlaw seeking supplies from the villagers, had a vicious manner about him. Still, even he lacked the air of unpredictable madness that now appeared to surround Gisbourne like a great dark cloud.
Patrick steeled himself, wishing someone else would take over the role of headman, and hurried into the street after the visitors.
“My lord!” he shouted, striding along to reach the front of the small group. “My lord, I bid you welcome to our humble village, it's been a while since you last graced us with your presence.”
Sir Guy stopped and turned his remaining good eye on the fidgeting headman with a sneer. The sight of the lean man's ruined face was enough to send small children screaming and, truth be told, Patrick would have liked to join them at that moment, but he stood his ground and returned Gisbourne's malevolent stare.
“Ah, Prudhomme isn't it? Yes, I know of you, although you were nowhere to be found the last time I visited, when Robin Hood and his friends killed several of my men. Robin Hood of Wakefield –” The slight emphasis Gisbourne placed on his village's name brought out a cold sweat on Patrick's skin “– also struck me last year, when I was unable to defend myself and, as you can see,” he tapped his missing eye. “Ruined my good looks.”
The bounty hunter swung away and began to walk along the muddy street again, his soldiers, and the anxious headman, following in his wake although one of Sir Guy's men, at an almost imperceptible signal from the wiry man, made his way back along the road they'd just come along.
“I'm fully recovered now,” Gisbourne continued without looking at Patrick. “But, as you can probably imagine – especially after the last time I was in your little village – I'm even more d
etermined to bring that outlaw scum to justice.”
The words were spoken softly but Patrick's mind whirled, wondering exactly what the disfigured man-hunter was going to do. He'd heard the rumours from other villages roundabout ever since Robin's band had defeated the lawmen; rumours of Gisbourne and his men's brutality and merciless persecution of those the king's man suspected of giving aid to Hood and his gang.
Before, Gisbourne had been kept on a fairly tight leash by Sheriff de Faucumberg who'd ordered the bounty hunter not to harm the villagers in his pursuit of the wolf's head. But recently the sheriff's authority had not been enough to rein in the man people called The Raven. He was the king's man after all – sent there by Edward himself to do whatever he could to bring down Robin Hood and his gang.
The people of Yorkshire were terrified of the black-clad soldier, but no-one would stand up to him.
“Have you seen Hood lately?” Gisbourne asked the puffing headman who hurried along, trying to keep pace with the tall soldiers. He might as well have been asking after the weather for all the apparent emotion in his voice, but Patrick, a surprisingly perceptive man, knew better. The Raven wasn't just a master swordsman and a wicked bastard; he was also an actor – a showman. You could never take Gisbourne at face value, for everything he did was calculated, and intended to create the atmosphere of fearful competence that he revelled in.
“No, my lord,” Patrick replied truthfully. It had been weeks since Robin had left Matilda and their young son, Arthur, to return to life in the forest. “The outlaws must have moved their camp somewhere far to the east, for we've not seen hide nor hair of any of them for a long time now.”
Gisbourne turned to look into the headman's eyes momentarily, apparently trying to measure whether he was being truthful or not before, satisfied, the Raven looked away again, continuing his walk towards the Fletcher's house.
Patrick cursed inwardly when he realised their destination. This was bad. Not that many months before another lawman – Adam Gurdon – had come to the village hunting for Robin Hood and had caused more than a little trouble at the Fletcher's house.
“My lord –” he began again but Gisbourne waved a gauntleted hand irritably.
“Shut up, Patrick, you're becoming annoying.”
The headman closed his mouth, his lips pressed tightly together in a bloodless line as he fretted over what was to come. He was pleased to see many of the other villagers beginning to gather behind them and he tried to relax.
When the previous bailiff, Gurdon, had come to Wakefield and arrested Matilda, knocking her father, Henry the fletcher, out cold when he tried to intervene, the locals had been outraged. Robin Hood and his men had managed to rescue the girl though, and afterwards the people of Wakefield had complained bitterly to their then lord – Thomas Plantagenet, the Earl of Lancaster – who told Sheriff Henry de Faucumberg in no uncertain terms to leave the villagers alone in future.
To his credit, the sheriff had never sanctioned the arrest of Matilda Fletcher; indeed he'd known nothing about it at the time and, since then, he'd tried to make sure Gisbourne and the other lawmen in the county left the innocent people of Wakefield pretty much to themselves.
Although Sir Guy's reputation was as fearsome as his appearance, he only had a handful of soldiers with him and, Patrick noticed, many of the villagers carried the tools of their trade: hammers, axes, pitchforks... they could all be lethal weapons in the hands of an angry mob.
There would be no repeat of last year's débâcle, the headman vowed. If the bloody bounty hunter wanted violence the good people of Wakefield would give it to him.
“God's blood!”
Henry's curse carried along the street as the crowd approached the fletcher's workshop and Patrick, trying to act braver than he felt, shoved his way past the soldiers to stand beside Matilda's red-faced father who was finishing arrows with beautiful snow-white fletchings taken from a swan.
“You'll be Hood's father-in-law.” The black knight made it a statement rather than a question and the fletcher simply stood, his fists clenched, glaring at the Raven and his companions and snorting in disgust when he saw Matt Groves, another former outlaw who had come to him looking for supplies not so many months ago.
“Another poacher turned forester,” Henry spat at Groves's feet. “Just like Adam before you, and you remember what happened to him.”
Matt's face burned scarlet with fury and he took a step towards the glowering man but Gisbourne placed a hand on his sergeant's arm and held him in place.
“I've heard the story about Adam Gurdon and his untimely end,” Gisbourne nodded. “I've also heard about your daughter and her part in it. Good teeth, I hear...”
Matt sniggered at that although the bounty hunter hadn't been making a joke and the erstwhile member of Robin's gang moved around to stand behind the Fletcher and his daughter.
“I'm not here to arrest anyone,” Gisbourne went on, to audible sighs of relief from the watching villagers. “I'm simply here looking for information on the outlaws' whereabouts. The king is tired, you see – as am I – of this gang being allowed to wander around Barnsdale as if they owned the forest.”
He turned and addressed the crowd. “Robin Hood and his entire gang are not only outlaws; they're rebels too. They took part in an armed uprising against your king. They also killed a number of my men when we tried to arrest them recently. And that,” he turned back to the look at the fletcher, “is something that cannot be ignored.”
The villagers muttered nervously amongst themselves, sensing life was about to get a lot harder for every one of them if this Raven didn't get what he wanted.
Still, the simple fact was, no-one in Wakefield knew where Hood or his men were hiding out these days. Patrick had told the truth: none of the outlaws had been to their village since the day Sir Guy's men chased them into the greenwood weeks earlier.
Gisbourne absorbed the silence, his irritation rising and finally beginning to show in his demeanour as he turned his single hazelnut eye on Matilda who stood her ground defiantly despite the presence of Matt Groves, breathing noisily through his nose, close – too close – behind her.
“Lady, I have no interest in arresting you. I have no doubt it would draw out the wolf's head, but without any evidence of wrong-doing on your part I, legally, have no reason to take you into custody. The sheriff would be most annoyed if I were to go around arresting all and sundry simply because I felt like it.” He smiled at her and, although it appeared genuine, the expression made her legs feel weak and the fletcher glanced at her in concern but before he could move to steady his daughter Matt Groves grasped her from behind.
It might have been said Groves was trying to help the girl; to stop her from fainting. But, although he did catch her from collapsing onto the grass, his hands came right around the front of her body and roughly squeezed her breasts as he leered into her eyes which met his in fury rather than fear. This wasn't the first time a man had touched her without consent and her blood rose at the filthy lawman's intrusion.
Suddenly, Groves's hands fell away as Henry Fletcher smashed his right fist into the side of the one-time outlaw's face, sending the man crashing sideways. Henry followed up the first blow with another, again to the side of Matt's face, and the unfortunate lawman dropped to the ground like a sack of grain.
The rest of the soldiers moved to draw their swords, and the villagers cried out, moving forward threateningly, but Sir Guy raised a hand imperiously and roared, “Enough!” in a surprisingly powerful voice.
Everyone, even the enraged fletcher, stopped in their tracks to look at the king's man.
“Bastard.” Groves spat into the silence, shaking his head blearily and grasping his bruised cheek which he knew would hurt like hell for the next day or so – might even be cracked or broken. “You have your excuse,” he grunted at his leader. “Arrest the big bastard for assaulting a lawman.”
Henry shouted in outrage and his fellow villagers joined in, their voices
clamouring for justice but, again, Sir Guy raised a hand and shook his head for quiet.
“You're newly come to my service,” the Raven said to Matt reasonably. “So this can be a lesson for you: I don't disrespect women, and I don't allow my men to do it either. You laid your hands on the lady Matilda and her father rewarded you handsomely for it.” He spoke to Robin's wife respectfully. “My apologies, lady.”
Matilda bobbed her head in surprise, not entirely sure the whole encounter was real or some strange waking dream, but the bounty hunter continued, turning this time to address Patrick again, although his voice carried to everyone in the village.
“I came here today to give you people fair warning: from now on I expect you to send word whenever you hear news of Hood and his gang. I will return periodically if no messenger from your village is forthcoming and, each time I'm forced to return an... accident will befall Wakefield. I am a lawman, so I must uphold the law and that means I can't arrest any of you without reason – but that doesn't mean God won't strike your homes and workplaces with his righteous anger.”
He suddenly glanced over Patrick's shoulder and pointed. “See there. The good Lord has heard my words and sent his wrath down upon you.”
The headman looked around and his eyes widened in fear.
“Fire!” someone in the crowd shouted. “Fire!”
Although there were other buildings blocking the line of sight, Patrick knew it was his house that was burning, and he remembered the soldier that had left the Raven's party when they'd first arrived in the village. He threw a murderous glance at the smiling Gisbourne before running towards the curling black smoke that marked every villagers nightmare. Unchecked it would spread quickly between the wooden houses, the sparks and embers jumping between the dry walls and thatched roofs and, quite possibly, destroying half the village before it could be brought under control.
Everyone except the Fletcher and his daughter raced to gather water from the great butts they kept filled from the waters of Balne Beck to extinguish the fire in the centre of the village.
Rise of the Wolf (The Forest Lord Book 3) Page 15